And in the midst of this simple conversation, the hour and a quarter which poor Pen could afford to allow himself, passed away only too quickly; and he had taken leave, he was gone, and away on his rapid road homewards on the back of Rebecca. She was called upon to show her mettle in the three journeys which she made that day.
“What was that he was talking about, the madness of Hamlet, and the theory of the great German critic on the subject?” Emily asked of her father.
“’Deed then I don’t know, Milly dear,” answered the Captain. “We’ll ask Bows when he comes.”
“Anyhow, he’s a nice, fair-spoken pretty young man,” the lady said: “how many tickets did he take of you?”
“Faith, then, he took six, and gev me two guineas, Milly,” the Captain said. “I suppose them young chaps is not too flush of coin.”
“He’s full of book-learning,” Miss Fotheringay continued. “Kotzebue! He, he, what a droll name indeed, now; and the poor fellow killed by Sand, too! Did ye ever hear such a thing? I’ll ask Bows about it, papa, dear.”
“A queer death, sure enough,” ejaculated the Captain, and changed the painful theme. “’Tis an elegant mare the young gentleman rides,” Costigan went on to say; “and a grand breakfast, intirely, that young Mister Foker gave us.”
“He’s good for two private boxes, and at leest twenty tickets, I should say,” cried the daughter, a prudent lass, who always kept her fine eyes on the main chance.
“I’ll go bail of that,” answered the papa, and so their conversation continued awhile, until the tumbler of punch was finished; and their hour of departure soon came, too; for at half-past six Miss Fotheringay was to appear at the theatre again, whither her father always accompanied her; and stood, as we have seen, in the side-scene watching her, and drank spirits-and-water in the green-room with the company there.
“How beautiful she is,” thought Pen, cantering homewards. “How simple and how tender! How charming it is to see a woman of her commanding genius busying herself with the delightful, though humble, offices of domestic life, cooking dishes to make her old father comfortable, and brewing drink for him with her delicate fingers! How rude it was of me to begin to talk about professional matters, and how well she turned the conversation! By the way, she talked about professional matters herself; but then with what fun and humour she told the story of her comrade, Pentweazle, as he was called! There is no humour like Irish humour. Her father is rather tedious, but thoroughly amiable; and how fine of him, giving lessons in fencing after he quitted the army, where he was the pet of the Duke of Kent! Fencing! I should like to continue my fencing, or I shall forget what Angelo taught me. Uncle Arthur always liked me to fence—he says it is the exercise of a gentleman. Hang it. I’ll take some lessons of Captain Costigan. Go along, Rebecca—up the hill, old lady. Pendennis, Pendennis—how she spoke the word! Emily, Emily! how good, how noble, how beautiful, how perfect, she is!”