where a fellow's liver goes to the deuce with hot pickles and sangaree.
Mackenzie was a dev'lish wild fellow," whispers Captain Goby to his
neighbour (the present biographer, indeed), "and Mrs. Mack was as
pretty a little woman as ever you set eyes on." (Captain Goby winks, and
looks peculiarly sly as he makes this statement.) "Our regiment wasn't on
your side of India, Colonel."
And in the interchange of such delightful remarks, and with music and
song, the evening passes away. "Since the house had been adorned by the
fair presence of Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter," Honeyman said, always
gallant in behaviour and flowery in expression, "it seemed as if spring
had visited it. Its hospitality was invested with a new grace; its ever
welcome little reunions were doubly charming. But why did these ladies
come, if they were to go away again? How--how would Mr. Binnie console
himself (not to mention others) if they left him in solitude?"
"We have no wish to leave my brother James in solitude," cries Mrs.
Mackenzie, frankly laughing. "We like London a great deal better than
Musselburgh."
"Oh, that we do!" ejaculates the blushing Rosey.
"And we will stay as long as ever my brother will keep us," continues the
widow.
"Uncle James is so kind and dear," says Rosey. "I hope he won't send me
and mamma away."
"He were a brute--a savage, if he did!" cries Binnie, with glances of
rapture towards the two pretty faces. Everybody liked them. Binnie
received their caresses very good-humouredly. The Colonel liked every
woman under the sun. Clive laughed and joked and waltzed alternately with
Rosey and her mamma. The latter was the briskest partner of the two. The
unsuspicious widow, poor dear innocent, would leave her girl at the
painting-room, and go shopping herself; but little J. J. also worked
there, being occupied with his second picture: and he was almost the only
one of Clive's friends whom the widow did not like. She pronounced the
quiet little painter a pert, little, obtrusive, underbred creature.
In a word, Mrs. Mackenzie was, as the phrase is, "setting her cap" so
openly at Clive, that none of us could avoid seeing her play: and Clive
laughed at her simple manoeuvres as merrily as the rest. She was a merry
little woman. We gave her and her pretty daughter a luncheon in Lamb
Court, Temple; in Sibwright's chambers--luncheon from Dick's Coffee
House--ices and dessert from Partington's in the Strand. Miss Rosey, Mr.
Sibwright, our neighbour in Lamb Court, and the Reverend Charles Honeyman
sang very delightfully after lunch; there was quite a crowd of porters,
laundresses, and boys to listen in the court; Mr. Paley was disgusted
with the noise we made--in fact, the party was perfectly successful. We
all liked the widow, and if she did set her pretty ribbons at Clive, why
should not she? We all liked the pretty, fresh, modest Rosey. Why, even
the grave old benchers in the Temple church, when the ladies visited it
on Sunday, winked their reverend eyes with pleasure, as they looked at
those two uncommonly smart, pretty, well-dressed, fashionable women.
Ladies, go to the Temple church. You will see more young men, and receive
more respectful attention there than in any place, except perhaps at
Oxford or Cambridge. Go to the Temple church--not, of course, for the
admiration which you will excite and which you cannot help; but because
the sermon is excellent, the choral services beautifully performed, and
the church so interesting as a monument of the thirteenth century, and as
it contains the tombs of those dear Knights Templars!
Mrs. Mackenzie could be grave or gay, according to her company: nor could
any woman be of more edifying behaviour when an occasional Scottish
friend bringing a letter from darling Josey, or a recommendatory letter
from Josey's grandmother, paid a visit in Fitzroy Square. Little Miss
Cann used to laugh and wink knowingly, saying, "You will never get back
your bedroom, Mr. Clive. You may be sure that Miss Josey will come in a
few months; and perhaps old Mrs. Binnie, only no doubt she and her
daughter do not agree. But the widow has taken possession of Uncle James;
and she will carry off somebody else if I am not mistaken. Should you
like a stepmother, Mr. Clive, or should you prefer a wife?"
Whether the fair lady tried her wiles upon Colonel Newcome the present
writer has no certain means of ascertaining: but I think another image
occupied his heart: and this Circe tempted him no more than a score of
other enchantresses who had tried their spells upon him. If she tried she
failed. She was a very shrewd woman, quite frank in her talk when such
frankness suited her. She said to me, "Colonel Newcome has had some great
passion, once upon a time, I am sure of that, and has no more heart to
give away. The woman who had his must have been a very lucky woman:
though I daresay she did not value what she had; or did not live to enjoy
it--or--or something or other. You see tragedies in some people's faces.
I recollect when we were in Coventry Island--there was a chaplain there--
a very good man--a Mr. Bell, and married to a pretty little woman who
died. The first day I saw him I said, 'I know that man has had a great
grief in life. I am sure that he left his heart in England.' You
gentlemen who write books, Mr. Pendennis, and stop at the third volume,
know very well that the real story often begins afterwards. My third
volume ended when I was sixteen, and was married to my poor husband. Do
you think all our adventures ended then, and that we lived happy ever
after? I live for my darling girls now. All I want is to see them
comfortable in life. Nothing can be more generous than my dear brother
James has been. I am only his half-sister, you know, and was an infant in
arms when he went away. He had differences with Captain Mackenzie, who
was headstrong and imprudent, and I own my poor dear husband was in the
wrong. James could not live with my poor mother. Neither could by
possibility suit the other. I have often, I own, longed to come and keep
house for him. His home, the society he sees, of men of talents like Mr.
Warrington and--and I won't mention names, or pay compliments to a man
who knows human nature so well as the author of Walter Lorraine: this
house is pleasanter a thousand times than Musselburgh--pleasanter for me
and my dearest Rosey, whose delicate nature shrunk and withered up in
poor mamma's society. She was never happy except in my room, the dear
child! She's all gentleness and affection. She doesn't seem to show it:
but she has the most wonderful appreciation of wit, of genius, and talent
of all kinds. She always hides her feelings, except from her fond old
mother. I went up into our room yesterday, and found her in tears. I
can't bear to see her eyes red or to think of her suffering. I asked her
what ailed her, and kissed her. She is a tender plant, Mr. Pendennis!
Heaven knows with what care I have nurtured her! She looked up smiling on
my shoulder. She looked so pretty! 'Oh, mamma,' the darling child said,
'I couldn't help it. I have been crying over Walter Lorraine.' (Enter
Rosey.) Rosey, darling! I have been telling Mr. Pendennis what a
naughty, naughty child you were yesterday, and how you read a book which
I told you you shouldn't read; for it is a very wicked book; and though
it contains some sad sad truths, it is a great deal too misanthropic (is
that the right word? I'm a poor soldier's wife, and no scholar, you
know), and a great deal too bitter; and though the reviews praise it, and
the clever people--we are poor simple country people--we won't praise it.
Sing, dearest, that little song" (profuse kisses to Rosey), "that pretty
thing that Mr. Pendennis likes."
"I am sure that I will sing anything that Mr. Pendennis likes," says
Rosey, with her candid bright eyes--and she goes to the piano and warbles
"Batti, Batti," with her sweet fresh artless voice.
More caresses follow. Mamma is in a rapture. How pretty they look--the
mother and daughter--two lilies twining together! The necessity of an
entertainment at the Temple-lunch from Dick's (as before mentioned),
dessert from Partington's, Sibwright's spoons, his boy to aid ours, nay,
Sib himself, and his rooms, which are so much more elegant than ours, and
where there is a piano and guitar: all these thoughts pass in rapid and
brilliant combination in the pleasant Mr. Pendennis's mind. How delighted
the ladies are with the proposal! Mrs. Mackenzie claps her pretty hands,
and kisses Rosey again. If osculation is a mark of love, surely Mrs. Mack
is the best of mothers. I may say, without false modesty, that our little
entertainment was most successful. The champagne was iced to a nicety.
The ladies did not perceive that our laundress, Mrs. Flanagan, was
intoxicated very early in the afternoon. Percy Sibwright sang admirably,
and with the greatest spirit, ditties in many languages. I am sure Miss
Rosey thought him (as indeed he is) one of the most fascinating young
fellows about town. To her mother's excellent accompaniment Rosey sang
her favourite songs (by the way, her stock was very small--five, I think,
was the number). Then the table was moved into a corner, where the
quivering moulds of jelly seemed to keep time to the music; and whilst
Percy played, two couple of waltzers actually whirled round the little
room. No wonder that the court below was thronged with admirers, that
Paley the reading man was in a rage, and Mrs. Flanagan in a state of
excitement. Ah! pleasant days, happy gold dingy chambers illuminated by
youthful sunshine! merry songs and kind faces--it is pleasant to recall
you. Some of those bright eyes shine no more: some of those smiling lips
do not speak. Some are not less kind, but sadder than in those days: of
which the memories revisit us for a moment, and sink back into the grey
past. The dear old Colonel beat time with great delight to the songs; the
widow lit his cigar with her own fair fingers. That was the only smoke
permitted during the entertainment--George Warrington himself not being
allowed to use his cutty-pipe--though the gay little widow said that she
had been used to smoking in the West Indies and I dare say spoke the
truth. Our entertainment lasted actually until after dark: and a
particularly neat cab being called from St. Clement's by Mr. Binnie's
boy, you may be sure we all conducted the ladies to their vehicle: and
many a fellow returning from his lonely club that evening into chambers
must have envied us the pleasure of having received two such beauties.
The clerical bachelor was not to be outdone by the gentlemen of the bar;
and the entertainment at the Temple was followed by one at Honeyman's
lodgings, which, I must own, greatly exceeded ours in splendour, for
Honeyman had his luncheon from Gunter's; and if he had been Miss Rosey's
mother, giving a breakfast to the dear girl on her marriage, the affair
could not have been more elegant and handsome. We had but two bouquets at
our entertainment; at Honeyman's there were four upon the
breakfast-table, besides a great pineapple, which must have cost the
rogue three or four guineas, and which Percy Sibwright delicately cut up.
Rosey thought the pineapple delicious. "The dear thing does not remember
the pineapples in the West Indies!" cries Mrs. Mackenzie; and she gave us
many exciting narratives of entertainments at which she had been present
at various colonial governors' tables. After luncheon, our host hoped we
should have a little music. Dancing, of course, could not be allowed.
"That," said Honeyman with his soft-bleating sigh, "were scarcely
clerical. You know, besides, you are in a hermitage; and" (with a glance
round the table) "must put up with Cenobite's fare." The fare was, as I
have said, excellent. The wine was bad, as George, and I, and Sib agreed;
and in so far we flattered ourselves that our feast altogether excelled
the parson's. The champagne especially was such stuff, that Warrington
remarked on it to his neighbour, a dark gentleman, with a tuft to his
chin, and splendid rings and chains.
The dark gentleman's wife and daughter were the other two ladies invited
by our host. The elder was splendidly dressed. Poor Mrs. Mackenzie's
simple gimcracks, though she displayed them to the most advantage, and
could make an ormolu bracelet go as far as another woman's emerald
clasps, were as nothing compared to the other lady's gorgeous jewellery.
Her fingers glittered with rings innumerable. The head of her
smelling-bottle was as big as her husband's gold snuff box, and of the
same splendid material. Our ladies, it must be confessed, came in a
modest cab from Fitzroy Square; these arrived in a splendid little open
carriage with white ponies, and harness all over brass, which the lady of
the rings drove with a whip that was a parasol. Mrs. Mackenzie, standing
at Honeyman's window, with her arm round Rosey's waist, viewed this
arrival perhaps with envy. "My dear Mr. Honeyman, whose are those
beautiful horses?" cries Rosey, with enthusiasm.
The divine says with a faint blush--"It is--ah--it is Mrs. Sherrick and
Miss Sherrick who have done me the favour to come to luncheon."
"Wine-merchant. Oh!" thinks Mrs. Mackenzie, who has seen Sherrick's brass
plate on the cellar door of Lady Whittlesea's Chapel; and hence, perhaps,
she was a trifle more magniloquent than usual, and entertained us with
stories of colonial governors and their ladies, mentioning no persons but
those who "had handles to their names," as the phrase is.
Although Sherrick had actually supplied the champagne which Warrington
abused to him in confidence, the wine-merchant was not wounded; on the
contrary, he roared with laughter at the remark, and some of us smiled
who understood the humour of the joke. As for George Warrington, he
scarce knew more about the town than the ladies opposite to him; who, yet
more innocent than George, thought the champagne very good. Mrs. Sherrick
was silent during the meal, looking constantly up at her husband, as if
alarmed and always in the habit of appealing to that gentleman, who gave
her, as I thought
, knowing glances and savage winks, which made me augur
that he bullied her at home. Miss Sherrick was exceedingly handsome: she
kept the fringed curtains of her eyes constantly down; but when she
lifted them up towards Clive, who was very attentive to her (the rogue
never sees a handsome woman but to this day he continues the same
practice)--when she looked up and smiled, she was indeed a beautiful
young creature to behold--with her pale forehead, her thick arched
eyebrows, her rounded cheeks, and her full lips slightly shaded,--how
shall I mention the word?--slightly pencilled, after the manner of the
lips of the French governess, Mademoiselle Lenoir.
Percy Sibwright engaged Miss Mackenzie with his usual grace and
affability. Mrs. Mackenzie did her very utmost to be gracious, but it was
evident the party was not altogether to her liking. Poor Percy, about
whose means and expectations she had in the most natural way in the world
asked information from me, was not perhaps a very eligible admirer for
darling Rosey. She knew not that Percy can no more help gallantry than
the sun can help shining. As soon as Rosey had done eating up her
pineapple, artlessly confessing (to Percy Sibwright's inquiries) that she
preferred it to the rasps and hinnyblobs in her grandmamma's garden,
"Now, dearest Rosey," cries Mrs. Mack, "now, a little song. You promised
Mr. Pendennis a little song." Honeyman whisks open the piano in a moment.
The widow takes off her cleaned gloves (Mrs. Sherrick's were new, and of
the best Paris make), and little Rosey sings No. 1, followed by No. 2,
with very great applause. Mother and daughter entwine as they quit the
piano. "Brava! brava!" says Percy Sibwright. Does Mr. Clive Newcome say
nothing? His back is turned to the piano, and he is looking with all his
might into the eyes of Miss Sherrick.
Percy sings a Spanish seguidilla, or a German lied, or a French romance,
or a Neapolitan canzonet, which, I am bound to say, excites very little
attention. Mrs. Ridley is sending in coffee at this juncture, of which
Mrs. Sherrick partakes, with lots of sugar, as she has partaken of
numberless things before. Chicken, plovers' eggs, prawns, aspics,
jellies, creams, grapes, and what-not. Mr. Honeyman advances, and with
deep respect asks if Mrs. Sherrick and Miss Sherrick will not be
persuaded to sing? She rises and bows, and again takes off the French
gloves, and shows the large white hands glittering with rings, and,
summoning Emily her daughter, they go to the piano.
"Can she sing," whispers Mrs. Mackenzie, "can she sing after eating so
much?" Can she sing, indeed! Oh, you poor ignorant Mrs. Mackenzie! Why,
when you were in the West Indies, if you ever read the English
newspapers, you must have read of the fame of Miss Folthorpe. Mrs.
Sherrick is no other than the famous artist, who, after three years of
brilliant triumphs at the Scala, the Pergola, the San Carlo, the opera in
England, forsook her profession, rejected a hundred suitors, and married
Sherrick, who was Mr. Cox's lawyer, who failed, as everybody knows, as
manager of Drury Lane. Sherrick, like a man of spirit, would not allow
his wife to sing in public after his marriage; but in private society, of
course, she is welcome to perform: and now with her daughter, who
possesses a noble contralto voice, she takes her place royally at the
piano, and the two sing so magnificently that everybody in the room, with
one single exception, is charmed and delighted; and that little Miss Cann
herself creeps up the stairs, and stands with Mrs. Ridley at the door to
listen to the music.
Miss Sherrick looks doubly handsome as she sings. Clive Newcome is in a
rapture; so is good-natured Miss Rosey, whose little heart beats with
pleasure, and who says quite unaffectedly to Miss Sherrick, with delight
and gratitude beaming from her blue eyes, "Why did you ask me to sing,
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