“Come, father, come to dinner!” cries Clive; “and, Pen, you will come too, won’t you?” he added; “it may be the last time you dine in such pleasant company. Come along,” he whispered hurriedly. “I should like you to be there, it will keep her tongue quiet.” As we proceeded to the dining-room, I gave the Colonel my arm; and the good man prattled to me something about Mrs. Mackenzie having taken shares in the Bundelcund Banking Company, and about her not being a woman of business, and fancying we had spent her money. “And I have always felt a wish that Clivy should pay her, and he will pay her, I know he will,” says the Colonel; “and then we shall lead a quiet life, Arthur; for, between ourselves, some women are the deuce when they are angry, sir.” And again he laughed, as he told me this sly news, and he bowed meekly his gentle old head as we entered the dining-room.
That apartment was occupied by little Boy already seated in his high chair, and by the Campaigner only, who stood at the mantelpiece in a majestic attitude. On parting with her, before we adjourned to Clive’s studio, I had made my bow and taken my leave in form, not supposing that I was about to enjoy her hospitality yet once again. My return did not seem to please her. “Does Mr. Pendennis favour us with his company to dinner again, Clive?” she said, turning to her son-in-law. Clive curtly said, Yes, he had asked Mr. Pendennis to stay.
“You might at least have been so kind as to give me notice,” says the Campaigner, still majestic, but ironical. “You will have but a poor meal, Mr. Pendennis; and one such as I’m not accustomed to give my guests.”
“Cold beef! what the deuce does it matter;” says Clive, beginning to carve the joint, which, hot, had served our yesterday’s Christmas table.
“It does matter, sir! I am not accustomed to treat my guests in this way. Maria! who has been cutting that beef? Three pounds of that beef have been cut away since one o’clock to-day,” and with flashing eyes, and a finger twinkling all over with rings, she pointed towards the guilty joint.
Whether Maria had been dispensing secret charities, or kept company with an occult policeman partial to roast-beef, I do not know; but she looked very much alarmed, and said, Indeed, and indeed, mum, she had not touched a morsel of it!—not she.
“Confound the beef!” says Clive, carving on.
“She has been cutting it!” cries the Campaigner, bringing her fist down with a thump upon the table. “Mr. Pendennis! you saw the beef yesterday; eighteen pounds it weighed, and this is what comes up of it! As if there was not already ruin enough in the house!”
“D—n the beef!” cries out Clive.
“No! no! Thank God for our good dinner! Benedicti benedicamus, Clivy my boy,” says the Colonel, in a tremulous voice.