“Gammon, Pen—go on,” Foker said.
“I would, Henrico, upon thy studs, and upon thy cambric worked by the hands of beauty, to adorn 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 furrowing 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? Aristocrat! 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 adjure thee by all thy vats.
“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 hardy son of the humble apothecary. You can’t live without an establishment, and your houses in town and country. A snug 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 prudence 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 shrugged 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.