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cash, generally brought home an apple, or a piece of gingerbread for these children. “Whereby the widdy never pressed me for rint when not convanient,” as he remarked afterwards to Pen, winking knowingly, and laying a finger on his nose. As Pen followed his companion up the creaking old stair his knees trembled under him. He could hardly see when he entered, following the Captain, and stood in the room — in her room. He saw something black before him, and waving as if making a curtsy, and heard, but quite indistinctly, Costigan making a speech over him, in which the Captain, with his usual magniloquence, expressed to “me child” his wish to make her known to “his dear and admirable young friend, Mr. Awther Pindinnis, a young gentleman of property in the neighborhood, a person of refoined moind, and emiable manners, a sinsare lover of poethry, and a man possest of a feeling and affectionate heart.” “It is very fine weather,” Miss Fotheringay said, in an Irish accent, and with a deep rich melancholy voice. “Very,” said Mr. Pendennis. In this romantic way their conversation began; and he found himself seated on a chair, and having leisure to look at the young lady. She looked still handsomer off the stage than before the lamps. All her attitudes were naturally grand and majestical. If she went and stood up against the mantel-piece her robe draped itself classically round her; her chin supported itself on her hand, the other lines of her form arranged themselves in full harmonious undulations—she looked like a muse in contemplation. If she sat down on a cane-bottomed chair, her arm rounded itself over the back of the seat, her hand seemed as if it ought to have a sceptre put into it, the folds of her dress fell naturally round her in order: all her movements were graceful and imperial.
In the morning you could see her hair was blue-black, her complexion of dazzling fairness, with the faintest possible blush fickering, as it were, in her cheek. Her eyes were gray, with prodigious long lashes; and as for her mouth, Mr. Pendennis has given me subsequently to understand, that it was of a staring red color, with which the most brilliant geranium, sealing wax, or Guards-man's coat, could not vie.
“ And very warm," continued this empress and Queen of Sheba.
Mr. Pen again assented, and the conversation rolled on in this manner. She asked Costigan whether he had had a pleasant evening at the George, and he recounted the supper and the tumblers of punch. Then the father asked her how she had been employing the morning.
“ Bows came," said she, “at ten, and we studied Ophalia. It's for the twenty-fourth, when I hope, sir, we shall have the honor of seeing ye.”
“ Indeed, indeed, you will,” Mr. Pendennis cried; wondering that she could say “Ophalia," and speak with an Irish inflection of voice naturally, who had not the least Hibernian accent on the stage.
“I've secured ’um for your benefit, dear,” said the Captain, tapping his waistcoat pocket, wherein lay Pen's sovereigns, and winking at Pen, with one eye, at which the boy blushed.
“Mr. — the gentleman's very obleeging,” said Mrs. Haller.
“My name is Pendennis," said Pen, blushing. “I-1- hope you 'll — you 'll remember it.” His heart thumped so as he made this audacious declaration, that he almost choked in uttering it.
“Pendennis” - she answered slowly, and looking him full in the eyes, with a glance so straight, so
clear, so bright, so killing, with a voice so sweet, so round, so low, that the word and the glance shot Pen through and through, and perfectly transfixed him with pleasure.
“I never knew the name was so pretty before,” Pen said.
“'T is a very pretty name,” Ophelia said. “Pentweazle's not a pretty name. Remember, Papa, .when we were on the Norwich Circuit, young Pentweazle, who used to play second old men, and married Miss Rancy, the Columbine; they're both engaged in London now, at the Queen's, and get five pounds a week. Pentweazle was n't his real name. 'Twas Judkin gave it him, I don't know why. His name was Harrington; that is, his real name was Potts; fawther a clergyman, very respectable. Harrington was in London, and got in debt. Ye remember, he came out in Falkland, to Mrs. Bunce's Julia.”
“And a pretty Julia she was,” the Captain interposed; "a woman of fifty, and a mother of ten children. 'Tis you who ought to have been Julia, or my name 's not Jack Costigan."
“I did n't take the leading business then,” Miss Fotheringay said modestly; “I was n't fit for’t till Bows taught me.”
“ True for you, my dear,” said the Captain : and bending to Pendennis, he added, “Rejuiced in circumstances, sir, I was for some time a fencing-master in Dublin; (there's only three men in the empire could touch me with the foil once, but Jack Costigan's getting old and stiff now, sir) and my daughter had an engagement at the thayater there; and 't was there that my friend, Mr. Bows, gave her lessons, and made her what ye see. What have ye done since Bows went, Emily?"
“Sure, I've made a pie,” Emily said, with perfect simplicity. She pronounced it “ Poy.”
“If ye'll try it at four o'clock, sir, say the word,” said Costigan gallantly. “That girl, sir, makes the best veal and ham pie in England, and I think I can promise ye a glass of punch of the right flavor.”
Pen had promised to be home to dinner at six o'clock, but the rascal thought he could accommodate pleasure and duty in this point, and was only too eager to accept this invitation. He looked on with delight and wonder whilst Ophelia busied herself about the room, and prepared for the dinner. She arranged the glasses, and laid and smoothed the little cloth, all which duties she performed with a quiet grace and good-humor, which enchanted her guest more and more. The “poy" arrived from the baker's in the hands of one of the little choir-boy's brothers at the proper hour : and at four o'clock, Pen found himself at dinner — actually at dinner with the handsomest woman in all creation — with his first and only love, whom he had adored ever since when ? — ever since yesterday, ever since forever. He ate a crust of her making, he poured her out a glass of beer, he saw her drink a glass of punch – just one wine-glass full — out of the tumbler which she mixed for her papa. She was perfectly goodnatured, and offered to mix one for Pendennis too. It was prodigiously strong; Pen had never in his life drunk so much spirits-and-water. Was it the punch or the punch-maker who intoxicated him ?
Pen tried to engage her in conversation about poetry and about her profession. He asked her what she thought of Ophelia's madness, and whether she was in love with Hamlet or not? “In love with such a little ojus wretch as that stunted manager of a Bing