“You know I don’t take sperrits. Lightfoot,” replied Morgan, appeased. “And so you and Mrs. Bonner is going to put up together, are you?”
“She’s old, but two thousand pound’s a good bit, you see, Mr Morgan. And we’ll get the ‘Clavering Arms’ for a very little; and that’ll be no bad thing when the railroad runs through Clavering. And when we are there, I hope you’ll come and see us, Mr. Morgan.”
“It’s a stoopid place, and no society,” said Mr. Morgan. “I know it well. In Mrs Pendennis’s time we used to go down, reg’lar, and the hair refreshed me after the London racket.”
“The railroad will improve Mr. Arthur’s property,” remarked Lightfoot. “What’s about the figure of it, should you say, sir?”
“Under fifteen hundred, sir,” answered Morgan; at which the other, who knew the extent of poor Arthur’s acres, thrust his tongue in his cheek, but remained wisely silent.
“Is his man any good, Mr. Morgan?” Lightfoot resumed.
“Pidgeon ain’t used to society as yet; but he’s young and has good talents, and has read a good deal, and I dessay he will do very well,” replied Morgan. “He wouldn’t quite do for this kind of thing, Lightfoot, for he ain’t seen the world yet.”
When the pint of sherry for which Mr. Lightfoot called, upon Mr. Morgan’s announcement that he declined to drink spirits, had been discussed by the two gentlemen, who held the wine up to the light, and smacked their lips, and winked their eyes at it, and rallied the landlord as to the vintage, in the most approved manner of connoisseurs, Morgan’s ruffled equanimity was quite restored, and he was prepared to treat his young friend with perfect good-humour.
“What d’you think about Miss Amory, Lightfoot—tell us in confidence, now—Do you think we should do well—you understand—if we make Miss A. into Mrs. A. P., comprendy vous?”
“She and her Ma’s always quarrellin’,” said Mr. Lightfoot. “Bonner is more than a match for the old lady, and treats Sir Francis like that—like this year spill, which I fling into the grate. But she daren’t say a word to Miss Amory. No more dare none of us. When a visitor comes in, she smiles and languishes, you’d think that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth: and the minute he is gone, very likely, she flares up like a little demon, and says things fit to send you wild. If Mr. Arthur comes, it’s ‘Do let’s sing that there delightful Song!’ or, ‘Come and write me them pooty verses in this halbum!’ and very likely she’s been a-rilin’ her mother, or sticking pins into her maid, a minute before. She do stick pins into her and pinch her. Mary Hann showed me one of her arms quite black and blue; and I recklect Mrs. Bonner, who’s as jealous of me as a old cat, boxed her ears for showing me. And then you should see Miss at luncheon, when there’s nobody but the family! She makes b’leave she never heats, and my! you should only jest see her. She has Mary Hann to bring her up plum-cakes and creams into her bedroom; and the cook’s the only man in the house she’s civil to. Bonner says, how, the second season in London, Mr. Soppington was a-goin’ to propose for her, and actially came one day, and sor her fling a book into the fire, and scold her mother so, that he went down softly by the back droring-room door, which he came in by; and next thing we heard of him was, he was married to Miss Rider. Oh, she’s a devil, that little Blanche, and that’s my candig apinium, Mr. Morgan.”