“And this was the secret, was it? Don’t blush and turn away, Foker, my boy. Why, man, you are a pattern of fidelity. Could I stand between Blanche and such constancy—could I stand between Miss Amory and fifteen thousand a year?”
“It is not that, Mr. Pendennis,” Blanche said, with great dignity. “It is not money, it is not rank, it is not gold that moves me; but it is constancy, it is fidelity, it is a whole trustful loving heart offered to me, that I treasure—yes, that I treasure!” And she made for her handkerchief, but, reflecting what was underneath it, she paused. “I do not disown, I do not disguise—my life is above disguise—to him on whom it is bestowed, my heart must be for ever bare—that I once thought I loved you,—yes, thought I was beloved by you, I own! How I clung to that faith! How I strove, I prayed, I longed to believe it! But your conduct always—your own words so cold, so heartless, so unkind, have undeceived me. You trifled with the heart of the poor maiden! You flung me back with scorn the troth which I had plighted! I have explained all—all to Mr. Foker.”
“That you have,” said Foker, with devotion, and conviction in his looks.
“What, all?” said Pen, with a meaning look at Blanche. “It is I am in fault, is it? Well, well, Blanche, be it so. I won’t appeal against your sentence, and bear it in silence. I came down here looking to very different things, Heaven knows, and with a heart most truly and kindly disposed towards you. I hope you may be happy with another, as, on my word, it was my wish to make you so; and I hope my honest old friend here will have a wife worthy of his loyalty, his constancy, and affection. Indeed they deserve the regard of any woman—even Miss Blanche Amory. Shake hands, Harry; don’t look askance at me. Has anybody told you that I was a false and heartless character?”
“I think you’re a——” Foker was beginning, in his wrath, when Blanche interposed.
“Henry, not a word!—I pray you let there be forgiveness!”
“You’re an angel, by Jove, you’re an angel!” said Foker, at which Blanche looked seraphically up to the chandelier.
“In spite of what has passed, for the sake of what has passed, I must always regard Arthur as a brother,” the seraph continued; “we have known each other years, we have trodden the same fields, and plucked the same flowers together. Arthur! Henry! I beseech you to take hands and to be friends! Forgive you!—I forgive you, Arthur, with my heart I do. Should I not do so for making me so happy?”
“There is only one person of us three whom I pity, Blanche,” Arthur said, gravely, “and I say to you again, that I hope you will make this good fellow, this honest and loyal creature, happy.”
“Happy! O Heavens!” said Harry. He could not speak. His happiness gushed out at his eyes. “She don’t know—she can’t know how fond I am of her, and—and who am I? a poor little beggar, and she takes me up and says she’ll try and I—I—love me. I ain’t worthy of so much happiness. Give us your hand, old boy, since she forgives you after your heartless conduct, and says she loves you. I’ll make you welcome. I tell you I’ll love everybody who loves her. By——, if she tells me to kiss the ground I’ll kiss it. Tell me to kiss the ground! I say, tell me. I love you so. You see I love you so.”