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diff --git a/7467-0.txt b/7467-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b56fe22 --- /dev/null +++ b/7467-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,34812 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 7467 *** + + + + +THE NEWCOMES + +MEMOIRS OF A MOST RESPECTABLE FAMILY + + +Edited by Arthur Pendennis, Esq. + +By William Makepeace Thackeray + + +Contents + + THE NEWCOMES + CHAPTER I. The Overture—After which the Curtain rises upon a Drinking Chorus + CHAPTER II. Colonel Newcome’s Wild Oats + CHAPTER III. Colonel Newcome’s Letter-box + CHAPTER IV. In which the Author and the Hero resume their Acquaintance + CHAPTER V. Clive’s Uncles + CHAPTER VI. Newcome Brothers + CHAPTER VII. In which Mr. Clive’s School-days are over + CHAPTER VIII. Mrs. Newcome at Home (a Small Early Party) + CHAPTER IX. Miss Honeyman’s + CHAPTER X. Ethel and her Relations + CHAPTER XI. At Mrs. Ridley’s + CHAPTER XII. In which everybody is asked to Dinner + CHAPTER XIII. In which Thomas Newcome sings his Last Song + CHAPTER XIV. Park Lane + CHAPTER XV. The Old Ladies + CHAPTER XVI. In which Mr. Sherrick lets his House in Fitzroy Square + CHAPTER XVII. A School of Art + CHAPTER XVIII. New Companions + CHAPTER XIX. The Colonel at Home + CHAPTER XX. Contains more Particulars of the Colonel and his Brethren + CHAPTER XXI. Is Sentimental, but Short + CHAPTER XXII. Describes a Visit to Paris; with Accidents and Incidents in London + CHAPTER XXIII. In which we hear a Soprano and a Contralto + CHAPTER XXIV. In which the Newcome Brothers once more meet together in Unity + CHAPTER XXV. Is passed in a Public-house + CHAPTER XXVI. In which Colonel Newcome’s Horses are sold + CHAPTER XXVII. Youth and Sunshine + CHAPTER XXVIII. In which Clive begins to see the World + CHAPTER XXIX. In which Barnes comes a-wooing + CHAPTER XXX. A Retreat + CHAPTER XXXI. Madame la Duchesse + CHAPTER XXXII. Barnes’s Courtship + CHAPTER XXXIII. Lady Kew at the Congress + CHAPTER XXXIV. The End of the Congress of Baden + CHAPTER XXXV. Across the Alps + CHAPTER XXXVI. In which M. de Florac is promoted + CHAPTER XXXVII. Returns to Lord Kew + CHAPTER XXXVIII. In which Lady Kew leaves his Lordship quite convalescent + CHAPTER XXXIX. Amongst the Painters + CHAPTER XL. Returns from Rome to Pall Mall + CHAPTER XLI. An Old Story + CHAPTER XLII. Injured Innocence + CHAPTER XLIII. Returns to some Old Friends + CHAPTER XLIV. In which Mr. Charles Honeyman appears in an Amiable Light + CHAPTER XLV. A Stag of Ten + CHAPTER XLVI. The Hotel de Florac + CHAPTER XLVII. Contains two or three Acts of a Little Comedy + CHAPTER XLVIII. In which Benedick is a Married Man + CHAPTER XLIX. Contains at least six more Courses and two Desserts + CHAPTER L. Clive in New Quarters + CHAPTER LI. An Old Friend + CHAPTER LII. Family Secrets + CHAPTER LIII. In which Kinsmen fall out + CHAPTER LIV. Has a Tragical Ending + CHAPTER LV. Barnes’s Skeleton Closet + CHAPTER LVI. Rosa quo locorum sera moratur + CHAPTER LVII. Rosebury and Newcome + CHAPTER LVIII. “One more Unfortunate” + CHAPTER LIX. In which Achilles loses Briseis + CHAPTER LX. In which we write to the Colonel + CHAPTER LXI. In which we are introduced to a New Newcome + CHAPTER LXII. Mr. and Mrs. Clive Newcome + CHAPTER LXIII. Mrs. Clive at Home + CHAPTER LXIV. Absit Omen + CHAPTER LXV. In which Mrs. Clive comes into her Fortune + CHAPTER LXVI. In which the Colonel and the Newcome Athenæum are both lectured + CHAPTER LXVII. Newcome and Liberty + CHAPTER LXVIII. A Letter and a Reconciliation + CHAPTER LXIX. The Election + CHAPTER LXX. Chiltern Hundreds + CHAPTER LXXI. In which Mrs. Clive Newcome’s Carriage is ordered + CHAPTER LXXII. Belisarius + CHAPTER LXXIII. In which Belisarius returns from Exile + CHAPTER LXXIV. In which Clive begins the World + CHAPTER LXXV. Founder’s Day at the Grey Friars + CHAPTER LXXVI. Christmas at Rosebury + CHAPTER LXXVII. The Shortest and Happiest in the Whole History + CHAPTER LXXVIII. In which the Author goes on a Pleasant Errand + CHAPTER LXXIX. In which Old Friends come together + CHAPTER LXXX. In which the Colonel says “Adsum” when his Name is called + + + + +THE NEWCOMES + + + + +CHAPTER I. +The Overture—After which the Curtain rises upon a Drinking Chorus + + +A crow, who had flown away with a cheese from a dairy-window, sate +perched on a tree looking down at a great big frog in a pool underneath +him. The frog’s hideous large eyes were goggling out of his head in a +manner which appeared quite ridiculous to the old blackamoor, who +watched the splay-footed slimy wretch with that peculiar grim humour +belonging to crows. Not far from the frog a fat ox was browsing; whilst +a few lambs frisked about the meadow, or nibbled the grass and +buttercups there. + +Who should come in to the farther end of the field but a wolf? He was +so cunningly dressed up in sheep’s clothing, that the very lambs did +not know Master Wolf; nay, one of them, whose dam the wolf had just +eaten, after which he had thrown her skin over his shoulders, ran up +innocently towards the devouring monster, mistaking him for her mamma. + +“He, he!” says a fox, sneaking round the hedge-paling, over which the +tree grew, whereupon the crow was perched looking down on the frog, who +was staring with his goggle eyes fit to burst with envy, and croaking +abuse at the ox. “How absurd those lambs are! Yonder silly little +knock-kneed baah-ling does not know the old wolf dressed in the sheep’s +fleece. He is the same old rogue who gobbled up little Red Riding +Hood’s grandmother for lunch, and swallowed little Red Riding Hood for +supper. _Tirez la bobinette et la chevillette cherra_. He, he!” + +An owl that was hidden in the hollow of the tree woke up. “Oho, Master +Fox,” says she, “I cannot see you, but I smell you! If some folks like +lambs, other folks like geese,” says the owl. + +“And your ladyship is fond of mice,” says the fox. + +“The Chinese eat them,” says the owl, “and I have read that they are +very fond of dogs,” continued the old lady. + +“I wish they would exterminate every cur of them off the face of the +earth,” said the fox. + +“And I have also read, in works of travel, that the French eat frogs,” +continued the owl. “Aha, my friend Crapaud! are you there? That was a +very pretty concert we sang together last night!” + +“If the French devour my brethren, the English eat beef,” croaked out +the frog,—“great, big, brutal, bellowing oxen.” + +“Ho, whoo!” says the owl, “I have heard that the English are +toad-eaters too!” + +“But who ever heard of them eating an owl or a fox, madam?” says +Reynard, “or their sitting down and taking a crow to pick?” adds the +polite rogue, with a bow to the old crow who was perched above them +with the cheese in his mouth. “We are privileged animals, all of us; at +least, we never furnish dishes for the odious orgies of man.” + +“I am the bird of wisdom,” says the owl; “I was the companion of Pallas +Minerva: I am frequently represented in the Egyptian monuments.” + +“I have seen you over the British barn-doors,” said the fox, with a +grin. “You have a deal of scholarship, Mrs. Owl. I know a thing or two +myself; but am, I confess it, no scholar—a mere man of the world—a +fellow that lives by his wits—a mere country gentleman.” + +“You sneer at scholarship,” continues the owl, with a sneer on her +venerable face. “I read a good deal of a night.” + +“When I am engaged deciphering the cocks and hens at roost,” says the +fox. + +“It’s a pity for all that you can’t read; that board nailed over my +head would give you some information.” + +“What does it say?” says the fox. + +“I can’t spell in the daylight,” answered the owl; and, giving a yawn, +went back to sleep till evening in the hollow of her tree. + +“A fig for her hieroglyphics!” said the fox, looking up at the crow in +the tree. “What airs our slow neighbour gives herself! She pretends to +all the wisdom; whereas, your reverences, the crows, are endowed with +gifts far superior to these benighted old big-wigs of owls, who blink +in the darkness, and call their hooting singing. How noble it is to +hear a chorus of crows! There are twenty-four brethren of the Order of +St. Corvinus, who have builded themselves a convent near a wood which I +frequent; what a droning and a chanting they keep up! I protest their +reverences’ singing is nothing to yours! You sing so deliciously in +parts, do for the love of harmony favour me with a solo!” + +While this conversation was going on, the ox was thumping the grass; +the frog was eyeing him in such a rage at his superior proportions, +that he would have spurted venom at him if he could, and that he would +have burst, only that is impossible, from sheer envy; the little +lambkin was lying unsuspiciously at the side of the wolf in fleecy +hosiery, who did not as yet molest her, being replenished with the +mutton her mamma. But now the wolf’s eyes began to glare, and his sharp +white teeth to show, and he rose up with a growl, and began to think he +should like lamb for supper. + +“What large eyes you have got!” bleated out the lamb, with rather a +timid look. + +“The better to see you with, my dear.” + +“What large teeth you have got!” + +“The better to——” + +At this moment such a terrific yell filled the field, that all its +inhabitants started with terror. It was from a donkey, who had somehow +got a lion’s skin, and now came in at the hedge, pursued by some men +and boys with sticks and guns. + +When the wolf in sheep’s clothing heard the bellow of the ass in the +lion’s skin, fancying that the monarch of the forest was near, he ran +away as fast as his disguise would let him. When the ox heard the noise +he dashed round the meadow-ditch, and with one trample of his hoof +squashed the frog who had been abusing him. When the crow saw the +people with guns coming, he instantly dropped the cheese out of his +mouth, and took to wing. When the fox saw the cheese drop, he +immediately made a jump at it (for he knew the donkey’s voice, and that +his asinine bray was not a bit like his royal master’s roar), and +making for the cheese, fell into a steel trap, which snapped off his +tail; without which he was obliged to go into the world, pretending, +forsooth, that it was the fashion not to wear tails any more; and that +the fox-party were better without ’em. + +Meanwhile, a boy with a stick came up, and belaboured Master Donkey +until he roared louder than ever. The wolf, with the sheep’s clothing +draggling about his legs, could not run fast, and was detected and shot +by one of the men. The blind old owl, whirring out of the hollow tree, +quite amazed at the disturbance, flounced into the face of a ploughboy, +who knocked her down with a pitchfork. The butcher came and quietly led +off the ox and the lamb; and the farmer, finding the fox’s brush in the +trap, hung it up over his mantelpiece, and always bragged that he had +been in at his death. + +“What a farrago of old fables is this! What a dressing up in old +clothes!” says the critic. (I think I see such a one—a Solomon that +sits in judgment over us authors and chops up our children.) “As sure +as I am just and wise, modest, learned, and religious, so surely I have +read something very like this stuff and nonsense about jackasses and +foxes before. That wolf in sheep’s clothing?—do I not know him? That +fox discoursing with the crow?—have I not previously heard of him? Yes, +in Lafontaine’s fables: let us get the Dictionary and the Fable and the +Biographie Universelle, article Lafontaine, and confound the impostor.” + +“Then in what a contemptuous way,” may Solomon go on to remark, “does +this author speak of human nature! There is scarce one of these +characters he represents but is a villain. The fox is a flatterer; the +frog is an emblem of impotence and envy; the wolf in sheep’s clothing a +bloodthirsty hypocrite, wearing the garb of innocence; the ass in the +lion’s skin a quack trying to terrify, by assuming the appearance of a +forest monarch (does the writer, writhing under merited castigation, +mean to sneer at critics in this character? We laugh at the impertinent +comparison); the ox, a stupid commonplace; the only innocent being in +the writer’s (stolen) apologue is a fool—the idiotic lamb, who does not +know his own mother!” And then the critic, if in a virtuous mood, may +indulge in some fine writing regarding the holy beauteousness of +maternal affection. + +Why not? If authors sneer, it is the critic’s business to sneer at them +for sneering. He must pretend to be their superior, or who would care +about his opinion? And his livelihood is to find fault. Besides, he is +right sometimes; and the stories he reads, and the characters drawn in +them, are old, sure enough. What stories are new? All types of all +characters march through all fables: tremblers and boasters; victims +and bullies; dupes and knaves; long-eared Neddies, giving themselves +leonine airs; Tartuffes wearing virtuous clothing; lovers and their +trials, their blindness, their folly and constancy. With the very first +page of the human story do not love and lies too begin? So the tales +were told ages before Aesop; and asses under lions’ manes roared in +Hebrew; and sly foxes flattered in Etruscan; and wolves in sheep’s +clothing gnashed their teeth in Sanskrit, no doubt. The sun shines +to-day as he did when he first began shining; and the birds in the tree +overhead, while I am writing, sing very much the same note they have +sung ever since there were finches. Nay, since last he besought +good-natured friends to listen once a month to his talking, a friend of +the writer has seen the New World, and found the (featherless) birds +there exceedingly like their brethren of Europe. There may be nothing +new under and including the sun; but it looks fresh every morning, and +we rise with it to toil, hope, scheme, laugh, struggle, love, suffer, +until the night comes and quiet. And then will wake Morrow and the eyes +that look on it; and so _da capo_. + +This, then, is to be a story, may it please you, in which jackdaws will +wear peacocks’ feathers, and awaken the just ridicule of the peacocks; +in which, while every justice is done to the peacocks themselves, the +splendour of their plumage, the gorgeousness of their dazzling necks, +and the magnificence of their tails, exception will yet be taken to the +absurdity of their rickety strut, and the foolish discord of their pert +squeaking; in which lions in love will have their claws pared by sly +virgins; in which rogues will sometimes triumph, and honest folks, let +us hope, come by their own; in which there will be black crape and +white favours; in which there will be tears under orange-flower +wreaths, and jokes in mourning-coaches; in which there will be dinners +of herbs with contentment and without, and banquets of stalled oxen +where there is care and hatred—ay, and kindness and friendship too, +along with the feast. It does not follow that all men are honest +because they are poor; and I have known some who were friendly and +generous, although they had plenty of money. There are some great +landlords who do not grind down their tenants; there are actually +bishops who are not hypocrites; there are liberal men even among the +Whigs, and the Radicals themselves are not all aristocrats at heart. +But who ever heard of giving the Moral before the Fable? Children are +only led to accept the one after their delectation over the other: let +us take care lest our readers skip both; and so let us bring them on +quickly—our wolves and lambs, our foxes and lions, our roaring donkeys, +our billing ringdoves, our motherly partlets, and crowing chanticleers. + +There was once a time when the sun used to shine brighter than it +appears to do in this latter half of the nineteenth century; when the +zest of life was certainly keener; when tavern wines seemed to be +delicious, and tavern dinners the perfection of cookery; when the +perusal of novels was productive of immense delight, and the monthly +advent of magazine-day was hailed as an exciting holiday; when to know +Thompson, who had written a magazine-article, was an honour and a +privilege; and to see Brown, the author of the last romance, in the +flesh, and actually walking in the Park with his umbrella and Mrs. +Brown, was an event remarkable, and to the end of life to be perfectly +well remembered; when the women of this world were a thousand times +more beautiful than those of the present time; and the houris of the +theatres especially so ravishing and angelic, that to see them was to +set the heart in motion, and to see them again was to struggle for half +an hour previously at the door of the pit; when tailors called at a +man’s lodgings to dazzle him with cards of fancy waistcoats; when it +seemed necessary to purchase a grand silver dressing-case, so as to be +ready for the beard which was not yet born (as yearling brides provide +lace caps, and work rich clothes, for the expected darling); when to +ride in the Park on a ten-shilling hack seemed to be the height of +fashionable enjoyment, and to splash your college tutor as you were +driving down Regent Street in a hired cab the triumph of satire; when +the acme of pleasure seemed to be to meet Jones of Trinity at the +Bedford, and to make an arrangement with him, and with King of Corpus +(who was staying at the Colonnade), and Martin of Trinity Hall (who was +with his family in Bloomsbury Square), to dine at the Piazza, go to the +play and see Braham in Fra Diavolo, and end the frolic evening by +partaking of supper and a song at the “Cave of Harmony.”—It was in the +days of my own youth, then, that I met one or two of the characters who +are to figure in this history, and whom I must ask leave to accompany +for a short while, and until, familiarised with the public, they can +make their own way. As I recall them the roses bloom again, and the +nightingales sing by the calm Bendemeer. + +Going to the play, then, and to the pit, as was the fashion in those +honest days, with some young fellows of my own age, having listened +delighted to the most cheerful and brilliant of operas, and laughed +enthusiastically at the farce, we became naturally hungry at twelve +o’clock at night, and a desire for welsh-rabbits and good old +glee-singing led us to the “Cave of Harmony,” then kept by the +celebrated Hoskins, among whose friends we were proud to count. + +We enjoyed such intimacy with Mr. Hoskins that he never failed to greet +us with a kind nod; and John the waiter made room for us near the +President of the convivial meeting. We knew the three admirable +glee-singers, and many a time they partook of brandy-and-water at our +expense. One of us gave his call dinner at Hoskins’s, and a merry time +we had of it. Where are you, O Hoskins, bird of the night? Do you +warble your songs by Acheron, or troll your choruses by the banks of +black Avernus? + +The goes of stout, the “Chough and Crow,” the welsh-rabbit, the +“Red-Cross Knight,” the hot brandy-and-water (the brown, the strong!), +the “Bloom is on the Rye” (the bloom isn’t on the rye any more!)—the +song and the cup, in a word, passed round merrily; and, I daresay, the +songs and bumpers were encored. It happened that there was a very small +attendance at the “Cave” that night, and we were all more sociable and +friendly because the company was select. The songs were chiefly of the +sentimental class; such ditties were much in vogue at the time of which +I speak. + +There came into the “Cave” a gentleman with a lean brown face and long +black mustachios, dressed in very loose clothes, and evidently a +stranger to the place. At least he had not visited it for a long time. +He was pointing out changes to a lad who was in his company; and, +calling for sherry-and-water, he listened to the music, and twirled his +mustachios with great enthusiasm. + +At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the table, +bounded across the room, ran to me with his hands out, and, blushing, +said, “Don’t you know me?” + +It was little Newcome, my school-fellow, whom I had not seen for six +years, grown a fine tall young stripling now, with the same bright blue +eyes which I remembered when he was quite a little boy. + +“What the deuce brings you here?” said I. + +He laughed and looked roguish. “My father—that’s my father—would come. +He’s just come back from India. He says all the wits used to come +here,—Mr. Sheridan, Captain Morris, Colonel Hanger, Professor Porson. I +told him your name, and that you used to be very kind to me when I +first went to Smithfield. I’ve left now; I’m to have a private tutor. I +say, I’ve got such a jolly pony. It’s better fun than old Smile.” + +Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome’s father, pointing to a waiter to +follow him with his glass of sherry-and-water, strode across the room +twirling his mustachios, and came up to the table where we sate, making +a salutation with his hat in a very stately and polite manner, so that +Hoskins himself was, as it were, obliged to bow; the glee-singers +murmured among themselves (their eyes rolling over their glasses +towards one another as they sucked brandy-and water), and that +mischievous little wag, little Nadab the Improvisatore (who had just +come in), began to mimic him, feeling his imaginary whiskers, after the +manner of the stranger, and flapping about his pocket-handkerchief in +the most ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this ribaldry by sternly +looking towards Nadab, and at the same time called upon the gents to +give their orders, the waiter being in the room, and Mr. Bellew about +to sing a song. + +Newcome’s father came up and held out his hand to me. I dare say I +blushed, for I had been comparing him to the admirable Harley in the +Critic, and had christened him Don Ferolo Whiskerandos. + +He spoke in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant, and with a +cordiality so simple and sincere, that my laughter shrank away ashamed, +and gave place to a feeling much more respectful and friendly. In +youth, you see, one is touched by kindness. A man of the world may, of +course, be grateful or not as he chooses. + +“I have heard of your kindness, sir,” says he, “to my boy. And whoever +is kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me to sit down by you? and +may I beg you to try my cheroots?” We were friends in a minute—young +Newcome snuggling by my side, his father opposite, to whom, after a +minute or two of conversation, I presented my three college friends. + +“You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits,” says the Colonel. +“Are there any celebrated persons in the room? I have been +five-and-thirty years from home, and want to see all that is to be +seen.” + +King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was on the point of +pulling some dreadful long-bow, and pointing out a halfdozen of people +in the room, as R. and H. and L., etc., the most celebrated wits of +that day; but I cut King’s shins under the table, and got the fellow to +hold his tongue. + +“_Maxima debetur pueris_,” says Jones (a fellow of very kind feeling, +who has gone into the Church since), and, writing on his card to +Hoskins, hinted to him that a boy was in the room, and a gentleman, who +was quite a greenhorn: hence that the songs had better be carefully +selected. + +And so they were. A ladies’ school might have come in, and, but for the +smell of the cigars and brandy-and-water, have taken no harm by what +happened. Why should it not always be so? If there are any “Caves of +Harmony” now, I warrant Messieurs the landlords, their interests would +be better consulted by keeping their singers within bounds. The very +greatest scamps like pretty songs, and are melted by them; so are +honest people. It was worth a guinea to see the simple Colonel, and his +delight at the music. He forgot all about the distinguished wits whom +he had expected to see in his ravishment over the glees. + +“I say, Clive, this is delightful. This is better than your aunt’s +concert with all the Squallinis, hey? I shall come here often. +Landlord, may I venture to ask those gentlemen if they will take any +refreshment? What are their names?” (to one of his neighbours). “I was +scarcely allowed to hear any singing before I went out, except an +oratorio, where I fell asleep; but this, by George, is as fine as +Incledon!” He became quite excited over his sherry-and-water—(“I’m +sorry to see you, gentlemen, drinking brandy-pawnee,” says he; “it +plays the deuce with our young men in India.”) He joined in all the +choruses with an exceedingly sweet voice. He laughed at “The Derby Ram” +so that it did you good to hear him; and when Hoskins sang (as he did +admirably) “The Old English Gentleman,” and described, in measured +cadence, the death of that venerable aristocrat, tears trickled down +the honest warrior’s cheek, while he held out his hand to Hoskins and +said, “Thank you, sir, for that song; it is an honour to human nature.” +On which Hoskins began to cry too. + +And now young Nadab, having been cautioned, commenced one of those +surprising feats of improvisation with which he used to charm +audiences. He took us all off, and had rhymes pat about all the +principal persons in the room: King’s pins (which he wore very +splendid), Martin’s red waistcoat, etc. The Colonel was charmed with +each feat, and joined delighted with the chorus—“Ritolderol ritolderol +ritolderolderay” (_bis_). And when, coming to the Colonel himself, he +burst out— + +“A military gent I see—And while his face I scan, +I think you’ll all agree with me—He came from Hindostan. +And by his side sits laughing free—A youth with curly head, +I think you’ll all agree with me—That he was best in bed. +Ritolderol,” etc. + + +—the Colonel laughed immensely at this sally, and clapped his son, +young Clive, on the shoulder. “Hear what he says of you, sir? Clive, +best be off to bed, my boy—ho, ho! No, no. We know a trick worth two of +that. ‘We won’t go home till morning, till daylight does appear.’ Why +should we? Why shouldn’t my boy have innocent pleasure? I was allowed +none when I was a young chap, and the severity was nearly the ruin of +me. I must go and speak with that young man—the most astonishing thing +I ever heard in my life. What’s his name? Mr. Nadab? Mr. Nadab, sir, +you have delighted me. May I make so free as to ask you to come and +dine with me to-morrow at six? Colonel Newcome, if you please, Nerot’s +Hotel, Clifford Street. I am always proud to make the acquaintance of +men of genius, and you are one, or my name is not Newcome!” + +“Sir, you do me hhonour,” says Mr. Nadab, pulling up his shirt-collar, +“and perhaps the day will come when the world will do me justice,—may I +put down your hhonoured name for my book of poems?” + +“Of course, my dear sir,” says the enthusiastic Colonel; “I’ll send +them all over India. Put me down for six copies, and do me the favour +to bring them to-morrow when you come to dinner.” + +And now Mr. Hoskins asking if any gentleman would volunteer a song, +what was our amazement when the simple Colonel offered to sing himself, +at which the room applauded vociferously; whilst methought poor Clive +Newcome hung down his head, and blushed as red as a peony. I felt for +the young lad, and thought what my own sensations would have been if, +in that place, my own uncle, Major Pendennis, had suddenly proposed to +exert his lyrical powers. + +The Colonel selected the ditty of “Wapping Old Stairs” (a ballad so +sweet and touching that surely any English poet might be proud to be +the father of it), and he sang this quaint and charming old song in an +exceedingly pleasant voice, with flourishes and roulades in the old +Incledon manner, which has pretty nearly passed away. The singer gave +his heart and soul to the simple ballad, and delivered Molly’s gentle +appeal so pathetically that even the professional gentlemen hummed and +buzzed—a sincere applause; and some wags who were inclined to jeer at +the beginning of the performance, clinked their glasses and rapped +their sticks with quite a respectful enthusiasm. When the song was +over, Clive held up his head too; after the shock of the first verse, +looked round with surprise and pleasure in his eyes; and we, I need not +say, backed our friend, delighted to see him come out of his queer +scrape so triumphantly. The Colonel bowed and smiled with very pleasant +good-nature at our plaudits. It was like Dr. Primrose preaching his +sermon in the prison. There was something touching in the naivete and +kindness of the placid and simple gentleman. + +Great Hoskins, placed on high, amidst the tuneful choir, was pleased to +signify his approbation, and gave his guest’s health in his usual +dignified manner. “I am much obliged to you, sir,” says Mr. Hoskins; +“the room ought to be much obliged to you: I drink your ’ealth and +song, sir;” and he bowed to the Colonel politely over his glass of +brandy-and-water, of which he absorbed a little in his customer’s +honour. “I have not heard that song,” he was kind enough to say, +“better performed since Mr. Incledon sung it. He was a great singer, +sir, and I may say, in the words of our immortal Shakspeare, that, take +him for all in all, we shall not look upon his like again.” + +The Colonel blushed in his turn, and turning round to his boy with an +arch smile, said, “I learnt it from Incledon. I used to slip out from +Grey Friars to hear him, Heaven bless me, forty years ago; and I used +to be flogged afterwards, and serve me right too. Lord! Lord! how the +time passes!” He drank off his sherry-and-water, and fell back in his +chair; we could see he was thinking about his youth—the golden time—the +happy, the bright, the unforgotten. I was myself nearly two-and-twenty +years of age at that period, and felt as old as, ay, older than the +Colonel. + +Whilst he was singing his ballad, there had walked, or rather reeled, +into the room, a gentleman in a military frock-coat and duck trousers +of dubious hue, with whose name and person some of my readers are +perhaps already acquainted. In fact it was my friend Captain Costigan, +in his usual condition at this hour of the night. + +Holding on by various tables, the Captain had sidled up, without +accident to himself or any of the jugs and glasses round about him, to +the table where we sat, and had taken his place near the writer, his +old acquaintance. He warbled the refrain of the Colonel’s song, not +inharmoniously; and saluted its pathetic conclusion with a subdued +hiccup and a plentiful effusion of tears. “Bedad, it is a beautiful +song,” says he, “and many a time I heard poor Harry Incledon sing it.” + +“He’s a great character,” whispered that unlucky King of Corpus to his +neighbour the Colonel; “was a Captain in the army. We call him the +General. Captain Costigan, will you take something to drink?” + +“Bedad, I will,” says the Captain, “and I’ll sing ye a song tu.” + +And, having procured a glass of whisky-and-water from the passing +waiter, the poor old man, settling his face into a horrid grin, and +leering, as he was wont when he gave what he called one of his prime +songs, began his music. + +The unlucky wretch, who scarcely knew what he was doing or saying, +selected one of the most outrageous performances of his _répertoire_, +fired off a tipsy howl by way of overture, and away he went. At the end +of the second verse the Colonel started up, clapping on his hat, +seizing his stick, and looking as ferocious as though he had been going +to do battle with a Pindaree. + +“Silence!” he roared out. + +“Hear, hear!” cried certain wags at a farther table. “Go on, Costigan!” +said others. + +“Go on!” cries the Colonel, in his high voice trembling with anger. +“Does any gentleman say ‘Go On?’ Does any man who has a wife and +sisters, or children at home, say ‘Go on’ to such disgusting ribaldry +as this? Do you dare, sir, to call yourself a gentleman, and to say +that you hold the King’s commission, and to sit down amongst Christians +and men of honour, and defile the ears of young boys with this wicked +balderdash?” + +“Why do you bring young boys here, old boy?” cries a voice of the +malcontents. + +“Why? Because I thought I was coming to a society of gentlemen,” cried +out the indignant Colonel. “Because I never could have believed that +Englishmen could meet together and allow a man, and an old man, so to +disgrace himself. For shame, you old wretch! Go home to your bed, you +hoary old sinner! And for my part, I’m not sorry that my son should +see, for once in his life, to what shame and degradation and dishonour, +drunkenness and whisky may bring a man. Never mind the change, +sir!—Curse the change!” says the Colonel, facing the amazed waiter. +“Keep it till you see me in this place again; which will be never—by +George, never!” And shouldering his stick, and scowling round at the +company of scared bacchanalians, the indignant gentleman stalked away, +his boy after him. + +Clive seemed rather shamefaced; but I fear the rest of the company +looked still more foolish. + +“Aussi que diable venait—il faire dans cette galere?” says King of +Corpus to Jones of Trinity; and Jones gave a shrug of his shoulders, +which were smarting, perhaps; for that uplifted cane of the Colonel’s +had somehow fallen on the back of every man in the room. + + + + +CHAPTER II. +Colonel Newcome’s Wild Oats + + +As the young gentleman who has just gone to bed is to be the hero of +the following pages, we had best begin our account of him with his +family history, which luckily is not very long. + +When pigtails still grew on the backs of the British gentry, and their +wives wore cushions on their heads, over which they tied their own +hair, and disguised it with powder and pomatum: when Ministers went in +their stars and orders to the House of Commons, and the orators of the +Opposition attacked nightly the noble lord in the blue ribbon: when Mr. +Washington was heading the American rebels with a courage, it must be +confessed, worthy of a better cause: there came up to London, out of a +northern county, Mr. Thomas Newcome, afterwards Thomas Newcome, Esq., +and sheriff of London, afterwards Mr. Alderman Newcome, the founder of +the family whose name has given the title to this history. It was but +in the reign of George III. that Mr. Newcome first made his appearance +in Cheapside; having made his entry into London on a waggon, which +landed him and some bales of cloth, all his fortune, in Bishopsgate +Street; though if it could be proved that the Normans wore pigtails +under William the Conqueror, and Mr. Washington fought against the +English under King Richard in Palestine, I am sure some of the present +Newcomes would pay the Heralds’ Office handsomely, living, as they do, +amongst the noblest of the land, and giving entertainments to none but +the very highest nobility and _élite_ of the fashionable and diplomatic +world, as you may read any day in the newspapers. For though these +Newcomes have got a pedigree from the College, which is printed in +Budge’s Landed Aristocracy of Great Britain, and which proves that the +Newcome of Cromwell’s army, the Newcome who was among the last six who +were hanged by Queen Mary for Protestantism, were ancestors of this +house; of which a member distinguished himself at Bosworth Field; and +the founder, slain by King Harold’s side at Hastings, had been +surgeon-barber to King Edward the Confessor; yet, between ourselves, I +think that Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome, does not believe a word of +the story, any more than the rest of the world does, although a number +of his children bear names out of the Saxon Calendar. + +Was Thomas Newcome a foundling—a workhouse child out of that village +which has now become a great manufacturing town, and which bears his +name? Such was the report set about at the last election, when Sir +Brian, in the Conservative interest contested the borough; and Mr. +Yapp, the out-and-out Liberal candidate, had a picture of the old +workhouse placarded over the town as the birthplace of the Newcomes; +with placards ironically exciting freemen to vote for Newcome and +_union_—Newcome and the _parish_ interests, etc. Who cares for these +local scandals? It matters very little to those who have the good +fortune to be invited to Lady Ann Newcome’s parties whether her +beautiful daughters can trace their pedigrees no higher than to the +alderman their grandfather; or whether, through the mythic ancestral +barber-surgeon, they hang on to the chin of Edward, Confessor and King. + +Thomas Newcome, who had been a weaver in his native village, brought +the very best character for honesty, thrift, and ingenuity with him to +London, where he was taken into the house of Hobson Brothers, +cloth-factors; afterwards Hobson and Newcome. This fact may suffice to +indicate Thomas Newcome’s story. Like Whittington and many other London +apprentices, he began poor and ended by marrying his master’s daughter, +and becoming sheriff and alderman of the City of London. + +But it was only _en secondes noces_ that he espoused the wealthy, and +religious, and eminent (such was the word applied to certain professing +Christians in those days) Sophia Alethea Hobson—a woman who, +considerably older than Mr. Newcome, had the advantage of surviving him +many years. Her mansion at Clapham was long the resort of the most +favoured amongst the religious world. The most eloquent expounders; the +most gifted missionaries, the most interesting converts from foreign +islands, were to be found at her sumptuous table, spread with the +produce of her magnificent gardens. Heaven indeed blessed those gardens +with plenty, as many reverend gentlemen remarked; there were no finer +grapes, peaches, or pineapples in all England. Mr. Whitfield himself +christened her; and it was said generally in the City, and by her +friends, that Miss Hobson’s two Christian names, Sophia and Alethea, +were two Greek words, which, being interpreted, meant wisdom and truth. +She, her villa and gardens, are now no more; but Sophia Terrace, Upper +and Lower Alethea Road, and Hobson’s Buildings, Square, etc., show +every quarter-day that the ground sacred to her (and freehold) still +bears plenteous fruit for the descendants of this eminent woman. + +We are, however, advancing matters. When Thomas Newcome had been some +time in London, he quitted the house of Hobson, finding an opening, +though in a much smaller way, for himself. And no sooner did his +business prosper, than he went down into the north, like a man, to a +pretty girl whom he had left there, and whom he had promised to marry. +What seemed an imprudent match (for his wife had nothing but a pale +face, that had grown older and paler with long waiting) turned out a +very lucky one for Newcome. The whole countryside was pleased to think +of the prosperous London tradesman returning to keep his promise to the +penniless girl whom he had loved in the days of his own poverty; the +great country clothiers, who knew his prudence and honesty, gave him +much of their business when he went back to London. Susan Newcome would +have lived to be a rich woman had not fate ended her career within a +year after her marriage, when she died giving birth to a son. + +Newcome had a nurse for the child, and a cottage at Clapham, hard by +Mr. Hobson’s house, where he had often walked in the garden of a +Sunday, and been invited to sit down to take a glass of wine. Since he +had left their service, the house had added a banking business, which +was greatly helped by the Quakers and their religious connection; and +Newcome, keeping his account there, and gradually increasing his +business, was held in very good esteem by his former employers, and +invited sometimes to tea at the Hermitage; for which entertainments he +did not, in truth, much care at first, being a City man, a good deal +tired with his business during the day, and apt to go to sleep over the +sermons, expoundings, and hymns, with which the gifted preachers, +missionaries, etc., who were always at the Hermitage, used to wind up +the evening, before supper. Nor was he a supping man (in which case he +would have found the parties pleasanter, for in Egypt itself there were +not more savoury fleshpots than at Clapham); he was very moderate in +his meals, of a bilious temperament, and, besides, obliged to be in +town early in the morning, always setting off to walk an hour before +the first coach. + +But when his poor Susan died, Miss Hobson, by her father’s demise, +having now become a partner in the house, as well as heiress to the +pious and childless Zachariah Hobson, her uncle: Mr. Newcome, with his +little boy in his hand, met Miss Hobson as she was coming out of +meeting one Sunday; and the child looked so pretty (Mr. N. was a very +personable, fresh-coloured man himself; he wore powder to the end, and +top-boots and brass buttons, in his later days, after he had been +sheriff indeed, one of the finest specimens of the old London +merchant); Miss Hobson, I say, invited him and little Tommy into the +grounds of the Hermitage; did not quarrel with the innocent child for +frisking about in the hay on the lawn, which lay basking in the Sabbath +sunshine, and at the end of the visit gave him a large piece of +pound-cake, a quantity of the finest hothouse grapes, and a tract in +one syllable. Tommy was ill the next day; but on the next Sunday his +father was at meeting. + +He became very soon after this an awakened man; and the tittling and +tattling, and the sneering and gossiping, all over Clapham, and the +talk on ’Change, and the pokes in the waistcoat administered by the +wags to Newcome,—“Newcome, give you joy, my boy;” “Newcome, new partner +in Hobson’s;” “Newcome, just take in this paper to Hobson’s, they’ll do +it, I warrant,” etc. etc.; and the groans of the Rev. Gideon Bawls, of +the Rev. Athanasius O’Grady, that eminent convert from Popery, who, +quarrelling with each other, yea, striving one against another, had yet +two sentiments in common, their love for Miss Hobson, their dread, +their hatred of the worldly Newcome; all these squabbles and jokes, and +pribbles and prabbles, look you, may be omitted. As gallantly as he had +married a woman without a penny, as gallantly as he had conquered his +poverty and achieved his own independence, so bravely he went in and +won the great City prize with a fortune of a quarter of a million. And +every one of his old friends, and every honest-hearted fellow who likes +to see shrewdness, and honesty, and courage succeed, was glad of his +good fortune, and said, “Newcome, my boy” (or “Newcome, my buck,” if +they were old City cronies, and very familiar), “I give you joy.” + +Of course Mr. Newcome might have gone into Parliament: of course before +the close of his life he might have been made a baronet: but he +eschewed honours senatorial or blood-red hands. “It wouldn’t do,” with +his good sense he said; “the Quaker connection wouldn’t like it.” His +wife never cared about being called Lady Newcome. To manage the great +house of Hobson Brothers and Newcome; to attend to the interests of the +enslaved negro; to awaken the benighted Hottentot to a sense of the +truth; to convert Jews, Turks, Infidels, and Papists; to arouse the +indifferent and often blasphemous mariner; to guide the washerwoman in +the right way; to head all the public charities of her sect, and do a +thousand secret kindnesses that none knew of; to answer myriads of +letters, pension endless ministers, and supply their teeming wives with +continuous baby-linen; to hear preachers daily bawling for hours, and +listen untired on her knees after a long day’s labour, while florid +rhapsodists belaboured cushions above her with wearisome benedictions; +all these things had this woman to do, and for near fourscore years she +fought her fight womanfully: imperious but deserving to rule, hard but +doing her duty, severe but charitable, and untiring in generosity as in +labour; unforgiving in one instance—in that of her husband’s eldest +son, Thomas Newcome; the little boy who had played on the hay, and whom +at first she had loved very sternly and fondly. + +Mr. Thomas Newcome, the father of his wife’s twin boys, the junior +partner of the house of Hobson Brothers and Co., lived several years +after winning the great prize about which all his friends so +congratulated him. But he was, after all, only the junior partner of +the house. His wife was manager in Threadneedle Street and at home—when +the clerical gentlemen prayed they importuned Heaven for that sainted +woman a long time before they thought of asking any favour for her +husband. The gardeners touched their hats, the clerks at the bank +brought him the books, but they took their orders from her, not from +him. I think he grew weary of the prayer-meetings, he yawned over the +sufferings of the negroes, and wished the converted Jews at Jericho. +About the time the French Emperor was meeting with his Russian reverses +Mr. Newcome died: his mausoleum is in Clapham Churchyard, near the +modest grave where his first wife reposes. + +When his father married, Mr. Thomas Newcome, jun., and Sarah his nurse +were transported from the cottage where they had lived in great comfort +to the palace hard by, surrounded by lawns and gardens, pineries, +graperies, aviaries, luxuries of all kinds. This paradise, five miles +from the Standard at Cornhill, was separated from the outer world by a +thick hedge of tall trees, and an ivy-covered porter’s-gate, through +which they who travelled to London on the top of the Clapham coach +could only get a glimpse of the bliss within. It was a serious +paradise. As you entered at the gate, gravity fell on you; and decorum +wrapped you in a garment of starch. The butcher-boy who galloped his +horse and cart madly about the adjoining lanes and common, whistled +wild melodies (caught up in abominable playhouse galleries), and joked +with a hundred cook-maids, on passing that lodge fell into an +undertaker’s pace, and delivered his joints and sweetbreads silently at +the servants’ entrance. The rooks in the elms cawed sermons at morning +and evening; the peacocks walked demurely on the terraces; the +guinea-fowls looked more Quaker-like than those savoury birds usually +do. The lodge-keeper was serious, and a clerk at a neighbouring chapel. +The pastors who entered at the gate, and greeted his comely wife and +children, fed the little lambkins with tracts. The head-gardener was a +Scotch Calvinist, after the strictest order, only occupying himself +with the melons and pines provisionally, and until the end of the +world, which event, he could prove by infallible calculations, was to +come off in two or three years at farthest. Wherefore, he asked, should +the butler brew strong ale to be drunken three years hence; or the +housekeeper (a follower of Joanna Southcote) make provisions of fine +linen and lay up stores of jams? On a Sunday (which good old Saxon word +was scarcely known at the Hermitage) the household marched away in +separate couples or groups to at least half a dozen of religious +edifices, each to sit under his or her favourite minister, the only man +who went to church being Thomas Newcome, accompanied by Tommy his +little son, and Sarah his nurse, who was, I believe, also his aunt, or +at least his mother’s first cousin. Tommy was taught hymns, very soon +after he could speak, appropriate to his tender age, pointing out to +him the inevitable fate of wicked children, and giving him the earliest +possible warning and description of the punishment of little sinners. +He repeated these poems to his stepmother after dinner, before a great +shining mahogany table, covered with grapes, pineapples, plum-cake, +port wine, and Madeira, and surrounded by stout men in black, with +baggy white neckcloths, who took the little man between their knees, +and questioned him as to his right understanding of the place whither +naughty boys were bound. They patted his head with their fat hands if +he said well, or rebuked him if he was bold, as he often was. + +Nurse Sarah or Aunt Sarah would have died had she remained many years +in that stifling garden of Eden. She could not bear to part from the +child whom her mistress and kinswoman had confided to her (the women +had worked in the same room at Newcome’s, and loved each other always, +when Susan became a merchant’s lady, and Sarah her servant). She was +nobody in the pompous new household but Master Tommy’s nurse. The +honest soul never mentioned her relationship to the boy’s mother, nor +indeed did Mr. Newcome acquaint his new family with that circumstance. +The housekeeper called her an Erastian: Mrs. Newcome’s own serious maid +informed against her for telling Tommy stories of Lancashire witches, +and believing in the same. The black footman (madam’s maid and the +butler were of course privately united) persecuted her with his +addresses, and was even encouraged by his mistress, who thought of +sending him as a missionary to the Niger. No little love, and fidelity, +and constancy did honest Sarah show and use during the years she passed +at the Hermitage, and until Tommy went to school. Her master, with many +private prayers and entreaties, in which he passionately recalled his +former wife’s memory and affection, implored his friend to stay with +him; and Tommy’s fondness for her and artless caresses, and the scrapes +he got into, and the howls he uttered over the hymns and catechisms +which he was bidden to learn (by Rev. T. Clack,, of Highbury College, +his daily tutor, who was commissioned to spare not the rod, neither to +spoil the child), all these causes induced Sarah to remain with her +young master until such time as he was sent to school. + +Meanwhile an event of prodigious importance, a wonderment, a blessing +and a delight, had happened at the Hermitage. About two years after +Mrs. Newcome’s marriage, the lady being then forty-three years of age, +no less than two little cherubs appeared in the Clapham Paradise—the +twins, Hobson Newcome and Brian Newcome, called after their uncle and +late grandfather, whose name and rank they were destined to perpetuate. +And now there was no reason why young Newcome should not go to school. +Old Mr. Hobson and his brother had been educated at that school of Grey +Friars, of which mention has been made in former works and to Grey +Friars Thomas Newcome was accordingly sent, exchanging—O ye Gods! with +what delight!—the splendour of Clapham for the rough, plentiful fare of +the place, blacking his master’s shoes with perfect readiness, till he +rose in the school, and the time came when he should have a fag of his +own: tibbing out and receiving the penalty therefore: bartering a black +eye, per bearer, against a bloody nose drawn at sight, with a +schoolfellow, and shaking hands the next day; playing at cricket, +hockey, prisoners’ base, and football, according to the season; and +gorging himself and friends with tarts when he had money (and of this +he had plenty) to spend. I have seen his name carved upon the Gown +Boys’ arch: but he was at school long before my time; his son showed me +the name when we were boys together, in some year when George the +Fourth was king. + +The pleasures of this school-life were such to Tommy Newcome, that he +did not care to go home for a holiday: and indeed, by insubordination +and boisterousness; by playing tricks and breaking windows; by +marauding upon the gardener’s peaches and the housekeeper’s jam; by +upsetting his two little brothers in a go-cart (of which wanton and +careless injury the present Baronet’s nose bears marks to this very +day); by going to sleep during the sermons, and treating reverend +gentlemen with levity, he drew down on himself the merited wrath of his +stepmother; and many punishments in this present life, besides those of +a future and much more durable kind, which the good lady did not fail +to point out that he must undoubtedly inherit. His father, at Mrs. +Newcome’s instigation, certainly whipped Tommy for upsetting his little +brothers in the go-cart; but upon being pressed to repeat the whipping +for some other peccadillo performed soon after, Mr. Newcome refused at +once, using a wicked, worldly expression, which well might shock any +serious lady; saying, in fact, that he would be deed if he beat the boy +any more, and that he got flogging enough at school, in which opinion +Master Tommy fully coincided. + +The undaunted woman, his stepmother, was not to be made to forgo her +plans for the boy’s reform by any such vulgar ribaldries; and Mr. +Newcome being absent in the City on his business, and Tommy refractory +as usual, she summoned the serious butler and the black footman (for +the lashings of whose brethren she felt an unaffected pity) to operate +together in the chastisement of this young criminal. But he dashed so +furiously against the butler’s shins as to draw blood from his comely +limbs, and to cause that serious and overfed menial to limp and suffer +for many days after; and, seizing the decanter, he swore he would +demolish blacky’s ugly face with it: nay, he threatened to discharge it +at Mrs. Newcome’s own head before he would submit to the coercion which +she desired her agents to administer. + +High words took place between Mr. and Mrs. Newcome that night on the +gentleman’s return home from the City, and on his learning the events +of the morning. It is to be feared he made use of further oaths, which +hasty ejaculations need not be set down in this place; at any rate, he +behaved with spirit and manliness as master of the house, vowed that if +any servant laid a hand on the child, he would thrash him first and +then discharge him; and I dare say expressed himself with bitterness +and regret that he had married a wife who would not be obedient to her +husband, and had entered a house of which he was not suffered to be the +master. Friends were called in—the interference, the supplications, of +the Clapham clergy, some of whom dined constantly at the Hermitage, +prevailed to allay this domestic quarrel; and no doubt the good sense +of Mrs. Newcome—who, though imperious, was yet not unkind; and who, +excellent as she was, yet could be brought to own that she was +sometimes in fault—induced her to make at least a temporary submission +to the man whom she had placed at the head of her house, and whom it +must be confessed she had vowed to love and honour. When Tommy fell ill +of the scarlet fever, which afflicting event occurred presently after +the above dispute, his own nurse, Sarah, could not have been more +tender, watchful, and affectionate than his stepmother showed herself +to be. She nursed him through his illness; allowed his food and +medicine to be administered by no other hand; sat up with the boy +through a night of his fever, and uttered not one single reproach to +her husband (who watched with her) when the twins took the disease +(from which we need not say they happily recovered); and though young +Tommy, in his temporary delirium, mistaking her for Nurse Sarah, +addressed her as his dear Fat Sally—whereas no whipping-post to which +she ever would have tied him could have been leaner than Mrs. +Newcome—and, under this feverish delusion, actually abused her to her +face; calling her an old cat, an old Methodist, and, jumping up in his +little bed, forgetful of his previous fancy, vowing that he would put +on his clothes and run away to Sally. Sally was at her northern home by +this time, with a liberal pension which Mr. Newcome gave her, and which +his son and his son’s son after him, through all their difficulties and +distresses, always found means to pay. + +What the boy threatened in his delirium he had thought of, no doubt, +more than once in his solitary and unhappy holidays. A year after he +actually ran away, not from school, but from home; and appeared one +morning, gaunt and hungry, at Sarah’s cottage two hundred miles away +from Clapham, who housed the poor prodigal, and killed her calf for +him—washed him, with many tears and kisses, and put him to bed and to +sleep; from which slumber he was aroused by the appearance of his +father, whose sure instinct, backed by Mrs. Newcome’s own quick +intelligence, had made him at once aware whither the young runaway had +fled. The poor father came horsewhip in hand—he knew of no other law or +means to maintain his authority; many and many a time had his own +father, the old weaver, whose memory he loved and honoured, strapped +and beaten him. Seeing this instrument in the parent’s hand, as Mr. +Newcome thrust out the weeping trembling Sarah and closed the door upon +her, Tommy, scared out of a sweet sleep and a delightful dream of +cricket, knew his fate; and, getting up out of bed, received his +punishment without a word. Very likely the father suffered more than +the child; for when the punishment was over, the little man, yet +trembling and quivering with the pain, held out his little bleeding +hand and said, “I can—I can take it from you, sir;” saying which his +face flushed, and his eyes filled, for the first time; whereupon the +father burst into a passion of tears, and embraced the boy and kissed +him, besought and prayed him to be rebellious no more—flung the whip +away from him and swore, come what would, he would never strike him +again. The quarrel was the means of a great and happy reconciliation. +The three dined together in Sarah’s cottage. Perhaps the father would +have liked to walk that evening in the lanes and fields where he had +wandered as a young fellow: where he had first courted and first kissed +the young girl he loved—poor child—who had waited for him so faithfully +and fondly, who had passed so many a day of patient want and meek +expectance, to be repaid by such a scant holiday and brief fruition. + +Mrs. Newcome never made the slightest allusion to Tom’s absence after +his return, but was quite gentle and affectionate with him, and that +night read the parable of the Prodigal in a very low and quiet voice. + +This, however, was only a temporary truce. War very soon broke out +again between the impetuous lad and his rigid domineering +mother-in-law. It was not that he was very bad, or she perhaps more +stern than other ladies, but the two could not agree. The boy sulked +and was miserable at home. He fell to drinking with the grooms in the +stables. I think he went to Epsom races, and was discovered after that +act of rebellion. Driving from a most interesting breakfast at +Roehampton (where a delightful Hebrew convert had spoken, oh! so +graciously!), Mrs. Newcome—in her state-carriage, with her bay +horses—met Tom, her son-in-law, in a tax-cart, excited by drink, and +accompanied by all sorts of friends, male and female. John the black +man was bidden to descend from the carriage and bring him to Mrs. +Newcome. He came; his voice was thick with drink. He laughed wildly: he +described a fight at which he had been present. It was not possible +that such a castaway as this should continue in a house where her two +little cherubs were growing up in innocence and grace. + +The boy had a great fancy for India; and Orme’s History, containing the +exploits of Clive and Lawrence, was his favourite book of all in his +father’s library. Being offered a writership, he scouted the idea of a +civil appointment, and would be contented with nothing but a uniform. A +cavalry cadetship was procured for Thomas Newcome; and the young man’s +future career being thus determined, and his stepmother’s unwilling +consent procured, Mr. Newcome thought fit to send his son to a tutor +for military instruction, and removed him from the London school, where +in truth he had made but very little progress in the humaner letters. +The lad was placed with a professor who prepared young men for the +army, and received rather a better professional education than fell to +the lot of most young soldiers of his day. He cultivated the +mathematics and fortification with more assiduity than he had ever +bestowed on Greek and Latin, and especially made such a progress in the +French tongue as was very uncommon among the British youth his +contemporaries. + +In the study of this agreeable language, over which young Newcome spent +a great deal of his time, he unluckily had some instructors who were +destined to bring the poor lad into yet further trouble at home. His +tutor, an easy gentleman, lived at Blackheath, and, not far from +thence, on the road to Woolwich, dwelt the little Chevalier de Blois, +at whose house the young man much preferred to take his French lessons +rather than to receive them under his tutor’s own roof. + +For the fact was that the little Chevalier de Blois had two pretty +young daughters, with whom he had fled from his country along with +thousands of French gentlemen at the period of revolution and +emigration. He was a cadet of a very ancient family, and his brother, +the Marquis de Blois, was a fugitive like himself, but with the army of +the princes on the Rhine, or with his exiled sovereign at Mittau. The +Chevalier had seen the wars of the great Frederick: what man could be +found better to teach young Newcome the French language and the art +military? It was surprising with what assiduity he pursued his studies. +Mademoiselle Léonore, the Chevalier’s daughter, would carry on her +little industry very undisturbedly in the same parlour with her father +and his pupil. She painted card-racks: laboured at embroidery; was +ready to employ her quick little brain or fingers in any way by which +she could find means to add a few shillings to the scanty store on +which this exiled family supported themselves in their day of +misfortune. I suppose the Chevalier was not in the least unquiet about +her, because she was promised in marriage to the Comte de Florac, also +of the emigration—a distinguished officer like the Chevalier, than whom +he was a year older—and, at the time of which we speak, engaged in +London in giving private lessons on the fiddle. Sometimes on a Sunday +he would walk to Blackheath with that instrument in his hand, and pay +his court to his young _fiancée_, and talk over happier days with his +old companion-in-arms. Tom Newcome took no French lessons on a Sunday. +He passed that day at Clapham generally, where, strange to say, he +never said a word about Mademoiselle de Blois. + +What happens when two young folks of eighteen, handsome and ardent, +generous and impetuous, alone in the world, or without strong +affections to bind them elsewhere,—what happens when they meet daily +over French dictionaries, embroidery frames, or indeed upon any +business whatever? No doubt Mademoiselle Léonore was a young lady +perfectly _bien élevée_, and ready, as every well-elevated young +Frenchwoman should be, to accept a husband of her parents’ choosing; +but while the elderly M. de Florac was fiddling in London, there was +that handsome young Tom Newcome ever present at Blackheath. To make a +long matter short, Tom declared his passion, and was for marrying +Léonore off hand, if she would but come with him to the little Catholic +chapel at Woolwich. Why should they not go out to India together and be +happy ever after? + +The innocent little amour may have been several months in transaction, +and was discovered by Mrs. Newcome, whose keen spectacles nothing could +escape. It chanced that she drove to Blackheath to Tom’s tutor’s. Tom +was absent taking his French and drawing lesson of M. de Blois. Thither +Tom’s stepmother followed him, and found the young man sure enough with +his instructor over his books and plans of fortification. Mademoiselle +and her card-screens were in the room, but behind those screens she +could not hide her blushes and confusion from Mrs. Newcome’s sharp +glances. In one moment the banker’s wife saw the whole affair—the whole +mystery which had been passing for months under poor M. de Blois’ nose, +without his having the least notion of the truth. + +Mrs. Newcome said she wanted her son to return home with her upon +private affairs; and before they had reached the Hermitage a fine +battle had ensued between them. His mother had charged him with being a +wretch and a monster, and he had replied fiercely, denying the +accusation with scorn, and announcing his wish instantly to marry the +most virtuous, the most beautiful of her sex. To marry a Papist! This +was all that was wanted to make poor Tom’s cup of bitterness run over. +Mr. Newcome was called in, and the two elders passed a great part of +the night in an assault upon the lad. He was grown too tall for the +cane; but Mrs. Newcome thonged him with the lash of her indignation for +many an hour that evening. + +He was forbidden to enter, M. de Blois’ house, a prohibition at which +the spirited young fellow snapped his fingers, and laughed in scorn. +Nothing, he swore, but death should part him from the young lady. On +the next day his father came to him alone and plied him with +entreaties, but he was as obdurate as before. He would have her; +nothing should prevent him. He cocked his hat and walked out of the +lodge-gate, as his father, quite beaten by the young man’s obstinacy, +with haggard face and tearful eyes, went his own way into town. He was +not very angry himself: in the course of their talk overnight the boy +had spoken bravely and honestly, and Newcome could remember how, in his +own early life, he too had courted and loved a young lass. It was Mrs. +Newcome the father was afraid of. Who shall depict her wrath at the +idea that a child of her house was about to marry a Popish girl? + +So young Newcome went his way to Blackheath, bent upon falling +straightway down upon his knees before Léonore, and having the +Chevalier’s blessing. That old fiddler in London scarcely seemed to him +to be an obstacle: it seemed monstrous that a young creature should be +given away to a man older than her own father. He did not know the law +of honour, as it obtained amongst French gentlemen of those days, or +how religiously their daughters were bound by it. + +But Mrs. Newcome had been beforehand with him, and had visited the +Chevalier de Blois almost at cockcrow. She charged him insolently with +being privy to the attachment between the young people; pursued him +with vulgar rebukes about beggary, Popery, and French adventurers. Her +husband had to make a very contrite apology afterwards for the language +which his wife had thought fit to employ. “You forbid me,” said the +Chevalier, “you forbid Mademoiselle de Blois to marry your son, Mr. +Thomas! No, madam, she comes of a race which is not accustomed to ally +itself with persons of your class; and is promised to a gentleman whose +ancestors were dukes and peers when Mr. Newcome’s were blacking shoes!” +Instead of finding his pretty blushing girl on arriving at Woolwich, +poor Tom only found his French master, livid with rage and quivering +under his _ailes de pigeon_. We pass over the scenes that followed; the +young man’s passionate entreaties, and fury and despair. In his own +defence, and to prove his honour to the world, M. de Blois determined +that his daughter should instantly marry the Count. The poor girl +yielded without a word, as became her; and it was with this marriage +effected almost before his eyes, and frantic with wrath and despair, +that young Newcome embarked for India, and quitted the parents whom he +was never more to see. + +Tom’s name was no more mentioned at Clapham. His letters to his father +were written to the City; very pleasant they were, and comforting to +the father’s heart. He sent Tom liberal private remittances to India, +until the boy wrote to say that he wanted no more. Mr. Newcome would +have liked to leave Tom all his private fortune, for the twins were +only too well cared for; but he dared not on account of his terror of +Sophia Alethea, his wife; and he died, and poor Tom was only secretly +forgiven. + + + + +CHAPTER III. +Colonel Newcome’s Letter-box + +I. + +“With the most heartfelt joy, my dear Major, I take up my pen to +announce to you the happy arrival of the Ramchunder, and the _dearest +and handsomest_ little boy who, I am sure, ever came from India. Little +Clive is in _perfect health_. He speaks English _wonderfully_ well. He +cried when he parted from Mr. Sneid, the supercargo, who most kindly +brought him from Southampton in a postchaise, but these tears in +childhood are _of very brief duration!_ The voyage, Mr. Sneid states, +was most favourable, occupying only four months and eleven days. How +different from that more lengthened and dangerous passage of eight +months, and almost perpetual sea-sickness, in which my poor dear sister +Emma went to Bengal, to become the wife of the best of husbands and the +mother of the dearest of little boys, and to enjoy these inestimable +blessings for so brief an interval! She has quitted this wicked and +wretched world for one where all is peace. The misery and ill-treatment +which she endured from Captain Case her first odious husband, were, I +am sure, amply repaid, my dear Colonel, by your subsequent affection. +If the most sumptuous dresses which London, even Paris, could supply, +jewellery the most costly, and elegant lace, and _everything lovely and +fashionable_, could content a woman, these, I am sure, during the last +four years of her life, the poor girl had. Of what avail are they when +this scene of vanity is closed? + +“Mr. Sneid announces that the passage was most favourable. They stayed +a week at the Cape, and three days at St. Helena, where they visited +Bonaparte’s tomb (another instance of the vanity of all things!), and +their voyage was enlivened off Ascension by the taking of some +delicious turtle! + +“You may be sure that _the most liberal sum_ which you have placed to +my credit with the Messrs. Hobson and Co. shall be faithfully expended +on my dear little charge. Mrs. Newcome can scarcely be called his +grandmamma, I suppose; and I daresay her Methodistical ladyship will +not care to see the daughter and grandson of a clergyman of the Church +of England! My brother Charles took leave to wait upon her when he +presented your last _most generous_ bill at the bank. She received him +_most rudely_, and said a fool and his money are soon parted; and when +Charles said, ‘Madam, I am the brother of the late Mrs. Major Newcome,’ +‘Sir,’ says she, ‘I judge nobody; but from all accounts, you are the +brother of a very vain, idle, thoughtless, extravagant woman; and +Thomas Newcome was as foolish about his wife as about his money.’ Of +course, unless Mrs. N. writes to invite dear Clive, I shall not think +of sending him to Clapham. + +“It is such hot weather that I cannot wear the _beautiful shawl_ you +have sent me, and shall keep it _in lavender_ till next winter! My +brother, who thanks you for your continuous bounty, will write next +month, and report progress as to his dear pupil. Clive will add a +postscript of his own, and I am, my dear Major, with a thousand thanks +for your kindness to me,—Your grateful and affectionate Martha +Honeyman.” + +In a round hand and on lines ruled with pencil:— + +“Dearest Papa i am very well i hope you are Very Well. M Sneed brought +me in a postchaise i like Mr. Sneed very much. i like Aunt Martha i +like Hannah. There are no ships here i am your affectionate son Clive +Newcome.” + +II. + +Rue St. Dominique, St. Germain, Paris, + +Nov. 15, 1820, + +“Long separated from the country which was the home of my youth, I +carried from her tender recollections, and bear her always a lively +gratitude. The Heaven has placed me in a position very different from +that in which I knew you. I have been the mother of many children. My +husband has recovered a portion of the property which the Revolution +tore from us; and France, in returning to its legitimate sovereign, +received once more the nobility which accompanied his august house into +exile. We, however, preceded His Majesty, more happy than many of our +companions. Believing further resistance to be useless; dazzled, +perhaps, by the brilliancy of that genius which restored order, +submitted Europe, and governed France; M. de Florac, in the first days, +was reconciled to the Conqueror of Marengo and Austerlitz, and held a +position in his Imperial Court. This submission, at first attributed to +infidelity, has subsequently been pardoned to my husband. His +sufferings during the Hundred Days made to pardon his adhesion to him +who was Emperor. My husband is now an old man. He was of the disastrous +campaign of Moscow, as one of the chamberlains of Napoleon. Withdrawn +from the world, he gives his time to his feeble health—to his family—to +Heaven. + +“I have not forgotten a time before those days, when, according to +promises given by my father, I became the wife of M. de Florac. +Sometimes I have heard of your career. One of my parents, M. de F., who +took service in the English India, has entertained me of you; he +informed me how yet a young man you won laurels at Argom and Bhartpour; +how you escaped to death at Laswari. I have followed them, sir, on the +map. I have taken part in your victories and your glory. Ah! I am not +so cold, but my heart has trembled for your dangers; not so aged, but I +remember the young man who learned from the pupil of Frederick the +first rudiments of war. Your great heart, your love of truth, your +courage were your own. None had to teach you those qualities, of which +a good God had endowed you, My good father is dead since many years. +He, too, was permitted to see France before to die. + +“I have read in the English journals not only that you are married, but +that you have a son. Permit me to send to your wife, to your child, +these accompanying tokens of an old friendship. I have seen that +Mistress Newcome was widow, and am not sorry of it. My friend, I hope +there was not that difference of age between your wife and you that I +have known in other unions. I pray the good God to bless yours. I hold +you always in my memory. As I write, the past comes back to me. I see a +noble young man, who has a soft voice, and brown eyes. I see the +Thames, and the smiling plains of Blackheath. I listen and pray at my +chamber-door as my father talks to you in our little cabinet of +studies. I look from my window, and see you depart. + +“My son’s are men: one follows the profession of arms, one has embraced +the ecclesiastical state; my daughter is herself a mother. I remember +this was your birthday; I have made myself a little _fête_ in +celebrating it, after how many years of absence, of silence! Comtesse +De Florac. (_Née L. de Blois._)” + +III. + +“My Dear Thomas,—Mr. Sneid, supercargo of the Ramchunder, East +Indiaman, handed over to us yesterday your letter, and, to-day, I have +purchased three thousand three hundred and twenty-three pounds 6 and +8d. three per cent Consols, in our joint names (H. and B. Newcome), +held for your little boy. Mr. S. gives a very favourable account of the +little man, and left him in perfect health two days since, at the house +of his aunt, Miss Honeyman. We have placed 200 pounds to that lady’s +credit, at your desire. + +“Lady Anne is charmed with the present which she received yesterday, +and says the white shawl is a great deal too handsome. My mother is +also greatly pleased with hers, and has forwarded, by the coach to +Brighton, to-day, a packet of books, tracts, etc., suited for his +tender age, for your little boy. She heard of you lately from the Rev. +T. Sweatenham on his return from India. He spoke of your kindness,—and +of the hospitable manner in which you had received him at your house, +and alluded to you in a very handsome way in the course of the +thanksgiving that evening. I dare say my mother will ask your little +boy to the Hermitage; and when we have a house of our own, I am sure +Anne and I will be very happy to see him. Yours affectionately, B. +Newcome. _Major Newcome_.” + +IV. + +“My Dear Colonel,—Did I not know the generosity of your heart, and the +bountiful means which Heaven has put at your disposal in order to +gratify that noble disposition; were I not certain that the small sum I +required will permanently place me beyond the reach of the difficulties +of life, and will infallibly be repaid before six months are over, +believe me I never would have ventured upon that bold step which our +friendship (carried on epistolarily as it has been), our relationship, +and your admirable disposition, have induced me to venture to take. + +“That elegant and commodious chapel, known as Lady Whittlesea’s, +Denmark Street, Mayfair, being for sale, I have determined on venturing +my all in its acquisition, and in laying, as I hope, the foundation of +a competence for myself and excellent sister. What is a lodging-house +at Brighton but an uncertain maintenance? The mariner on the sea before +those cliffs is no more sure of wind and wave, or of fish to his +laborious net, than the Brighton house-owner (bred in affluence she may +have been, and used to unremitting plenty) to the support of the casual +travellers who visit the city. On one day they come in shoals, it is +true, but where are they on the next? For many months my poor sister’s +first floor was a desert, until occupied by your noble little boy, my +nephew and pupil. Clive is everything that a father’s, an uncle’s (who +loves him as a father), a pastor’s, a teacher’s affections could +desire. He is not one of those premature geniuses whose much-vaunted +infantine talents disappear along with adolescence; he is not, I +frankly own, more advanced in his classical and mathematical studies +than some children even younger than himself; but he has acquired the +rudiments of health; he has laid in a store of honesty and good-humour, +which are not less likely to advance him in life than mere science and +language, than the _as in præsenti_, or the _pons asinorum_. + +“But I forget, in thinking of my dear little friend and pupil, the +subject of this letter—namely, the acquisition of the proprietary +chapel to which I have alluded, and the hopes, nay, certainty of a +fortune, if aught below is certain, which that acquisition holds out. +What is a curacy, but a synonym for starvation? If we accuse the +Eremites of old of wasting their lives in unprofitable wildernesses, +what shall we say to many a hermit of Protestant, and so-called +civilised times, who hides his head in a solitude in Yorkshire, and +buries his probably fine talents in a Lincolnshire fen? Have I genius? +Am I blessed with gifts of eloquence to thrill and soothe, to arouse +the sluggish, to terrify the sinful, to cheer and convince the timid, +to lead the blind groping in darkness, and to trample the audacious +sceptic in the dust? My own conscience, besides a hundred testimonials +from places of popular, most popular worship, from reverend prelates, +from distinguished clergy, tells me I have these gifts. A voice within +me cries, ‘Go forth, Charles Honeyman, fight the good fight; wipe the +tears of the repentant sinner; sing of hope to the agonised criminal; +whisper courage, brother, courage, at the ghastly deathbed, and strike +down the infidel with the lance of evidence and the shield of reason!’ +In a pecuniary point of view I am confident, nay, the calculations may +be established as irresistibly as an algebraic equation, that I can +realise, as incumbent of Lady Whittlesea’s chapel, the sum of _not +less_ than one thousand pounds per annum. Such a sum, with economy (and +without it what sum were sufficient?), will enable me to provide amply +for my wants, to discharge my obligations to you, to my sister, and +some other creditors, very, very unlike you, and to place Miss Honeyman +in a home more worthy of her than that which she now occupies, only to +vacate it at the beck of every passing stranger! + +“My sister does not disapprove of my plan, into which enter some +modifications which I have not, as yet, submitted to her, being anxious +at first that they should be sanctioned by you. From the income of the +Whittlesea chapel I propose to allow Miss Honeyman the sum of two +hundred pounds per annum, _paid quarterly_. This, with her private +property, which she has kept more thriftily than her unfortunate and +confiding brother guarded his (for whenever I had a guinea a tale of +distress would melt it into half a sovereign), will enable Miss +Honeyman to live in a way becoming my father’s daughter. + +“Comforted with this provision as my sister will be, I would suggest +that our dearest young Clive should be transferred from her petticoat +government, and given up to the care of his affectionate uncle and +tutor. His present allowance will most liberally suffice for his +expenses, board, lodging, and education while under my roof, and I +shall be able to exert a paternal, a pastoral influence over his +studies, his conduct, and his _highest welfare_, which I cannot so +conveniently exercise at Brighton, where I am but Miss Honeyman’s +stipendiary, and where I often have to submit in cases where I know, +for dearest Clive’s own welfare, it is I, and not my sister, should be +paramount. + +“I have given then to a friend, the Rev. Marcus Flather a draft for two +hundred and fifty pounds sterling, drawn upon you at your agent’s in +Calcutta, which sum will go in liquidation of dear Clive’s first year’s +board with me, or, upon my word of honour as a gentleman and clergyman, +shall be paid back at three months after sight, if you will draw upon +me. As I never—no, were it my last penny in the world—would dishonour +your draft, I implore you, my dear Colonel, not to refuse mine. My +credit in this city, where credit is _everything_, and the awful future +so little thought of, my engagements to Mr. Flather, my own prospects +in life, and the comfort of my dear sister’s declining years, all—all +depend upon this bold, this _eventful_ measure. My ruin or my earthly +happiness lies entirely in your hands. Can I doubt which way your kind +heart will lead you, and that you will come to the aid of your +affectionate brother-in-law? Charles Honeyman.” + +“_P.S._—Our little Clive has been to London on a visit to his uncles +and to the Hermitage, Clapham, to pay his duty to his step-grandmother, +the wealthy Mrs. Newcome. I pass over words disparaging of myself which +the child in his artless prattles subsequently narrated. She was very +gracious to _him_, and presented him with a five-pound note, a copy of +Kirk White’s Poems, and a work called ‘Little Henry and his Bearer,’ +relating to India, and the excellent Catechism of our Church. Clive is +full of humour, and I enclose you a rude scrap representing the +bishopess of Clapham, as she is called,—the other figure is a rude +though entertaining sketch of some other droll personage. + +“_Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, &c._” + +V. + +“My Dear Colonel;—The Rev. Marcus Flather has just written me a letter +at which I am greatly shocked and perplexed, informing me that my +brother Charles has given him a draft upon you for two hundred and +fifty pounds, when goodness knows it is not you but we who are many, +many hundred pounds debtors to you. Charles has explained that he drew +the bill at your desire, that you wrote to say you would be glad to +serve him in any way, and that the money is wanted to make his fortune. +Yet I don’t know—poor Charles is always going to make his fortune and +has never done it. That school which he bought, and for which you and +me between us paid the purchase-money, turned out no good, and the only +pupils left at the end of the first half-year were two woolly-headed +poor little mulattos, whose father was in gaol at St. Kitt’s, and whom +I kept actually in my own second-floor back room whilst the lawyers +were settling things, and Charles was away in France, and until my +dearest little Clive came to live with me. + +“Then, as he was too small for a great school, I thought Clive could +not do better than stay with his old aunt and have his Uncle Charles +for a tutor, who is one of the finest scholars in the world. I wish you +could hear him in the pulpit. His delivery is grander and more +impressive than any divine now in England. His sermons you have +subscribed for, and likewise his book of elegant poems, which are +pronounced to be _very fine_. + +“When he returned from Calais, and those horrid lawyers had left off +worriting him, I thought as his frame was much shattered and he was too +weak to take a curacy, that he could not do better than become Clive’s +tutor, and agreed to pay him out of your handsome donation of £250 for +Clive, a sum of one hundred pounds per year, so that, when the board of +the two and Clive’s clothing are taken into consideration, I think you +will see that no great profit is left to Miss Martha Honeyman. + +“Charles talks to me of his new church in London, and of making me some +grand allowance. The poor boy is very affectionate, and always building +castles in the air, and of having Clive to live with him in London. +_Now this mustn’t be, and I won’t hear of it._ Charles is too kind to +be a schoolmaster, and Master Clive laughs at him. It was only the +other day, after his return from his grandmamma’s, regarding which I +wrote you, per Burrampooter, the 23rd ult., that I found a picture of +Mrs. Newcome and Charles too, and of both their spectacles, quite like. +I put it away, but some rogue, I suppose, has stolen it. He has done me +and Hannah too. Mr. Speck, the artist, laughed and took it home, and +says he is a wonder at drawing. + +“Instead, then, of allowing Clive to go with Charles to London next +month, where my brother is bent on going, I shall send Clivey to Dr. +Timpany’s school, Marine Parade, of which I hear the best account, but +I hope you will think of soon sending him to a great school. My father +always said it was the best place for boys, and I have a brother to +whom my poor mother spared the rod, and who, I fear, has turned out but +a spoilt child. + +“I am, dear Colonel, your most faithful servant, Martha Honeyman.” + +“_Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, C. B._” + +VI. + +“My Dear Brother,—I hasten to inform you of a calamity which, though it +might be looked for in the course of nature, has occasioned deep grief +not only in our family but in this city. This morning, at half-past +four o’clock, our beloved and respected mother, Sophia Alethea Newcome, +expired, at the advanced age of eighty-three years. On the night of +Tuesday-Wednesday, the 12–13th, having been engaged reading and writing +in her library until a late hour, and having dismissed the servants, +whom she never would allow to sit up for her, as well as my brother and +his wife, who always are in the habit of retiring early, Mrs. Newcome +extinguished the lamps, took a bedchamber candle to return to her room, +and must have fallen on the landing, where she was discovered by the +maids, sitting with her head reclining against the balustrades, and +endeavouring to staunch a wound in her forehead, which was bleeding +profusely, having struck in a fall against the stone step of the stair. + +“When Mrs. Newcome was found she was speechless, but still sensible, +and medical aid being sent for, she was carried to bed. Mr. Newcome and +Lady Anne both hurried to her apartment, and she knew them, and took +the hands of each, but paralysis had probably ensued in consequence of +the shock of the fall; nor was her voice ever heard, except in +inarticulate moanings, since the hour on the previous evening when she +gave them her blessing and bade them good-night. Thus perished this +good and excellent woman, the truest Christian, the most charitable +friend to the poor and needful, the head of this great house of +business, the best and most affectionate of mothers. + +“The contents of her will have long been known to us, and that document +was dated one month after our lamented father’s death. Mr. Thomas +Newcome’s property being divided equally amongst his three sons, the +property of his second wife naturally devolves upon her own issue, my +brother Brian and myself. There are very heavy legacies to servants and +to charitable and religious institutions, of which, in life, she was +the munificent patroness; and I regret, my dear brother, that no +memorial to you should have been left by my mother, because she often +spoke of you latterly in terms of affection, and on the very day on +which she died, commenced a letter to your little boy, which was left +unfinished on the library table. My brother said that on that same day, +at breakfast, she pointed to a volume of Orme’s Hindostan, the book, +she said, which set poor dear Tom wild to go to India, I know you will +be pleased to hear of these proofs of returning goodwill and affection +in one who often spoke latterly of her early regard for you. I have no +more time, under the weight of business which this present affliction +entails, than to say that I am yours, dear brother, very sincerely, H. +Newcome.” + +“_Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, etc._” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +In which the Author and the Hero resume their Acquaintance + + +If we are to narrate the youthful history not only of the hero of this +tale, but of the hero’s father, we shall never have done with nursery +biography. A gentleman’s grandmother may delight in fond recapitulation +of her darling’s boyish frolics and early genius; but shall we weary +our kind readers by this infantile prattle, and set down the revered +British public for an old woman? Only to two or three persons in all +the world are the reminiscences of a man’s early youth interesting: to +the parent who nursed him; to the fond wife or child mayhap afterwards +who loves him; to himself always and supremely—whatever may be his +actual prosperity or ill-fortune, his present age, illness, +difficulties, renown, or disappointments, the dawn of his life still +shines brightly for him, the early griefs and delights and attachments +remain with him ever faithful and dear. I shall ask leave to say, +regarding the juvenile biography of Mr. Clive Newcome, of whose history +I am the chronicler, only so much as is sufficient to account for some +peculiarities of his character, and for his subsequent career in the +world. + +Although we were schoolfellows, my acquaintance with young Newcome at +the seat of learning where we first met was very brief and casual. He +had the advantage of being six years the junior of his present +biographer, and such a difference of age between lads at a public +school puts intimacy out of the question—a junior ensign being no more +familiar with the Commander-in-Chief at the Horse Guards, or a +barrister on his first circuit with my Lord Chief Justice on the bench, +than the newly breeched infant in the Petties with a senior boy in a +tailed coat. As we “knew each other at home,” as our school phrase was, +and our families being somewhat acquainted, Newcome’s maternal uncle, +the Rev. Charles Honeyman (the highly gifted preacher, and incumbent of +Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel, Denmark Street, Mayfair), when he brought the +child, after the Christmas vacation of 182-, to the Grey Friars’ +school, recommended him in a neat complimentary speech to my +superintendence and protection. My uncle, Major Pendennis, had for a +while a seat in the chapel of this sweet and popular preacher, and +professed, as a great number of persons of fashion did, a great +admiration for him—an admiration which I shared in my early youth, but +which has been modified by maturer judgment. + +Mr. Honeyman told me, with an air of deep respect, that his young +nephew’s father, Colonel Thomas Newcome, C.B., was a most gallant and +distinguished officer in the Bengal establishment of the Honourable +East India Company;—and that his uncles, the Colonel’s half-brothers, +were the eminent bankers, heads of the firm of Hobson Brothers and +Newcome, Hobson Newcome, Esquire, Bryanstone Square, and Marblehead, +Sussex, and Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome and Park Lane, “whom to +name,” says Mr. Honeyman, with the fluent eloquence with which he +decorated the commonest circumstances of life, “is to designate two of +the merchant princes of the wealthiest city the world has ever known; +and one, if not two, of the leaders of that aristocracy which rallies +round the throne of the most elegant and refined of European +sovereigns.” I promised Mr. Honeyman to do what I could for the boy; +and he proceeded to take leave of his little nephew in my presence in +terms equally eloquent, pulling out a long and very slender green +purse, from which he extracted the sum of two-and-sixpence, which he +presented to the child, who received the money with rather a queer +twinkle in his blue eyes. + +After that day’s school, I met my little _protégé_ in the neighbourhood +of the pastrycook’s, regaling himself with raspberry-tarts. “You must +not spend all that money, sir, which your uncle gave you,” said I +(having perhaps even at that early age a slightly satirical turn), “in +tarts and ginger-beer.” + +The urchin rubbed the raspberry-jam off his mouth, and said, “It don’t +matter, sir, for I’ve got lots more.” + +“How much?” says the Grand Inquisitor: for the formula of interrogation +used to be, when a new boy came to the school, “What’s your name? Who’s +your father? and how much money have you got?” + +The little fellow pulled such a handful of sovereigns out of his pocket +as might have made the tallest scholar feel a pang of envy. “Uncle +Hobson,” says he, “gave me two; Aunt Hobson gave me one—no, Aunt Hobson +gave me thirty shillings; Uncle Newcome gave me three pound; and Aunt +Anne gave me one pound five; and Aunt Honeyman sent me ten shillings in +a letter. And Ethel wanted to give me a pound, only I wouldn’t have it, +you know; because Ethel’s younger than me, and I have plenty.” + +“And who is Ethel?” asks the senior boy, smiling at the artless youth’s +confessions. + +“Ethel is my cousin,” replies little Newcome; “Aunt Anne’s daughter. +There’s Ethel and Alice, and Aunt Anne wanted the baby to be called +Boadicea, only uncle wouldn’t; and there’s Barnes and Egbert and little +Alfred; only he don’t count, he’s quite a baby you know. Egbert and me +was at school at Timpany’s; he’s going to Eton next half. He’s older +than me, but I can lick him.” + +“And how old is Egbert?” asks the smiling senior. + +“Egbert’s ten, and I’m nine, and Ethel’s seven,” replies the little +chubby-faced hero, digging his hands deep into his trousers’ pockets, +and jingling all the sovereigns there. I advised him to let me be his +banker; and, keeping one out of his many gold pieces, he handed over +the others, on which he drew with great liberality till his whole stock +was expended. The school hours of the upper and under boys were +different at that time; the little fellows coming out of their hall +half an hour before the Fifth and Sixth Forms; and many a time I used +to find my little blue jacket in waiting, with his honest square face, +and white hair, and bright blue eyes, and I knew that he was come to +draw on his bank. Ere long one of the pretty blue eyes was shut up, and +a fine black one substituted in its place. He had been engaged, it +appeared, in a pugilistic encounter with a giant of his own Form, whom +he had worsted in the combat. “Didn’t I pitch into him, that’s all?” +says he in the elation of victory; and when I asked whence the quarrel +arose, he stoutly informed me that “Wolf minor, his opponent, had been +bullying a little boy, and that he (the gigantic Newcome) wouldn’t +stand it.” + +So, being called away from the school, I said farewell and God bless +you to the brave little man, who remained a while at the Grey Friars, +where his career and troubles had only just begun. + +Nor did we meet again until I was myself a young man occupying chambers +in the Temple, when our rencontre took place in the manner already +described. + +Poor Costigan’s outrageous behaviour had caused my meeting with my +schoolfellow of early days to terminate so abruptly and unpleasantly, +that I scarce expected to see Clive again, or at any rate to renew my +acquaintance with the indignant East Indian warrior who had quitted our +company in such a huff. Breakfast, however, was scarcely over in my +chambers the next morning, when there came a knock at the outer door, +and my clerk introduced “Colonel Newcome and Mr. Newcome.” + +Perhaps the (joint) occupant of the chambers in Lamb Court, Temple, +felt a little pang of shame at hearing the name of the visitors; for, +if the truth must be told, I was engaged pretty much as I had been +occupied on the night previous, and was smoking a cigar over the +_Times_ newspaper. How many young men in the Temple smoke a cigar after +breakfast as they read the _Times?_ My friend and companion of those +days, and all days, Mr. George Warrington, was employed with his short +pipe, and was not in the least disconcerted at the appearance of the +visitors, as he would not have been had the Archbishop of Canterbury +stepped in. + +Little Clive looked curiously about our queer premises, while the +Colonel shook me cordially by the hand. No traces of yesterday’s wrath +were visible on his face, but a friendly smile lighted his bronzed +countenance, as he too looked round the old room with its dingy +curtains and prints and bookcases, its litter of proof-sheets, blotted +manuscripts, and books for review, empty soda-water bottles, +cigar-boxes, and what not. + +“I went off in a flame of fire last night,” says the Colonel, “and +being cooled this morning, thought it but my duty to call on Mr. +Pendennis and apologise for my abrupt behaviour. The conduct of that +tipsy old Captain—what is his name?—was so abominable, that I could not +bear that Clive should be any longer in the same room with him, and I +went off without saying a word of thanks or good-night to my son’s old +friend. I owe you a shake of the hand for last night, Mr. Pendennis.” +And, so saying, he was kind enough to give me his hand a second time. + +“And this is the abode of the Muses, is it, sir?” our guest went on. “I +know your writings very well. Clive here used to send me the _Pall Mall +Gazette_ every month.” + +“We took it at Smiffle, regular,” says Clive. “Always patronise Grey +Friars men.” “Smiffle,” it must be explained, is a fond abbreviation +for Smithfield, near to which great mart of mutton and oxen our school +is situated, and old Cistercians often playfully designate their place +of education by the name of the neighbouring market. + +“Clive sent me the _Gazette_ every month; and I read your romance of +‘Walter Lorraine’ in my boat as I was coming down the river to +Calcutta.” + +“Have Pen’s immortal productions made their appearance on board +Bengalee budgerows; and are their leaves floating on the yellow banks +of Jumna?” asks Warrington, that sceptic, who respects no work of +modern genius. + +“I gave your book to Mrs. Timmins, at Calcutta,” says the Colonel +simply. “I daresay you have heard of _her_. She is one of the most +dashing women in all India. She was delighted with your work; and I can +tell you it is not with every man’s writing that Mrs. Timmins is +pleased,” he added, with a knowing air. + +“It’s capital,” broke in Clive. “I say, that part, you know, where +Walter runs away with Neæra, and the General can’t pursue them, though +he has got the postchaise at the door, because Tim O’Toole has hidden +his wooden leg! By Jove, it’s capital!—All the funny part—I don’t like +the sentimental stuff, and suicide, and that; and as for poetry, I hate +poetry.” + +“Pen’s is not first chop,” says Warrington. “I am obliged to take the +young man down from time to time, Colonel Newcome. Otherwise he would +grow so conceited there would be no bearing him.” + +“I say,” says Clive. + +“What were you about to remark?” asks Mr. Warrington, with an air of +great interest. + +“I say, Pendennis,” continued the artless youth, “I thought you were a +great swell. When we used to read about the grand parties in the _Pall +Mall Gazette_, the fellows used to say you were at every one of them, +and you see, I thought you must have chambers in the Albany, and lots +of horses to ride, and a valet and a groom, and a cab at the very +least.” + +“Sir,” says the Colonel, “I hope it is not your practice to measure and +estimate gentlemen by such paltry standards as those. A man of letters +follows the noblest calling which any man can pursue. I would rather be +the author of a work of genius, than be Governor-General of India. I +admire genius. I salute it wherever I meet it. I like my own profession +better than any in the world, but then it is because I am suited to it. +I couldn’t write four lines in verse, no, not to save me from being +shot. A man cannot have all the advantages of life. Who would not be +poor if he could be sure of possessing genius, and winning fame and +immortality, sir? Think of Dr. Johnson, what a genius he had, and where +did he live? In apartments that, I daresay, were no better than these, +which, I am sure, gentlemen, are most cheerful and pleasant,” says the +Colonel, thinking he had offended us. “One of the great pleasures and +delights which I had proposed to myself on coming home was to be +allowed to have the honour of meeting with men of learning and genius, +with wits, poets, and historians, if I may be so fortunate; and of +benefiting by their conversation. I left England too young to have that +privilege. In my father’s house money was thought of, I fear, rather +than intellect; neither he nor I had the opportunities which I wish you +to have; and I am surprised you should think of reflecting upon Mr. +Pendennis’s poverty, or of feeling any sentiment but respect and +admiration when you enter the apartments of the poet and the literary +man. I have never been in the rooms of a literary man before,” the +Colonel said, turning away from his son to us: “excuse me, is that—that +paper really a proof-sheet?” We handed over to him that curiosity, +smiling at the enthusiasm of the honest gentleman who could admire what +to us was as unpalatable as a tart to a pastrycook. + +Being with men of letters, he thought proper to make his conversation +entirely literary; and in the course of my subsequent more intimate +acquaintance with him, though I knew he had distinguished himself in +twenty actions, he never could be brought to talk of his military feats +or experience, but passed them by, as if they were subjects utterly +unworthy of notice. + +I found he believed Dr. Johnson to be the greatest of men: the Doctor’s +words were constantly in his mouth; and he never travelled without +Boswell’s Life. Besides these, he read Cæsar and Tacitus, “with +translations, sir, with translations—I’m thankful that I kept some of +my Latin from Grey Friars;” and he quoted sentences from the Latin +Grammar, _à propos_ of a hundred events of common life, and with +perfect simplicity and satisfaction to himself. Besides the above-named +books, the Spectator, Don Quixote, and Sir Charles Grandison formed a +part of his travelling library. “I read these, sir,” he used to say, +“because I like to be in the company of gentlemen; and Sir Roger de +Coverley, and Sir Charles Grandison, and Don Quixote are the finest +gentlemen in the world.” And when we asked him his opinion of +Fielding,— + +“Tom Jones, sir; Joseph Andrews, sir!” he cried, twirling his +mustachios. “I read them when I was a boy, when I kept other bad +company, and did other low and disgraceful things, of which I’m ashamed +now. Sir, in my father’s library I happened to fall in with those +books; and I read them in secret, just as I used to go in private and +drink beer, and fight cocks, and smoke pipes with Jack and Tom, the +grooms in the stables. Mrs. Newcome found me, I recollect, with one of +those books; and thinking it might be by Mrs. Hannah More, or some of +that sort, for it was a grave-looking volume: and though I wouldn’t lie +about that or anything else—never did, sir; never, before heaven, have +I told more than three lies in my life—I kept my own counsel; I say, +she took it herself to read one evening; and read on gravely—for she +had no more idea of a joke than I have of Hebrew—until she came to the +part about Lady B—— and Joseph Andrews; and then she shut the book, +sir; and you should have seen the look she gave me! I own I burst out +a-laughing, for I was a wild young rebel, sir. But she was in the +right, sir, and I was in the wrong. A book, sir, that tells the story +of a parcel of servants, of a pack of footmen and ladies’-maids +fuddling in alehouses! Do you suppose I want to know what my kitmutgars +and cousomahs are doing? I am as little proud as any man in the world: +but there must be distinction, sir; and as it is my lot and Clive’s lot +to be a gentleman, I won’t sit in the kitchen and boose in the +servants’-hall. As for that Tom Jones—that fellow that sells himself, +sir—by heavens, my blood boils when I think of him! I wouldn’t sit down +in the same room with such a fellow, sir. If he came in at that door, I +would say, ‘How dare you, you hireling ruffian, to sully with your +presence an apartment where my young friend and I are conversing +together? where two gentlemen, I say, are taking their wine after +dinner? How dare you, you degraded villain?’ I don’t mean you, sir. +I—I—I beg your pardon.” + +The Colonel was striding about the room in his loose garments, puffing +his cigar fiercely anon, and then waving his yellow bandana; and it was +by the arrival of Larkins, my clerk, that his apostrophe to Tom Jones +was interrupted; he, Larkins, taking care not to show his amazement, +having been schooled not to show or feel surprise at anything he might +see or hear in our chambers. + +“What is it, Larkins?” said I. Larkins’ other master had taken his +leave some time before, having business which called him away, and +leaving me with the honest Colonel, quite happy with his talk and +cigar. + +“It’s Brett’s man,” says Larkins. + +I confounded Brett’s man, and told the boy to bid him call again. Young +Larkins came grinning back in a moment, and said: + +“Please, sir, he says his orders is not to go away without the money.” + +“Confound him again,” I cried. “Tell him I have no money in the house. +He must come to-morrow.” + +As I spoke, Clive was looking in wonder, and the Colonel’s countenance +assumed an appearance of the most dolorous sympathy. Nevertheless, as +with a great effort, he fell to talking about Tom Jones again, and +continued: + +“No, sir, I have no words to express my indignation against such a +fellow as Tom Jones. But I forgot that I need not speak. The great and +good Dr. Johnson has settled that question. You remember what he said +to Mr. Boswell about Fielding?” + +“And yet Gibbon praises him, Colonel,” said the Colonel’s interlocutor, +“and that is no small praise. He says that Mr. Fielding was of the +family that drew its origin from the Counts of Hapsburg; but——” + +“Gibbon! Gibbon was an infidel, and I would not give the end of this +cigar for such a man’s opinion. If Mr. Fielding was a gentleman by +birth, he ought to have known better; and so much the worse for him +that he did not. But what am I talking of, wasting your valuable time? +No more smoke, thank you. I must away into the City, but would not pass +the Temple without calling on you, and thanking my boy’s old protector. +You will have the kindness to come and dine with us—to-morrow, the next +day, your own day? Your friend is going out of town? I hope, on his +return, to have the pleasure of making his further acquaintance. Come, +Clive.” + +Clive, who had been deep in a volume of Hogarth’s engravings during the +above discussion, or rather oration of his father’s, started up and +took leave, beseeching me, at the same time, to come soon and see his +pony; and so, with renewed greetings, we parted. + +I was scarcely returned to my newspaper again, when the knocker of our +door was again agitated, and the Colonel ran back, looking very much +agitated and confused. + +“I beg pardon,” says he; “I think I left my—my——” Larkins had quitted +the room by this time, and then he began more unreservedly. “My dear +young friend,” says he, “a thousand pardons for what I am going to say, +but, as Clive’s friend, I know I may take that liberty. I have left the +boy in the court. I know the fate of men of letters and genius: when we +were here just now, there came a single knock—a demand—that, that you +did not seem to be momentarily able to meet. Now do, do pardon the +liberty, and let me be your banker. You said you were engaged in a new +work: it will be a masterpiece, I am sure, if it’s like the last. Put +me down for twenty copies, and allow me to settle with you in advance. +I may be off, you know. I’m a bird of passage—a restless old soldier.” + +“My dear Colonel,” said I, quite touched and pleased by this extreme +kindness, “my dun was but the washerwoman’s boy, and Mrs. Brett is in +my debt, if I am not mistaken. Besides, I already have a banker in your +family.” + +“In my family, my dear Sir?” + +“Messrs. Newcome, in Threadneedle Street, are good enough to keep my +money for me when I have any, and I am happy to say they have some of +mine in hand now. I am almost sorry that I am not in want, in order +that I might have the pleasure of receiving a kindness from you.” And +we shook hands for the fourth time that morning, and the kind gentleman +left me to rejoin his son. + + + + +CHAPTER V. +Clive’s Uncles + + +The dinner so hospitably offered by the Colonel was gladly accepted, +and followed by many more entertainments at the cost of that +good-natured friend. He and an Indian chum of his lived at this time at +Nerot’s Hotel, in Clifford Street, where Mr. Clive, too, found the good +cheer a great deal more to his taste than the homely, though plentiful, +fare at Grey Friars, at which, of course, when boys, we all turned up +our noses, though many a poor fellow, in the struggles of after-life, +has looked back with regret very likely to that well-spread youthful +table. Thus my intimacy with the father and the son grew to be +considerable, and a great deal more to my liking than my relations with +Clive’s City uncles, which have been mentioned in the last chapter, and +which were, in truth, exceedingly distant and awful. + +If all the private accounts kept by those worthy bankers were like +mine, where would have been Newcome Hall and Park Lane, Marblehead and +Bryanstone Square? I used, by strong efforts of self-denial, to +maintain a balance of two or three guineas untouched at the bank, so +that my account might still remain open; and fancied the clerks and +cashiers grinned when I went to draw for money. Rather than face that +awful counter, I would send Larkins, the clerk, or Mrs. Flanagan, the +laundress. As for entering the private parlour at the back, wherein +behind the glazed partition I could see the bald heads of Newcome +Brothers engaged with other capitalists or peering over the newspaper, +I would as soon have thought of walking into the Doctor’s own library +at Grey Friars, or of volunteering to take an armchair in a dentist’s +studio, and have a tooth out, as of entering into that awful precinct. +My good uncle, on the other hand, the late Major Pendennis, who kept +naturally but a very small account with Hobsons’, would walk into the +parlour and salute the two magnates who governed there with the ease +and gravity of a Rothschild. “My good fellow,” the kind old gentleman +would say to his nephew and pupil, “_il faut se faire valoir_. I tell +you, sir, your bankers like to keep every gentleman’s account. And it’s +a mistake to suppose they are only civil to their great moneyed +clients. Look at me. I go in to them and talk to them whenever I am in +the City. I hear the news of ’Change, and carry it to our end of the +town. It looks well, sir, to be well with your banker; and at our end +of London, perhaps, I can do a good turn for the Newcomes.” + +It is certain that in his own kingdom of Mayfair and St. James’s my +revered uncle was at least the bankers’ equal. On my coming to London, +he was kind enough to procure me invitations to some of Lady Anne +Newcome’s evening parties in Park Lane, as likewise to Mrs. Newcome’s +entertainments in Bryanstone Square; though, I confess, of these +latter, after a while, I was a lax and negligent attendant. “Between +ourselves, my good fellow,” the shrewd old Mentor of those days would +say, “Mrs. Newcome’s parties are not altogether select; nor is she a +lady of the very highest breeding; but it gives a man a good air to be +seen at his banker’s house. I recommend you to go for a few minutes +whenever you are asked.” And go I accordingly did sometimes, though I +always fancied, rightly or wrongly, from Mrs. Newcome’s manner to me, +that she knew I had but thirty shillings left at the bank. Once and +again, in two or three years, Mr. Hobson Newcome would meet me, and ask +me to fill a vacant place that day or the next evening at his table; +which invitation I might accept or otherwise. But one does not eat a +man’s salt, as it were, at these dinners. There is nothing sacred in +this kind of London hospitality. Your white waistcoat fills a gap in a +man’s table, and retires filled for its service of the evening. “Gad,” +the dear old Major used to say, “if we were not to talk freely of those +we dine with, how mum London would be! Some of the pleasantest evenings +I have ever spent have been when we have sate after a great dinner, _en +petit comité_, and abused the people who are gone. You have your turn, +_mon cher;_ but why not? Do you suppose I fancy my friends haven’t +found out _my_ little faults and peculiarities? And as I can’t help it, +I let myself be executed, and offer up my oddities _de bonne grâce. +Entre nous_, Brother Hobson Newcome is a good fellow, but a vulgar +fellow; and his wife—his wife exactly suits him.” + +Once a year Lady Anne Newcome (about whom my Mentor was much more +circumspect; for I somehow used to remark that as the rank of persons +grew higher, Major Pendennis spoke of them with more caution and +respect)—once or twice in a year Lady Anne Newcome opened her saloons +for a concert and a ball, at both of which the whole street was crowded +with carriages, and all the great world, and some of the small, were +present. Mrs. Newcome had her ball too, and her concert of English +music, in opposition to the Italian singers of her sister-in-law. The +music of her country, Mrs. N. said, was good enough for _her_. + +The truth must be told, that there was no love lost between the two +ladies. Bryanstone Square could not forget the superiority of Park +Lane’s rank; and the catalogue of grandees at dear Anne’s parties +filled dear Maria’s heart with envy. There are people upon whom rank +and worldly goods make such an impression, that they naturally fall +down on their knees and worship the owners; there are others to whom +the sight of Prosperity is offensive, and who never see Dives’ chariot +but to growl and hoot at it. Mrs. Newcome, as far as my humble +experience would lead me to suppose, is not only envious, but proud of +her envy. She mistakes it for honesty and public spirit. _She_ will not +bow down to kiss the hand of a haughty aristocracy. She is a merchant’s +wife and an attorney’s daughter. There is no pride about her. Her +brother-in-law, poor dear Brian—considering everybody knows everything +in London, was there ever such a delusion as his?—was welcome, after +banking-hours, to forsake his own friends for his wife’s fine +relations, and to dangle after lords and ladies in Mayfair. She had no +such absurd vanity—not she. She imparted these opinions pretty +liberally to all her acquaintances in almost all her conversations. It +was clear that the two ladies were best apart. There are some folks who +will see insolence in persons of rank, as there are others who will +insist; that all clergymen are hypocrites, all reformers villains, all +placemen plunderers, and so forth; and Mrs. Newcome never, I am sure, +imagined that she had a prejudice, or that she was other than an +honest, independent, high-spirited woman. Both of the ladies had +command over their husbands, who were of soft natures easily led by +woman, as, in truth, are all the males of this family. Accordingly, +when Sir Brian Newcome voted for the Tory candidate in the City, Mr. +Hobson Newcome plumped for the Reformer. While Brian, in the House of +Commons, sat among the mild Conservatives, Hobson unmasked traitors and +thundered at aristocratic corruption, so as to make the Marylebone +Vestry thrill with enthusiasm. When Lady Anne, her husband, and her +flock of children fasted in Lent, and declared for the High Church +doctrines, Mrs. Hobson had paroxysms of alarm regarding the progress of +Popery, and shuddered out of the chapel where she had a pew, because +the clergyman there, for a very brief season, appeared to preach in a +surplice. + +Poor bewildered Honeyman! it was a sad day for you, when you appeared +in your neat pulpit with your fragrant pocket-handkerchief (and your +sermon likewise all millefleurs), in a trim, prim, freshly mangled +surplice, which you thought became you! How did you look aghast, and +pass your jewelled hand through your curls, as you saw Mrs. Newcome, +who had been as good as five-and-twenty pounds a year to you, look up +from her pew, seize hold of Mr. Newcome, fling open the pew-door, drive +out with her parasol her little flock of children, bewildered but not +ill-pleased to get away from the sermon, and summon John from the back +seats to bring away the bag of prayer-books! Many a good dinner did +Charles Honeyman lose by assuming that unlucky ephod. Why did the +high-priest of his diocese order him to put it on? It was delightful to +view him afterwards, and the airs of martyrdom which he assumed. Had +they been going to tear him to pieces with wild beasts next day, he +could scarcely have looked more meek, or resigned himself more +pathetically to the persecutors. But I am advancing matters. At this +early time of which I write, a period not twenty years since, surplices +were not even thought of in conjunction with sermons: clerical +gentlemen have appeared in them, and under the heavy hand of +persecution have sunk down in their pulpits again, as Jack pops back +into his box. Charles Honeyman’s elegant discourses were at this time +preached in a rich silk Master of Arts’ gown, presented to him, along +with a teapot full of sovereigns, by his affectionate congregation at +Leatherhead. + +But that I may not be accused of prejudice in describing Mrs. Newcome +and her family, and lest the reader should suppose that some slight +offered to the writer by this wealthy and virtuous banker’s lady was +the secret reason for this unfavourable sketch of her character, let me +be allowed to report, as accurately as I can remember them, the words +of a kinsman of her own, —— Giles, Esquire, whom I had the honour of +meeting at her table, and who, as we walked away from Bryanstone +Square, was kind enough to discourse very freely about the relatives +whom he had just left. + +“That was a good dinner, sir,” said Mr. Giles, puffing the cigar which +I offered to him, and disposed to be very social and communicative. +“Hobson Newcome’s table is about as good a one as any I ever put my +legs under. You didn’t have twice of turtle, sir, I remarked that—I +always do, at that house especially, for I know where Newcome gets it. +We belong to the same livery in the City, Hobson and I, the +Oystermongers’ Company, sir, and we like our turtle good, I can tell +you—good, and a great deal of it, you say. Hay, hay, not so bad! + +“I suppose you’re a young barrister, sucking lawyer, or that sort of +thing. Because you was put at the end of the table and nobody took +notice of you. That’s my place too; I’m a relative and Newcome asks me +if he has got a place to spare. He met me in the City to-day, and says, +‘Tom,’ says he, ‘there’s some dinner in the Square at half-past seven: +I wish you would go and fetch Louisa, whom we haven’t seen this ever so +long.’ Louisa is my wife, sir—Maria’s sister—Newcome married that gal +from my house. ‘No, no,’ says I, ‘Hobson; Louisa’s engaged nursing +number eight’—that’s our number, sir. The truth is, between you and me, +sir, my missis won’t come any more at no price. She can’t stand it; +Mrs. Newcome’s dam patronising airs is enough to choke off anybody. +‘Well, Hobson, my boy,’ says I, ‘a good dinner’s a good dinner; and +I’ll come though Louisa won’t, that is, can’t.’” + +While Mr. Giles, who was considerably enlivened by claret, was +discoursing thus candidly, his companion was thinking how he, Mr. +Arthur Pendennis, had been met that very afternoon on the steps of the +Megatherium Club by Mr. Newcome, and had accepted that dinner which +Mrs. Giles, with more spirit, had declined. Giles continued +talking—“I’m an old stager, I am. I don’t mind the rows between the +women. I believe Mrs. Newcome and Lady Newcome’s just as bad too; I +know Maria is always driving at her one way or the other, and calling +her proud and aristocratic, and that; and yet my wife says Maria, who +pretends to be such a Radical, never asks us to meet the Baronet and +his lady. ‘And why should she, Loo, my dear?’ says I. ‘I don’t want to +meet Lady Newcome, nor Lord Kew, nor any of ’em.’ Lord Kew, ain’t it an +odd name? Tearing young swell, that Lord Kew: tremendous wild fellow.” + +“I was a clerk in that house, sir, as a young man; I was there in the +old woman’s time, and Mr. Newcome’s—the father of these young men—as +good a man as ever stood on ’Change.” And then Mr. Giles, warming with +his subject, enters at large into the history of the house. “You see, +sir,” says he, “the banking-house of Hobson Brothers, or Newcome +Brothers, as the partners of the firm really are, is not one of the +leading banking firms of the City of London, but a most respectable +house of many years’ standing, and doing a most respectable business, +especially in the Dissenting connection.” After the business came into +the hands of the Newcome Brothers, Hobson Newcome, Esq., and Sir Brian +Newcome, Bart., M.P., Mr. Giles shows how a considerable West End +connection was likewise established, chiefly through the aristocratic +friends and connections of the above-named Bart. + +But the best man of business, according to Mr. Giles, whom the firm of +Hobson Brothers ever knew, better than her father and uncle, better +than her husband Sir T. Newcome, better than her sons and successors +above mentioned, was the famous Sophia Alethea Hobson, afterwards +Newcome—of whom might be said what Frederick the Great said of his +sister, that she was _sexu fœmina, vir ingenio_—in sex a woman, and in +mind a man. Nor was she, my informant told me, without even manly +personal characteristics: she had a very deep and gruff voice, and in +her old age a beard which many a young man might envy; and as she came +into the bank out of her carriage from Clapham, in her dark green +pelisse with fur trimmings, in her grey beaver hat, beaver gloves, and +great gold spectacles, not a clerk in that house did not tremble before +her, and it was said she only wanted a pipe in her mouth considerably +to resemble the late Field-Marshal Prince Blucher. + +Her funeral was one of the most imposing sights ever witnessed in +Clapham. There was such a crowd you might have thought it was a +Derby-day. The carriages of some of the greatest City firms, and the +wealthiest Dissenting houses; several coaches full of ministers of all +denominations, including the Established Church; the carriage of the +Right Honourable the Earl of Kew, and that of his daughter, Lady Anne +Newcome, attended that revered lady’s remains to their final +resting-place. No less than nine sermons were preached at various +places of public worship regarding her end. She fell upstairs at a very +advanced age, going from the library to the bedroom, after all the +household was gone to rest, and was found by the maids in the morning, +inarticulate, but still alive, her head being cut frightfully with the +bedroom candle with which she was retiring to her apartment. “And,” +said Mr. Giles with great energy, “besides the empty carriages at that +funeral, and the parson in black, and the mutes and feathers and that, +there were hundreds and hundreds of people who wore no black, and who +weren’t present; and who wept for their benefactress, I can tell you. +She had her faults, and many of ’em; but the amount of that woman’s +charities are unheard of, sir—unheard of,—and they are put to the +credit side of her account up yonder. + +“The old lady had a will of her own,” my companion continued. “She +would try and know about everybody’s business out of business hours: +got to know from the young clerks what chapels they went to, and from +the clergymen whether they attended regular; kept her sons, years after +they were grown men, as if they were boys at school—and what was the +consequence? They had a quarrel with Sir Thomas Newcome’s own son, a +harum-scarum lad, who ran away, and then was sent to India; and, +between ourselves, Mr. Hobson and Mr. Brian both, the present Baronet, +though at home they were as mum as Quakers at a meeting, used to go out +on the sly, sir, and be off to the play, sir, and sowed their wild oats +like any other young men, sir, like any other young men. Law bless me, +once, as I was going away from the Haymarket, if I didn’t see Mr. +Hobson coming out of the Opera, in tights and an opera-hat, sir, like +‘Froggy would wooing go,’ of a Saturday-night, too, when his ma thought +him safe in bed in the City! I warrant he hadn’t _his opera-hat_ on +when he went to chapel with her ladyship the next morning—that very +morning, as sure as my name’s John Giles. + +“When the old lady was gone, Mr. Hobson had no need of any more +humbugging, but took his pleasure freely. Fighting, tandems, +four-in-hand, anything. He and his brother—his elder brother by a +quarter of an hour—were always very good friends; but after Mr. Brian +married, and there was only court-cards at his table, Mr. Hobson +couldn’t stand it. They weren’t of his suit, he said; and for some time +he said he wasn’t a marrying man—quite the contrary; but we all come to +our fate, you know, and his time came as mine did. You know we married +sisters? It was thought a fine match for Polly Smith, when she married +the great Mr. Newcome; but I doubt whether my old woman at home hasn’t +had the best of it, after all; and if ever you come Bernard Street way +on a Sunday, about six o’clock, and would like a slice of beef and a +glass of port, I hope you’ll come and see us.” + +Do not let us be too angry with Colonel Newcome’s two most respectable +brothers, if for some years they neglected their Indian relative, or +held him in slight esteem. Their mother never pardoned him, or at least +by any actual words admitted his restoration to favour. For many years, +as far as they knew, poor Tom was an unrepentant prodigal, wallowing in +bad company, and cut off from all respectable sympathy. Their father +had never had the courage to acquaint them with his more true, and +kind, and charitable version of Tom’s story. So he passed at home for +no better than a black sheep; his marriage with a penniless young lady +did not tend to raise him in the esteem of his relatives at Clapham; it +was not until he was a widower, until he had been mentioned several +times in the _Gazette_ for distinguished military service, until they +began to speak very well of him in Leadenhall Street, where the +representatives of Hobson Brothers were of course East India +proprietors, and until he remitted considerable sums of money to +England, that the bankers his brethren began to be reconciled to him. + +I say, do not let us be hard upon them. No people are so ready to give +a man a bad name as his own kinsfolk; and having made him that present, +they are ever most unwilling to take it back again. If they give him +nothing else in the days of his difficulty, he may be sure of their +pity, and that he is held up as an example to his young cousins to +avoid. If he loses his money they call him poor fellow, and point +morals out of him. If he falls among thieves, the respectable Pharisees +of his race turn their heads aside and leave him penniless and +bleeding. They clap him on the back kindly enough when he returns, +after shipwreck, with money in his pocket. How naturally Joseph’s +brothers made salaams to him, and admired him, and did him honour, when +they found the poor outcast a prime minister, and worth ever so much +money! Surely human nature is not much altered since the days of those +primeval Jews. We would not thrust brother Joseph down a well and sell +him bodily, but—but if he has scrambled out of a well of his own +digging, and got out of his early bondage into renown and credit, at +least we applaud him and respect him, and are proud of Joseph as a +member of the family. + +Little Clive was the innocent and lucky object upon whom the increasing +affection of the Newcomes for their Indian brother was exhibited. When +he was first brought home a sickly child, consigned to his maternal +aunt, the kind old maiden lady at Brighton, Hobson Brothers scarce took +any notice of the little man, but left him to the entire +superintendence of his own family. Then there came a large remittance +from his father, and the child was asked by Uncle Newcome at Christmas. +Then his father’s name was mentioned in general orders, and Uncle +Hobson asked little Clive at Midsummer. Then Lord H., a late +Governor-General, coming home, and meeting the brothers at a grand +dinner at the Albion, given by the Court of Directors to his late +Excellency, spoke to the bankers about that most distinguished officer +their relative; and Mrs. Hobson drove over to see his aunt, where the +boy was; gave him a sovereign out of her purse, and advised strongly +that he should be sent to Timpany’s along wit her own boy. Then Clive +went from one uncle’s house to another; and was liked at both; and much +preferred ponies to ride, going out after rabbits with the keeper, +money in his pocket (charge to the debit of Lieut.-Col. T. Newcome), +and clothes from the London tailor, to the homely quarters and +conversation of poor kind old Aunt Honeyman at Brighton. Clive’s uncles +were not unkind; they liked each other; their wives, who hated each +other, united in liking Clive when they knew him, and petting the +wayward handsome boy: they were only pursuing the way of the world, +which huzzas all prosperity, and turns away from misfortune as from +some contagious disease. Indeed, how can we see a man’s brilliant +qualities if he is what we call in the shade? + +The gentlemen, Clive’s uncles, who had their affairs to mind during the +day, society and the family to occupy them of evenings and holidays, +treated their young kinsman, the Indian Colonel’s son, as other wealthy +British uncles treat other young kinsmen. They received him in his +vacations kindly enough. They tipped him when he went to school; when +he had the hooping-cough, a confidential young clerk went round by way +of Grey Friars Square to ask after him; the sea being recommended to +him, Mrs. Newcome gave him change of air in Sussex, and transferred him +to his maternal aunt at Brighton. Then it was _bon jour_. As the +lodge-gates closed upon him, Mrs. Newcome’s heart shut up too and +confined itself within the firs, laurels, and palings which bound the +home precincts. Had not she her own children and affairs? her brood of +fowls, her Sunday-school, her melon-beds, her rose-garden, her quarrel +with the parson, etc., to attend to? Mr. Newcome, arriving on a +Saturday night; hears he is gone, says “Oh!” and begins to ask about +the new gravel-walk along the cliff, and whether it is completed, and +if the China pig fattens kindly upon the new feed. + +Clive, in the avuncular gig, is driven over the downs to Brighton to +his maternal aunt there; and there he is a king. He has the best +bedroom, Uncle Honeyman turning out for him sweetbreads for dinner; no +end of jam for breakfast; excuses from church on the plea of delicate +health; his aunt’s maid to see him to bed; his aunt to come smiling in +when he rings his bell of a morning. He is made much of, and coaxed, +and dandled and fondled, as if he were a young duke. So he is to Miss +Honeyman. He is the son of Colonel Newcome, C.B., who sends her shawls, +ivory chessmen, scented sandalwood workboxes and kincob scarfs; who, as +she tells Martha the maid, has fifty servants in India; at which Martha +constantly exclaims, “Lor’, mum, what can he do with ’em, mum?” who, +when in consequence of her misfortunes she resolved on taking a house +at Brighton, and letting part of the same furnished, sent her an order +for a hundred pounds towards the expenses thereof; who gave Mr. +Honeyman, her brother, a much larger sum of money at the period of his +calamity. Is it gratitude for past favours? is it desire for more? is +it vanity of relationship? is it love for the dead sister—or tender +regard for her offspring which makes Mrs. Martha Honeyman so fond of +her nephew? I never could count how many causes went to produce any +given effect or action in a person’s life, and have been for my own +part many a time quite misled in my own case, fancying some grand, some +magnanimous, some virtuous reason, for an act of which I was proud, +when lo! some pert little satirical monitor springs up inwardly, +upsetting the fond humbug which I was cherishing—the peacock’s tail +wherein my absurd vanity had clad itself—and says, “Away with this +boasting! _I_ am the cause of your virtue, my lad. You are pleased that +yesterday at dinner you refrained from the dry champagne? My name is +Worldly Prudence, not Self-denial, and _I_ caused you to refrain. You +are pleased because you gave a guinea to Diddler? I am Laziness, not +Generosity, which inspired you. You hug yourself because you resisted +other temptation? Coward! it was because you dared not run the risk of +the wrong. Out with your peacock’s plumage! walk off in the feathers +which Nature gave you, and thank Heaven they are not altogether black.” +In a word, Aunt Honeyman was a kind soul, and such was the splendour of +Clive’s father, of his gifts, his generosity, his military services, +and companionship of the battles, that the lad did really appear a +young duke to her. And Mrs. Newcome was not unkind: and if Clive had +been really a young duke, I am sure he would have had the best bedroom +at Marble Hill, and not one of the far-off little rooms in the boys’ +wing; I am sure he would have had jellies and Charlottes Russes, +instead of mere broth, chicken, and batter-pudding, as fell to his lot; +and when he was gone (in the carriage, mind you, not in the gig driven +by a groom), I am sure Mrs. Newcome would have written a letter that +night to Her Grace the Duchess Dowager his mamma, full of praise of the +dear child, his graciousness, his beauty, and his wit, and declaring +that she must love him henceforth and for ever after as _a son of her +own_. You toss down the page with scorn, and say, “It is not true. +Human nature is not so bad as this cynic would have it to be. You would +make no difference between the rich and the poor.” Be it so. You would +not. But own that your next-door neighbour would. Nor is this, dear +madam, addressed to you; no, no, we are not so rude as to talk about +you to your face; but if we may not speak of the lady who has just left +the room, what is to become of conversation and society? + +We forbear to describe the meeting between the Colonel and his son—the +pretty boy from whom he had parted more than seven years before with +such pangs of heart; and of whom he had thought ever since with such a +constant longing affection. Half an hour after the father left the boy, +and in his grief and loneliness was rowing back to shore, Clive was at +play with a dozen of other children on the sunny deck of the ship. When +two bells rang for their dinner, they were all hurrying to the cuddy +table, and busy over their meal. What a sad repast their parents had +that day! How their hearts followed the careless young ones home across +the great ocean! Mothers’ prayers go with them. Strong men, alone on +their knees, with streaming eyes and broken accents, implore Heaven for +those little ones, who were prattling at their sides but a few hours +since. Long after they are gone, careless and happy, recollections of +the sweet past rise up and smite those who remain: the flowers they had +planted in their little gardens, the toys they played with, the little +vacant cribs they slept in as fathers’ eyes looked blessings down on +them. Most of us who have passed a couple of score of years in the +world, have had such sights as these to move us. And those who have +will think none the worse of my worthy Colonel for his tender and +faithful heart. + +With that fidelity which was an instinct of his nature, this brave man +thought ever of his absent child, and longed after him. He never +forsook the native servants and nurses who had had charge of the child, +but endowed them with money sufficient (and indeed little was wanted by +people of that frugal race) to make all their future lives comfortable. +No friends went to Europe, nor ship departed, but Newcome sent presents +and remembrances to the boy, and costly tokens of his love and thanks +to all who were kind to his son. What a strange pathos seems to me to +accompany all our Indian story! Besides that official history which +fills _Gazettes_, and embroiders banners with names of victory; which +gives moralists and enemies cause to cry out at English rapine; and +enables patriots to boast of invincible British valour—besides the +splendour and conquest, the wealth and glory, the crowned ambition, the +conquered danger, the vast prize, and the blood freely shed in winning +it—should not one remember the tears, too? Besides the lives of myriads +of British men, conquering on a hundred fields, from Plassey to Meanee, +and bathing them cruore nostro: think of the women, and the tribute +which they perforce must pay to those victorious achievements. Scarce a +soldier goes to yonder shores but leaves a home and grief in it behind +him. The lords of the subject province find wives there; but their +children cannot live on the soil. The parents bring their children to +the shore, and part from them. The family must be broken up—keep the +flowers of your home beyond a certain time, and the sickening buds +wither and die. In America it is from the breast of a poor slave that a +child is taken. In India it is from the wife, and from under the +palace, of a splendid proconsul. + +The experience of this grief made Newcome’s naturally kind heart only +the more tender, and hence he had a weakness for children which made +him the laughing-stock of old maids, old bachelors, and sensible +persons; but the darling of all nurseries, to whose little inhabitants +he was uniformly kind: were they the collectors’ progeny in their +palanquins, or the sergeants’ children tumbling about the cantonment, +or the dusky little heathens in the huts of his servants round his +gate. + +It is known that there is no part of the world where ladies are more +fascinating than in British India. Perhaps the warmth of the sun +kindles flames in the hearts of both sexes, which would probably beat +quite coolly in their native air: else why should Miss Brown be engaged +ten days after her landing at Calcutta? or why should Miss Smith have +half a dozen proposals before she has been a week at the station? And +it is not only bachelors on whom the young ladies confer their +affections; they will take widowers without any difficulty; and a man +so generally liked as Major Newcome, with such a good character, with a +private fortune of his own, so chivalrous, generous, good-looking, +eligible in a word, you may be sure would have found a wife easily +enough, had he any mind for replacing the late Mrs. Casey. + +The Colonel, as has been stated, had an Indian chum or companion, with +whom he shared his lodgings; and from many jocular remarks of this +latter gentleman (who loved good jokes, and uttered not a few) I could +gather that the honest widower Colonel Newcome had been often tempted +to alter his condition, and that the Indian ladies had tried numberless +attacks upon his bereaved heart, and devised endless schemes of +carrying it by assault, treason, or other mode of capture. Mrs. Casey +(his defunct wife) had overcome it by sheer pity and helplessness. He +had found her so friendless, that he took her into the vacant place, +and installed her there as he would have received a traveller into his +bungalow. He divided his meal with her, and made her welcome to his +best. “I believe Tom Newcome married her,” sly Mr. Binnie used to say, +“in order that he might have permission to pay her milliner’s bills;” +and in this way he was amply gratified until the day of her death. A +feeble miniature of the lady, with yellow ringlets and a guitar, hung +over the mantelpiece of the Colonel’s bedchamber, where I have often +seen that work of art; and subsequently, when he and Mr. Binnie took a +house, there was hung up in the spare bedroom a companion portrait to +the miniature—that of the Colonel’s predecessor, Jack Casey, who in +life used to fling plates at his Emma’s head, and who perished from a +fatal attachment to the bottle. I am inclined to think that Colonel +Newcome was not much cast down by the loss of his wife, and that they +lived but indifferently together. Clive used to say in his artless way +that his father scarcely ever mentioned his mother’s name; and no doubt +the union was not happy, although Newcome continued piously to +acknowledge it, long after death had brought it to a termination, by +constant benefactions and remembrances to the departed lady’s kindred. + +Those widows or virgins who endeavoured to fill Emma’s place found the +door of Newcombe’s heart fast and barred, and assailed it in vain. Miss +Billing sat down before it with her piano, and, as the Colonel was a +practitioner on the flute, hoped to make all life one harmonious duet +with him; but she played her most brilliant sonatas and variations in +vain; and, as everybody knows, subsequently carried her grand piano to +Lieutenant and Adjutant Hodgkin’s house, whose name she now bears. The +lovely widow Wilkins, with two darling little children, stopped at +Newcome’s hospitable house, on her way to Calcutta; and it was thought +she might never leave it; but her kind host, as was his wont, crammed +her children with presents and good things, consoled and entertained +the fair widow, and one morning, after she had remained three months at +the station, the Colonel’s palanquins and bearers made their +appearance, and Elvira Wilkins went away weeping as a widow should. Why +did she abuse Newcome ever after at Calcutta, Bath, Cheltenham, and +wherever she went, calling him selfish, pompous, Quixotic, and a +Bahawder? I could mention half a dozen other names of ladies of most +respectable families connected with Leadenhall Street, who, according +to Colonel Newcome’s chum—that wicked Mr. Binnie—had all conspired more +or less to give Clive Newcome a stepmother. + +But he had had an unlucky experience in his own case; and thought +within himself, “No, I won’t give Clive a stepmother. As Heaven has +taken his own mother from him, why, I must try to be father and mother +too to the lad.” He kept the child as long as ever the climate would +allow of his remaining, and then sent him home. Then his aim was to +save money for the youngster. He was of a nature so uncontrollably +generous, that to be sure he spent five rupees where another would save +them, and make a fine show besides; but it is not a man’s gifts or +hospitalities that generally injure his fortune. It is on themselves +that prodigals spend most. And as Newcome had no personal +extravagances, and the smallest selfish wants; could live almost as +frugally as a Hindoo; kept his horses not to race but to ride; wore his +old clothes and uniforms until they were the laughter of his regiment; +did not care for show, and had no longer an extravagant wife; he +managed to lay by considerably out of his liberal allowances, and to +find himself and Clive growing richer every year. + +“When Clive has had five or six years at school”—that was his +scheme—“he will be a fine scholar, and have at least as much classical +learning as a gentleman in the world need possess. Then I will go to +England, and we will pass three or four years together, in which he +will learn to be intimate with me, and, I hope, to like me. I shall be +his pupil for Latin and Greek, and try and make up for lost time. I +know there is nothing like a knowledge of the classics to give a man +good breeding—_Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes emollunt mores, nec +sinuisse feros_. I shall be able to help him with my knowledge of the +world, and to keep him out of the way of sharpers and a pack of rogues +who commonly infest young men. I will make myself his companion, and +pretend to no superiority; for, indeed, isn’t he my superior? Of course +he is, with his advantages. _He_ hasn’t been an idle young scamp as I +was. And we will travel together, first through England, Scotland, and +Ireland, for every man should know his own country, and then we will +make the grand tour. Then, by the time he is eighteen, he will be able +to choose his profession. He can go into the army, and emulate the +glorious man after whom I named him; or if he prefers the church, or +the law, they are open to him; and when he goes to the university, by +which time I shall be in all probability a major-general, I can come +back to India for a few years, and return by the time he has a wife and +a home for his old father; or if I die I shall have done the best for +him, and my boy will be left with the best education, a tolerable small +fortune, and the blessing of his old father.” + +Such were the plans of our kind schemer. How fondly he dwelt on them, +how affectionately he wrote of them to his boy! How he read books of +travels and looked over the maps of Europe! and said, “Rome, sir, +glorious Rome; it won’t be very long, Major, before my boy and I see +the Colosseum, and kiss the Pope’s toe. We shall go up the Rhine to +Switzerland, and over the Simplon, the work of the great Napoleon. By +Jove, sir, think of the Turks before Vienna, and Sobieski clearing +eighty thousand of ’em off the face of the earth! How my boy will +rejoice in the picture-galleries there, and in Prince Eugene’s prints! +You know, I suppose, that Prince Eugene, one of the greatest generals +in the world, was also one of the greatest lovers of the fine arts. +_Ingenuas didicisse_, hey, Doctor! you know the rest,—_emollunt mores +nec_——” + +“_Emollunt mores!_ Colonel,” says Doctor McTaggart, who perhaps was too +canny to correct the commanding officer’s Latin. “Don’t ye noo that +Prence Eugene was about as savage a Turrk as iver was? Have ye niver +rad the mimores of the Prants de Leen?” + +“Well, he was a great cavalry officer,” answers the Colonel, “and he +left a great collection of prints—_that_ you know. How Clive will +delight in them! The boy’s talent for drawing is wonderful, sir, +wonderful. He sent me a picture of our old school—the very actual +thing, sir; the cloisters, the school, the head gown-boy going in with +the rods, and the Doctor himself. It would make you die of laughing!” + +He regaled the ladies of the regiment with Clive’s letters, and those +of Miss Honeyman, which contained an account of the boy. He even bored +some of his bearers with this prattle; and sporting young men would +give or take odds that the Colonel would mention Clive’s name, once +before five minutes, three times in ten minutes, twenty-five times in +the course of dinner, and so on. But they who laughed at the Colonel +laughed very kindly; and everybody who knew him, loved him; everybody, +that is, who loved modesty, and generosity, and honour. + +At last the happy time came for which the kind father had been longing +more passionately than any prisoner for liberty, or schoolboy for +holiday. Colonel Newcome has taken leave of his regiment, leaving Major +Tomkinson, nothing loth, in command. He has travelled to Calcutta; and +the Commander-in-Chief, in general orders, has announced that in giving +to Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Newcome, C.B., of the Bengal Cavalry, +leave for the first time, after no less than thirty-four years’ absence +from home, “he (Sir George Hustler) cannot refrain from expressing his +sense of the great and meritorious services of this most distinguished +officer, who has left his regiment in a state of the highest discipline +and efficiency.” And now the ship has sailed, the voyage is over, and +once more, after so many long years, the honest soldier’s foot is on +his native shore. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +Newcome Brothers + + +Besides his own boy, whom he worshipped, this kind Colonel had a score, +at least, of adopted children, to whom he chose to stand in the light +of a father. He was for ever whirling away in postchaises to this +school and that, to see Jack Brown’s boys, of the Cavalry; or Mrs. +Smith’s girls, of the Civil Service; or poor Tom Hicks’s orphan, who +had nobody to look after him now that the cholera had carried off Tom, +and his wife too. On board the ship in which he returned from Calcutta +were a dozen of little children, of both sexes, some of whom he +actually escorted to their friends before he visited his own; and +though his heart was longing for his boy at Grey Friars. The children +at the schools seen, and largely rewarded out of his bounty (his loose +white trousers had great pockets, always heavy with gold and silver, +which he jingled when he was not pulling his mustachios—to see the way +in which he tipped children made one almost long to be a boy again); +and when he had visited Miss Pinkerton’s establishment, or Doctor +Ramshorn’s adjoining academy at Chiswick, and seen little Tom Davis or +little Fanny Holmes the honest fellow would come home and write off +straightway a long letter to Tom’s or Fanny’s parents, far away in the +Indian country, whose hearts he made happy by his accounts of their +children, as he had delighted the children themselves by his affection +and bounty. All the apple- and orange-women (especially such as had +babies as well as lollipops at their stalls), all the street-sweepers +on the road between Nerot’s and the Oriental, knew him, and were his +pensioners. His brothers in Threadneedle Street cast up their eyes at +the cheques which he drew. + +One of the little people of whom the kind Newcome had taken charge +luckily dwelt near Portsmouth; and when the faithful Colonel consigned +Miss Fipps to her grandmother, Mrs. Admiral Fipps, at Southampton, Miss +Fipps clung to her guardian, and with tears and howls was torn away +from him. Not until her maiden aunts had consoled her with +strawberries, which she never before had tasted, was the little Indian +comforted for the departure of her dear Colonel. Master Cox, Tom Cox’s +boy, of the Native Infantry, had to be carried asleep from the “George” +to the mail that night. Master Cox woke up at the dawn wondering, as +the coach passed through the pleasant green roads of Bromley. The good +gentleman consigned the little chap to his uncle, Dr. Cox, Bloomsbury +Square, before he went to his own quarters, and then on the errand on +which his fond heart was bent. + +He had written to his brothers from Portsmouth, announcing his arrival, +and three words to Clive, conveying the same intelligence. The letter +was served to the boy along with one bowl of tea and one buttered roll, +of eighty such which were distributed to fourscore other boys, boarders +of the same house with our young friend. How the lad’s face must have +flushed, and his eyes brightened, when he read the news! When the +master of the house, the Rev. Mr. Popkinson, came into the long-room, +with a good-natured face, and said, “Newcome, you’re wanted,” he knows +who is come. He does not heed that notorious bruiser, Old Hodge, who +roars out, “Confound you, Newcome: I’ll give it you for upsetting your +tea over my new trousers.” He runs to the room where the stranger is +waiting for him. We will shut the door, if you please, upon that scene. + +If Clive had not been as fine and handsome a young lad as any in that +school or country, no doubt his fond father would have been just as +well pleased, and endowed him with a hundred fanciful graces; but in +truth, in looks and manners he was every thing which his parent could +desire; and I hope the artist who illustrates this work will take care +to do justice to his portrait. Mr. Clive himself, let that painter be +assured, will not be too well pleased if his countenance and figure do +not receive proper attention. He is not yet endowed with those splendid +mustachios and whiskers which he has himself subsequently depicted, but +he is the picture of health, strength, activity, and good-humour. He +has a good forehead, shaded with a quantity of waving light hair; a +complexion which ladies might envy; a mouth which seems accustomed to +laughing; and a pair of blue eyes that sparkle with intelligence and +frank kindness. No wonder the pleased father cannot refrain from +looking at him. He is, in a word, just such a youth as has a right to +be the hero of a novel. + +The bell rings for second school, and Mr. Popkinson, arrayed in cap and +gown, comes in to shake Colonel Newcome by the hand, and to say he +supposes it’s to be a holiday for Newcome that day. He does not say a +word about Clive’s scrape of the day before, and that awful row in the +bedrooms, where the lad and three others were discovered making a +supper off a pork-pie and two bottles of prime old port from the Red +Cow public-house in Grey Friars Lane. When the bell has done ringing, +and all these busy little bees have swarmed into their hive, there is a +solitude in the place. The Colonel and his son walked the playground +together, that gravelly flat, as destitute of herbage as the Arabian +desert, but, nevertheless, in the language of the place called the +green. They walk the green, and they pace the cloisters, and Clive +shows his father his own name of Thomas Newcome carved upon one of the +arches forty years ago. As they talk, the boy gives sidelong glances at +his new friend, and wonders at the Colonel’s loose trousers, long +mustachios, and yellow face. He looks very odd, Clive thinks, very odd +and very kind, and he looks like a gentleman, every inch of him:—not +like Martin’s father, who came to see his son lately in high-lows, and +a shocking bad hat, and actually flung coppers amongst the boys for a +scramble. He bursts out a-laughing at the exquisitely ludicrous idea of +a gentleman of his fashion scrambling for coppers. + +And now, enjoining the boy to be ready against his return (and you may +be sure Mr. Clive was on the look-out long before his sire appeared), +the Colonel whirled away in his cab to the City to shake hands with his +brothers, whom he had not seen since they were demure little men in +blue jackets, under charge of a serious tutor. + +He rushed through the clerks and the banking-house, he broke into the +parlour where the lords of the establishment were seated. He astonished +those trim quiet gentlemen by the warmth of his greeting, by the vigour +of his hand-shake, and the loud high tones of his voice, which +penetrated the glass walls of the parlour, and might actually be heard +by the busy clerks in the hall without. He knew Brian from Hobson at +once—that unlucky little accident in the go-cart having left its mark +for ever on the nose of Sir Brian Newcome, the elder of the twins. Sir +Brian had a bald head and light hair, a short whisker cut to his cheek, +a buff waistcoat, very neat boots and hands. He looked like the +“Portrait of a Gentleman” at the Exhibition, as the worthy is +represented: dignified in attitude, bland, smiling, and statesmanlike, +sitting at a table unsealing letters, with a despatch-box and a silver +inkstand before him, a column and a scarlet curtain behind, and a park +in the distance, with a great thunderstorm lowering in the sky. Such a +portrait, in fact, hangs over the great sideboard at Newcome to this +day, and above the three great silver waiters, which the gratitude of +as many Companies has presented to their respected director and +chairman. + +In face, Hobson Newcome, Esq., was like his elder brother, but was more +portly in person. He allowed his red whiskers to grow wherever nature +had planted them, on his cheeks and under his chin. He wore thick shoes +with nails in them, or natty round-toed boots, with tight trousers and +a single strap. He affected the country gentleman in his appearance. +His hat had a broad brim, and the ample pockets of his cut-away coat +were never destitute of agricultural produce, samples of beans or corn, +which he used to bite and chew even on ’Change, or a whip-lash, or +balls for horses: in fine, he was a good old country gentleman. If it +was fine in Threadneedle Street, he would say it was good weather for +the hay; if it rained, the country wanted rain; if it was frosty, “No +hunting to-day, Tomkins, my boy,” and so forth. As he rode from +Bryanstone Square to the City you would take him—and he was pleased to +be so taken—for a jolly country squire. He was a better man of business +than his more solemn and stately brother, at whom he laughed in his +jocular way; and he said rightly, that a gentleman must get up very +early in the morning who wanted to take him in. + +The Colonel breaks into the sanctum of these worthy gentlemen; and each +receives him in a manner consonant with his peculiar nature. Sir Brian +regretted that Lady Anne was away from London, being at Brighton with +the children, who were all ill of the measles. Hobson said, “Maria +can’t treat you to such good company as my lady could give you, but +when will you take a day and come and dine with us? Let’s see, to-day’s +Wednesday; to-morrow we’ve a party. No, we’re engaged.” He meant that +his table was full, and that he did not care to crowd it; but there was +no use in imparting this circumstance to the Colonel. “Friday, we dine +at Judge Budge’s—queer name, Judge Budge, ain’t it? Saturday, I’m going +down to Marblehead, to look after the hay. Come on Monday, Tom, and +I’ll introduce you to the missus and the young ’uns.” + +“I will bring Clive,” says Colonel Newcome, rather disturbed at this +reception. “After his illness my sister-in-law was very kind to him.” + +“No, hang it, don’t bring boys; there’s no good in boys; they stop the +talk downstairs, and the ladies don’t want ’em in the drawing-room. +Send him to dine with the children on Sunday, if you like, and come +along down with me to Marblehead, and I’ll show you such a crop of hay +as will make your eyes open. Are you fond of farming?” + +“I have not seen my boy for years,” says the Colonel; “I had rather +pass Saturday and Sunday with him, if you please, and some day we will +go to Marblehead together.” + +“Well, an offer’s an offer. I don’t know any pleasanter thing than +getting out of this confounded City and smelling the hedges, and +looking at the crops coming up, and passing the Sunday in quiet.” And +his own tastes being thus agricultural, the honest gentleman thought +that everybody else must delight in the same recreation. + +“In the winter, I hope we shall see you at Newcome,” says the elder +brother, blandly smiling. “I can’t give you any tiger-shooting, but +I’ll promise you that you shall find plenty of pheasants in our +jungle,” and he laughed very gently at this mild sally. + +The Colonel gave him a queer look. “I shall be at Newcome before the +winter. I shall be there, please God, before many days are over.” + +“Indeed!” says the Baronet, with an air of great surprise. “You are +going down to look at the cradle of our race. I believe the Newcomes +were there before the Conqueror. It was but a village in our +grandfather’s time, and it is an immense flourishing town now, for +which I hope to get—I expect to get—a charter.” + +“Do you?” says the Colonel. “I am going down there to see a relation.” + +“A relation! What relatives have we there?” cries the Baronet. “My +children, with the exception of Barnes. Barnes, this is your uncle +Colonel Thomas Newcome. I have great pleasure, brother, in introducing +you to my eldest son.” + +A fair-haired young gentleman, languid and pale, and arrayed in the +very height of fashion, made his appearance at this juncture in the +parlour, and returned Colonel Newcome’s greeting with a smiling +acknowledgment of his own. “Very happy to see you, I’m sure,” said the +young man. “You find London very much changed since you were here? Very +good time to come—the very full of the season.” + +Poor Thomas Newcome was quite abashed by this strange reception. Here +was a man, hungry for affection, and one relation asked him to dinner +next Monday, and another invited him to shoot pheasants at Christmas. +Here was a beardless young sprig, who patronised him, and vouchsafed to +ask him whether he found London was changed. + +“I don’t know whether it’s changed,” says the Colonel, biting his +nails; “I know it’s not what I expected to find it.” + +“To-day it’s really as hot as I should thing it must be in India,” says +young Mr. Barnes Newcome. + +“Hot!” says the Colonel, with a grin. “It seems to me you are all cool +enough here.” + +“Just what Sir Thomas de Boots said, sir,” says Barnes, turning round +to his father. “Don’t you remember when he came home from Bombay? I +recollect his saying, at Lady Featherstone’s, one dooced hot night, as +it seemed to us; I recklect his saying that he felt quite cold. Did you +know him in India, Colonel Newcome? He’s liked at the Horse Guards, but +he’s hated in his regiment.” + +Colonel Newcome here growled a wish regarding the ultimate fate of Sir +Thomas de Boots, which we trust may never be realised by that +distinguished cavalry officer. + +“My brother says he’s going to Newcome, Barnes, next week,” said the +Baronet, wishing to make the conversation more interesting to the newly +arrived Colonel. “He was saying so just when you came in, and I was +asking him what took him there?” + +“Did you ever hear of Sarah Mason?” says the Colonel. + +“Really, I never did,” the Baronet answered. + +“Sarah Mason? No, upon my word, I don’t think I ever did, said the +young man. + +“Well, that’s a pity too,” the Colonel said, with a sneer. “Mrs. Mason +is a relation of yours—at least by marriage. She is my aunt or cousin—I +used to call her aunt, and she and my father and mother all worked in +the same mill at Newcome together.” + +“I remember—God bless my soul—I remember now!” cried the Baronet. “We +pay her forty pound a year on your account—don’t you know, brother? +Look to Colonel Newcome’s account—I recollect the name quite well. But +I thought she had been your nurse, and—and an old servant of my +father’s.” + +“So she was my nurse, and an old servant of my father’s,” answered the +Colonel. “But she was my mother’s cousin too and very lucky was my +mother to have such a servant, or to have a servant at all. There is +not in the whole world a more faithful creature or a better woman.” + +Mr. Hobson rather enjoyed his brother’s perplexity, and to see when the +Baronet rode the high horse, how he came down sometimes, “I am sure it +does you very great credit,” gasped the courtly head of the firm, “to +remember a—a humble friend and connexion of our father’s so well.” + +“I think, brother, you might have recollected her too,” the Colonel +growled out. His face was blushing; he was quite angry and hurt at what +seemed to him Sir Brian’s hardness of heart. + +“Pardon me if I don’t see the necessity,” said Sir Brian. “_I_ have no +relationship with Mrs. Mason, and do not remember ever having seen her. +Can I do anything for you, brother? Can I be useful to you in any way? +Pray command me and Barnes here, who after City hours will be delighted +if he can be serviceable to you—_I_ am nailed to this counter all the +morning, and to the House of Commons all night;—I will be with you in +one moment, Mr. Quilter. Good-bye, my dear Colonel. How well India has +agreed with you! how young you look! the hot winds are nothing to what +we endure in Parliament.—Hobson,” in a low voice, “you saw about that +h’m, that power of attorney—and h’m and h’m will call here at twelve +about that h’m.—I am sorry I must say good-bye—it seems so hard after +not meeting for so many years.” + +“Very,” says the Colonel. + +“Mind and send for me whenever you want me, now.” + +“Oh, of course,” said the elder brother, and thought when will that +ever be! + +“Lady Anne will be too delighted at hearing of your arrival. Give my +love to Clive—a remarkable fine boy, Clive—good morning:” and the +Baronet was gone, and his bald head might presently be seen alongside +of Mr. Quilter’s confidential grey poll, both of their faces turned +into an immense ledger. + +Mr. Hobson accompanied the Colonel to the door, and shook him cordially +by the hand as he got into his cab. The man asked whither he should +drive? and poor Newcome hardly knew where he was or whither he should +go. “Drive! a—oh—ah—damme, drive me anywhere away from this place!” was +all he could say; and very likely the cabman thought he was a +disappointed debtor who had asked in vain to renew a bill. In fact, +Thomas Newcome had overdrawn his little account. There was no such +balance of affection in that bank of his brothers, as the simple +creature had expected to find there. + +When he was gone, Sir Brian went back to his parlour, where sate young +Barnes perusing the paper. “My revered uncle seems to have brought back +a quantity of cayenne pepper from India, sir,” he said to his father. + +“He seems a very kind-hearted simple man,” the Baronet said “eccentric, +but he has been more than thirty years away from home. Of course you +will call upon him to-morrow morning. Do everything you can to make him +comfortable. Whom would he like to meet at dinner? I will ask some of +the Direction. Ask him, Barnes, for next Wednesday or Saturday—no; +Saturday I dine with the Speaker. But see that every attention is paid +him.” + +“Does he intend to have our relation up to town, sir? I should like to +meet Mrs. Mason of all things. A venerable washerwoman, I daresay, or +perhaps keeps a public-house,” simpered out young Barnes. + +“Silence, Barnes; you jest at everything, you young men do—you do. +Colonel Newcome’s affection for his old nurse does him the greatest +honour,” said the Baronet, who really meant what he said. + +“And I hope my mother will have her to stay a good deal at Newcome. I’m +sure she must have been a washerwoman, and mangled my uncle in early +life. His costume struck me with respectful astonishment. He disdains +the use of straps to his trousers, and is seemingly unacquainted with +gloves. If he had died in India, would my late aunt have had to perish +on a funeral pile?” Here Mr. Quilter, entering with a heap of bills, +put an end to these sarcastic remarks, and young Newcome, applying +himself to his business (of which he was a perfect master), forgot +about his uncle till after City hours, when he entertained some young +gentlemen of Bays’s Club with an account of his newly arrived relative. + +Towards the City, whither he wended his way whatever had been the ball +or the dissipation of the night before, young Barnes Newcome might be +seen walking every morning, resolutely and swiftly, with his neat +umbrella. As he passed Charing Cross on his way westwards, his little +boots trailed slowly over the pavement, his head hung languid (bending +lower still, and smiling with faded sweetness as he doffed his hat and +saluted a passing carriage), his umbrella trailed after him. Not a +dandy on all the Pall Mall pavement seemed to have less to do than he. + +Heavyside, a large young officer of the household troops—old Sir Thomas +de Boots—and Horace Fogey, whom every one knows—are in the window of +Bays’s, yawning as widely as that window itself. Horses under the +charge of men in red jackets are pacing up and down St. James’s Street. +Cabmen on the stand are regaling with beer. Gentlemen with grooms +behind them pass towards the Park. Great dowager barouches roll along +emblazoned with coronets, and driven by coachmen in silvery wigs. +Wistful provincials gaze in at the clubs. Foreigners chatter and show +their teeth, and look at the ladies in the carriages, and smoke and +spit refreshingly round about. Policeman X slouches along the pavement. +It is five o’clock, the noon in Pall Mall. + +“Here’s little Newcome coming,” says Mr. Horace Fogey. “He and the +muffin-man generally make their appearance in public together.” + +“Dashed little prig,” says Sir Thomas de Boots, “why the dash did they +ever let him in here? If I hadn’t been in India, by dash—he should have +been blackballed twenty times over, by dash.” Only Sir Thomas used +words far more terrific than dash, for this distinguished cavalry +officer swore very freely. + +“He amuses me; he’s such a mischievous little devil,” says good-natured +Charley Heavyside. + +“It takes very little to amuse you,” remarks Fogey. + +“_You_ don’t, Fogey,” answers Charley. “I know every one of your demd +old stories, that are as old as my grandmother. How-dy-do, Barney?” +(Enter Barnes Newcome.) “How are the Three per Cents, you little +beggar? I wish you’d do me a bit of stiff; and just tell your father, +if I may overdraw my account I’ll vote with him—hanged if I don’t.” + +Barnes orders absinthe-and-water, and drinks: Heavyside resuming his +elegant raillery. “I say, Barney, your name’s Barney, and you’re a +banker. You must be a little Jew, hey? Vell, how mosh vill you to my +little pill for?” + +“Do hee-haw in the House of Commons, Heavyside,” says the young man +with a languid air. “That’s your place: you’re returned for it.” +(Captain the Honourable Charles Heavyside is a member of the +legislature, and eminent in the House for asinine imitations which +delight his own, and confuse the other party.) “Don’t bray here. I hate +the shop out of shop hours.” + +“Dash the little puppy,” growls Sir de Boots, swelling in his +waistband. + +“What do they say about the Russians in the City?” says Horace Fogey, +who has been in the diplomatic service. “Has the fleet left Cronstadt, +or has it not?” + +“How should I know?” asks Barney. “Ain’t it all in the evening paper?” + +“That is very uncomfortable news from India, General,” resumes +Fogey—“there’s Lady Doddington’s carriage, how well she looks—that +movement of Runjeet-Singh on Peshawur: that fleet on the Irrawaddy. It +looks doocid queer, let me tell you, and Penguin is not the man to be +Governor-General of India in a time of difficulty.” + +“And Hustler’s not the man to be Commander-in-Chief: dashder old fool +never lived: a dashed old psalm-singing, blundering old woman,” says +Sir Thomas, who wanted the command himself. + +“_You_ ain’t in the psalm-singing line, Sir Thomas,” says Mr. Barnes; +“quite the contrary.” In fact, Sir de Boots in his youth used to sing +with the Duke of York, and even against Captain Costigan, but was +beaten by that superior bacchanalian artist. + +Sir Thomas looks as if to ask what the dash is that to you? but wanting +still to go to India again, and knowing how strong the Newcomes are in +Leadenhall Street, he thinks it necessary to be civil to the young cub, +and swallows his wrath once more into his waistband. + +“I’ve got an uncle come home from India—upon my word I have,” says +Barnes Newcome. “That is why I am so exhausted. I am going to buy him a +pair of gloves, number fourteen—and I want a tailor for him—not a young +man’s tailor. Fogey’s tailor rather. I’d take my father’s; but he has +all his things made in the country—all—in the borough, you know—he’s a +public man.” + +“Is Colonel Newcome, of the Bengal Cavalry, your uncle?” asks Sir +Thomas de Boots. + +“Yes; will you come and meet him at dinner next Wednesday week, Sir +Thomas? and, Fogey, you come; you know you like a good dinner. You +don’t know anything against my uncle, do you, Sir Thomas? Have I any +Brahminical cousins? Need we be ashamed of him?” + +“I tell you what, young man, if you were more like him it wouldn’t hurt +you. He’s an odd man; they call him Don Quixote in India; I suppose +you’ve read Don Quixote?” + +“Never heard of it, upon my word; and why do you wish I should be more +like him? I don’t wish to be like him at all, thank you.” + +“Why, because he is one of the bravest officers that ever lived,” +roared out the old soldier. “Because he’s one of the kindest fellows; +because he gives himself no dashed airs, although he has reason to be +proud if he chose. That’s why, Mr. Newcome.” + +“A topper for you, Barney, my boy,” remarks Charles Heavyside, as the +indignant General walks away gobbling and red. Barney calmly drinks the +remains of his absinthe. + +“I don’t know what that old muff means,” he says innocently, when he +has finished his bitter draught. “He’s always flying out at me, the old +turkey-cock. He quarrels with my play at whist, the old idiot, and can +no more play than an old baby. He pretends to teach me billiards, and +I’ll give him fifteen in twenty and beat his old head off. Why do they +let such fellows into clubs? Let’s have a game at piquet till dinner, +Heavyside. Hallo! That’s my uncle, that tall man with the mustachios +and the short trousers, walking with that boy of his. I dare say they +are going to dine in Covent Garden, and going to the play. How-dy-do, +Nunky?”—and so the worthy pair went up to the card-room, where they +sate at piquet until the hour of sunset and dinner arrived. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +In which Mr. Clive’s School-days are over + + +Our good Colonel had luckily to look forward to a more pleasant meeting +with his son, than that unfortunate interview with his other near +relatives. He dismissed his cab at Ludgate Hill, and walked thence by +the dismal precincts of Newgate, and across the muddy pavement of +Smithfield, on his way back to the old school where his son was, a way +which he had trodden many a time in his own early days. There was +Cistercian Street, and the Red Cow of his youth: there was the quaint +old Grey Friars Square, with its blackened trees and garden, surrounded +by ancient houses of the build of the last century, now slumbering like +pensioners in the sunshine. + +Under the great archway of the hospital he could look at the old Gothic +building: and a black-gowned pensioner or two crawling over the quiet +square, or passing from one dark arch to another. The boarding-houses +of the school were situated in the square, hard by the more ancient +buildings of the hospital. A great noise of shouting, crying, clapping +forms and cupboards, treble voices, bass voices, poured out of the +schoolboys’ windows: their life, bustle, and gaiety contrasted +strangely with the quiet of those old men creeping along in their black +gowns under the ancient arches yonder, whose struggle of life was over, +whose hope and noise and bustle had sunk into that grey calm. There was +Thomas Newcome arrived at the middle of life, standing between the +shouting boys and the tottering seniors, and in a situation to moralise +upon both, had not his son Clive, who has espied him from within Mr. +Hopkinson’s, or let us say at once Hopkey’s house, come jumping down +the steps to greet his sire. Clive was dressed in his very best; not +one of those four hundred young gentlemen had a better figure, a better +tailor, or a neater boot. Schoolfellows, grinning through the bars, +envied him as he walked away; senior boys made remarks on Colonel +Newcome’s loose clothes and long mustachios, his brown hands and +unbrushed hat. The Colonel was smoking a cheroot as he walked; and the +gigantic Smith, the cock of the school, who happened to be looking +majestically out of window, was pleased to say that he thought +Newcome’s governor was a fine manly-looking fellow. + +“Tell me about your uncles, Clive,” said the Colonel, as they walked on +arm in arm. + +“What about them, sir?” asks the boy. “I don’t think I know much.” + +“You have been to stay with them. You wrote about them. Were they kind +to you?” + +“Oh, yes, I suppose they are very kind. They always tipped me: only you +know when I go there I scarcely ever see them. Mr. Newcome asks me the +oftenest—two or three times a quarter when he’s in town, and gives me a +sovereign regular.” + +“Well, he must see you to give you the sovereign,” says Clive’s father, +laughing. + +The boy blushed rather. + +“Yes. When it’s time to go back to Smithfield on a Sunday night, I go +into the dining-room to shake hands, and he gives it me; but he don’t +speak to me much, you know, and I don’t care about going to Bryanstone +Square, except for the tip, of course that’s important, because I am +made to dine with the children, and they are quite little ones; and a +great cross French governess, who is always crying and shrieking after +them, and finding fault with them. My uncle generally has his +dinner-parties on Saturday, or goes out; and aunt gives me ten +shillings and sends me to the play; that’s better fun than a +dinner-party.” Here the lad blushed again. “I used,” says he, “when I +was younger, to stand on the stairs and prig things out of the dishes +when they came out from dinner, but I’m past that now. Maria (that’s my +cousin) used to take the sweet things and give ’em to the governess. +Fancy! she used to put lumps of sugar into her pocket and eat them in +the schoolroom! Uncle Hobson don’t live in such good society as Uncle +Newcome. You see, Aunt Hobson, she’s very kind, you know, and all that, +but I don’t think she’s what you call _comme il faut_.” + +“Why, how are you to judge?” asks the father, amused at the lad’s +candid prattle, “and where does the difference lie?” + +“I can’t tell you what it is, or how it is,” the boy answered, “only +one can’t help seeing the difference. It isn’t rank and that; only +somehow there are some men gentlemen and some not, and some women +ladies and some not. There’s Jones now, the fifth form master, every +man sees _he’s_ a gentleman, though he wears ever so old clothes; and +there’s Mr. Brown, who oils his hair, and wears rings, and white +chokers—my eyes! such white chokers!—and yet we call him the handsome +snob! And so about Aunt Maria, she’s very handsome and she’s very +finely dressed, only somehow she’s not—she’s not the ticket, you see.” + +“Oh, she’s not the ticket,” says the Colonel, much amused. + +“Well, what I mean is—but never mind,” says the boy. “I can’t tell you +what I mean. I don’t like to make fun of her, you know, for after all, +she is very kind to me; but Aunt Anne is different, and it seems as if +what she says is more natural; and though she has funny ways of her own +too, yet somehow she looks grander,”—and here the lad laughed again. +“And do you know, I often think that as good a lady as Aunt Anne +herself, is old Aunt Honeyman at Brighton—that is, in all essentials, +you know. For she is not proud, and she is not vain, and she never says +an unkind word behind anybody’s back, and she does a deal of kindness +to the poor without appearing to crow over them, you know; and she is +not a bit ashamed of letting lodgings, or being poor herself, as +sometimes I think some of our family——” + +“I thought we were going to speak no ill of them?” says the Colonel, +smiling. + +“Well, it only slipped out unawares,” says Clive, laughing; “but at +Newcome when they go on about the Newcomes, and that great ass, Barnes +Newcome, gives himself his airs, it makes me die of laughing. That time +I went down to Newcome, I went to see old Aunt Sarah, and she told me +everything, and showed me the room where my grandfather—you know; and +do you know I was a little hurt at first, for I thought we were swells +till then. And when I came back to school, where perhaps I had been +giving myself airs, and bragging about Newcome, why, you know, I +thought it was right to tell the fellows.” + +“That’s a man,” said the Colonel, with delight; though had he said, +“That’s a boy,” he had spoken more correctly. Indeed, how many men do +we know in the world without caring to know who their fathers were? and +how many more who wisely do not care to tell us? “That’s a man,” cries +the Colonel; “never be ashamed of your father, Clive.” + +“Ashamed of my father!” says Clive, looking up to him, and walking on +as proud as a peacock. “I say,” the lad resumed, after a pause— + +“Say what you say,” said the father. + +“Is that all true what’s in the Peerage—in the Baronetage, about Uncle +Newcome and Newcome; about the Newcome who was burned at Smithfield; +about the one that was at the battle of Bosworth; and the old old +Newcome who was bar—that is, who was surgeon to Edward the Confessor, +and was killed at Hastings? I am afraid it isn’t; and yet I should like +it to be true.” + +“I think every man would like to come of an ancient and honourable +race,” said the Colonel, in his honest way. “As you like your father to +be an honourable man, why not your grandfather, and his ancestors +before him? But if we can’t inherit a good name, at least we can do our +best to leave one, my boy; and that is an ambition which, please God, +you and I will both hold by.” + +With this simple talk the old and young gentleman beguiled their way, +until they came into the western quarter of the town, where the junior +member of the firm of Newcome Brothers had his house—a handsome and +roomy mansion in Bryanstone Square. Colonel Newcome was bent on paying +a visit to his sister-in-law, and as he knocked at the door, where the +pair were kept waiting some little time, he could remark through the +opened windows of the dining-room, that a great table was laid and +every preparation made for a feast. + +“My brother said he was engaged to dinner to-day,” said the Colonel. +“Does Mrs. Newcome give parties when he is away?” + +“She invites all the company,” answered Clive. “My uncle never asks any +one without aunt’s leave.” + +The Colonel’s countenance fell. He has a great dinner, and does not ask +his own brother! Newcome thought. Why, if he had come to me in India +with all his family, he might have stayed for a year, and I should have +been offended if he had gone elsewhere. + +A hot menial, in a red waistcoat, came and opened the door; and without +waiting for preparatory queries, said, “Not at home.” + +“It’s my father, John,” said Clive; “my aunt will see Colonel Newcome.” + +“Missis not at home,” said the man. “Missis is gone in carriage—Not at +this door!—Take them things down the area steps, young man!” bawls out +the domestic. This latter speech was addressed to a pastrycook’s boy, +with a large sugar temple and many conical papers containing delicacies +for dessert. “Mind the hice is here in time; or there’ll be a blow-up +with your governor,”—and John struggled back, closing the door on the +astonished Colonel. + +“Upon my life, they actually shut the door in our faces,” said the poor +gentleman. + +“The man is very busy, sir. There’s a great dinner. I’m sure my aunt +would not refuse you,” Clive interposed. “She is very kind. I suppose +it’s different here to what it is in India, here are the children in +the square,—those are the girls in blue,—that’s the French governess, +the one with the mustachios and the yellow parasol. How d’ye do, Mary? +How d’ye do, Fanny? This is my father,—this is your uncle.” + +“Mesdemoiselles! Je vous défends de parler à qui que ce soit hors du +Squar!” screams out the lady of the mustachios; and she strode forward +to call back her young charges. + +The Colonel addressed her in very good French. “I hope you will permit +me to make acquaintance with my nieces,” he said, “and with their +instructress, of whom my son has given me such a favourable account.” + +“Hem!” said Mademoiselle Lebrun, remembering the last fight she and +Clive had had together, and a portrait of herself (with enormous +whiskers) which the young scapegrace had drawn. “Monsieur is very good. +But one cannot too early inculcate _retenue_ and decorum to young +ladies in a country where demoiselles seem for ever to forget that they +are young ladies of condition. I am forced to keep the eyes of lynx +upon these young persons, otherwise heaven knows what would come to +them. Only yesterday, my back is turned for a moment, I cast my eyes on +a book, having but little time for literature, monsieur—for literature, +which I adore—when a cry makes itself to hear. I turn myself, and what +do I see? Mesdemoiselles, your nieces, playing at criquette, with the +Messieurs Smees—sons of Doctor Smees—young galopins, monsieur!” All +this was shrieked with immense volubility and many actions of the hand +and parasol across the square-railings to the amused Colonel, at whom +the little girls peered through the bars. + +“Well, my dears, I should like to have a game at cricket with you, +too,” says the kind gentleman, reaching them each a brown hand. + +“You, monsieur, c’est different—a man of your age! Salute monsieur, +your uncle, mesdemoiselles. You conceive, monsieur, that I also must be +cautious when I speak to a man so distinguished in a public squar.” And +she cast down her great eyes and hid those radiant orbs from the +Colonel. + +Meanwhile, Colonel Newcome, indifferent to the direction which Miss +Lebrun’s eyes took, whether towards his hat or his boots, was surveying +his little nieces with that kind expression which his face always wore +when it was turned towards children. “Have you heard of your uncle in +India?” he asked them. + +“No,” says Maria. + +“Yes,” says Fanny. “You know mademoiselle said” (mademoiselle at this +moment was twittering her fingers, and, as it were, kissing them in the +direction of a grand barouche that was advancing along the Square)—“you +know mademoiselle said that if we were _méchantes_ we should be sent to +our uncle in India. I think I should like to go with you.” + +“O you silly child!” cries Maria. + +“Yes I should, if Clive went too,” says little Fanny. + +“Behold madam, who arrives from her promenade!” Miss Lebrun exclaimed; +and, turning round, Colonel Newcome had the satisfaction of beholding, +for the first time, his sister-in-law. + +A stout lady, with fair hair and a fine bonnet and pelisse (who knows +what were the fine bonnets and pelisses of the year 183-?), was +reclining in the barouche, the scarlet-plush integuments of her +domestics blazing before and behind her. A pretty little foot was on +the cushion opposite to her; feathers waved in her bonnet; a book was +in her lap; an oval portrait of a gentleman reposed on her voluminous +bosom. She wore another picture of two darling heads, with pink cheeks +and golden hair, on one of her wrists, with many more chains, +bracelets, bangles, and knick-knacks. A pair of dirty gloves marred the +splendour of this appearance; a heap of books from the library strewed +the back seat of the carriage, and showed that her habits were +literary. Springing down from his station behind his mistress, the +youth clad in the nether garments of red sammit discharged thunderclaps +on the door of Mrs. Newcome’s house, announcing to the whole Square +that his mistress had returned to her abode. Since the fort saluted the +Governor-General at ———, Colonel Newcome had never heard such a +cannonading. + +Clive, with a queer twinkle of his eyes, ran towards his aunt. + +She bent over the carriage languidly towards him. She liked him. “What, +you, Clive?” she said. “How come you away from school of a Thursday, +sir?” + +“It is a holiday,” says he. “My father is come; and he is come to see +you.” + +She bowed her head with an expression of affable surprise and majestic +satisfaction. “Indeed, Clive!” she was good enough to exclaim and with +an air which seemed to say, “Let him come up and be presented to me.” +The honest gentleman stepped forward and took off his hat and bowed, +and stood bareheaded. She surveyed him blandly, and with infinite grace +put forward one of the pudgy little hands in one of the dirty gloves. +Can you fancy a twopenny-halfpenny baroness of King Francis’s time +patronising Bayard? Can you imagine Queen Guinever’s lady’s-maid’s +lady’s maid being affable to Sir Lancelot? I protest there is nothing +like the virtue of English women. + +“You have only arrived to-day, and you came to see me? That was very +kind. N’est-ce pas que c’était bong de Mouseer le Collonel, +mademoiselle? Madamaselle Lebrun, le Collonel Newcome, mong frère.” (In +a whisper, “My children’s governess and my friend, a most superior +woman.”) “Was it not kind of Colonel Newcome to come to see me? Have +you had a pleasant voyage? Did you come by St. Helena? Oh, how I envy +you seeing the tomb of that great man! Nous parlong de Napolleong, +mademoiselle, dong voter père a été le Général favvory.” + +“O Dieu! que n’ai je pu le voir,” interjaculates mademoiselle. “Lui +dont parle l’univers, dont mon père m’a si souvent parlé!” but this +remark passes quite unnoticed by mademoiselle’s friend, who continues: + +“Clive, donnez-moi voter bras. These are two of my girls. My boys are +at school. I shall be so glad to introduce them to their uncle. _This_ +naughty boy might never have seen you, but that we took him home to +Marblehead, after the scarlet fever, and made him well, didn’t we, +Clive? And we are all very fond of him, and you must not be jealous of +his love for his aunt. We feel that we quite know you through him, and +we know that you know us, and we hope you will _like_ us. Do you think +your pa will like us, Clive? Or perhaps you will like Lady Anne best? +Yes; you have been to her first, of course? Not been? Oh! because she +is not in town.” Leaning fondly on the arm of Clive, mademoiselle +standing grouped with the children hard by while John, with his hat +off, stood at the opened door, Mrs. Newcome slowly uttered the above +remarkable remarks to the Colonel, on the threshold of her house, which +she never asked him to pass. + +“If you will come in to us at about ten this evening,” she then said, +“you will find some men, not undistinguished, who honour me of an +evening. Perhaps they will be interesting to you, Colonel Newcome, as +you are newly arrived in Europe. Not men of worldly rank, necessarily, +although some of them are amongst the noblest of Europe. But my maxim +is, that genius is an illustration, and merit is better than any +pedigree. You have heard of Professor Bodgers? Count Poski? Doctor +McGuffog, who is called in his native country the Ezekiel of +Clackmannan? Mr. Shaloony, the great Irish patriot? our papers have +told you of _him_. These and some more I have been good enough to +promise me a visit to-night. A stranger coming to London could scarcely +have a better opportunity of seeing some of our great illustrations of +science and literature. And you will meet our own family—not Sir +Brian’s, who—who have other society and amusements—but mine. I hope Mr. +Newcome and myself will never forget _them_. We have a few friends at +dinner, and now I must go in and consult with Mrs. Hubbard, my +housekeeper. Good-bye for the present. Mind, not later than ten, as Mr. +Newcome must be up betimes in the morning, and our parties break up +early. When Clive is a little older, I dare say we shall see him, too. +_Good_-bye!” And again the Colonel was favoured with a shake of the +glove, and the lady and her suite sailed up the stair, and passed in at +the door. + +She had not the faintest idea but that the hospitality which she was +offering to her kinsman was of the most cordial and pleasant kind. She +fancied everything she did was perfectly right and graceful. She +invited her husband’s clerks to come through the rain at ten o’clock +from Kentish Town; she asked artists to bring their sketch-books from +Kensington, or luckless pianists to trudge with their music from +Brompton. She rewarded them with a smile and a cup of tea, and thought +they were made happy by her condescension. If, after two or three of +these delightful evenings, they ceased to attend her receptions, she +shook her little flaxen head, and sadly intimated that Mr. A. was +getting into bad courses, or feared that Mr. B. found merely +_intellectual_ parties too quiet for him. Else, what young man in his +senses could refuse such entertainment and instruction? + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +Mrs. Newcome at Home (a Small Early Party) + + +To push on in the crowd, every male or female struggler must use his +shoulders. If a better place than yours presents itself just beyond +your neighbour, elbow him and take it. Look how a steadily purposed man +or woman at court, at a ball, or exhibition, wherever there is a +competition and a squeeze, gets the best place; the nearest the +sovereign, if bent on kissing the royal hand; the closest to the grand +stand, if minded to go to Ascot; the best view and hearing of the Rev. +Mr. Thumpington, when all the town is rushing to hear that exciting +divine; the largest quantity of ice, champagne, and seltzer, cold pâté, +or other his or her favourite flesh-pot, if gluttonously minded, at a +supper whence hundreds of people come empty away. A woman of the world +will marry her daughter and have done with her; get her carriage and be +at home and asleep in bed; whilst a timid mamma has still her girl in +the nursery, or is beseeching the servants in the cloakroom to look for +her shawls, with which some one else has whisked away an hour ago. What +a man has to do in society is to assert himself. Is there a good place +at table? Take it. At the Treasury or the Home Office? Ask for it. Do +you want to go to a party to which you are not invited? Ask to be +asked. Ask A., ask B., ask Mrs. C., ask everybody you know: you will be +thought a bore; but you will have your way. What matters if you are +considered obtrusive, provided that you obtrude? By pushing steadily, +nine hundred and ninety-nine people in a thousand will yield to you. +Only command persons, and you may be pretty sure that a good number +will obey. How well your money will have been laid out, O gentle +reader, who purchase this; and, taking the maxim to heart, follow it +through life! You may be sure of success. If your neighbour’s foot +obstructs you, stamp on it; and do you suppose he won’t take it away? + +The proofs of the correctness of the above remarks I show in various +members of the Newcome family. Here was a vulgar little woman, not +clever nor pretty, especially; meeting Mr. Newcome casually, she +ordered him to marry her, and he obeyed; as he obeyed her in everything +else which she chose to order through life. Meeting Colonel Newcome on +the steps of her house, she orders him to come to her evening party; +and though he has not been to an evening party for five-and-thirty +years—though he has not been to bed the night before—though he has no +mufti-coat except one sent him out by Messrs. Stultz to India in the +year 1821—he never once thinks of disobeying Mrs. Newcome’s order, but +is actually at her door at five minutes past ten, having arrayed +himself to the wonderment of Clive, and left the boy to talk with his +friend and fellow-passenger, Mr. Binnie, who has just arrived from +Portsmouth, who has dined with him, and who, by previous arrangement, +has taken up his quarters at the same hotel. + +This Stultz coat, a blue swallow-tail, with yellow buttons, now wearing +a tinge of their native copper, a very high velvet collar on a level +with the tips of the Captain’s ears, with a high waist, indicated by +two lapelles, and a pair of buttons high up in the wearer’s back, a +white waistcoat and scarlet under-waistcoat, and a pair of the +never-failing duck trousers, complete Thomas Newcome’s costume, along +with the white hat in which we have seen him in the morning, and which +was one of two dozen purchased by him some years since at public +outcry, Burrumtollah. We have called him Captain purposely, while +speaking of his coat, for he held that rank when the garment came out +to him; and having been in the habit of considering it a splendid coat +for twelve years past, he has not the least idea of changing his +opinion. + +The Doctor McGuffog, Professor Bodgers, Count Poski, and all the lions +present at Mrs. Newcome’s _réunion_ that evening, were completely +eclipsed by Colonel Newcome. The worthy soul, who cared not the least +about adorning himself, had a handsome diamond brooch of the year +1801—given him by poor Jack Cutler, who was knocked over by his side at +Argaum—and wore this ornament in his desk for a thousand days and +nights at a time; in his shirt-frill, on such parade evenings as he +considered Mrs. Newcome’s to be. The splendour of this jewel, and of +his flashing buttons, caused all eyes to turn to him. There were many +pairs of mustachios present, those of Professor Schnurr, a very +corpulent martyr, just escaped from Spandau, and of Maximilien +Tranchard, French exile and apostle of liberty, were the only whiskers +in the room capable of vying in interest with Colonel Newcome’s. Polish +chieftains were at this time so common in London, that nobody (except +one noble Member for Marylebone, once a year, the Lord Mayor) took any +interest in them. The general opinion was, that the stranger was the +Wallachian Boyar, whose arrival at Mivart’s the _Morning Post_ had just +announced. Mrs. Miles, whose delicious every other Wednesdays in +Montague Square are supposed by some to be rival entertainments to Mrs. +Newcome’s alternate Thursdays in Bryanstone Square, pinched her +daughter Mira, engaged in a polyglot conversation with Herr Schnurr, +nor Signor Carabossi, the guitarist, and Monsieur Pivier, the celebrated +French chess-player, to point out the Boyar. Mira Miles wished she knew +a little Moldavian, not so much that she might speak it, but that she +might be heard to speak it. Mrs. Miles, who had not had the educational +advantages of her daughter, simpered up with “Madame Newcome pas +ici—votre excellence nouvellement arrivé—avez vous fait ung bong +voyage? Je reçois chez moi Mercredi prochaing; lonnure de vous +voir—Madamasel Miles ma fille;” and, Mira, now reinforcing her mamma, +poured in a glib little oration in French, somewhat to the astonishment +of the Colonel, who began to think, however, that perhaps French was +the language of the polite world, into which he was now making his very +first _entrée_. + +Mrs. Newcome had left her place at the door of her drawing-room, to +walk through her rooms with Rummun Loll, the celebrated Indian +merchant, otherwise His Excellency Rummun Loll, otherwise his Highness +Rummun Loll, the chief proprietor of the diamond-mines in Golconda, +with a claim of three millions and a-half upon the East India +Company—who smoked his hookah after dinner when the ladies were gone, +and in whose honour (for his servants always brought a couple or more +of hookahs with them) many English gentlemen made themselves sick, +while trying to emulate the same practice. Mr. Newcome had been obliged +to go to bed himself in consequence of the uncontrollable nausea +produced by the chillum; and Doctor McGuffog, in hopes of converting +His Highness, had puffed his till he was as black in the face as the +interesting Indian—and now, having hung on his arm—always in the dirty +gloves—flirting a fan whilst His Excellency consumed betel out of a +silver box; and having promenaded him and his turban, and his shawls, +and his kincab pelisse, and his lacquered moustache, and keen brown +face; and opal eyeballs, through her rooms, the hostess came back to +her station at the drawing-room door. + +As soon as His Excellency saw the Colonel, whom he perfectly well knew, +His Highness’s princely air was exchanged for one of the deepest +humility. He bowed his head and put his two hands before his eyes, and +came creeping towards him submissively, to the wonderment of Mrs. +Miles; who was yet more astonished when the Moldavian magnate exclaimed +in perfectly good English, “What, Rummun, you here?” + +The Rummun, still bending and holding his hands before him, uttered a +number of rapid sentences in the Hindustani language, which Colonel +Newcome received twirling his mustachios with much hauteur. He turned +on his heel rather abruptly and began to speak to Mrs. Newcome, who +smiled and thanked him for coming on his first night after his return. + +The Colonel said, “To whose house should he first come but to his +brother’s?” How Mrs. Newcome wished she could have had room for him at +dinner! And there was room after all, for Mr. Shaloony was detained at +the House. The most interesting conversation. The Indian Prince was so +intelligent! + +“The Indian what?” asks Colonel Newcome. The heathen gentleman had gone +off, and was seated by one of the handsomest young women in the room, +whose fair face was turned towards him, whose blond ringlets touched +his shoulder, and who was listening to him as eagerly as Desdemona +listened to Othello. + +The Colonel’s rage was excited as he saw the Indian’s behaviour. He +curled his mustachios up to his eyes in his wrath. “You don’t mean that +that man calls himself a Prince? That a fellow who wouldn’t sit down in +an officer’s presence is——” + +“How do you do, Mr. Honeyman?—Eh, bong soir, Monsieur—You are very +late, Mr. Pressly.—What, Barnes! is it possible that you do me the +honour to come all the way from Mayfair to Marylebone? I thought you +young men of fashion never crossed Oxford Street. Colonel Newcome, this +is your nephew.” + +“How do you do, sir?” says Barnes, surveying the Colonel’s costume with +inward wonder, but without the least outward manifestation of surprise. +“I suppose you dined here to meet the black Prince. I came to ask him +and my uncle to meet you at dinner on Wednesday. Where’s my uncle, +ma’am?” + +“Your uncle is gone to bed ill. He smoked one of those hookahs which +the Prince brings, and it has made him very unwell indeed, Barnes. How +is Lady Anne? Is Lord Kew in London? Is your sister better for Brighton +air? I see your cousin is appointed Secretary of Legation. Have you +good accounts of your aunt Lady Fanny?” + +“Lady Fanny is as well as can be expected, and the baby is going on +perfectly well, thank you,” Barnes said drily; and his aunt, +obstinately gracious with him, turned away to some other new comet. + +“It’s interesting, isn’t it, sir,” says Barnes, turning to the Colonel, +“to see such union in families? Whenever I come here, my aunt trots out +all my relations; and I send a man round in the mornin to ask how they +all are. So Uncle Hobson is gone to bed sick with a hookah? I know +there was a deuce of a row made when I smoked at Marblehead. You are +promised to us for Wednesday, please. Is there anybody you would like +to meet? Not our friend the Rummun? How the girls crowd round him! By +Gad, a fellow who’s rich in London may have the pick of any gal—not +here—not in this sort of thing; I mean in society, you know,” says +Barnes confidentially, “I’ve seen the old dowagers crowdin round that +fellow, and the girls snugglin up to his india-rubber face. He’s known +to have two wives already in India; but, by Gad, for a settlement, I +believe some of ’em here would marry—I mean of the girls in society.” + +“But isn’t this society?” asked the Colonel. + +“Oh, of course. It’s very good society and that sort of thing—but it’s +not, you know—you understand. I give you my honour there are not three +people in the room one meets anywhere, except the Rummun. What is he at +home, sir? I know he ain’t a Prince, you know, any more than I am.” + +“I believe he is a rich man now,” said the Colonel. “He began from very +low beginnings, and odd stories are told about the origin of his +fortune.” + +“That may be,” says the young man; “of course, as businessmen, that’s +not our affair. But has he got the fortune? He keeps a large account +with us; and, I think, wants to have larger dealings with us still. As +one of the family we may ask you to stand by us, and tell us anything +you know. My father has asked him down to Newcome, and we’ve taken him +up; wisely or not I can’t say. I think otherwise; but I’m quite young +in the house, and of course the elders have the chief superintendence.” +The young man of business had dropped his drawl or his languor, and was +speaking quite unaffectedly; good-naturedly, and selfishly. Had you +talked to him for a week, you could not have made him understand the +scorn and loathing with which the Colonel regarded him. Here was a +young fellow as keen as the oldest curmudgeon; a lad with scarce a +beard to his chin, that would pursue his bond as rigidly as Shylock. +“If he is like this at twenty, what will he be at fifty?” groaned the +Colonel. “I’d rather Clive were dead than have him such a heartless +woriding as this.” And yet the young man was not ungenerous, not +untruth-telling, not unserviceable. He thought his life was good +enough. It was as good as that of other folks he lived with. You don’t +suppose he had any misgivings, provided he was in the City early enough +in the morning; or slept badly, unless he indulged too freely +over-night; or twinges of conscience that his life was misspent? He +thought his life a most lucky and reputable one. He had a share in a +good business, and felt that he could increase it. Some day he would +marry a good match, with a good fortune; meanwhile he could take his +pleasure decorously, and sow his wild oats as some of the young +Londoners sow them, not broadcast after the fashion of careless +scatter-brained youth, but trimly and neatly, in quiet places, where +the crop can come up unobserved, and be taken in without bustle or +scandal. Barnes Newcome never missed going to church, or dressing for +dinner. He never kept a tradesman waiting for his money. He never drank +too much, except when other fellows did, and in good company. He never +was late for business, or huddled over his toilet, however brief had +been his sleep, or severe his headache. In a word, he was as +scrupulously whited as any sepulchre in the whole bills of mortality. + +Whilst young Barnes and his uncle were thus holding parley, a slim +gentleman of bland aspect, with a roomy forehead, or what his female +admirers called “a noble brow,” and a neat white neckcloth tied with +clerical skill, was surveying Colonel Newcome through his shining +spectacles, and waiting for an opportunity to address him. The Colonel +remarked the eagerness with which the gentleman in black regarded him, +and asked Mr. Barnes who was the padre? Mr. Barnes turned his eyeglass +towards the spectacles, and said “he didn’t know any more than the +dead; he didn’t know two people in the room.” The spectacles +nevertheless made the eyeglass a bow, of which the latter took no sort +of cognisance. The spectacles advanced; Mr. Newcome fell back with a +peevish exclamation of “Confound the fellow, what is he coming to speak +to me for?” He did not choose to be addressed by all sorts of persons +in all houses. + +But he of the spectacles, with an expression of delight in his pale +blue eyes, and smiles dimpling his countenance, pressed onwards with +outstretched hands, and it was towards the Colonel he turned these +smiles and friendly salutations. “Did I hear aright, sir, from Mrs. +Miles,” he said, “and have I the honour of speaking to Colonel +Newcome?” + +“The same, sir,” says the Colonel; at which the other, tearing off a +glove of lavender-coloured kid, uttered the words, “Charles Honeyman,” +and seized the hand of his brother-in-law. “My poor sister’s husband,” +he continued; “my own benefactor; Clive’s father. How strange are these +meetings in the mighty world! How I rejoice to see you, and know you!” + +“You are Charles, are you?” cries the other. “I am very glad, indeed, +to shake you by the hand, Honeyman. Clive and I should have beat up +your quarters to-day, but we were busy until dinnertime. You put me in +mind of poor Emma, Charles,” he added, sadly. Emma had not been a good +wife to him; a flighty silly little woman, who had caused him when +alive many a night of pain and day of anxiety. + +“Poor, poor Emma!” exclaimed the ecclesiastic, casting his eyes towards +the chandelier, and passing a white cambric pocket-handkerchief +gracefully before them. No man in London understood the ring business +or the pocket-handkerchief business better, or smothered his emotion +more beautifully. “In the gayest moments, in the giddiest throng of +fashion, the thoughts of the past will rise; the departed will be among +us still. But this is not the strain wherewith to greet the friend +newly arrived on our shores. How it rejoices me to behold you in old +England! How you must have joyed to see Clive!” + +“D—— the humbug,” muttered Barnes, who knew him perfectly well. “The +fellow is always in the pulpit.” + +The incumbent of Lady Whittlesea’s chapel smiled and bowed to him. “You +do not recognise me, sir; I have had the honour of seeing you in your +public capacity in the City, when I have called at the bank, the bearer +of my brother-in-law’s generous——” + +“Never mind that, Honeyman!” cried the Colonel. + +“But I _do_ mind, my dear Colonel,” answers Mr. Honeyman. “I should be +a very bad man, and a very ungrateful brother, if I _ever_ forgot your +kindness.” + +“For God’s sake leave my kindness alone.” + +“He’ll never leave it alone as long as he can use it,” muttered Mr. +Barnes in his teeth; and turning to his uncle, “May I take you home, +sir? my cab is at the door, and I shall be glad to drive you.” But the +Colonel said he must talk to his brother-in-law for a while, and Mr. +Barnes, bowing very respectfully to him, slipped under a dowager’s arm +in the doorway, and retreated silently downstairs. + +Newcome was now thrown entirely upon the clergyman, and the latter +described the personages present to the stranger, who was curious to +know how the party was composed. Mrs. Newcome herself would have been +pleased had she heard Honeyman’s discourse regarding her guests and +herself. Charles Honeyman so spoke of most persons that you might fancy +they were listening over his shoulder. Such an assemblage of learning, +genius, and virtue, might well delight and astonish a stranger. “That +lady in the red turban, with the handsome daughters, is Lady Budge, +wife of the eminent judge of that name—everybody was astonished that he +was not made Chief Justice, and elevated to the Peerage—the only +objection (as I have heard confidentially) was on the part of a late +sovereign, who said he never could consent to have a peer of the name +of Budge. Her ladyship was of humble, I have heard even menial, station +originally, but becomes her present rank, dispenses the most elegant +hospitality at her mansion in Connaught Terrace, and is a pattern as a +wife and a mother. The young man talking to her daughter is a young +barrister, already becoming celebrated as a contributor to some of our +principal reviews.” + +“Who is that cavalry officer in a white waistcoat talking to the Jew +with the beard?” asks the Colonel. + +“He, he! That cavalry officer is another literary man of celebrity, and +by profession an attorney. But he has quitted the law for the Muses, +and it would appear that the Nine are never wooed except by gentlemen +with mustachios.” + +“Never wrote a verse in my life,” says the Colonel, laughing, and +stroking his own. + +“For I remark so many literary gentlemen with that decoration. The Jew +with the beard, as you call him, is Herr von Lungen, the eminent +hautboy-player. The three next gentlemen are Mr. Smee, of the Royal +Academy (who is shaved as you perceive), and Mr. Moyes and Mr. Cropper, +who are both very hairy about the chin. At the piano, singing, +accompanied by Mademoiselle Lebrun, is Signor Mezzocaldo, the great +barytone from Rome. Professor Quartz and Baron Hammerstein, celebrated +geologists from Germany, are talking with their illustrious _confrère_, +Sir Robert Craxton, in the door. Do you see yonder that stout gentleman +with stuff on his shirt? the eloquent Dr. McGuffog, of Edinburgh, +talking to Dr. Ettore, who lately escaped from the Inquisition at Rome +in the disguise of a washerwoman, after undergoing the question several +times, the rack and the thumbscrew. They say that he was to have been +burned in the Grand Square the next morning; but between ourselves, my +dear Colonel, I mistrust these stories of converts and martyrs. Did you +ever see a more jolly-looking man than Professor Schnurr, who was +locked up in Spielberg, and got out up a chimney, and through a window? +Had he waited a few months there are very few windows he could have +passed through. That splendid man in the red fez is Kurbash +Pasha—another renegade, I deeply lament to say—a hairdresser from +Marseilles, by name Monsieur Ferehaud, who passed into Egypt, and laid +aside the _tongs_ for a turban. He is talking with Mr. Palmer, one of +our most delightful young poets, and with Desmond O’Tara, son of the +late revered Bishop of Ballinafad, who has lately quitted ours for the +errors of the Church of Rome. Let me whisper to you that your kinswoman +is rather a searcher after what we call here _notabilities_. I heard +talk of one I knew in better days—of one who was the comrade of my +youth, and the delight of Oxford—poor Pidge of Brasenose, who got the +Newdigate in my third year, and who, under his present name of Father +Bartolo, was to have been here in his capuchin dress, with a beard and +bare feet; but I presume he could not get permission from his Superior. +That is Mr. Huff, the political economist, talking with Mr. Macduff, +the Member for Glenlivat. That is the coroner for Middlesex conversing +with the great surgeon Sir Cutler Sharp, and that pretty laughing girl +talking with them is no other than the celebrated Miss Pinnnifer, whose +novel of Ralph the Resurrectionist created such a sensation after it +was abused in the _Trimestrial Review_. It was a little bold +certainly—I just looked at it at my club—after hours devoted to parish +duty a clergyman is sometimes allowed, you know, _desipere in +loco_—there are descriptions in it certainly startling—ideas about +marriage not exactly orthodox; but the poor child wrote the book +actually in the nursery, and all England was ringing with it before Dr. +Pinnifer, her father, knew who was the author. That is the Doctor +asleep in the corner by Miss Rudge, the American authoress, who I dare +say is explaining to him the difference between the two Governments. My +dear Mrs. Newcome, I am giving my brother-in-law a little sketch of +some of the celebrities who are crowding your salon to-night. What a +delightful evening you have given us!” + +“I try to do my best, Colonel Newcome,” said the lady of the house. “I +hope many a night we may see you here; and, as I said this morning, +Clive, when he is of an age to appreciate this kind of entertainment. +Fashion I do not worship. You may meet that amongst other branches of +our family; but genius and talent I do reverence. And if I can be the +means—the _humble_ means—to bring men of genius together—mind to +associate with mind—men of all nations to mingle in _friendly unison_—I +shall not have lived _altogether_ in vain. They call us women of the +world frivolous, Colonel Newcome. So some may be; I do not say there +are not in our own family persons who worship mere worldly rank, and +think but of fashion and gaiety; but such, I trust, will never be the +objects in life of me and my children. We are but merchants; we seek to +be _no more_. If I can look around me and see as I do”—(she waves her +fan round, and points to the illustrations scintillating round the +room)—“and see as I do now—a Poski, whose name is ever connected with +Polish history—an Ettore, who has exchanged a tonsure and a rack for +our own free country—a Hammerstein, and a Quartz, a Miss Rudge, our +Transatlantic sister (who I trust will not mention _this_ modest salon +in her forthcoming work on Europe), and Miss Pinnifer, whose genius I +acknowledge, though I deplore her opinions; if I can gather together +travellers, poets, and painters, princes and distinguished soldiers +from the East, and clergymen remarkable for their eloquence, my humble +aim is attained, and Maria Newcome is not altogether useless in her +generation. Will you take a little refreshment? Allow _your sister_ to +go down to the dining-room supported by your _gallant_ arm.” She looked +round to the admiring congregation, whereof Honeyman, as it were acted +as clerk, and flirting her fan, and flinging up her little head. +Consummate Virtue walked down on the arm of the Colonel. + +The refreshment was rather meagre. The foreign artists generally dashed +downstairs, and absorbed all the ices, creams, etc. To those coming +late there were chicken-bones, table-cloths puddled with melted ice, +glasses hazy with sherry, and broken bits of bread. The Colonel said he +never supped; and he and Honeyman walked away together, the former to +bed, the latter, I am sorry to say, to his club; for he was a dainty +feeder, and loved lobster, and talk late at night, and a comfortable +little glass of something wherewith to conclude the day. + +He agreed to come to breakfast with the Colonel, who named eight or +nine for the meal. Nine Mr. Honeyman agreed to with a sigh. The +incumbent of Lady Whittlesea’s chapel seldom rose before eleven. For, +to tell the truth, no French abbot of Louis XV. was more lazy and +luxurious, and effeminate, than our polite bachelor preacher. + +One of Colonel Newcome’s fellow-passengers from India was Mr. James +Binnie of the Civil Service, a jolly young bachelor of two- or +three-and-forty, who, having spent half of his past life in Bengal, was +bent upon enjoying the remainder in Britain or in Europe, if a +residence at home should prove agreeable to him. The Nabob of books and +tradition is a personage no longer to be found among us. He is neither +as wealthy nor as wicked as the jaundiced monster of romances and +comedies, who purchases the estates of broken-down English gentlemen, +with rupees tortured out of bleeding rajahs, who smokes a hookah in +public, and in private carries about a guilty conscience, diamonds of +untold value, and a diseased liver; who has a vulgar wife, with a +retinue of black servants whom she maltreats, and a gentle son and +daughter with good impulses and an imperfect education, desirous to +amend their own and their parents’ lives, and thoroughly ashamed of the +follies of the old people. If you go to the house of an Indian +gentleman now, he does not say, “Bring more curricles,” like the famous +Nabob of Stanstead Park. He goes to Leadenhall Street in an omnibus, +and walks back from the City for exercise. I have known some who have +had maid-servants to wait on them at dinner. I have met scores who look +as florid and rosy as any British squire who has never left his +paternal beef and acres. They do not wear nankeen jackets in summer. +Their livers are not out of order any more; and as for hookahs, I dare +swear there are not two now kept alight within the bills of mortality; +and that retired Indians would as soon think of smoking them, as their +wives would of burning themselves on their husbands’ bodies at the +cemetery, Kensal Green, near to the Tyburnian quarter of the city which +the Indian world at present inhabits. It used to be Baker Street and +Harley Street; it used to be Portland Place, and in more early days +Bedford Square, where the Indian magnates flourished; districts which +have fallen from their pristine state of splendour now, even as Agra, +and Benares, and Lucknow, and Tippoo Sultan’s city are fallen. + +After two-and-twenty years’ absence from London, Mr. Binnie returned to +it on the top of the Gosport coach with a hatbox and a little +portmanteau, a pink fresh-shaven face, a perfect appetite, a suit of +clothes like everybody else’s, and not the shadow of a black servant. +He called a cab at the White Horse Cellar, and drove to Nerot’s Hotel, +Clifford Street; and he gave the cabman eightpence, making the fellow, +who grumbled, understand that Clifford Street was not two hundred yards +from Bond Street, and that he was paid at the rate of five shillings +and fourpence per mile—calculating the mile at only sixteen hundred +yards. He asked the waiter at what time Colonel Newcome had ordered +dinner, and finding there was an hour on his hands before the meal, +walked out to examine the neighbourhood for a lodging where he could +live more quietly than in a hotel. He called it a hotel. Mr. Binnie was +a North Briton, his father having been a Writer to the Signet, in +Edinburgh, who had procured his son a writership in return for +electioneering services done to an East Indian Director. Binnie had his +retiring pension, and, besides, had saved half his allowances ever +since he had been in India. He was a man of great reading, no small +ability, considerable accomplishment, excellent good sense and good +humour. The ostentatious said he was a screw; but he gave away more +money than far more extravagant people: he was a disciple of David Hume +(whom he admired more than any other mortal), and the serious denounced +him as a man of dangerous principles, though there were, among the +serious, men much more dangerous than James Binnie. + +On returning to his hotel, Colonel Newcome found this worthy gentleman +installed in his room in the best arm-chair sleeping cosily; the +evening paper laid decently over his plump waistcoat, and his little +legs placed on an opposite chair. Mr. Binnie woke up briskly when the +Colonel entered. “It is you, you gad-about, is it?” cried the civilian. +“How has the beau monde of London treated the Indian Adonis? Have you +made a sensation, Newcome? Gad, Tom, I remember you a buck of bucks +when that coat first came out to Calcutta—just a Barrackpore +Brummell—in Lord Minto’s reign, was it, or when Lord Hastings was +satrap over us?” + +“A man must have one good coat,” says the Colonel; “I don’t profess to +be a dandy; but get a coat from a good tailor, and then have done with +it.” He still thought his garment was as handsome as need be. + +“Done with it—ye’re never done with it!” cries the civilian. + +“An old coat is an old friend, old Binnie. I don’t want to be rid of +one or the other. How long did you and my boy sit up together—isn’t he +a fine lad, Binnie? I expect you are going to put him down for +something handsome in your will.” + +“See what it is to have a real friend now, Colonel! I sate up for ye, +or let us say more correctly, I waited for you—because I knew you would +want to talk about that scapegrace of yours. And if I had gone to bed, +I should have had you walking up to No. 28, and waking me out of my +first rosy slumber. Well, now confess; avoid not. Haven’t ye fallen in +love with some young beauty on the very first night of your arrival in +your sister’s salong, and selected a mother-in-law for young +Scapegrace?” + +“Isn’t he a fine fellow, James?” says the Colonel, lighting a cheroot +as he sits on the table. Was it joy, or the bedroom candle with which +he lighted his cigar, which illuminated his honest features so, and +made them so to shine? + +“I have been occupied, sir, in taking the lad’s moral measurement: and +have pumped him as successfully as ever I cross-examined a rogue in my +court. I place his qualities thus:—Love of approbation sixteen. +Benevolence fourteen. Combativeness fourteen. Adhesiveness two. +Amativeness is not yet of course fully developed, but I expect will be +prodeegiously strong. The imaginative and reflective organs are very +large—those, of calculation weak. He may make a poet or a painter, or +you may make a sojer of him, though worse men than him’s good enough +for that—but a bad merchant, a lazy lawyer, and a miserable +mathematician. He has wit and conscientiousness, so ye mustn’t think of +making a clergyman of him.” + +“Binnie!” says the Colonel gravely, “you are always sneering at the +cloth.” + +“When I think that, but for my appointment to India, I should have been +a luminary of the faith and a pillar of the church! grappling with the +ghostly enemy in the pulpit, and giving out the psawm. Eh, sir, what a +loss Scottish Divinity has had in James Binnie!” cries the little +civilian with his most comical face. “But that is not the question. My +opinion, Colonel, is, that young Scapegrace will give you a deal of +trouble; or would, only you are so absurdly proud of him that you think +everything he does is perfaction. He’ll spend your money for you: he’ll +do as little work as need be. He’ll get into scrapes with the sax. He’s +almost as simple as his father, and that is to say that any rogue will +cheat him; and he seems to me to have got your obstinate habit of +telling the truth, Colonel, which may prevet his getting on in the +world, but on the other hand will keep him from going very wrong. So +that, though there is every fear for him, there’s some hope and some +consolation.” + +“What do you think of his Latin and Greek?” asks the Colonel. Before +going out to his party, Newcome had laid a deep scheme with Binnie, and +it had been agreed that the latter should examine the young fellow in +his humanities. + +“Wall,” cries the Scot, “I find that the lad knows as much about Greek +and Latin as I knew myself when I was eighteen years of age.” + +“My dear Binnie, is it possible? You, the best scholar in all India!” + +“And which amounted to exactly nothing. He has acquired in five years, +and by the admirable seestem purshood at your public schools, just +about as much knowledge of the ancient languages as he could get by +three months’ application at home. Mind ye, I don’t say he would apply; +it is most probable he would do no such thing. But at the cost of—how +much? two hundred pounds annually—for five years—he has acquired about +five-and-twenty guineas’ worth of classical leeterature—enough, I dare +say, to enable him to quote Horace respectably through life, and what +more do ye want from a young man of his expectations? I think I should +send him into the army, that’s the best place for him—there’s the least +to do, and the handsomest clothes to wear. _Acce segnum!_” says the +little wag, daintily taking up the tail of his friend’s coat. + +“There’s never any knowing whether you are in jest or in earnest, +Binnie,” the puzzled Colonel said. + +“How should you know, when I don’t know myself?” answered the +Scotchman. “In earnest now, Tom Newcome, I think your boy is as fine a +lad as I ever set eyes on. He seems to have intelligence and good +temper. He carries his letter of recommendation in his countenance; and +with the honesty—and the rupees, mind ye—which he inherits from his +father, the deuce is in it if he can’t make his way. What time’s the +breakfast? Eh, but it was a comfort this morning not to hear the +holystoning on the deck. We ought to go into lodgings, and not fling +our money out of the window of this hotel. We must make the young chap +take us about and show us the town in the morning, Tom. I had but three +days of it five-and-twenty years ago, and I propose to reshoome my +observations to-morrow after breakfast. We’ll just go on deck and see +how’s her head before we turn in, eh, Colonel?” and with this the jolly +gentleman nodded over his candle to his friend, and trotted off to bed. + +The Colonel and his friend were light sleepers and early risers, like +most men that come from the country where they had both been so long +sojourning, and were awake and dressed long before the London waiters +had thought of quitting their beds. The housemaid was the only being +stirring in the morning when little Mr. Binnie blundered over her pail +as she was washing the deck. Early as he was, his fellow-traveller had +preceded him. Binnie found the Colonel in his sitting-room arrayed in +what are called in Scotland his stocking-feet, already puffing the +cigar, which in truth was seldom out of his mouth at any hour of the +day. + +He had a couple of bedrooms adjacent to this sitting-room, and when +Binnie, as brisk and rosy about the gills as chanticleer, broke out in +a morning salutation, “Hush,” says the Colonel, putting a long finger +up to his mouth, and advancing towards him as noiselessly as a ghost. + +“What’s in the wind now?” asks the little Scot; “and what for have ye +not got your shoes on?” + +“Clive’s asleep,” says the Colonel, with a countenance full of extreme +anxiety. + +“The darling boy slumbers, does he?” said the wag; “mayn’t I just step +in and look at his beautiful countenance whilst he’s asleep, Colonel?” + +“You may if you take off those confounded creaking shoes,” the other +answered, quite gravely; and Binnie turned away to hide his jolly round +face, which was screwed up with laughter. + +“Have ye been breathing a prayer over your rosy infant’s slumbers, +Tom?” asks Mr. Binnie. + +“And if I have, James Binnie,” the Colonel said gravely, and his sallow +face blushing somewhat, “if I have, I hope I’ve done no harm. The last +time I saw him asleep was nine years ago, a sickly little pale-faced +boy in his little cot, and now, sir, that I see him again, strong and +handsome, and all that a fond father can wish to see a boy, I should be +an ungrateful villain, James, if I didn’t—if I didn’t do what you said +just now, and thank God Almighty for restoring him to me.” + +Binnie did not laugh any more. “By George, Tom Newcome,” said he, +“you’re just one of the saints of the earth. If all men were like you +there’d be an end of both our trades; there would be no fighting and no +soldiering, no rogues and no magistrates to catch them.” The Colonel +wondered at his friend’s enthusiasm, who was not used to be +complimentary; indeed what so usual with him as that simple act of +gratitude and devotion about which his comrade spoke to him? To ask a +blessing for his boy was as natural to him as to wake with the sunrise, +or to go to rest when the day was over. His first and his last thought +was always the child. + +The two gentlemen were home in time enough to find Clive dressed, and +his uncle arrived for breakfast. The Colonel said a grace over that +meal: the life was begun which he had longed and prayed for, and the +son smiling before his eyes who had been in his thoughts for so many +fond years. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. +Miss Honeyman’s + + +In Steyne Gardens, Brighton, the lodging-houses are among the most +frequented in that city of lodging-houses. These mansions have +bow-windows in front, bulging out with gentle prominences, and +ornamented with neat verandahs, from which you can behold the tide of +humankind as it flows up and down the Steyne, and that blue ocean over +which Britannia is said to rule, stretching brightly away eastward and +westward. The chain-pier, as every body knows, runs intrepidly into the +sea, which sometimes, in fine weather, bathes its feet with laughing +wavelets, and anon, on stormy days, dashes over its sides with roaring +foam. Here, for the sum of twopence, you can go out to sea and pace +this vast deck without need of a steward with a basin. You can watch +the sun setting in splendour over Worthing, or illuminating with its +rising glories the ups and downs of Rottingdean. You see the citizen +with his family inveigled into the shallops of the mercenary native +mariner, and fancy that the motion cannot be pleasant; and how the +hirer of the boat, _otium et oppidi laudat rura sui_, haply sighs for +ease, and prefers Richmond or Hampstead. You behold a hundred +bathing-machines put to sea; and your naughty fancy depicts the +beauties splashing under their white awnings. Along the rippled sands +(stay, are they rippled sands or shingly beach?) the prawn-boy seeks +the delicious material of your breakfast. Breakfast-meal in London +almost unknown, greedily devoured in Brighton! In yon vessels now +nearing the shore the sleepless mariner has ventured forth to seize the +delicate whiting, the greedy and foolish mackerel, and the homely sole. +Hark to the twanging horn! it is the early coach going out to London. +Your eye follows it, and rests on the pinnacles built by the beloved +GEORGE. See the worn-out London roué pacing the pier, inhaling the sea +air, and casting furtive glances under the bonnets of the pretty girls +who trot here before lessons! Mark the bilious lawyer, escaped for a +day from Pump Court, and sniffing the fresh breezes before he goes back +to breakfast and a bag full of briefs at the Albion! See that pretty +string of prattling schoolgirls, from the chubby-cheeked, flaxen-headed +little maiden just toddling by the side of the second teacher, to the +arch damsel of fifteen, giggling and conscious of her beauty, whom Miss +Griffin, the stern head-governess, awfully reproves! See Tomkins with a +telescope and marine jacket; young Nathan and young Abrams, already +bedizened in jewellery, and rivalling the sun in oriental splendour; +yonder poor invalid crawling along in her chair; yonder jolly fat lady +examining the Brighton pebbles (I actually once saw a lady buy one), +and her children wondering at the sticking-plaister portraits with gold +hair, and gold stocks, and prodigious high-heeled boots, miracles of +art, and cheap at seven-and-sixpence! It is the fashion to run down +George IV., but what myriads of Londoners ought to thank him for +inventing Brighton! One of the best of physicians our city has ever +known, is kind, cheerful, merry Doctor Brighton. Hail, thou purveyor of +shrimps and honest prescriber of Southdown mutton! There is no mutton +so good as Brighton mutton; no flys so pleasant as Brighton flys; nor +any cliff so pleasant to ride on; no shops so beautiful to look at as +the Brighton gimcrack shops, and the fruit shops, and the market. I +fancy myself in Mrs. Honeyman’s lodgings in Steyne Gardens, and in +enjoyment of all these things. + +If the gracious reader has had losses in life, losses not so bad as to +cause absolute want, or inflict upon him or her the bodily injury of +starvation, let him confess that the evils of this poverty are by no +means so great as his timorous fancy depicted. Say your money has been +invested in West Diddlesex bonds, or other luckless speculations—the +news of the smash comes; you pay your outlying bills with the balance +at the banker’s; you assemble your family and make them a fine speech; +the wife of your bosom goes round and embraces the sons and daughters +_seriatim;_ nestling in your own waistcoat finally, in possession of +which, she says (with tender tears and fond quotations from Holy Writ, +God bless her!), and of the darlings round about, lies all _her_ +worldly treasure: the weeping servants are dismissed, their wages paid +in full, and with a present of prayer- and hymn-books from their +mistress; your elegant house in Harley Street is to let, and you +subside into lodgings in Pentonville, or Kensington, or Brompton. How +unlike the mansion where you paid taxes and distributed elegant +hospitality for so many years! + +You subside into lodgings, I say, and you find yourself very tolerably +comfortable. I am not sure that in her heart your wife is not happier +than in what she calls her happy days. She will be somebody hereafter: +she was nobody in Harley Street: that is, everybody else in her +visiting-book, take the names all round, was as good as she. They had +the very same entrees, plated ware, men to wait, etc., at all the +houses where you visited in the street. Your candlesticks might be +handsomer (and indeed they had a very fine effect upon the +dinner-table), but then Mr. Jones’s silver (or electro-plated) dishes +were much finer. You had more carriages at your door on the evening of +your delightful soirées than Mrs. Brown (there is no phrase more +elegant, and to my taste, than that in which people are described as +“seeing a great deal of carriage company”); but yet Mrs. Brown, from +the circumstance of her being a baronet’s niece, took precedence of +your dear wife at most tables. Hence the latter charming woman’s scorn +at the British baronetcy, and her many jokes at the order. In a word, +and in the height of your social prosperity, there was always a lurking +dissatisfaction, and a something bitter, in the midst of the fountain +of delights at which you were permitted to drink. + +There is no good (unless your taste is that way) in living in a society +where you are merely the equal of everybody else. Many people give +themselves extreme pains to frequent company where all around them are +their superiors, and where, do what you will, you must be subject to +continual mortification—(as, for instance, when Marchioness X. forgets +you, and you can’t help thinking that she cuts you on purpose; when +Duchess Z. passes by in her diamonds, etc.). The true pleasure of life +is to live with your inferiors. Be the cock of your village; the queen +of your coterie; and, besides very great persons, the people whom Fate +has specially endowed with this kindly consolation are those who have +seen what are called better days—those who have had losses. I am like +Cæsar, and of a noble mind: if I cannot be first in Piccadilly, let me +try Hatton Garden, and see whether I cannot lead the ton there. If I +cannot take the lead at White’s or the Travellers’, let me be president +of the Jolly Bandboys at the Bag of Nails, and blackball everybody who +does not pay me honour. If my darling Bessy cannot go out of a +drawing-room until a baronet’s niece (ha! ha! a baronet’s niece, +forsooth!) has walked before her, let us frequent company where we +shall be the first; and how can we be the first unless we select our +inferiors for our associates? This kind of pleasure is to be had by +almost everybody, and at scarce any cost. With a shilling’s-worth of +tea and muffins you can get as much adulation and respect as many +people cannot purchase with a thousand pounds’ worth of plate and +profusion, hired footmen, turning their houses topsy-turvy, and suppers +from Gunter’s. Adulation!—why, the people who come to you give as good +parties as you do. Respect!—the very menials, who wait behind your +supper-table, waited at a duke’s yesterday, and actually patronise you! +O you silly spendthrift! you can buy flattery for twopence, and you +spend ever so much money in entertaining your equals and betters, and +nobody admires you! + +Now Aunt Honeyman was a woman of a thousand virtues; cheerful, frugal, +honest, laborious, charitable, good-humoured, truth-telling, devoted to +her family, capable of any sacrifice for those she loved; and when she +came to have losses of money, Fortune straightway compensated her by +many kindnesses which no income can supply. The good old lady admired +the word gentlewoman of all others in the English vocabulary, and made +all around her feel that such was her rank. Her mother’s father was a +naval captain; her father had taken pupils, got a living, sent his son +to college, dined with the squire, published his volume of sermons, was +liked in his parish, where Miss Honeyman kept house for him, was +respected for his kindness and famous for his port wine; and so died, +leaving about two hundred pounds a year to his two children, nothing to +Clive Newcome’s mother who had displeased him by her first marriage (an +elopement with Ensign Casey) and subsequent light courses. Charles +Honeyman spent his money elegantly in wine-parties at Oxford, and +afterwards in foreign travel;—spent his money and as much of Miss +Honeyman’s as that worthy soul would give him. She was a woman of +spirit and resolution. She brought her furniture to Brighton (believing +that the whole place still fondly remembered her grandfather, Captain +Nokes, who had resided there and his gallantry in Lord Rodney’s action +with the Count de Grasse), took a house, and let the upper floors to +lodgers. + +The little brisk old lady brought a maid-servant out of the country +with her, who was daughter to her father’s clerk, and had learned her +letters and worked her first sampler under Miss Honeyman’s own eye, +whom she adored all through her life. No Indian begum rolling in +wealth, no countess mistress of castles and townhouses, ever had such a +faithful toady as Hannah Hicks was to her mistress. Under Hannah was a +young lady from the workhouse, who called Hannah “Mrs. Hicks, mum,” and +who bowed in awe as much before that domestic as Hannah did before Miss +Honeyman. At five o’clock in summer, at seven in winter (for Miss +Honeyman, a good economist, was chary of candlelight), Hannah woke up +little Sally, and these three women rose. I leave you to imagine what a +row there was in the establishment if Sally appeared with flowers under +her bonnet, gave signs of levity or insubordination, prolonged her +absence when sent forth for the beer, or was discovered in flirtation +with the baker’s boy or the grocer’s young man. Sally was frequently +renewed. Miss Honeyman called all her young persons Sally; and a great +number of Sallies were consumed in her house. The qualities of the +Sally for the time-being formed a constant and delightful subject of +conversation between Hannah and her mistress. The few friends who +visited Miss Honeyman in her back-parlour had _their_ Sallies, in +discussing whose peculiarities of disposition these good ladies passed +the hours agreeably over their tea. + +Many persons who let lodgings in Brighton have been servants +themselves—are retired housekeepers, tradesfolk, and the like. With +these surrounding individuals Hannah treated on a footing of equality, +bringing to her mistress accounts of their various goings on; “how No. +6 was let; how No. 9 had not paid his rent again; how the first floor +at 27 had game almost every day, and made-dishes from Mutton’s; how the +family who had taken Mrs. Bugsby’s had left as usual after the very +first night, the poor little infant blistered all over with bites on +its little dear face; how the Miss Learys was going on shameful with +the two young men, actially in their setting-room, mum, where one of +them offered Miss Laura Leary a cigar; how Mrs. Cribb _still_ went +cuttin’ pounds and pounds of meat off the lodgers’ jints, emptying +their tea-caddies, actially reading their letters. Sally had been told +so by Polly the Cribb’s maid, who was kep, how that poor child was kep, +hearing language perfectly hawful!” These tales and anecdotes, not +altogether redounding to their neighbours’ credit, Hannah copiously +collected and brought to her mistress’s tea-table, or served at her +frugal little supper when Miss Honeyman, the labours of the day over, +partook of that cheerful meal. I need not say that such horrors as +occurred at Mrs. Bugsby’s never befell in Mrs. Honeyman’s +establishment. Every room was fiercely swept and sprinkled, and watched +by cunning eyes which nothing could escape; curtains were taken down, +mattresses explored, every bone in bed dislocated and washed as soon as +a lodger took his departure. And as for cribbing meat or sugar, Sally +might occasionally abstract a lump or two, or pop a veal-cutlet into +her mouth while bringing the dishes downstairs:—Sallies would—giddy +creatures bred in workhouses; but Hannah might be entrusted with untold +gold and uncorked brandy; and Miss Honeyman would as soon think of +cutting a slice off Hannah’s nose and devouring it, as of poaching on +her lodgers’ mutton. The best mutton-broth, the best veal-cutlets, the +best necks of mutton and French beans, the best fried fish and plumpest +partridges, in all Brighton, were to be had at Miss Honeyman’s—and for +her favourites the best Indian curry and rice, coming from a +distinguished relative, at present an officer in Bengal. But very few +were admitted to this mark of Miss Honeyman’s confidence. If a family +did not go to church they were not in favour: if they went to a +Dissenting meeting she had no opinion of them at all. Once there came +to her house a quiet Staffordshire family who ate no meat on Fridays, +and whom Miss Honeyman pitied as belonging to the Romish superstition; +but when they were visited by two corpulent gentlemen in black, one of +whom wore a purple underwaistcoat, before whom the Staffordshire lady +absolutely sank down on her knees as he went into the +drawing-room,—Miss Honeyman sternly gave warning to these idolaters. +She would have no Jesuits in her premises. She showed Hannah the +picture in Howell’s Medulla of the martyrs burning at Smithfield: who +said, “Lord bless you, mum,” and hoped it was a long time ago. She +called on the curate: and many and many a time, for years after, +pointed out to her friends, and sometimes to her lodgers, the spot on +the carpet where the poor benighted creature had knelt down. So she +went on, respected by all her friends, by all her tradesmen, by herself +not a little, talking of her previous “misfortunes” with amusing +equanimity; as if her father’s parsonage-house had been a palace of +splendour, and the one-horse chaise (with the lamps for evenings) from +which she had descended, a noble equipage. “But I know it is for the +best, Clive,” she would say to her nephew in describing those +grandeurs, “and, thank heaven, can be resigned in that station in life +to which it has pleased God to call me.” + +The good lady was called the Duchess by her fellow-tradesfolk in the +square in which she lived. (I don’t know what would have come to her +had she been told she was a tradeswoman!) Her butchers, bakers, and +market-people paid her as much respect as though she had been a +grandee’s housekeeper out of Kemp Town. Knowing her station, she yet +was kind to those inferior beings. She held affable conversations with +them, she patronised Mr. Rogers, who was said to be worth a hundred +thousand—two-hundred-thousand pounds (or lbs. was it?), and who said, +“Law bless the old Duchess, she do make as much of a pound of veal +cutlet as some would of a score of bullocks, but you see she’s a lady +born and a lady bred: she’d die before she’d owe a farden, and she’s +seen better days, you know.” She went to see the grocer’s wife on an +interesting occasion, and won the heart of the family by tasting their +candle. Her fishmonger (it was fine to hear her talk of “my +fishmonger”) would sell her a whiting as respectfully as if she had +called for a dozen turbots and lobsters. It was believed by those good +folks that her father had been a Bishop at the very least; and the +better days which she had known were supposed to signify some almost +unearthly prosperity. “I have always found, Hannah,” the simple soul +would say, “that people know their place, or can be very very easily +made to find it if they lose it; and if a gentlewoman does not forget +herself, her inferiors will not forget that she is a gentlewoman.” “No +indeed, mum, and I’m sure they would do no such thing, mum,” says +Hannah, who carries away the teapot for her own breakfast (to be +transmitted to Sally for her subsequent refection), whilst her mistress +washes her cup and saucer, as her mother had washed her own china many +scores of years ago. + +If some of the surrounding lodging-house keepers, as I have no doubt +they did, disliked the little Duchess for the airs which she gave +herself, as they averred; they must have envied her too her superior +prosperity, for there was scarcely ever a card in her window, whilst +those ensigns in her neighbours’ houses would remain exposed to the +flies and the weather, and disregarded by passers-by for months +together. She had many regular customers, or what should be rather +called constant friends. Deaf old Mr. Cricklade came every winter for +fourteen years, and stopped until the hunting was over; an invaluable +man, giving little trouble, passing all day on horseback, and all night +over his rubber at the club. The Misses Barkham, Barkhambury, Tunbridge +Wells, whose father had been at college with Mr. Honeyman, came +regularly in June for sea air, letting Barkhambury for the summer +season. Then, for many years, she had her nephew, as we have seen; and +kind recommendations from the clergymen of Brighton, and a constant +friend in the celebrated Dr. Goodenough of London, who had been her +father’s private pupil, and of his college afterwards, who sent his +patients from time to time down to her, and his fellow-physician, Dr. +H——, who on his part would never take any fee from Miss Honeyman, +except a packet of India curry-powder, a ham cured as she only knew how +to cure them, and once a year, or so, a dish of her tea. + +“Was there ever such luck as that confounded old Duchess’s?” says Mr. +Gawler, coal-merchant and lodging-house keeper, next door but two, +whose apartments were more odious in some respects than Mrs. Bugsby’s +own. “Was there ever such devil’s own luck, Mrs. G.? It’s only a +fortnight ago as I read in the _Sussex Advertiser_ the death of Miss +Barkham, of Barkhambury, Tunbridge Wells, and thinks I, there’s a spoke +in your wheel, you stuck-up little old Duchess, with your cussed airs +and impudence. And she ain’t put her card up three days; and look yere, +yere’s two carriages, two maids, three children, one of them wrapped up +in a Hinjar shawl—man hout a livery,—looks like a foring cove I +think—lady in satin pelisse, and of course they go to the Duchess, be +hanged to her! Of course it’s our luck, nothing ever was like our luck. +I’m blowed if I don’t put a pistol to my ’ead, and end it, Mrs. G. +There they go in—three, four, six, seven on ’em, and the man. That’s +the precious child’s physic I suppose he’s a-carryin’ in the basket. +Just look at the luggage. I say! There’s a bloody hand on the first +carriage. It’s a baronet, is it? I ’ope your ladyship’s very well; and +I ’ope Sir John will soon be down yere to join his family.” Mr. Gawler +makes sarcastic bows over the card in his bow-window whilst making this +speech. The little Gawlers rush on to the drawing-room verandah +themselves to examine the new arrivals. + +“This is Mrs. Honeyman’s?” asks the gentleman designated by Mr. Gawler +as “the foring cove,” and hands in a card on which the words, “Miss +Honeyman, 110, Steyne Gardens. J. Goodenough,” are written in that +celebrated physician’s handwriting. “We want five bet-rooms, six bets, +two or dree sitting-rooms. Have you got dese?” + +“Will you speak to my mistress?” says Hannah. And if it is a fact that +Miss Honeyman does happen to be in the front parlour looking at the +carriages, what harm is there in the circumstance, pray? Is not Gawler +looking, and the people next door? Are not half a dozen little boys +already gathered in the street (as if they started up out of the +trap-doors for the coals), and the nursery maids in the stunted little +garden, are not they looking through the bars of the square? “Please to +speak to mistress,” says Hannah, opening the parlour-door, and with a +curtsey, “A gentleman about the apartments, mum.” + +“Five bet-rooms,” says the man, entering. “Six bets, two or dree +sitting-rooms? We gome from Dr. Goodenough.” + +“Are the apartments for you, sir?” says the little Duchess, looking up +at the large gentleman. + +“For my lady,” answers the man. + +“Had you not better take off your hat?” asks the Duchess, pointing out +of one of her little mittens to “the foring cove’s” beaver, which he +has neglected to remove. + +The man grins, and takes off the hat. “I beck your bardon, ma’am,” says +he. “Have you fife bet-rooms?” etc. The doctor has cured the German of +an illness, as well as his employers, and especially recommended Miss +Honeyman to Mr. Kuhn. + +“I have such a number of apartments. My servant will show them to you.” +And she walks back with great state to her chair by the window, and +resumes her station and work there. + +Mr. Kuhn reports to his mistress, who descends to inspect the +apartments, accompanied through them by Hannah. The rooms are +pronounced to be exceedingly neat and pleasant, and exactly what are +wanted for the family. The baggage is forthwith ordered to be brought +from the carriages. The little invalid wrapped in his shawl is brought +upstairs by the affectionate Mr. Kuhn, who carries him as gently as if +he had been bred all his life to nurse babies. The smiling Sally (the +Sally for the time-being happens to be a very fresh pink-cheeked pretty +little Sally) emerges from the kitchen and introduces the young ladies, +the governess, the maids, to their apartments. The eldest, a slim +black-haired young lass of thirteen, frisks about the rooms, looks at +all the pictures, runs in and out of the verandah, tries the piano, and +bursts out laughing at its wheezy jingle (it had been poor Emma’s +piano, bought for her on her seventeenth birthday, three weeks before +she ran away with the ensign; her music is still in the stand by it: +the Rev. Charles Honeyman has warbled sacred melodies over it, and Miss +Honeyman considers it a delightful instrument), kisses her languid +little brother laid on the sofa, and performs a hundred gay and agile +motions suited to her age. + +“Oh, what a piano! Why, it is as cracked as Miss Quigley’s voice!” + +“My dear!” says mamma. The little languid boy bursts out into a jolly +laugh. + +“What funny pictures, mamma! Action with Count de Grasse; the death of +General Wolfe; a portrait of an officer, an old officer in blue, like +grandpapa; Brazen Nose College, Oxford: what a funny name!” + +At the idea of Brazen Nose College, another laugh comes from the +invalid. “I suppose they’ve all got _brass noses_ there,” he says; and +explodes at this joke. The poor little laugh ends in a cough, and +mamma’s travelling-basket, which contains everything, produces a bottle +of syrup, labelled “Master A. Newcome. A teaspoonful to be taken when +the cough is troublesome.” + +“‘Oh, the delightful sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever free,’” sings +the young lady, with a shake. (I suppose the maritime song from which +she quoted was just written at this time.) “How much better this is +than going home and seeing those horrid factories and chimneys! I love +Doctor Goodenough for sending us here. What a sweet house it is! +Everybody is happy in it, even Miss Quigley is happy, mamma. What nice +rooms! What pretty chintz! What a—oh, what a—comfortable sofa!” and she +falls down on the sofa, which, truth to say, was the Rev. Charles +Honeyman’s luxurious sofa from Oxford, presented to him by young Cibber +Wright of Christchurch, when that gentleman-commoner was eliminated +from the University. + +“The person of the house,” mamma says, “hardly comes up to Dr. +Goodenough’s description of her. He says he remembers her a pretty +little woman when her father was his private tutor.” + +“She has grown very much since,” says the girl. And an explosion takes +place from the sofa, where the little man is always ready to laugh at +any joke, or anything like a joke, uttered by himself or by any of his +family or friends. As for Doctor Goodenough, he says laughing has saved +that boy’s life. + +“She looks quite like a maid,” continues the lady. “She has hard hands, +and she called me mum always. I was quite disappointed in her.” And she +subsides into a novel, with many of which kind of works, and with other +volumes, and with workboxes, and with wonderful inkstands, portfolios, +portable days of the month, scent-bottles, scissor-cases, gilt +miniature easels displaying portraits, and countless gimcracks of +travel, the rapid Kuhn has covered the tables in the twinkling of an +eye. + +The person supposed to be the landlady enters the room at this +juncture, and the lady rises to receive her. The little wag on the sofa +puts his arm round his sister’s neck, and whispers, “I say, Eth, isn’t +she a pretty girl? I shall write to Doctor Goodenough and tell him how +much she’s grown.” Convulsions follow this sally, to the surprise of +Hannah, who says, “Pooty little dear!—what time will he have his +dinner, mum?” + +“Thank you, Mrs. Honeyman, at two o’clock,” says the lady with a bow of +her head. “There is a clergyman of your name in London; is he a +relation?” The lady in her turn is astonished, for the tall person +breaks out into a grin, and says, “Law, mum, you’re speakin’ of Master +Charles. He’s in London.” + +“Indeed!—of Master Charles?” + +“And you take me for missis, mum. I beg your pardon, mum,” cries +Hannah. The invalid hits his sister in the side with a weak little +fist. If laughter can cure, _Salva est res_. Doctor Goodenough’s +patient is safe. “Master Charles is missis’s brother, mum. I’ve got no +brother, mum—never had no brother. Only one son, who’s in the police, +mum, thank you. And law bless me, I was going to forget! If you please, +mum, missis says, if you are quite rested, she will pay her duty to +you, mum.” + +“Oh, indeed,” says the lady, rather stiffly; and, taking this for an +acceptance of her mistress’s visit, Hannah retires. + +“This Miss Honeyman seems to be a great personage,” says the lady. “If +people let lodgings, why do they give themselves such airs?” + +“We never saw Monsieur de Boigne at Boulogne, mamma,” interposes the +girl. + +“Monsieur de Boigne, my dear Ethel! Monsieur de Boigne is very well. +But—” here the door opens, and in a large cap bristling with ribbons, +with her best chestnut front, and her best black silk gown, on which +her gold watch shines very splendidly, little Miss Honeyman makes her +appearance, and a dignified curtsey to her lodger. + +That lady vouchsafes a very slight inclination of the head indeed, +which she repeats when Miss Honeyman says, “I am glad to hear your +ladyship is pleased with the apartments.” + +“Yes, they will do very well, thank you,” answers the latter person, +gravely. + +“And they have such a beautiful view of the sea!” cries Ethel. + +“As if all the houses hadn’t a view of the sea, Ethel! The price has +been arranged, I think? My servants will require a comfortable room to +dine in—by themselves, ma’am, if you please. My governess and the +younger children will dine together. My daughter dines with me—and my +little boy’s dinner will be ready at two o’clock precisely, if you +please. It is now near one.” + +“Am I to understand——” interposed Miss Honeyman. + +“Oh! I have no doubt we shall understand each other, ma’am,” cried Lady +Anne Newcome (whose noble presence the acute reader has no doubt ere +this divined and saluted). “Doctor Goodenough has given me a most +satisfactory account of you—more satisfactory perhaps than—than you are +aware of.” Perhaps Lady Anne’s sentence was not going to end in a very +satisfactory way for Miss Honeyman; but, awed by a peculiar look of +resolution in the little lady, her lodger of an hour paused in whatever +offensive remark she might have been about to make. “It is as well that +I at last have the pleasure of seeing you, that I may state what I +want, and that we may, as you say, understand each other. Breakfast and +tea, if you please, will be served in the same manner as dinner. And +you will have the kindness to order fresh milk every morning for my +little boy—ass’s milk—Doctor Goodenough has ordered ass’s milk. +Anything further I want I will communicate through the person who spoke +to you—Kuhn, Mr. Kuhn; and that will do.” + +A heavy shower of rain was descending at this moment, and little Mrs. +Honeyman looking at her lodger, who had sate down and taken up her +book, said, “Have your ladyship’s servants unpacked your trunks?” + +“What on earth, madam, have you—has that to do with the question?” + +“They will be put to the trouble of packing again, I fear. I cannot +provide—three times five are fifteen—fifteen separate meals for seven +persons—besides those of my own family. If your servants cannot eat +with mine, or in my kitchen, they and their mistress must go elsewhere. +And the sooner the better, madam, the sooner the better!” says Mrs. +Honeyman, trembling with indignation, and sitting down in a chair +spreading her silks. + +“Do you know who I am?” asks Lady Anne, rising. + +“Perfectly well, madam,” says the other. “And had I known, you should +never have come into my house, that’s more.” + +“Madam!” cries the lady, on which the poor little invalid, scared and +nervous, and hungry for his dinner, began to cry from his sofa. + +“It will be a pity that the dear little boy should be disturbed. Dear +little child, I have often heard of him, and of you, miss,” says the +little householder, rising. “I will get you some dinner, my dear, for +Clive’s sake. And meanwhile your ladyship will have the kindness to +seek for some other apartments—for not a bit shall my fire cook for any +one else of your company.” And with this the indignant little landlady +sailed out of the room. + +“Gracious goodness! Who is the woman?” cries Lady Anne. “I never was so +insulted in my life.” + +“Oh, mamma, it was you began!” says downright Ethel. “That is—Hush, +Alfred dear!—Hush, my darling!” + +“Oh, it was mamma began! I’m so hungry! I’m so hungry!” howled the +little man on the sofa—or off it rather—for he was now down on the +ground, kicking away the shawls which enveloped him. + +“What is it, my boy? What is it, my blessed darling? You _shall_ have +your dinner! Give her all, Ethel. There are the keys of my desk—there’s +my watch—there are my rings. Let her take my all. The monster! the +child must live! It can’t go away in such a storm as this. Give me a +cloak, a parasol, anything—I’ll go forth and get a lodging. I’ll beg my +bread from house to house—if this fiend refuses me. Eat the biscuits, +dear! A little of the syrup, Alfred darling; it’s very nice, love! and +come to your old mother—your poor old mother.” + +Alfred roared out, “No—it’s not n-ice: it’s n-a-a-asty! I won’t have +syrup. I _will_ have dinner.” The mother, whose embraces the child +repelled with infantine kicks, plunged madly at the bells, rang them +all four vehemently, and ran downstairs towards the parlour, whence +Miss Honeyman was issuing. + +The good lady had not at first known the names of her lodgers, but had +taken them in willingly enough on Dr. Goodenough’s recommendation. And +it was not until one of the nurses entrusted with the care of Master +Alfred’s dinner informed Miss Honeyman of the name of her guest, that +she knew she was entertaining Lady Anne Newcome; and that the pretty +girl was the fair Miss Ethel; the little sick boy, the little Alfred of +whom his cousin spoke, and of whom Clive had made a hundred little +drawings in his rude way, as he drew everybody. Then bidding Sally run +off to St. James’s Street for a chicken—she saw it put on the spit, and +prepared a bread sauce, and composed a batter-pudding as she only knew +how to make batter-puddings. Then she went to array herself in her best +clothes, as we have seen,—as we have heard rather (Goodness forbid that +we should see Miss Honeyman arraying herself, or penetrate that chaste +mystery, her toilette!)—then she came to wait upon Lady Anne, not a +little flurried as to the result of that queer interview; then she +whisked out of the drawing-room as before has been shown; and, finding +the chicken roasted to a turn, the napkin and tray ready spread by +Hannah the neat-handed, she was bearing them up to the little patient +when the frantic parent met her on the stair. + +“Is it—is it for my child?” cried Lady Anne, reeling against the +bannister. + +“Yes, it’s for the child,” says Miss Honeyman, tossing up her head. +“But nobody else has anything in the house.” + +“God bless you—God bless you! A mother’s bl-l-essings go with you,” +gurgled the lady, who was not, it must be confessed, a woman of strong +moral character. + +It was good to see the little man eating the fowl. Ethel, who had never +cut anything in her young existence, except her fingers now and then +with her brother’s and her governess’s penknives, bethought her of +asking Miss Honeyman to carve the chicken. Lady Anne, with clasped +hands and streaming eyes, sate looking on at the ravishing scene. + +“Why did you not let us know you were Clive’s aunt?” Ethel asked, +putting out her hand. The old lady took hers very kindly, and said, +“Because you didn’t give me time. And do you love Clive, my dear?” + +The reconciliation between Miss Honeyman and her lodger was perfect. +Lady Anne wrote a quire of notepaper off to Sir Brian for that day’s +post—only she was too late, as she always was. Mr. Kuhn perfectly +delighted Miss Honeyman that evening by his droll sayings, jokes, and +pronunciation, and by his praises of Master Glife, as he called him. He +lived out of the house, did everything for everybody, was never out of +the way when wanted, and never in the way when not wanted. Ere long +Miss Honeyman got out a bottle of the famous Madeira which her Colonel +sent her, and treated him to a glass in her own room. Kuhn smacked his +lips and held out the glass again. The honest rogue knew good wine. + + + + +CHAPTER X. +Ethel and her Relations + + +For four-and-twenty successive hours Lady Anne Newcome was perfectly in +raptures with her new lodgings, and every person and thing which they +contained. The drawing-rooms were fitted with the greatest taste; the +dinner was exquisite. Were there ever such delicious veal-cutlets, such +verdant French beans? “Why do we have those odious French cooks, my +dear, with their shocking principles—the principles of all Frenchmen +are shocking—and the dreadful bills they bring us in; and their +consequential airs and graces? I am determined to part with Brignol. I +have written to your father this evening to give Brignol warning. When +did he ever give us veal-cutlets? What can be nicer?” + +“Indeed they were very good,” said Miss Ethel, who had mutton five +times a week at one o’clock. “I am so glad you like the house, and +Clive, and Mrs. Honeyman.” + +“Like her! the dear little old woman. I feel as if she had been my +friend all my life! I feel quite drawn towards her. What a wonderful +coincidence that Dr. Goodenough should direct us to this very house! I +have written to your father about it. And to think that I should have +written to Clive at this very house, and quite forgotten Mrs. +Honeyman’s name—and such an odd name too. I forget everything, +everything! You know I forgot your Aunt Louisa’s husband’s name; and +when I was godmother to her baby, and the clergyman said, ‘What is the +infant’s name?’ I said, ‘Really I forget.’ And so I did. He was a +London clergyman, but I forget at what church. Suppose it should be +this very Mr. Honeyman! It may have been, you know, and then the +coincidence would be still more droll. That tall, old, nice-looking, +respectable person, with a mark on her nose, the housekeeper—what is +her name?—seems a most invaluable person. I think I shall ask her to +come to us. I am sure she would save me I don’t know how much money +every week; and I am certain Mrs. Trotter is making a fortune by us. I +shall write to your papa, and ask him permission to ask this person.” +Ethel’s mother was constantly falling in love with her new +acquaintances; their man-servants and their maid-servants, their horses +and ponies, and the visitor within their gates. She would ask strangers +to Newcome, hug and embrace them on Sunday; not speak to them on +Monday; and on Tuesday behave so rudely to them, that they were gone +before Wednesday. Her daughter had had so many governesses—all darlings +during the first week, and monsters afterwards—that the poor child +possessed none of the accomplishments of her age. She could not play on +the piano; she could not speak French well; she could not tell you when +gunpowder was invented: she had not the faintest idea of the date of +the Norman Conquest, or whether the earth went round the sun, or vice +versa. She did not know the number of counties in England, Scotland, +and Wales, let alone Ireland; she did not know the difference between +latitude and longitude. She had had so many governesses: their accounts +differed: poor Ethel was bewildered by a multiplicity of teachers, and +thought herself a monster of ignorance. They gave her a book at a +Sunday School, and little girls of eight years old answered questions +of which she knew nothing. The place swam before her. She could not see +the sun shining on their fair flaxen heads and pretty faces. The rosy +little children holding up their eager hands, and crying the answer to +this question and that, seemed mocking her. She seemed to read in the +book, “O Ethel, you dunce, dunce, dunce!” She went home silent in the +carriage, and burst into bitter tears on her bed. Naturally a haughty +girl of the highest spirit, resolute and imperious, this little visit +to the parish school taught Ethel lessons more valuable than ever so +much arithmetic and geography. Clive has told me a story of her in her +youth, which, perhaps, may apply to some others of the youthful female +aristocracy. She used to walk, with other select young ladies and +gentlemen, their nurses and governesses, in a certain reserved plot of +ground railed off from Hyde Park, whereof some of the lucky dwellers in +the neighbourhood of Apsley House have a key. In this garden, at the +age of nine or thereabout, she had contracted an intimate friendship +with the Lord Hercules O’Ryan.—as every one of my gentle readers knows, +one of the sons of the Marquis of Ballyshannon. The Lord Hercules was a +year younger than Miss Ethel Newcome, which may account for the passion +which grew up between these young persons; it being a provision in +nature that a boy always falls in love with a girl older than himself, +or rather, perhaps, that a girl bestows her affections on a little boy, +who submits to receive them. + +One day Sir Brian Newcome announced his intention to go to Newcome that +very morning, taking his family, and of course Ethel, with him. She was +inconsolable. “What will Lord Hercules do when he finds I am gone?” she +asked of her nurse. + +The nurse endeavouring to soothe her, said, “Perhaps his lordship would +know nothing about the circumstance.” “He will,” said Miss +Ethel—“_he’ll read it in the newspaper_.” My Lord Hercules, it is to be +hoped, strangled this infant passion in the cradle; having long since +married Isabella, only daughter of ——— Grains, Esq., of Drayton +Windsor, a partner in the great brewery of Foker and Co. + +When Ethel was thirteen years old, she had grown to be such a tall +girl, that she overtopped her companions by a head or more, and morally +perhaps, also, felt herself too tall for their society. “Fancy myself,” +she thought, “dressing a doll like Lily Putland or wearing a pinafore +like Lucy Tucker!” She did not care for their sports. She could not +walk with them: it seemed as if every one stared; nor dance with them +at the academy, nor attend the Cours de Littérature Universelle et de +Science Compréhensive of the professor then the mode—the smallest girls +took her up in the class. She was bewildered by the multitude of things +they bade her learn. At the youthful little assemblies of her sex, +when, under the guide of their respected governesses, the girls came to +tea at six o’clock, dancing, charades, and so forth, Ethel herded not +with the children of her own age, nor yet with the teachers who sit +apart at these assemblies, imparting to each other their little wrongs; +but Ethel romped with the little children—the rosy little trots—and +took them on her knees, and told them a thousand stories. By these she +was adored, and loved like a mother almost, for as such the hearty +kindly girl showed herself to them; but at home she was alone, +_farouche_ and intractable, and did battle with the governesses, and +overcame them one after another. I break the promise of a former page, +and am obliged to describe the youthful days of more than one person +who is to take a share in this story. Not always doth the writer know +whither the divine Muse leadeth him. But of this be sure—she is as +inexorable as Truth. We must tell our tale as she imparts it to us, and +go on or turn aside at her bidding. + +Here she ordains that we should speak of other members of the family, +whose history we chronicle, and it behoves us to say a word regarding +the Earl of Kew, the head of the noble house into which Sir Brian +Newcome had married. + +When we read in the fairy stories that the King and Queen, who lived +once upon a time, build a castle of steel, defended by moats and +sentinels innumerable, in which they place their darling only child, +the Prince or Princess, whose birth has blessed them after so many +years of marriage, and whose christening feast has been interrupted by +the cantankerous humour of that notorious old fairy who always persists +in coming, although she has not received any invitation to the +baptismal ceremony: when Prince Prettyman is locked up in the steel +tower, provided only with the most wholesome food, the most edifying +educational works, and the most venerable old tutor to instruct and to +bore him, we know, as a matter of course, that the steel bolts and +brazen bars one day will be of no avail, the old tutor will go off in a +doze, and the moats and drawbridges will either be passed by His Royal +Highness’s implacable enemies, or crossed by the young scapegrace +himself, who is determined to outwit his guardians, and see the wicked +world. The old King and Queen always come in and find the chambers +empty, the saucy heir-apparent flown, the porter and sentinels drunk, +the ancient tutor asleep; they tear their venerable wigs in anguish, +they kick the major-domo downstairs, they turn the duenna out of +doors—the toothless old dragon! There is no resisting fate. The +Princess will slip out of window by the rope-ladder; the Prince will be +off to pursue his pleasures, and sow his wild oats at the appointed +season. How many of our English princes have been coddled at home by +their fond papas and mammas, walled up in inaccessible castles, with a +tutor and a library, guarded by cordons of sentinels, sermoners, old +aunts, old women from the world without, and have nevertheless escaped +from all these guardians, and astonished the world by their +extravagance and their frolics? What a wild rogue was that Prince +Harry, son of the austere sovereign who robbed Richard the Second of +his crown,—the youth who took purses on Gadshill, frequented Eastcheap +taverns with Colonel Falstaff and worse company, and boxed Chief +Justice Gascoigne’s ears! What must have been the venerable Queen +Charlotte’s state of mind when she heard of the courses of _her_ +beautiful young Prince; of his punting at gambling-tables; of his +dealings with horse-jockeys; of his awful doings with Perdita? Besides +instances taken from our Royal Family, could we not draw examples from +our respected nobility? There was that young Lord Warwick, Mr. +Addison’s stepson. We know that his mother was severe, and his +stepfather a most eloquent moralist, yet the young gentleman’s career +was shocking, positively shocking. He boxed the watch; he fuddled +himself at taverns; he was no better than a Mohock. The chronicles of +that day contain accounts of many a mad prank which he played, as we +have legends of a still earlier date of the lawless freaks of the wild +Prince and Poins. Our people has never looked very unkindly on these +frolics. A young nobleman, full of life and spirits, generous of his +money, jovial in his humour, ready with his sword, frank, handsome, +prodigal, courageous, always finds favour. Young Scapegrace rides a +steeplechase or beats a bargeman, and the crowd applauds him. Sages and +seniors shake their heads, and look at him not unkindly; even stern old +female moralists are disarmed at the sight of youth and gallantry, and +beauty. I know very well that Charles Surface is a sad dog, and Tom +Jones no better than he should be; but, in spite of such critics as Dr. +Johnson and Colonel Newcome, most of us have a sneaking regard for +honest Tom, and hope Sophia will be happy, and Tom will end well at +last. + +Five-and-twenty years ago the young Earl of Kew came upon the town, +which speedily rang with the feats of his lordship. He began life time +enough to enjoy certain pleasures from which our young aristocracy of +the present day seem, alas! to be cut off. So much more peaceable and +polished do we grow, so much does the spirit of the age appear to +equalise all ranks; so strongly has the good sense of society, to which +in the end gentlemen of the very highest fashion must bow, put its veto +upon practices and amusements with which our fathers were familiar. At +that time the Sunday newspapers contained many and many exciting +reports of boxing-matches. Bruising was considered a fine manly old +English custom. Boys at public schools fondly perused histories of the +noble science, from the redoubtable days of Broughton and Slack, to the +heroic times of Dutch Sam and the Game Chicken. Young gentlemen went +eagerly to Moulsey to see the Slasher punch the Pet’s head, or the +Negro beat the Jew’s nose to a jelly. The island rang as yet with the +tooting horns and rattling teams of mail-coaches; a gay sight was the +road in merry England in those days, before steam-engines arose and +flung its hostelry and chivalry over. To travel in coaches, to drive +coaches, to know coachmen and guards, to be familiar with inns along +the road, to laugh with the jolly hostess in the bar, to chuck the +pretty chambermaid under the chin, were the delight of men who were +young not very long ago. Who ever thought of writing to the Times then? +“Biffin,” I warrant, did not grudge his money, and “A Thirsty Soul” +paid cheerfully for his drink. The road was an institution, the ring +was an institution. Men rallied round them; and, not without a kind +conservatism, expatiated upon the benefits with which they endowed the +country, and the evils which would occur when they should be no +more:—decay of English spirit, decay of manly pluck, ruin of the breed +of horses, and so forth, and so forth. To give and take a black eye was +not unusual nor derogatory in a gentleman; to drive a stage-coach the +enjoyment, the emulation of generous youth. Is there any young fellow +of the present time who aspires to take the place of a stoker? You see +occasionally in Hyde Park one dismal old drag with a lonely driver. +Where are you, charioteers? Where are you, O rattling Quicksilver, O +swift Defiance? You are passed by racers stronger and swifter than you. +Your lamps are out, and the music of your horns has died away. + +Just at the ending of that old time, Lord Kew’s life began. That kindly +middle-aged gentleman whom his county knows that good landlord, and +friend of all his tenantry round about; that builder of churches, and +indefatigable visitor of schools; that writer of letters to the farmers +of his shire, so full of sense and benevolence; who wins prizes at +agricultural shows, and even lectures at county town institutes in his +modest, pleasant way, was the wild young Lord Kew of a quarter of a +century back; who kept racehorses, patronised boxers, fought a duel, +thrashed a Life Guardsman, gambled furiously at Crockford’s, and did +who knows what besides? + +His mother, a devout lady, nursed her son and his property carefully +during the young gentleman’s minority: keeping him and his younger +brother away from all mischief, under the eyes of the most careful +pastors and masters. She learnt Latin with the boys, she taught them to +play on the piano: she enraged old Lady Kew, the children’s +grandmother, who prophesied that her daughter-in-law would make +milksops of her sons, to whom the old lady was never reconciled until +after my lord’s entry at Christchurch, where he began to distinguish +himself very soon after his first term. He drove tandems, kept hunters, +gave dinners, scandalised the Dean, screwed up the tutor’s door, and +agonised his mother at home by his lawless proceedings. He quitted the +University after a very brief sojourn at that seat of learning. It may +be the Oxford authorities requested his lordship to retire; let bygones +be bygones. His youthful son, the present Lord Walham, is now at +Christchurch, reading with the greatest assiduity. Let us not be too +particular in narrating his father’s unedifying frolics of a quarter of +a century ago. + +Old Lady Kew, who, in conjunction with Mrs. Newcome, had made the +marriage between Mr. Brian Newcome and her daughter, always despised +her son-in-law; and being a frank, open person, uttering her mind +always, took little pains to conceal her opinion regarding him or any +other individual. “Sir Brian Newcome,” she would say, “is one of the +most stupid and respectable of men; Anne is clever, but has not a grain +of common sense. They make a very well assorted couple. Her flightiness +would have driven any man crazy who had an opinion of his own. She +would have ruined any poor man of her own rank; as it is, I have given +her a husband exactly suited for her. He pays the bills, does not see +how absurd she is, keeps order in the establishment, and checks her +follies. She wanted to marry her cousin, Tom Poyntz, when they were +both very young, and proposed to die of a broken heart when I arranged +her match with Mr. Newcome. A broken fiddlestick! she would have ruined +Tom Poyntz in a year; and has no more idea of the cost of a leg of +mutton, than I have of algebra.” + +The Countess of Kew loved Brighton, and preferred living there even at +the season when Londoners find such especial charms in their own city. +“London after Easter,” the old lady said, “was intolerable. Pleasure +becomes a business, then so oppressive, that all good company is +destroyed by it. Half the men are sick with the feasts which they eat +day after day. The women are thinking of the half-dozen parties they +have to go to in the course of the night. The young girls are thinking +of their partners and their toilettes. Intimacy becomes impossible, and +quiet enjoyment of life. On the other hand, the crowd of _bourgeois_ +has not invaded Brighton. The drive is not blocked up by flys full of +stockbrokers’ wives and children; and you can take the air in your +chair upon the chain-pier, without being stifled by the cigars of the +odious shop-boys from London.” So Lady Kew’s name was usually amongst +the earliest which the Brighton newspapers recorded amongst the +arrivals. + +Her only unmarried daughter, Lady Julia, lived with her ladyship. Poor +Lady Julia had suffered early from a spine disease, which had kept her +for many years to her couch. Being always at home, and under her +mother’s eyes, she was the old lady’s victim, her pincushion, into +which Lady Kew plunged a hundred little points of sarcasm daily. As +children are sometimes brought before magistrates, and their poor +little backs and shoulders laid bare, covered with bruises and lashes +which brutal parents have inflicted, so, I dare say, if there had been +any tribunal or judge, before whom this poor patient lady’s heart could +have been exposed, it would have been found scarred all over with +numberless ancient wounds, and bleeding from yesterday’s castigation. +Old Lady Kew’s tongue was a dreadful thong which made numbers of people +wince. She was not altogether cruel, but she knew the dexterity with +which she wielded her lash, and liked to exercise it. Poor Lady Julia +was always at hand, when her mother was minded to try her powers. + +Lady Kew had just made herself comfortable at Brighton, when her little +grandson’s illness brought Lady Anne Newcome and her family down to the +sea. Lady Kew was almost scared back to London again, or blown over the +water to Dieppe. She had never had the measles. “Why did not Anne carry +the child to some other place? Julia, you will on no account go and see +that little pestiferous swarm of Newcomes, unless you want to send me +out of the world—which I dare say you do, for I am a dreadful plague to +you, I know, and my death would be a release to you.” + +“You see Doctor H., who visits the child every day,” cries poor +Pincushion; “you are not afraid when he comes.” + +“Doctor H.? Doctor H. comes to cure me, or to tell me the news, or to +flatter me, or to feel my pulse and to pretend to prescribe, or to take +his guinea; of course Dr. H. must go to see all sorts of people in all +sorts of diseases. You would not have me be such a brute as to order +him not to attend my own grandson? I forbid you to go to Anne’s house. +You will send one of the men every day to inquire. Let the groom +go—yes, Charles—he will not go into the house. He will ring the bell +and wait outside. He had better ring the bell at the area—I suppose +there is an area—and speak to the servants through the bars, and bring +us word how Alfred is.” Poor Pincushion felt fresh compunctions; she +had met the children, and kissed the baby, and held kind Ethel’s hand +in hers, that day, as she was out in her chair. There was no use, +however, to make this confession. Is she the only good woman or man of +whom domestic tyranny has made a hypocrite? + +Charles, the groom, brings back perfectly favourable reports of Master +Alfred’s health that day, which Doctor H., in the course of his visit, +confirms. The child is getting well rapidly; eating like a little ogre. +His cousin Lord Kew has been to see him. He is the kindest of men, Lord +Kew; he brought the little man Tom and Jerry with the pictures. The boy +is delighted with the pictures. + +“Why has not Kew come to see me? When did he come? Write him a note, +and send for him instantly, Julia. Did you know he was here?” + +Julia says, that she had but that moment read in the Brighton papers +the arrival of the Earl of Kew and the Honourable J. Belsize at the +Albion. + +“I am sure they are here for some mischief,” cries the old lady, +delighted. “Whenever George and John Belsize are together, I know there +is some wickedness planning. What do you know, Doctor? I see by your +face you know something. Do tell it me, that I may write it to his +odious psalm-singing mother.” + +Doctor H.’s face does indeed wear a knowing look. He simpers and says, +“I did see Lord Kew driving this morning, first with the Honourable Mr. +Belsize, and afterwards”—here he glances towards Lady Julia, as if to +say, “Before an unmarried lady, I do not like to tell your ladyship +with whom I saw Lord Kew driving, after he had left the Honourable Mr. +Belsize, who went to play a match with Captain Huxtable at tennis.” + +“Are you afraid to speak before Julia?” cries the elder lady. “Why, +bless my soul, she is forty years old, and has heard everything that +can be heard. Tell me about Kew this instant, Doctor H.” + +The Doctor blandly acknowledges that Lord Kew had been driving Madame +Pozzoprofondo, the famous contralto of the Italian Opera, in his +phaeton, for two hours, in the face of all Brighton. + +“Yes, Doctor,” interposes Lady Julia, blushing; “but Signor +Pozzoprofondo was in the carriage too—a-a-sitting behind with the +groom. He was indeed, mamma.” + +“Julia, _vous n’êtes qu’une bête_,” says Lady Kew, shrugging her +shoulders, and looking at her daughter from under her bushy black +eyebrows. Her ladyship, a sister of the late lamented Marquis of +Steyne, possessed no small share of the wit and intelligence, and a +considerable resemblance to the features, of that distinguished +nobleman. + +Lady Kew bids her daughter take a pen and write:— + +“_Monsieur le Mauvais Sujet_,—Gentlemen who wish to take the sea air in +private, or to avoid their relations, had best go to other places than +Brighton, where their names are printed in the newspapers. If you are +not drowned in a pozzo—” + +“Mamma!” interposes the secretary. + +“—in a pozzo-profondo, you will please come to dine with two old women, +at half-past seven. You may bring Mr. Belsize, and must tell us a +hundred stories.—Yours, etc., L. Kew.” + +Julia wrote all the letter as her mother dictated it, save only one +sentence, and the note was sealed and despatched to my Lord Kew, who +came to dinner with Jack Belsize. Jack Belsize liked to dine with Lady +Kew. He said, “she was an old dear, and the wickedest old woman in all +England;” and he liked to dine with Lady Julia, who was “a poor +suffering dear, and the best woman in all England.” Jack Belsize liked +every one, and every one liked him. + +Two evenings afterwards the young men repeated their visit to Lady Kew, +and this time Lord Kew was loud in praises of his cousins of the house +of Newcome. + +“Not of the eldest, Barnes, surely, my dear?” cries Lady Kew. + +“No, confound him! not Barnes.” + +“No, d—— it, not Barnes. I beg your pardon, Lady Julia,” broke in Jack +Belsize. “I can get on with most men; but that little Barney is too +odious a little snob.” + +“A little what—Mr. Belsize?” + +“A little snob, ma’am. I have no other word, though he is your +grandson. I never heard him say a good word of any mortal soul, or do a +kind action.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Belsize,” says the lady. + +“But the others are capital. There is that little chap who has just had +the measles—he’s a clear little brick. And as for Miss Ethel——” + +“Ethel is a trump, ma’am,” says Lord Kew, slapping his hand on his +knee. + +“Ethel is a brick, and Alfred is a trump, I think you say,” remarks +Lady Kew, nodding approval; “and Barnes is a snob. This is very +satisfactory to know.” + +“We met the children out to-day,” cries the enthusiastic Kew, “as I was +driving Jack in the drag, and I got out and talked to ’em.” + +“Governess an uncommonly nice woman—oldish, but—I beg your pardon, Lady +Julia,” cries the inopportune Jack Belsize—“I’m always putting my foot +in it.” + +“Putting your foot into what? Go on, Kew.” + +“Well, we met the whole posse of children; and the little fellow wanted +a drive, and I said I would drive him and Ethel too, if she would come. +Upon my word she is as pretty a girl as you can see on a summer’s day. +And the governess said ‘No,’ of course. Governesses always do. But I +said I was her uncle, and Jack paid her such a fine compliment, that +the young woman was mollified, and the children took their seats beside +me, and Jack went behind.” + +“Where Monsieur Pozzoprofondo sits, _bon_.” + +“We drove on to the Downs, and we were nearly coming to grief. My +horses are young, and when they get on the grass they are as if they +were mad. It was very wrong; I know it was.” + +“D——d rash,” interposes Jack. “He had nearly broken all our necks.” + +“And my brother Frank would have been Lord Kew,” continued the young +Earl, with a quiet smile. “What an escape for him! The horses ran +away—ever so far—and I thought the carriage must upset. The poor little +boy, who has lost his pluck in the fever, began to cry; but that young +girl, though she was as white as a sheet, never gave up for a moment, +and sate in her place like a man. We met nothing, luckily; and I pulled +the horses in after a mile or two, and I drove ’em into Brighton as +quiet as if I had been driving a hearse. And that little trump of an +Ethel, what do you think she said? She said, ‘I was not frightened, but +you must not tell mamma.’ My aunt, it appears, was in a dreadful +commotion—I ought to have thought of that.” + +“Lady Anne is a ridiculous old dear. I beg your pardon, Lady Kew,” here +breaks in Jack the apologiser. + +“There is a brother of Sir Brian Newcome’s staying with them,” Lord Kew +proceeds; “an East India Colonel—a very fine-looking old boy.” + +“Smokes awfully, row about it in the hotel. Go on, Kew; beg your——” + +“This gentleman was on the look-out for us, it appears, for when we +came in sight he despatched a boy who was with him, running like a +lamplighter back to my aunt, to say all was well. And he took little +Alfred out of the carriage, and then helped out Ethel, and said, ‘My +dear, you are too pretty to scold; but you have given us all a _belle +peur_.’ And then he made me and Jack a low bow, and stalked into the +lodgings.” + +“I think you do deserve to be whipped, both of you,” cries Lady Kew. + +“We went up and made our peace with my aunt, and were presented in form +to the Colonel and his youthful cub.” + +“As fine a fellow as ever I saw: and as fine a boy as ever I saw,” +cries Jack Belsize. “The young chap is a great hand at drawing—upon my +life the best drawings I ever saw. And he was making a picture for +little What-d’you-call-’em. And Miss Newcome was looking over them. And +Lady Anne pointed out the group to me, and said how pretty it was. She +is uncommonly sentimental, you know, Lady Anne.” + +“My daughter Anne is the greatest fool in the three kingdoms,” cried +Lady Kew, looking fiercely over her spectacles. And Julia was +instructed to write that night to her sister, and desire that Ethel +should be sent to see her grandmother:—Ethel, who rebelled against her +grandmother, and always fought on her Aunt Julia’s side, when the +weaker was oppressed by the older and stronger lady. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +At Mrs. Ridley’s + + +Saint Peter of Alcantara, as I have read in a life of St. Theresa, +informed that devout lady that he had passed forty years of his life +sleeping only an hour and a half each day; his cell was but four feet +and a half long, so that he never lay down: his pillow was a wooden log +in the stone wall: he ate but once in three days: he was for three +years in a convent of his order without knowing any one of his brethren +except by the sound of their voices, for he never during this period +took his eyes off the ground: he always walked barefoot, and was but +skin and bone when he died. The eating only once in three days, so he +told his sister Saint, was by no means impossible, if you began the +regimen in your youth. To conquer sleep was the hardest of all +austerities which he practised:—I fancy the pious individual so +employed, day after day, night after night, on his knees, or standing +up in devout meditation in the cupboard—his dwelling-place; bareheaded +and barefooted, walking over rocks, briars, mud, sharp stones (picking +out the very worst places, let us trust, with his downcast eyes), under +the bitter snow, or the drifting rain, or the scorching sunshine—I +fancy Saint Peter of Alcantara, and contrast him with such a personage +as the Incumbent of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel, Mayfair. + +His hermitage is situated in Walpole Street, let us say, on the second +floor of a quiet mansion, let out to hermits by a nobleman’s butler, +whose wife takes care of the lodgings. His cells consist of a +refectory, a dormitory, and an adjacent oratory where he keeps his +shower-bath and boots—the pretty boots trimly stretched on boot-trees +and blacked to a nicety (not varnished) by the boy who waits on him. +The barefooted business may suit superstitious ages and gentlemen of +Alcantara, but does not become Mayfair and the nineteenth century. If +St. Pedro walked the earth now with his eyes to the ground he would +know fashionable divines by the way in which they were shod. Charles +Honeyman’s is a sweet foot. I have no doubt as delicate and plump and +rosy as the white hand with its two rings, which he passes in +impassioned moments through his slender flaxen hair. + +A sweet odour pervades his sleeping apartment—not that peculiar and +delicious fragrance with which the Saints of the Roman Church are said +to gratify the neighbourhood where they repose—but oils, redolent of +the richest perfumes of Macassar, essences (from Truefitt’s or +Delcroix’s) into which a thousand flowers have expressed their sweetest +breath, await his meek head on rising; and infuse the +pocket-handkerchief with which he dries and draws so many tears. For he +cries a good deal in his sermons, to which the ladies about him +contribute showers of sympathy. + +By his bedside are slippers lined with blue silk and worked of an +ecclesiastical pattern, by some of the faithful who sit at his feet. +They come to him in anonymous parcels: they come to him in silver +paper: boys in buttons (pages who minister to female grace!) leave them +at the door for the Rev. C. Honeyman, and slip away without a word. +Purses are sent to him—penwipers—a portfolio with the Honeyman arms; +yea, braces have been known to reach him by the post (in his days of +popularity); and flowers, and grapes, and jelly when he was ill, and +throat comforters, and lozenges for his dear bronchitis. In one of his +drawers is the rich silk cassock presented to him by his congregation +at Leatherhead (when the young curate quitted that parish for London +duty), and on his breakfast-table the silver teapot, once filled with +sovereigns and presented by the same devotees. The devo-teapot he has, +but the sovereigns, where are they? + +What a different life this is from our honest friend of Alcantara, who +eats once in three days! At one time if Honeyman could have drunk tea +three times in an evening, he might have had it. The glass on his +chimneypiece is crowded with invitations, not merely cards of ceremony +(of which there are plenty), but dear little confidential notes from +sweet friends of his congregation. “Ob, dear Mr. Honeyman,” writes +Blanche, “what a sermon that was! I cannot go to bed to-night without +thanking you for it.” “Do, _do_, dear Mr. Honeyman,” writes Beatrice, +“lend me that delightful sermon. And can you come and drink tea with me +and Selina, and my aunt? Papa and mamma dine out, but you know I am +always your faithful Chesterfield Street.” And so on. He has all the +domestic accomplishments; he plays on the violoncello: he sings a +delicious second, not only in sacred but in secular music. He has a +thousand anecdotes, laughable riddles, droll stories (of the utmost +correctness, you understand) with which he entertains females of all +ages; suiting his conversation to stately matrons, deaf old dowagers +(who can hear his clear voice better than the loudest roar of their +stupid sons-in-law), mature spinsters, young beauties dancing through +the season, even rosy little slips out of the nursery, who cluster +round his beloved feet. Societies fight for him to preach their charity +sermon. You read in the papers, “The Wapping Hospital for Wooden-legged +Seamen.—On Sunday the 23rd, Sermons will be preached in behalf of this +charity, by the Lord Bishop of Tobago in the morning, in the afternoon +by the Rev. C. Honeyman, A.M., Incumbent of,” etc. “Clergymen’s +Grandmothers’ Fund.—Sermons in aid of this admirable institution will +be preached on Sunday, 4th May, by the Very Rev. the Dean of Pimlico, +and the Rev. C. Honeyman, A.M.” When the Dean of Pimlico has his +illness, many people think Honeyman will have the Deanery; that he +ought to have it, a hundred female voices vow and declare: though it is +said that a right reverend head at headquarters shakes dubiously when +his name is mentioned for preferment. His name is spread wide, and not +only women but men come to hear him. Members of Parliament, even +Cabinet Ministers, sit under him. Lord Dozeley of course is seen in a +front pew: where was a public meeting without Lord Dozeley? The men +come away from his sermons and say, “It’s very pleasant, but I don’t +know what the deuce makes all you women crowd so to hear the man.” “Oh, +Charles! if you would but go oftener!” sighs Lady Anna Maria. “Can’t +you speak to the Home Secretary? Can’t you do something for him?” “We +can ask him to dinner next Wednesday if you like,” Says Charles. “They +say he’s a pleasant fellow out of the wood. Besides there is no use in +doing anything for him,” Charles goes on. “He can’t make less than a +thousand a year out of his chapel, and that is better than anything any +one can give him. A thousand a year, besides the rent of the +wine-vaults below the chapel.” + +“Don’t, Charles!” says his wife, with a solemn look. “Don’t ridicule +things in that way. + +“Confound it! there are wine-vaults under the chapel!” answers +downright Charles. “I saw the name, Sherrick and Co.; offices, a green +door, and a brass plate. It’s better to sit over vaults with wine in +them than coffins. I wonder whether it’s the Sherrick with whom Kew and +Jack Belsize had that ugly row?” + +“What ugly row?—don’t say ugly row. It is not a nice word to hear the +children use. Go on, my darlings. What was the dispute of Lord Kew and +Mr. Belsize, and this Mr. Sherrick?” + +“It was all about pictures, and about horses, and about money, and +about one other subject which enters into every row that I ever heard +of.” + +“And what is that, dear?” asks the innocent lady, hanging on her +husband’s arm, and quite pleased to have led him to church and brought +him thence. “And what is it, that enters into every row, as you call +it, Charles?” + +“A woman, my love,” answers the gentleman, behind whom we have been in +imagination walking out from Charles Honeyman’s church on a Sunday in +June: as the whole pavement blooms with artificial flowers and fresh +bonnets; as there is a buzz and cackle all around regarding the sermon; +as carriages drive off; as lady-dowagers walk home; as prayer-books and +footmen’s sticks gleam in the sun; as little boys with baked mutton and +potatoes pass from the courts; as children issue from the public-houses +with pots of beer; as the Reverend Charles Honeyman, who has been +drawing tears in the sermon, and has seen, not without complacent +throbs, a Secretary of State in the pew beneath him, divests himself of +his rich silk cassock in the vestry, before he walks away to his +neighbouring hermitage—where have we placed it?—in Walpole Street. I +wish St. Pedro of Alcantara could have some of that shoulder of mutton +with the baked potatoes, and a drink of that frothing beer. See, yonder +trots little Lord Dozeley, who has been asleep for an hour with his +head against the wood, like St. Pedro of Alcantara. + +An East Indian gentleman and his son wait until the whole chapel is +clear, and survey Lady Whittlesea’s monument at their leisure, and +other hideous slabs erected in memory of defunct frequenters of the +chapel. Whose was that face which Colonel Newcome thought he +recognised—that of a stout man who came down from the organ-gallery? +Could it be Broff the bass singer, who delivered the “Red Cross Knight” +with such applause at the Cave of Melody, and who has been singing in +this place? There are some chapels in London, where, the function over, +one almost expects to see the sextons put brown hollands over the pews +and galleries, as they do at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. + +The writer of these veracious pages was once walking through a splendid +English palace, standing amidst parks and gardens, than which none more +magnificent has been seen since the days of Aladdin, in company with a +melancholy friend, who viewed all things darkly through his gloomy +eyes. The housekeeper, pattering on before us from chamber to chamber, +was expatiating upon the magnificence of this picture; the beauty of +that statue; the marvellous richness of these hangings and carpets; the +admirable likeness of the late Marquis by Sir Thomas; of his father, +the fifth Earl, by Sir Joshua, and so on; when, in the very richest +room of the whole castle, Hicks—such was my melancholy companion’s +name—stopped the cicerone in her prattle, saying in a hollow voice, +“And now, madam, will you show us the closet _where the skeleton is?_” +The seared functionary paused in the midst of her harangue; that +article was not inserted in the catalogue which she daily utters to +visitors for their half-crown. Hicks’s question brought a darkness down +upon the hall where we were standing. We did not see the room: and yet +I have no doubt there is such an one; and ever after, when I have +thought of the splendid castle towering in the midst of shady trees, +under which the dappled deer are browsing; of the terraces gleaming +with statues, and bright with a hundred thousand flowers; of the +bridges and shining fountains and rivers wherein the castle windows +reflect their festive gleams, when the halls are filled with happy +feasters, and over the darkling woods comes the sound of music;—always, +I say, when I think of Castle Bluebeard:—it is to think of that dark +little closet, which I know is there, and which the lordly owner opens +shuddering—after midnight—when he is sleepless and _must_ go unlock it, +when the palace is hushed, when beauties are sleeping around him +unconscious, and revellers are at rest. O Mrs. Housekeeper: all the +other keys hast thou: but that key thou hast not! + +Have we not all such closets, my jolly friend, as well as the noble +Marquis of Carabas? At night, when all the house is asleep but you, +don’t you get up and peep into yours? When you in your turn are +slumbering, up gets Mrs. Brown from your side, steals downstairs like +Amina to her ghoul, clicks open the secret door, and looks into her +dark depository. Did she tell you of that little affair with Smith long +before she knew you? Psha! who knows any one save himself alone? Who, +in showing his house to the closest and dearest, doesn’t keep back the +key of a closet or two? I think of a lovely reader laying down the page +and looking over at her unconscious husband, asleep, perhaps, after +dinner. Yes, madam, a closet he hath: and you, who pry into everything, +shall never have the key of it. I think of some honest Othello pausing +over this very sentence in a railroad carriage, and stealthily gazing +at Desdemona opposite to him, innocently administering sandwiches to +their little boy—I am trying to turn off the sentence with a joke, you +see—I feel it is growing too dreadful, too serious. + +And to what, pray, do these serious, these disagreeable, these almost +personal observations tend? To this simply, that Charles Honeyman, the +beloved and popular preacher, the elegant divine to whom Miss Blanche +writes sonnets, and whom Miss Beatrice invites to tea; who comes with +smiles on his lip, gentle sympathy in his tones, innocent gaiety in his +accent; who melts, rouses, terrifies in the pulpit; who charms over the +tea-urn and the bland bread-and-butter: Charles Honeyman has one or two +skeleton closets in his lodgings, Walpole Street, Mayfair; and many a +wakeful night, whilst Mrs. Ridley, his landlady, and her tired husband, +the nobleman’s major-domo, whilst the lodger on the first floor, whilst +the cook and housemaid and weary little bootboy are at rest (mind you, +they have all got _their_ closets, which they open with their +skeleton-keys); he wakes up, and looks at the ghastly occupant of that +receptacle. One of the Reverend Charles Honeyman’s grisly +night-haunters is—but stop; let us give a little account of the +lodgings, and of some of the people frequenting the same. + +First floor, Mr. Bagshot, Member for a Norfolk borough. Stout jolly +gentleman;—dines at the Carlton Club; greatly addicted to Greenwich and +Richmond, in the season: bets in a moderate way: does not go into +society, except now and again to the chiefs of his party, when they +give great entertainments; and once or twice to the houses of great +country dons who dwell near him in the country. Is not of very good +family; was, in fact, an apothecary: married a woman with money, much +older than himself, who does not like London, and stops at home at +Hummingham, not much to the displeasure of Bagshot; gives every now and +then nice little quiet dinners, which Mrs. Ridley cooks admirably, to +exceedingly stupid jolly old Parliamentary fogies, who absorb, with +much silence and cheerfulness, a vast quantity of wine. They have just +begun to drink ’24 claret now, that of ’15 being scarce, and almost +drunk up. Writes daily, and hears every morning from Mrs. Bagshot; does +not read her letters always: does not rise till long past eleven +o’clock of a Sunday, and has _John Bull_ and _Bell’s Life_, in bed: +frequents the Blue Posts sometimes; rides a stout cob out of his +county, and pays like the Bank of England. + +The house is a Norfolk house. Mrs. Ridley was housekeeper to the great +Squire Bayham, who had the estate before the Conqueror, and who came to +such a dreadful crash in the year 1825, the year of the panic. Bayhams +still belongs to the family, but in what a state, as those can say who +recollect it in its palmy days! Fifteen hundred acres of the best land +in England were sold off: all the timber cut down as level as a +billiard-board. Mr. Bayham now lives up in one corner of the house, +which used to be filled with the finest company in Europe. Law bless +you! the Bayhams have seen almost all the nobility of England come in +and go out, and were gentlefolks when many a fine lord’s father of the +present day was sweeping a counting-house. + +The house will hold genteelly no more than these two inmates; but in +the season it manages to accommodate Miss Cann, who too was from +Bayhams, having been a governess there to the young lady who is dead, +and who now makes such a livelihood as she can best raise, by going out +as a daily teacher. Miss Cann dines with Mrs. Ridley in the adjoining +little back-parlour. Ridley but seldom can be spared to partake of the +family dinner, his duties in the house and about the person of my Lord +Todmorden keeping him constantly near that nobleman. How little Miss +Cann can go on and keep alive on the crumb she eats for breakfast, and +the scrap she picks at dinner, du astonish Mrs. Ridley, that it _du!_ +She declares that the two canary-birds encaged in her window (whence is +a cheerful prospect of the back of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel) eat more +than Miss Cann. The two birds set up a tremendous singing and +chorussing when Miss Cann, spying the occasion of the first-floor +lodger’s absence, begins practising her music-pieces. Such trills, +roulades, and flourishes go on from the birds and the lodger! it is a +wonder how any fingers can move over the jingling ivory so quickly as +Miss Cann’s. Excellent a woman as she is, admirably virtuous, frugal, +brisk, honest, and cheerful, I would not like to live in lodgings where +there was a lady so addicted to playing variations. No more does +Honeyman. On a Saturday, when he is composing his valuable sermons (the +rogue, you may be sure, leaves his work to the last day, and there are, +I am given to understand, among the clergy many better men than +Honeyman, who are as dilatory as he), he begs, he entreats with tears +in his eyes, that Miss Cann’s music may cease. I would back little Cann +to write a sermon against him, for all his reputation as a popular +preacher. + +Old and weazened as that piano is, feeble and cracked her voice, it is +wonderful what a pleasant concert she can give in that parlour of a +Saturday evening, to Mrs. Ridley, who generally dozes a good deal, and +to a lad, who listens with all his soul, with tears sometimes in his +great eyes, with crowding fancies filling his brain and throbbing at +his heart, as the artist plies her humble instrument. She plays old +music of Handel and Haydn, and the little chamber anon swells into a +cathedral, and he who listens beholds altars lighted, priests +ministering, fair children swinging censers, great oriel windows +gleaming in sunset, and seen through arched columns and avenues of +twilight marble. The young fellow who hears her has been often and +often to the opera and the theatres. As she plays Don Juan, Zerlina +comes tripping over the meadows, and Masetto after her, with a crowd of +peasants and maidens: and they sing the sweetest of all music, and the +heart beats with happiness, and kindness, and pleasure. Piano, +pianissimo! the city is hushed. The towers of the great cathedral rise +in the distance, its spires lighted by the broad moon. The statues in +the moonlit place cast long shadows athwart the pavement: but the +fountain in the midst is dressed out like Cinderella for the night, and +sings and wears a crest of diamonds. That great sombre street all in +shade, can it be the famous Toledo?—or is it the Corso?—or is it the +great street in Madrid, the one which leads to the Escurial where the +Rubens and Velasquez are? It is Fancy Street—Poetry Street—Imagination +Street—the street where lovely ladies look from balconies, where +cavaliers strike mandolins and draw swords and engage, where long +processions pass, and venerable hermits, with long beards, bless the +kneeling people: where the rude soldiery, swaggering through the place +with flags and halberts, and fife and dance, seize the slim waists of +the daughters of the people, and bid the pifferari play to their +dancing. Blow, bagpipes, a storm of harmony! become trumpets, +trombones, ophicleides, fiddles, and bassoons! Fire, guns sound, +tocsins! Shout, people! Louder, shriller and sweeter than all, sing +thou, ravishing heroine! And see, on his cream-coloured charger +Massaniello prances in, and Fra Diavolo leaps down the balcony, +carabine in hand; and Sir Huon of Bordeaux sails up to the quay with +the Sultan’s daughter of Babylon. All these delights and sights, and +joys and glories, these thrills of sympathy, movements of unknown +longing, and visions of beauty, a young sickly lad of eighteen enjoys +in a little dark room where there is a bed disguised in the shape of a +wardrobe, and a little old woman is playing under a gas-lamp on the +jingling keys of an old piano. + +For a long time Mr. Samuel Ridley, butler and confidential valet to the +Right Honourable John James Baron Todmorden, was in a state of the +greatest despair and gloom about his only son, the little John James,—a +sickly and almost deformed child “of whom there was no making nothink,” +as Mr. Ridley said. His figure precluded him from following his +father’s profession, and waiting upon the British nobility, who +naturally require large and handsome men to skip up behind their +rolling carriages, and hand their plates at dinner. When John James was +six years old his father remarked, with tears in his eyes, he wasn’t +higher than a plate-basket. The boys jeered at him in the streets—some +whopped him, spite of his diminutive size. At school he made but little +progress. He was always sickly and dirty, and timid and crying, +whimpering in the kitchen away from his mother; who, though she loved +him, took Mr. Ridley’s view of his character, and thought him little +better than an idiot until such time as little Miss Cann took him in +hand, when at length there was some hope of him. + +“Half-witted, you great stupid big man,” says Miss Cann, who had a fine +spirit of her own. “That boy half-witted! He has got more wit in his +little finger than you have in all your great person! You are a very +good man, Ridley, very good-natured I’m sure, and bear with the teasing +of a waspish old woman: but you are not the wisest of mankind. Tut, +tut, don’t tell me. You know you spell out the words when you read the +newspaper still, and what would your bills look like if I did not write +them in my nice little hand? I tell you that boy is a genius. I tell +you that one day the world will hear of him. His heart is made of pure +gold. You think that all the wit belongs to the big people. Look at me, +you great tall man! Am I not a hundred times cleverer than you are? +Yes, and John James is worth a thousand such insignificant little chits +as I am; and he is as tall as me too, sir. Do you hear that! One day I +am determined he shall dine at Lord Todmorden’s table, and he shall get +the prize at the Royal Academy, and be famous, sir—famous!” + +“Well, Miss C., I wish he may get it; that’s all I say,” answers Mr. +Ridley. “The poor fellow does no harm, that I acknowledge; but _I_ +never see the good he was up to yet. I wish he’d begin it; I _du_ wish +he would now.” And the honest gentleman relapses into the study of his +paper. + +All those beautiful sounds and thoughts which Miss Cann conveys to him +out of her charmed piano, the young artist straightway translates into +forms; and knights in armour, with plume, and shield, and battle-axe; +and splendid young noblemen with flowing ringlets, and bounteous plumes +of feathers, and rapiers, and russet boots; and fierce banditti with +crimson tights, doublets profusely illustrated with large brass +buttons, and the dumpy basket-hilted claymores known to be the +favourite weapon with which these whiskered ruffians do battle; +wasp-waisted peasant girls, and young countesses with oh, such large +eyes and the lips!—all these splendid forms of war and beauty crowd to +the young draughtsman’s pencil, and cover letter-backs, copybooks, +without end. If his hand strikes off some face peculiarly lovely, and +to his taste, some fair vision that has shone on his imagination, some +houri of a dancer, some bright young lady of fashion in an opera-box, +whom he has seen, or fancied he has seen (for the youth is +short-sighted, though he hardly as yet knows his misfortune)—if he has +made some effort extraordinarily successful, our young Pygmalion hides +away the masterpiece, and he paints the beauty with all his skill; the +lips a bright carmine, the eyes a deep, deep cobalt, the cheeks a +dazzling vermilion, the ringlets of a golden hue; and he worships this +sweet creature of his in secret, fancies a history for her; a castle to +storm, a tyrant usurper who keeps her imprisoned, and a prince in black +ringlets and a spangled cloak, who scales the tower, who slays the +tyrant, and then kneels gracefully at the princess’s feet, and says, +“Lady, wilt thou be mine?” + +There is a kind lady in the neighbourhood, who takes in dressmaking for +the neighbouring maid-servants, and has a small establishment of +lollipops, theatrical characters, and ginger-beer for the boys in +Little Craggs Buildings, hard by the Running Footman public-house, +where father and other gentlemen’s gentlemen have their club: this good +soul also sells Sunday newspapers to the footmen of the neighbouring +gentry; and besides, has a stock of novels for the ladies of the upper +servants’ table. Next to Miss Cann, Miss Flinders is John James’s +greatest friend and benefactor. She has remarked him when he was quite +a little man, and used to bring his father’s beer of a Sunday. Out of +her novels he has taught himself to read, dull boy at the day-school +though he was, and always the last in his class, there. Hours, happy +hours, has he spent cowering behind her counter, or hugging her books +under his pinafore when he had leave to carry them home. The whole +library has passed through his hands, his long, lean, tremulous hands, +and under his eager eyes. He has made illustrations to every one of +those books, and been frightened at his own pictures of Manfroni or the +One-handed Monk, Abellino the Terrific Bravo of Venice, and Rinaldo +Rinaldini Captain of Robbers. How he has blistered Thaddeus of Warsaw +with his tears, and drawn him in his Polish cap, and tights, and +Hessians! William Wallace, the Hero of Scotland, how nobly he has +depicted him! With what whiskers and bushy ostrich plumes!—in a tight +kilt, and with what magnificent calves to his legs, laying about him +with his battle-axe, and bestriding the bodies of King Edward’s +prostrate cavaliers! At this time Mr. Honeyman comes to lodge in +Walpole Street, and brings a set of Scott’s novels, for which he +subscribed when at Oxford; and young John James, who at first waits +upon him and does little odd jobs for the reverend gentleman, lights +upon the volumes, and reads them with such a delight and passion of +pleasure as all the delights of future days will scarce equal. A fool, +is he?—an idle feller, out of whom no good will ever come, as his +father says. There was a time when, in despair of any better chance for +him, his parents thought of apprenticing him to a tailor, and John +James was waked up from a dream of Rebecca and informed of the cruelty +meditated against him. I forbear to describe the tears and terror, and +frantic desperation in which the poor boy was plunged. Little Miss Cann +rescued him from that awful board, and Honeyman likewise interceded for +him, and Mr. Bagshot promised that, as soon as his party came in, he +would ask the Minister for a tide-waitership for him; for everybody +liked the solemn, soft-hearted, willing little lad, and no one knew him +less than his pompous and stupid and respectable father. + +Miss Cann painted flowers and card-screens elegantly, and “finished” +pencil-drawings most elaborately for her pupils. She could copy prints, +so that at a little distance you would scarcely know that the copy in +stumped chalk was not a bad mezzotinto engraving. She even had a little +old paint-box, and showed you one or two ivory miniatures out of the +drawer. She gave John James what little knowledge of drawing she had, +and handed him over her invaluable recipes for mixing +water-colours—“for trees in foregrounds, burnt sienna and indigo”—“for +very dark foliage, ivory black and gamboge”—“for flesh-colour,” etc. +etc. John James went through her poor little course, but not so +brilliantly as she expected. She was forced to own that several of her +pupils’ “pieces” were executed much more dexterously than Johnny +Ridley’s. Honeyman looked at the boy’s drawings from time to time, and +said, “Hm, ha!—very clever—a great deal of fancy, really.” But Honeyman +knew no more of the subject than a deaf and dumb man knows of music. He +could talk the art cant very glibly, and had a set of Morghens and +Madonnas as became a clergyman and a man of taste; but he saw not with +eyes such as those wherewith Heaven had endowed the humble little +butler’s boy, to whom splendours of Nature were revealed to vulgar +sights invisible, and beauties manifest in forms, colours, shadows of +common objects, where most of the world saw only what was dull, and +gross, and familiar. One reads in the magic story-books of a charm or a +flower which the wizard gives, and which enables the bearer to see the +fairies. O enchanting boon of Nature, which reveals to the possessor +the hidden spirits of beauty round about him! spirits which the +strongest and most gifted masters compel into painting or song. To +others it is granted but to have fleeting glimpses of that fair +Art-world; and tempted by ambition, or barred by faint-heartedness, or +driven by necessity, to turn away thence to the vulgar life-track, and +the light of common day. + +The reader who has passed through Walpole Street scores of times, knows +the discomfortable architecture of all, save the great houses built in +Queen Anne’s and George the First’s time; and while some of the +neighbouring streets, to wit, Great Craggs Street, Bolingbroke Street, +and others, contain mansions fairly coped with stone, with little +obelisks before the doors, and great extinguishers wherein the torches +of the nobility’s running footmen were put out a hundred and thirty or +forty years ago:—houses which still remain abodes of the quality, and +where you shall see a hundred carriages gather of a public night; +Walpole Street has quite faded away into lodgings, private hotels, +doctors’ houses, and the like; nor is No. 23 (Ridley’s) by any means +the best house in the street. The parlour, furnished and tenanted by +Miss Cann as has been described; the first floor, Bagshot, Esq., M.P.; +the second floor, Honeyman; what remains but the garrets, and the ample +staircase and the kitchens? and the family being all put to bed, how +can you imagine there is room for any more inhabitants? + +And yet there is one lodger more, and one who, like almost all the +other personages mentioned up to the present time (and some of whom you +have no idea yet), will play a definite part in the ensuing history. At +night, when Honeyman comes in, he finds on the hall-table three wax +bedroom candles—his own, Bagshot’s, and another. As for Miss Cann, she +is locked into the parlour in bed long ago, her stout little +walking-shoes being on the mat at the door. At 12 o’clock at noon, +sometimes at 1, nay at 2 and 3—long after Bagshot is gone to his +committees, and little Cann to her pupils—a voice issues from the very +topmost floor, from a room where there is no bell; a voice of thunder +calling out “Slavey! Julia! Julia, my love! Mrs. Ridley!” And this +summons not being obeyed, it will not unfrequently happen that a pair +of trousers enclosing a pair of boots with iron heels, and known by the +name of the celebrated Prussian General who came up to help the other +christener of boots at Waterloo, will be flung down from the topmost +story, even to the marble floor of the resounding hall. Then the boy +Thomas, otherwise called Slavey, may say, “There he goes again;” or +Mrs. Ridley’s own back-parlour bell rings vehemently, and Julia the +cook will exclaim, “Lor, it’s Mr. Frederick.” + +If the breeches and boots are not understood, the owner himself appears +in great wrath dancing on the upper story; dancing down to the lower +floor; and loosely enveloped in a ragged and flowing _robe de chambre_. +In this costume and condition he will dance into Honeyman’s apartment, +where that meek divine may be sitting with a headache or over a novel +or a newspaper; dance up to the fire flapping his robe-tails, poke it, +and warm himself there; dance up to the cupboard where his reverence +keeps his sherry, and help himself to a glass. + +“_Salve, spes fidei, lumen ecclesiæ_,” he will say; “here’s towards +you, my buck. I knows the tap. Sherrick’s Marsala bottled three months +after date, at two hundred and forty-six shillings the dozen.” + +“Indeed, indeed it’s not” (and now we are coming to an idea of the +skeleton in poor Honeyman’s closet—not that this huge handsome jolly +Fred Bayham is the skeleton, far from it. Mr. Frederick weighs fourteen +stone). “Indeed, indeed it isn’t, Fred, I’m sure,” sighs the other. +“You exaggerate, indeed you do. The wine is not dear, not by any means +so expensive as you say.” + +“How much a glass, think you?” says Fred, filling another bumper. “A +half-crown, think ye?—a half-crown, Honeyman? By cock and pye, it is +not worth a bender.” He says this in the manner of the most celebrated +tragedian of the day. He can imitate any actor, tragic or comic; any +known Parliamentary orator or clergyman; any saw, cock, cloop of a cork +wrenched from a bottle and guggling of wine into the decanter +afterwards, bee buzzing, little boy up a chimney, etc. He imitates +people being ill on board a steam-packet so well that he makes you die +of laughing: his uncle the Bishop could not resist this comic +exhibition, and gave Fred a cheque for a comfortable sum of money; and +Fred, getting cash for the cheque at the Cave of Harmony, imitated his +uncle the Bishop and his Chaplain, winding up with his Lordship and +Chaplain being unwell at sea—the Chaplain and Bishop quite natural and +distinct. + +“How much does a glass of this sack cost thee, Charley?” resumes Fred, +after this parenthesis. “You say it is not dear. Charles Honeyman, you +had, even from your youth up, a villainous habit. And I perfectly well +remember, sir, in boyhood’s breezy hour, when I was the delight of his +school, that you used to tell lies to your venerable father. You did, +Charles. Excuse the frankness of an early friend, it’s my belief you’d +rather lie than not. Hm”—he looks at the cards in the chimney-glass +“Invitations to dinner, proffers of muffins. Do lend me your sermon. +Oh, you old impostor! you hoary old Ananias! I say, Charley, why +haven’t you picked out some nice girl for yours truly? One with lauds +and beeves, with rents and consols, mark you? I have no money, ’tis +true, but then I don’t owe as much as you. I am a handsomer man than +you are. Look at this chest” (he slaps it), “these limbs; they are +manly, sir, manly.” + +“For Heaven’s sake, Bayham,” cries Mr. Honeyman, white with terror; “if +anybody were to come——” + +“What did I say anon, sir? that I was manly, ay, manly. Let any +ruffian, save a bailiff, come and meet the doughty arm of Frederick +Bayham.” + +“Oh, Lord, Lord, here’s somebody coming into the room!” cries Charles, +sinking back on the sofa, as the door opens. + +“Ha! dost thou come with murderous intent?” and he now advances in an +approved offensive attitude. “Caitiff, come on, come on!” and he walks +off with a tragic laugh, crying, “Ha, ha, ha, ’tis but the slavey!” + +The slavey has Mr. Frederick’s hot water, and a bottle of sodawater on +the same tray. He has been instructed to bring soda whenever he hears +the word slavey pronounced from above. The bottle explodes, and +Frederick drinks, and hisses after his drink as though he had been all +hot within. + +“What’s o’clock now, slavey—half-past three? Let me see, I breakfasted +exactly ten hours ago, in the rosy morning, off a modest cup of coffee +in Covent Garden Market. Coffee, a penny; bread, a simple halfpenny. +What has Mrs. Ridley for dinner?” + +“Please, sir, roast pork.” + +“Get me some. Bring it into my room, unless, Honeyman, you insist upon +my having it here, kind fellow!” + +At the moment a smart knock comes to the door, and Fred says, “Well, +Charles, it may be a friend or a lady come to confess, and I’m off; I +knew you’d be sorry I was going. Tom, bring up my things; brush ’em +gently, you scoundrel, and don’t take the nap off. Bring up the roast +pork, and plenty of apple-sauce, tell Mrs. Ridley, with my love; and +one of Mr. Honeyman’s shirts, and one of his razors. Adieu, Charles! +Amend! Remember me.” And he vanishes into the upper chambers. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +In which everybody is asked to Dinner + + +John James had opened the door hastening to welcome a friend and +patron, the sight of whom always gladdened the youth’s eyes; no other +than Clive Newcome—in young Ridley’s opinion, the most splendid, +fortunate, beautiful, high-born, and gifted youth this island +contained. What generous boy in his time has not worshipped somebody? +Before the female enslaver makes her appearance, every lad has a friend +of friends, a crony of cronies, to whom he writes immense letters in +vacation, whom he cherishes in his heart of hearts; whose sister he +proposes to marry in after life; whose purse he shares; for whom he +will take a thrashing if need be: who is his hero. Clive was John +James’s youthful divinity: when he wanted to draw Thaddeus of Warsaw, a +Prince, Ivanhoe, or some one splendid and egregious, it was Clive he +took for a model. His heart leapt when he saw the young fellow. He +would walk cheerfully to Grey Friars, with a letter or message for +Clive, on the chance of seeing him, and getting a kind word from him, +or a shake of the hand. An ex-butler of Lord Todmorden was a pensioner +in the Grey Friars Hospital (it has been said that at that ancient +establishment is a college for old men as well as for boys), and this +old man would come sometimes to his successor’s Sunday dinner, and +grumble from the hour of that meal until nine o’clock, when he was +forced to depart, so as to be within Grey Friars’ gates before ten; +grumble about his dinner—grumble about his beer—grumble about the +number of chapels he had to attend, about the gown he wore, about the +master’s treatment of him, about the want of plums in the pudding, as +old men and schoolboys grumble. It was wonderful what a liking John +James took to this odious, querulous, graceless, stupid, and snuffy old +man, and how he would find pretexts for visiting him at his lodging in +the old hospital. He actually took that journey that he might have a +chance of seeing Clive. He sent Clive notes and packets of drawings; +thanked him for books lent, asked advice about future reading—anything, +so that he might have a sight of his pride, his patron, his paragon. + +I am afraid Clive Newcome employed him to smuggle rum-shrub and cigars +into the premises; giving him appointments in the school precincts, +where young Clive would come and stealthily receive the forbidden +goods. The poor lad was known by the boys, and called Newcome’s Punch. +He was all but hunchbacked; long and lean in the arm; sallow, with a +great forehead, and waving black hair, and large melancholy eyes. + +“What, is it you, J. J.?” cries Clive gaily, when his humble friend +appears at the door. “Father, this is my friend Ridley. This is the +fellow what can draw.” + +“I know whom I will back against any young man of his size at _that_,” +says the Colonel, looking at Clive fondly. He considered there was not +such a genius in the world; and had already thought of having some of +Clive’s drawings published by M’Lean of the Haymarket. + +“This is my father just come from India—and Mr. Pendennis, an old Grey +Friars’ man. Is my uncle at home?” Both these gentlemen bestow rather +patronising nods of the head on the lad introduced to them as J. J. His +exterior is but mean-looking. Colonel Newcome, one of the +humblest-minded men alive, has yet his old-fashioned military notions; +and speaks to a butler’s son as to a private soldier, kindly, but not +familiarly. + +“Mr. Honeyman is at home, gentlemen,” the young lad says, humbly. “Shall +I show you up to his room?” And we walk up the stairs after our guide. +We find Mr. Honeyman deep in study on his sofa, with Pearson on the +Creed before him. The novel has been whipped under the pillow. Clive +found it there some short time afterwards, during his uncle’s temporary +absence in his dressing-room. He has agreed to suspend his theological +studies, and go out with his brother-in-law to dine. + +As Clive and his friends were at Honeyman’s door, and just as we were +entering to see the divine seated in state before his folio, Clive +whispers, “J. J., come along, old fellow, and show us some drawings. +What are you doing?” + +“I was doing some Arabian Nights,” says J. J., “up in my room; and +hearing a knock which I thought was yours, I came down.” + +“Show us the pictures. Let’s go up into your room,” cries Clive. +“What—will you?” says the other. “It is but a very small place.” + +“Never mind, come along,” says Clive; and the two lads disappear +together, leaving the three grown gentlemen to discourse together, or +rather two of us to listen to Honeyman, who expatiates upon the beauty +of the weather, the difficulties of the clerical calling, the honour +Colonel Newcome does him by a visit, etc., with his usual eloquence. + +After a while Clive comes down without J. J., from the upper regions. +He is greatly excited. “Oh, sir,” he says to his father, “you talk +about my drawings—you should see J. J.’s! By Jove, that fellow is a +genius. They are beautiful, sir. You seem actually to read the Arabian +Nights, you know, only in pictures. There is Scheherazade telling the +stories, and—what do you call her?—Dinarzade and the Sultan sitting in +bed and listening. Such a grim old cove! You see he has cut off ever so +many of his wives’ heads. I can’t think where that chap gets his ideas +from. I can beat him in drawing horses, I know, and dogs; but I can +only draw what I see. Somehow he seems to see things we don’t, don’t +you know? Oh, father, I’m determined I’d rather be a painter than +anything.” And he falls to drawing horses and dogs at his uncle’s +table, round which the elders are seated. + +“I’ve settled it upstairs with J. J.,” says Clive, working away with +his pen. “We shall take a studio together; perhaps we will go abroad +together. Won’t that be fun, father?” + +“My dear Clive,” remarks Mr. Honeyman, with bland dignity, “there are +degrees in society which we must respect. You surely cannot think of +being a professional artist. Such a profession is very well for your +young _protégé;_ but for you——” + +“What for me?” cries Clive. “We are no such great folks that I know of; +and if we were, I say a painter is as good as a lawyer, or a doctor, or +even a soldier. In Dr. Johnston’s Life—which my father is always +reading—I like to read about Sir Joshua Reynolds best: I think he is +the best gentleman of all in the book. My! wouldn’t I like to paint a +picture like Lord Heathfield in the National Gallery! _Wouldn’t_ I +just! I think I would sooner have done that, than have fought at +Gibraltar. And those Three Graces—oh, aren’t they graceful! And that +Cardinal Beaufort at Dulwich!—it frightens me so, I daren’t look at it. +Wasn’t Reynolds a clipper, that’s all! and wasn’t Rubens a brick! He +was an ambassador, and Knight of the Bath; so was Vandyck. And Titian, +and Raphael, and Velasquez?—I’ll just trouble you to show me better +gentlemen than them, Uncle Charles.” + +“Far be it from me to say that the pictorial calling is not +honourable,” says Uncle Charles; “but as the world goes there are other +professions in greater repute; and I should have thought Colonel +Newcome’s son——” + +“He shall follow his own bent,” said the Colonel; “as long as his +calling is honest it becomes a gentleman; and if he were to take a +fancy to play on the fiddle—actually on the fiddle—I shouldn’t object.” + +“Such a rum chap there was upstairs!” Clive resumes, looking up from +his scribbling. “He was walking up and down on the landing in a +dressing-gown, with scarcely any other clothes on, holding a plate in +one hand, and a pork-chop he was munching with the other. Like this” +(and Clive draws a figure). “What do you think, sir? He was in the Cave +of Harmony, he says, that night you flared up about Captain Costigan. +He knew me at once; and he says, ‘Sir, your father acted like a +gentleman, a Christian, and a man of honour. _Maxima debetur puero +reverentia_. Give him my compliments. I don’t know his highly +respectable name.’ His highly respectable name,” says Clive, cracking +with laughter—“those were his very words. ‘And inform him that I am an +orphan myself—in needy circumstances’—he said he was in needy +circumstances; ‘and I heartily wish he’d adopt me.’” + +The lad puffed out his face, made his voice as loud and as deep as he +could; and from his imitation and the picture he had drawn, I knew at +once that Fred Bayham was the man he mimicked. + +“And does the Red Rover live here,” cried Mr. Pendennis, “and have we +earthed him at last?” + +“He sometimes comes here,” Mr. Honeyman said with a careless manner. +“My landlord and landlady were butler and housekeeper to his father, +Bayham of Bayham, one of the oldest families in Europe. And Mr. +Frederick Bayham, the exceedingly eccentric person of whom you speak, +was a private pupil of my own dear father in our happy days at +Borehambury.” + +He had scarcely spoken when a knock was heard at the door, and before +the occupant of the lodgings could say “Come in!” Mr. Frederick Bayham +made his appearance, arrayed in that peculiar costume which he +affected. In those days we wore very tall stocks, only a very few +poetic and eccentric persons venturing on the Byron collar; but Fred +Bayham confined his neck by a simple ribbon, which allowed his great +red whiskers to curl freely round his capacious jowl. He wore a black +frock and a large broad-brimmed hat, and looked somewhat like a +Dissenting preacher. At other periods you would see him in a green coat +and a blue neckcloth, as if the turf or the driving of coaches was his +occupation. + +“I have heard from the young man of the house who you were, Colonel +Newcome,” he said with the greatest gravity, “and happened to be +present, sir, the other night; for I was aweary, having been toiling +all the day in literary labour, and needed some refreshment. I happened +to be present, sir, at a scene which did you the greatest honour, and +of which I spoke, not knowing you, with something like levity to your +son. He is an _ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris_—Pendennis, how +are you? And I thought, sir, I would come down and tender an apology if +I had said any words that might savour of offence to a gentleman who +was in the right, as I told the room when you quitted it, as Mr. +Pendennis, I am sure, will remember.” + +Mr. Pendennis looked surprise and perhaps negation. + +“You forget, Pendennis? Those who quit that room, sir, often forget on +the morrow what occurred during the revelry of the night. You did right +in refusing to return to that scene. We public men are obliged often to +seek our refreshment at hours when luckier individuals are lapt in +slumber.” + +“And what may be your occupation, Mr. Bayham?” asks the Colonel, rather +gloomily, for he had an idea that Bayham was adopting a strain of +_persiflage_ which the Indian gentleman by no means relished. Never +saying aught but a kind word to any one, he was on fire at the notion +that any should take a liberty with him. + +“A barrister, sir, but without business—a literary man, who can but +seldom find an opportunity to sell the works of his brains—a gentleman, +sir, who has met with neglect, perhaps merited, perhaps undeserved, +from his family. I get my bread as best I may. On that evening I had +been lecturing on the genius of some of our comic writers, at the +Parthenopæon, Hackney. My audience was scanty, perhaps equal to my +deserts. I came home on foot to an egg and a glass of beer after +midnight, and witnessed the scene which did you so much honour. What is +this? I fancy a ludicrous picture of myself”—he had taken up the sketch +which Clive had been drawing—“I like fun, even at my own expense; and +can afford to laugh at a joke which is meant in good-humour.” This +speech quite reconciled the honest Colonel. “I am sure the author of +that, Mr. Bayham, means you or any man no harm. Why! the rascal, sir, +has drawn me, his own father; and I have sent the drawing to Major +Hobbs, who is in command of my regiment. Chinnery himself, sir, +couldn’t hit off a likeness better; he has drawn me on horseback, and +he has drawn me on foot, and he has drawn my friend, Mr. Binnie, who +lives with me. We have scores of his drawings at my lodgings; and if +you will favour us by dining with us to-day, and these gentlemen, you +shall see that you are not the only person caricatured by Clive here.” + +“I just took some little dinner upstairs, sir. I am a moderate man, and +can live, if need be, like a Spartan; but to join such good company I +will gladly use the knife and fork again. You will excuse the +traveller’s dress? I keep a room here, which I use only occasionally, +and am at present lodging—in the country.” + +When Honeyman was ready, the Colonel, who had the greatest respect for +the Church, would not hear of going out of the room before the +clergyman, and took his arm to walk. Bayham then fell to Mr. +Pendennis’s lot, and they went together. Through Hill Street and +Berkeley Square their course was straight enough; but at Hay Hill, Mr. +Bayham made an abrupt tack larboard, engaging in a labyrinth of +stables, and walking a long way round from Clifford Street, whither we +were bound. He hinted at a cab, but Pendennis refused to ride, being, +in truth, anxious to see which way his eccentric companion would steer. +“There are reasons,” growled Bayham, “which need not be explained to +one of your experience, why Bond Street must be avoided by some men +peculiarly situated. The smell of Truefitt’s pomatum makes me ill. Tell +me, Pendennis, is this Indian warrior a rajah of large wealth? Could +he, do you think, recommend me to a situation in the East India +Company? I would gladly take any honest post in which fidelity might be +useful, genius might be appreciated, and courage rewarded. Here we are. +The hotel seems comfortable. I never was in it before.” + +When we entered the Colonel’s sitting-room at Nerot’s, we found the +waiter engaged in extending the table. “We are a larger party than I +expected,” our host said. “I met my brother Brian on horseback leaving +cards at that great house in ——— Street.” + +“The Russian Embassy,” says Mr. Honeyman, who knew the town quite well. + +“And he said he was disengaged, and would dine with us,” continues the +Colonel. + +“Am I to understand, Colonel Newcome,” says Mr. Frederick Bayham, “that +you are related to the eminent banker, Sir Brian Newcome, who gives +such uncommonly swell parties in Park Lane?” + +“What is a swell party?” asks the Colonel, laughing. “I dined with my +brother last Wednesday; and it was a very grand dinner certainly. The +Governor-General himself could not give a more splendid entertainment. +But, do you know, I scarcely had enough to eat? I don’t eat side +dishes; and as for the roast beef of Old England, why, the meat was put +on the table and whisked away like Sancho’s inauguration feast at +Barataria. We did not dine till nine o’clock. I like a few glasses of +claret and a cosy talk after dinner; but—well, well”—(no doubt the +worthy gentleman was accusing himself of telling tales out of school +and had come to a timely repentance). “Our dinner, I hope, will be +different. Jack Binnie will take care of that. That fellow is full of +anecdote and fun. You will meet one or two more of our service; Sir +Thomas de Boots, who is not a bad chap over a glass of wine; Mr. +Pendennis’s chum, Mr. Warrington, and my nephew, Barnes Newcome—a dry +fellow at first, but I dare say he has good about him when you know +him; almost every man has,” said the good-natured philosopher. “Clive, +you rogue, mind and be moderate with the champagne, sir!” + +“Champagne’s for women,” says Clive. “I stick to claret.” + +“I say, Pendennis,” here Bayham remarked, “it is my deliberate opinion +that F. B. has got into a good thing.” + +Mr. Pendennis seeing there was a great party was for going home to his +chambers to dress. “Hm!” says Mr. Bayham, “don’t see the necessity. +What right-minded man looks at the exterior of his neighbour? He looks +_here_, sir, and examines _there_,” and Bayham tapped his forehead, +which was expansive, and then his heart, which he considered to be in +the right place. + +“What is this I hear about dressing?” asks our host. “Dine in your +frock, my good friend, and welcome, if your dress-coat is in the +country.” + +“It is at present at an uncle’s,” Mr. Bayham said, with great gravity, +“and I take your hospitality as you offer it, Colonel Newcome, +cordially and frankly.” + +Honest Mr. Binnie made his appearance a short time before the appointed +hour for receiving the guests, arrayed in a tight little pair of +trousers, and white silk stockings and pumps, his bald head shining +like a billiard-ball, his jolly gills rosy with good-humour. He was +bent on pleasure. “Hey, lads!” says he; “but we’ll make a night of it. +We haven’t had a night since the farewell dinner off Plymouth.” + +“And a jolly night it was, James,” ejaculates the Colonel. + +“Egad, what a song that Tom Norris sings!” + +“And your ‘Jock o’ Hazeldean’ is as good as a play, Jack.” + +“And I think you beat iny one I iver hard in ‘Tom Bowling,’ yourself, +Tom!” cries the Colonel’s delighted chum. Mr. Pendennis opened the eyes +of astonishment at the idea of the possibility of renewing these +festivities, but he kept the lips of prudence closed. And now the +carriages began to drive up, and the guests of Colonel Newcome to +arrive. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +In which Thomas Newcome sings his Last Song + + +The earliest comers were the first mate and the medical officer of the +ship in which the two gentlemen had come to England. The mate was a +Scotchman: the doctor was a Scotchman; of the gentlemen from the +Oriental Club, three were Scotchmen. + +The Southrons, with one exception, were the last to arrive, and for a +while we stood looking out of the windows awaiting their coming. The +first mate pulled out a penknife and arranged his nails. The doctor and +Mr. Binnie talked of the progress of medicine. Binnie had walked the +hospitals of Edinburgh before getting his civil appointment to India. +The three gentlemen from Hanover Square and the Colonel had plenty to +say about Tom Smith of the Cavalry, and Harry Hall of the Engineers: +how Topham was going to marry poor little Bob Wallis’s widow; how many +lakhs Barber had brought home, and the like. The tall grey-headed +Englishman, who had been in the East too, in the King’s service, joined +for a while in this conversation, but presently left it, and came and +talked with Clive; “I knew your father in India,” said the gentleman to +the lad; “there is not a more gallant or respected officer in that +service. I have a boy too, a stepson, who has just gone into the army; +he is older than you, he was born at the end of the Waterloo year, and +so was a great friend of his and mine, who was at your school, Sir +Rawdon Crawley.” + +“He was in Gown Boys, I know,” says the boy; “succeeded his uncle Pitt, +fourth Baronet. I don’t know how his mother—her who wrote the hymns, +you know, and goes to Mr. Honeyman’s chapel—comes to be Rebecca, Lady +Crawley. His father, Colonel Rawdon Crawley, died at Coventry Island, +in August, 182-, and his uncle, Sir Pitt, not till September here. I +remember, we used to talk about it at Grey Friars, when I was quite a +little chap; and there were bets whether Crawley, I mean the young one, +was a Baronet or not.” + +“When I sailed to Rigy, Cornel,” the first mate was speaking—nor can +any spelling nor combination of letters of which I am master, reproduce +this gentleman’s accent when he was talking his best—“I racklackt they +used always to sairve us a drem before denner. And as your frinds are +kipping the denner, and as I’ve no watch to-night, I’ll jist do as we +used to do at Rigy. James, my fine fellow, jist look alive and breng me +a small glass of brandy, will ye? Did ye iver try a brandy cocktail, +Cornel? Whin I sailed on the New York line, we used jest to make bits +before denner and—thank ye, James:” and he tossed off a glass of +brandy. + +Here a waiter announces, in a loud voice, “Sir Thomas de Boots,” and +the General enters, scowling round the room according to his fashion, +very red in the face, very tight in the girth, splendidly attired with +a choking white neckcloth, a voluminous waistcoat, and his orders on. + +“Stars and garters, by jingo!” cries Mr. Frederick Bayham; “I say, +Pendennis, have you any idea, is the Duke coming? I wouldn’t have come +in these Bluchers if I had known it. Confound it, no—Hoby himself, my +own bootmaker, wouldn’t have allowed poor F. B. to appear in Bluchers, +if he had known that I was going to meet the Duke. My linen’s all +right, anyhow.” + +F. B. breathed a thankful prayer for that. Indeed, who but the very +curious could tell that not F. B.’s, but C. H.’s—Charles Honeyman’s—was +the mark upon that decorous linen? + +Colonel Newcome introduced Sir Thomas to every one in the room, as he +had introduced us all to each other previously, and as Sir Thomas +looked at one after another, his face was kind enough to assume an +expression which seemed to ask, “And who the devil are you, sir?” as +clearly as though the General himself had given utterance to the words. +With the gentleman in the window talking to Clive he seemed to have +some acquaintance, and said not unkindly, “How d’you do, Dobbin?” + +The carriage of Sir Brian Newcome now drove up, from which the Baronet +descended in state, leaning upon the arm of the Apollo in plush and +powder, who closed the shutters of the great coach, and mounted by the +side of the coachman, laced and periwigged. The Bench of Bishops has +given up its wigs; cannot the box, too, be made to resign that insane +decoration? Is it necessary for our comfort, that the men who do our +work in stable or household should be dressed like Merry-Andrews? Enter +Sir Brian Newcome, smiling blandly: he greets his brother +affectionately, Sir Thomas gaily; he nods and smiles to Clive, and +graciously permits Mr. Pendennis to take hold of two fingers of his +extended right hand. That gentleman is charmed, of course, with the +condescension. What man could be otherwise than happy to be allowed a +momentary embrace of two such precious fingers? When a gentleman so +favours me, I always ask, mentally, why he has taken the trouble at +all, and regret that I have not had the presence of mind to poke one +finger against his two. If I were worth ten thousand a year, I cannot +help inwardly reflecting, and kept a large account in Threadneedle +Street, I cannot help thinking he would have favoured me with the whole +palm. + +The arrival of these two grandees has somehow cast a solemnity over the +company. The weather is talked about: brilliant in itself, it does not +occasion very brilliant remarks among Colonel Newcome’s guests. Sir +Brian really thinks it must be as hot as it is in India. Sir Thomas de +Boots, swelling in his white waistcoat, in the armholes of which his +thumbs are engaged, smiles scornfully, and wishes Sir Brian had ever +felt a good sweltering day in the hot winds in India. Sir Brian +withdraws the untenable proposition that London is as hot as Calcutta. +Mr. Binnie looks at his watch, and at the Colonel. “We have only your +nephew, Tom, to wait for,” he says; “I think we may make so bold as to +order the dinner,”—a proposal heartily seconded by Mr. Frederick +Bayham. + +The dinner appears steaming, borne by steaming waiters. The grandees +take their places, one on each side of the Colonel. He begs Mr. +Honeyman to say grace, and stands reverentially during that brief +ceremony, while de Boots looks queerly at him from over his napkin. All +the young men take their places at the farther end of the table, round +about Mr. Binnie; and at the end of the second course Mr. Barnes +Newcome makes his appearance. + +Mr. Barnes does not show the slightest degree of disturbance, although +he disturbs all the company. Soup and fish are brought for him, and +meat, which he leisurely eats, while twelve other gentlemen are kept +waiting. We mark Mr. Binnie’s twinkling eyes, as they watch the young +man. “Eh,” he seems to say, “but that’s just about as free-and-easy a +young chap as ever I set eyes on.” And so Mr. Barnes was a cool young +chap. That dish is so good, he must really have some more. He discusses +the second supply leisurely; and turning round simpering to his +neighbour, says, “I really hope I’m not keeping everybody waiting.” + +“Hem!” grunts the neighbour, Mr. Bayham; “it doesn’t much matter, for +we had all pretty well done dinner.” Barnes takes a note of Mr. +Bayham’s dress—his long frock-coat, the ribbon round his neck; and +surveys him with an admirable impudence. “Who are these people,” thinks +he, “my uncle has got together?” He bows graciously to the honest +Colonel, who asks him to take wine. He is so insufferably affable, that +every man near him would like to give him a beating. + +All the time of the dinner the host was challenging everybody to drink +wine, in his honest old-fashioned way, and Mr. Binnie seconding the +chief entertainer. Such was the way in England and Scotland when they +were young men. And when Binnie, asking Sir Brian, receives for reply +from the Baronet—“Thank you, no, my dear sir. I have exceeded already, +positively exceeded,” the poor discomfited gentleman hardly knows +whither to apply: but, luckily, Tom Norris, the first mate, comes to +his rescue, and cries out, “Mr. Binnie, _I’ve_ not had enough, and I’ll +drink a glass of anything ye like with ye.” The fact is, that Mr. +Norris has had enough. He has drunk bumpers to the health of every +member of the company; his glass has been filled scores of times by +watchful waiters. So has Mr. Bayham absorbed great quantities of drink; +but without any visible effect on that veteran toper. So has young +Clive taken more than is good for him. His cheeks are flushed and +burning; he is chattering and laughing loudly at his end of the table. +Mr. Warrington eyes the lad with some curiosity; and then regards Mr. +Barnes with a look of scorn, which does not scorch that affable young +person. + +I am obliged to confess that the mate of the Indiaman, at an early +period of the dessert, and when nobody had asked him for any such +public expression of his opinion, insisted on rising and proposing the +health of Colonel Newcome, whose virtues he lauded outrageously, and +whom he pronounced to be one of the best of mortal men. Sir Brian +looked very much alarmed at the commencement of this speech, which the +mate delivered with immense shrieks and gesticulation: but the Baronet +recovered during the course of the rambling oration, and at its +conclusion gracefully tapped the table with one of those patronising +fingers; and lifting up a glass containing at least a thimbleful of +claret, said, “My dear brother, I drink your health with all my heart, +I’m su-ah.” The youthful Barnes had uttered many “Hear, hears!” during +the discourse, with an irony which, with every fresh glass of wine he +drank, he cared less to conceal. And though Barnes had come late he had +drunk largely, making up for lost time. + +Those ironical cheers, and all his cousin’s behaviour during dinner, +had struck young Clive, who was growing very angry. He growled out +remarks uncomplimentary to Barnes. His eyes, as he looked towards his +kinsman, flashed out challenges, of which we who were watching him +could see the warlike purport. Warrington looked at Bayham and +Pendennis with glances of apprehension. We saw that danger was +brooding, unless the one young man could be restrained from his +impertinence, and the other from his wine. + +Colonel Newcome said a very few words in reply to his honest friend the +chief mate, and there the matter might have ended: but I am sorry to +say Mr. Binnie now thought it necessary to rise and deliver himself of +some remarks regarding the King’s service, coupled with the name of +Major-General Sir Thomas de Boots, K.C.B., etc.—the receipt of which +that gallant officer was obliged to acknowledge in a confusion +amounting almost to apoplexy. The glasses went whack whack upon the +hospitable board; the evening set in for public speaking. Encouraged by +his last effort, Mr. Binnie now proposed Sir Brian Newcome’s health; +and that Baronet rose and uttered an exceedingly lengthy speech, +delivered with his wine-glass on his bosom. + +Then that sad rogue Bayham must get up, and call earnestly and +respectfully for silence and the chairman’s hearty sympathy, for the +few observations which he had to propose. “Our armies had been drunk +with proper enthusiasm—such men as he beheld around him deserved the +applause of all honest hearts, and merited the cheers with which their +names had been received. (‘Hear, hear!’ from Barnes Newcome +sarcastically. ‘Hear, hear, HEAR!’ fiercely from Clive.) But whilst we +applauded our army, should we forget a profession still more exalted? +Yes, still more exalted, I say in the face of the gallant General +opposite; and that profession, I need not say, is the Church. +(Applause.) Gentlemen, we have among us one who, while partaking +largely of the dainties on this festive board, drinking freely of the +sparkling wine-cup which our gallant hospitality administers to us, +sanctifies by his presence the feast of which he partakes, inaugurates +with appropriate benedictions, and graces it, I may say, both before +and after meat. Gentlemen, Charles Honeyman was the friend of my +childhood, his father the instructor of my early days. If Frederick +Bayham’s latter life has been chequered by misfortune, it may be that I +have forgotten the precepts which the venerable parent of Charles +Honeyman poured into an inattentive ear. He too, as a child, was not +exempt from faults; as a young man, I am told, not quite free from +youthful indiscretions. But in this present Anno Domini, we hail +Charles Honeyman as a precept and an example, as a _decus fidei_ and a +_lumen ecclesiæ_ (as I told him in the confidence of the private circle +this morning, and ere I ever thought to publish my opinion in this +distinguished company). Colonel Newcome and Mr. Binnie! I drink to the +health of the Reverend Charles Honeyman, A.M. May we listen to many +more of his sermons, as well as to that admirable discourse with which +I am sure he is about to electrify us now. May we profit by his +eloquence; and cherish in our memories the truths which come mended +from his tongue!” He ceased; poor Honeyman had to rise on his legs, and +gasp out a few incoherent remarks in reply. Without a book before him, +the Incumbent of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel was no prophet, and the truth +is he made poor work of his oration. + +At the end of it, he, Sir Brian, Colonel Dobbin, and one of the Indian +gentlemen quitted the room, in spite of the loud outcries of our +generous host, who insisted that the party should not break up. “Close +up, gentlemen,” called out honest Newcome, “we are not going to part +just yet. Let me fill your glass, General. You used to have no +objection to a glass of wine.” And he poured out a bumper for his +friend, which the old campaigner sucked in with fitting gusto. “Who +will give us a song? Binnie, give us the ‘Laird of Cockpen.’ It’s +capital, my dear General. Capital,” the Colonel whispered to his +neighbour. + +Mr. Binnie struck up the “Laird of Cockpen,” without, I am bound to +say, the least reluctance. He bobbed to one man, and he winked to +another, and he tossed his glass, and gave all the points of his song +in a manner which did credit to his simplicity and his humour. You +haughty Southerners little know how a jolly Scotch gentleman can +_desipere in loco_, and how he chirrups over his honest cups. I do not +say whether it was with the song or with Mr. Binnie that we were most +amused. It was a good commonty, as Christopher Sly says; nor were we +sorry when it was done. + +Him the first mate succeeded; after which came a song from the +redoubted F. Bayham, which he sang with a bass voice which Lablache +might envy, and of which the chorus was frantically sung by the whole +company. The cry was then for the Colonel; on which Barnes Newcome, who +had been drinking much, started up with something like an oath, crying, +“Oh, I can’t stand this.” + +“Then leave it, confound you!” said young Clive, with fury in his face. +“If our company is not good for you, why do you come into it?” + +“What’s that?” asks Barnes, who was evidently affected by wine. Bayham +roared “Silence!” and Barnes Newcome, looking round with a tipsy toss +of the head, finally sate down. + +The Colonel sang, as we have said, with a very high voice, using freely +the falsetto, after the manner of the tenor singers of his day. He +chose one of his maritime songs, and got through the first verse very +well, Barnes wagging his head at the chorus, with a “Bravo!” so +offensive that Fred Bayham, his neighbour, gripped the young man’s arm, +and told him to hold his confounded tongue. + +The Colonel began his second verse: and here, as will often happen to +amateur singers, his falsetto broke down. He was not in the least +annoyed, for I saw him smile very good-naturedly; and he was going to +try the verse again, when that unlucky Barnes first gave a sort of +crowing imitation of the song, and then burst into a yell of laughter. +Clive dashed a glass of wine in his face at the next minute, glass and +all; and no one who had watched the young man’s behaviour was sorry for +the insult. + +I never saw a kind face express more terror than Colonel Newcome’s. He +started back as if he had himself received the blow from his son. +“Gracious God!” he cried out. “My boy insult a gentleman at my table!” + +“I’d like to do it again,” says Clive, whose whole body was trembling +with anger. + +“Are you drunk, sir?” shouted his father. + +“The boy served the young fellow right, sir,” growled Fred Bayham in +his deepest voice. “Come along, young man. Stand up straight, and keep +a civil tongue in your head next time, mind you, when you dine with +gentlemen. It’s easy to see,” says Fred, looking round with a knowing +air, “that this young man hasn’t got the usages of society—he’s not +been accustomed to it:” and he led the dandy out. + +Others had meanwhile explained the state of the case to the +Colonel—including Sir Thomas de Boots, who was highly energetic and +delighted with Clive’s spirit; and some were for having the song to +continue; but the Colonel, puffing his cigar, said, “No. My pipe is +out. I will never sing again.” So this history will record no more of +Thomas Newcome’s musical performances. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +Park Lane + + +Clive woke up the next morning to be aware of a racking headache, and, +by the dim light of his throbbing eyes, to behold his father with +solemn face at his bed-foot—a reproving conscience to greet his waking. + +“You drank too much wine last night, and disgraced yourself, sir,” the +old soldier said. “You must get up and eat humble pie this morning, my +boy.” + +“Humble what, father?” asked the lad, hardly aware of his words, or the +scene before him. “Oh, I’ve got such a headache!” + +“Serve you right, sir. Many a young fellow has had to go on parade in +the morning, with a headache earned overnight. Drink this water. Now, +jump up. Now, dash the water well over your head. There you come! Make +your toilette quickly; and let us be off, and find cousin Barnes before +he has left home.” + +Clive obeyed the paternal orders; dressed himself quickly; and +descending, found his father smoking his morning cigar in the apartment +where they had dined the night before, and where the tables still were +covered with the relics of yesterday’s feast—the emptied bottles, the +blank lamps, the scattered ashes and fruits, the wretched heel-taps +that have been lying exposed all night to the air. Who does not know +the aspect of an expired feast? + +“The field of action strewed with the dead, my boy,” says Clive’s +father. “See, here’s the glass on the floor yet, and a great stain of +claret on the carpet.” + +“Oh, father!” says Clive, hanging his head down, “I know I shouldn’t +have done it. But Barnes Newcome would provoke the patience of Job; and +I couldn’t bear to have my father insulted.” + +“I am big enough to fight my own battles, my boy,” the Colonel said +good-naturedly, putting his hand on the lad’s damp head. “How your head +throbs! If Barnes laughed at my singing, depend upon it, sir, there was +something ridiculous in it, and he laughed because he could not help +it. If he behaved ill, we should not; and to a man who is eating our +salt too, and is of our blood.” + +“He is ashamed of our blood, father,” cries Clive, still indignant. + +“We ought to be ashamed of doing wrong. We must go and ask his pardon. +Once when I was a young man in India,” the father continued very +gravely, “some hot words passed at mess—not such an insult as that of +last night; I don’t think I could have quite borne that—and people +found fault with me for forgiving the youngster who had uttered the +offensive expressions over his wine. Some of my acquaintance sneered at +my courage, and that is a hard imputation for a young fellow of spirit +to bear. But providentially, you see, it was war-time, and very soon +after I had the good luck to show that I was not a _poule mouillée_, as +the French call it; and the man who insulted me, and whom I forgave, +became my fastest friend, and died by my side—it was poor Jack +Cutler—at Argaum. We must go and ask Barnes Newcome’s pardon, sir, and +forgive other people’s trespasses, my boy, if we hope forgiveness of +our own.” His voice sank down as he spoke, and he bowed his honest head +reverently. I have heard his son tell the simple story years +afterwards, with tears in his eyes. + +Piccadilly was hardly yet awake the next morning, and the sparkling +dews and the poor homeless vagabonds still had possession of the grass +of Hyde Park, as the pair walked up to Sir Brian Newcome’s house, where +the shutters were just opening to let in the day. The housemaid, who +was scrubbing the steps of the house, and washing its trim feet in a +manner which became such a polite mansion’s morning toilet, knew Master +Clive, and smiled at him from under her blousy curl-papers, admitting +the two gentlemen into Sir Brian’s dining-room, where they proposed to +wait until Mr. Barnes should appear. There they sate for an hour +looking at Lawrence’s picture of Lady Anne, leaning over a harp, +attired in white muslin; at Harlowe’s portrait of Mrs. Newcome, with +her two sons simpering at her knees, painted at a time when the Newcome +Brothers were not the bald-headed, red-whiskered British merchants with +whom the reader has made acquaintance, but chubby children with hair +flowing down their backs, and quaint little swallow-tailed jackets and +nankeen trousers. A splendid portrait of the late Earl of Kew in his +peer’s robes hangs opposite his daughter and her harp. We are writing +of George the Fourth’s reign; I dare say there hung in the room a fine +framed print of that great sovereign. The chandelier is in a canvas +bag; the vast sideboard, whereon are erected open frames for the +support of Sir Brian Newcome’s grand silver trays, which on dinner days +gleam on that festive board, now groans under the weight of Sir Brian’s +bluebooks. An immense receptacle for wine, shaped like a Roman +sarcophagus, lurks under the sideboard. Two people sitting at that +large dining-table must talk very loud so as to make themselves heard +across those great slabs of mahogany covered with damask. The butler +and servants who attend at the table take a long time walking round it. +I picture to myself two persons of ordinary size sitting in that great +room at that great table, far apart, in neat evening costume, sipping a +little sherry, silent, genteel, and glum; and think the great and +wealthy are not always to be envied, and that there may be more comfort +and happiness in a snug parlour, where you are served by a brisk little +maid, than in a great dark, dreary dining-hall, where a funereal +major-domo and a couple of stealthy footmen minister to you your +mutton-chops. They come and lay the cloth presently, wide as the +main-sheet of some tall ammiral. A pile of newspapers and letters for +the master of the house; the _Newcome Sentinel_, old county paper, +moderate conservative, in which our worthy townsman and member is +praised, his benefactions are recorded, and his speeches given at full +length; the _Newcome Independent_, in which our precious member is +weekly described as a ninny, and informed almost every Thursday morning +that he is a bloated aristocrat, as he munches his dry toast. Heaps of +letters, county papers, _Times_ and _Morning Herald_ for Sir Brian +Newcome; little heaps of letters (dinner and soirée cards most of +these) and _Morning Post_ for Mr. Barnes. Punctually as eight o’clock +strikes, that young gentleman comes to breakfast; his father will lie +yet for another hour; the Baronet’s prodigious labours in the House of +Commons keeping him frequently out of bed till sunrise. + +As his cousin entered the room, Clive turned very red, and perhaps a +faint blush might appear on Barnes’s pallid countenance. He came in, a +handkerchief in one hand, a pamphlet in the other, and both hands being +thus engaged, he could offer neither to his kinsmen. + +“You are come to breakfast, I hope,” he said—calling it “weakfast,” and +pronouncing the words with a most languid drawl—“or, perhaps, you want +to see my father? He is never out of his room till half-past nine. +Harper, did Sir Brian come in last night before or after me?” Harper, +the butler, thinks Sir Brian came in after Mr. Barnes. + +When that functionary had quitted the room, Barnes turned round to his +uncle in a candid, smiling way, and said, “The fact is, sir, I don’t +know when I came home myself very distinctly, and can’t, of course, +tell about my father. Generally, you know, there are two candles left +in the hall, you know; and if there are two, you know, I know of course +that my father is still at the House. But last night, after that +capital song you sang, hang me if I know what happened to me. I beg +your pardon, sir, I’m shocked at having been so overtaken. Such a +confounded thing doesn’t happen to me once in ten years. I do trust I +didn’t do anything rude to anybody, for I thought some of your friends +the pleasantest fellows I ever met in my life; and as for the claret, +’gad, as if I hadn’t had enough after dinner, I brought a quantity of +it away with me on my shirt-front and waistcoat!” + +“I beg your pardon, Barnes,” Clive said, blushing deeply, “and I’m very +sorry indeed for what passed; I threw it.” + +The Colonel, who had been listening with a queer expression of wonder +and doubt on his face, here interrupted Mr. Barnes. “It was Clive +that—that spilled the wine over you last night,” Thomas Newcome said; +“the young rascal had drunk a great deal too much wine, and had neither +the use of his head nor his hands, and this morning I have given him a +lecture, and he has come to ask your pardon for his clumsiness; and if +you have forgotten your share in the night’s transaction, I hope you +have forgotten his, and will accept his hand and his apology.” + +“Apology: There’s no apology,” cries Barnes, holding out a couple of +fingers of his hand, but looking towards the Colonel. “I don’t know +what happened any more than the dead. Did we have a row? Were there any +glasses broken? The best way in such cases is to sweep ’em up. We can’t +mend them.” + +The Colonel said gravely—“that he was thankful to find that the +disturbance of the night before had no worse result.” He pulled the +tail of Clive’s coat, when that unlucky young blunderer was about to +trouble his cousin with indiscreet questions or explanations, and +checked his talk. “The other night you saw an old man in drink, my +boy,” he said, “and to what shame and degradation the old wretch had +brought himself. Wine has given you a warning too, which I hope you +will remember all your life; no one has seen me the worse for drink +these forty years, and I hope both you young gentlemen will take +counsel by an old soldier, who fully preaches what he practises, and +beseeches you to beware of the bottle.” + +After quitting their kinsman, the kind Colonel further improved the +occasion with his son; and told him out of his own experience many +stories of quarrels, and duels, and wine;—how the wine had occasioned +the brawls, and the foolish speech overnight the bloody meeting at +morning; how he had known widows and orphans made by hot words uttered +in idle orgies: how the truest honour was the manly confession of +wrong; and the best courage the courage to avoid temptation. The +humble-minded speaker, whose advice contained the best of all wisdom, +that which comes from a gentle and reverent spirit, and a pure and +generous heart, never for once thought of the effect which he might be +producing, but uttered his simple say according to the truth within +him. Indeed, he spoke out his mind pretty resolutely on all subjects +which moved or interested him; and Clive, his son, and his honest chum, +Mr. Binnie, who had a great deal more reading and much keener +intelligence than the Colonel, were amused often at his naive opinion +about men, or books, or morals. Mr. Clive had a very fine natural sense +of humour, which played perpetually round his father’s simple +philosophy with kind and smiling comments. Between this pair of friends +the superiority of wit lay, almost from the very first, on the younger +man’s side; but, on the other hand, Clive felt a tender admiration for +his father’s goodness, a loving delight in contemplating his elder’s +character, which he has never lost, and which in the trials of their +future life inexpressibly cheered and consoled both of them! _Beati +illi!_ O man of the world, whose wearied eyes may glance over this +page, may those who come after you so regard you! O generous boy, who +read in it, may you have such a friend to trust and cherish in youth, +and in future days fondly and proudly to remember! + +Some four or five weeks after the quasi-reconciliation between Clive +and his kinsman, the chief part of Sir Brian Newcome’s family were +assembled at the breakfast-table together, where the meal was taken in +common, and at the early hour of eight (unless the senator was kept too +late in the House of Commons overnight); and Lady Anne and her nursery +were now returned to London again, little Alfred being perfectly set up +by a month of Brighton air. It was a Thursday morning; on which day of +the week, it has been said, the _Newcome Independent_ and the _Newcome +Sentinel_ both made their appearance upon the Baronet’s table. The +household from above and from below; the maids and footmen from the +basement; the nurses, children, and governesses from the attics; all +poured into the room at the sound of a certain bell. + +I do not sneer at the purpose for which, at that chiming eight-o’clock +bell, the household is called together. The urns are hissing, the plate +is shining; the father of the house, standing up, reads from a gilt +book for three or four minutes in a measured cadence. The members of +the family are around the table in an attitude of decent reverence; the +younger children whisper responses at their mother’s knees; the +governess worships a little apart; the maids and the large footmen are +in a cluster before their chairs, the upper servants performing their +devotion on the other side of the sideboard; the nurse whisks about the +unconscious last-born, and tosses it up and down during the ceremony. I +do not sneer at that—at the act at which all these people are +assembled—it is at the rest of the day I marvel; at the rest of the +day, and what it brings. At the very instant when the voice has ceased +speaking and the gilded book is shut, the world begins again, and for +the next twenty-three hours and fifty-seven minutes all that household +is given up to it. The servile squad rises up and marches away to its +basement, whence, should it happen to be a gala-day, those tall +gentlemen at present attired in Oxford mixture will issue forth with +flour plastered on their heads, yellow coats, pink breeches, sky-blue +waistcoats, silver lace, buckles in their shoes, black silk bags on +their backs, and I don’t know what insane emblems of servility and +absurd bedizenments of folly. Their very manner of speaking to what we +call their masters and mistresses will be a like monstrous masquerade. +You know no more of that race which inhabits the basement floor, than +of the men and brethren of Timbuctoo, to whom some among us send +missionaries. If you met some of your servants in the streets (I +respectfully suppose for a moment that the reader is a person of high +fashion and a great establishment), you would not know their faces. You +might sleep under the same roof for half a century and know nothing +about them. If they were ill, you would not visit them, though you +would send them an apothecary and of course order that they lacked for +nothing. You are not unkind, you are not worse than your neighbours. +Nay, perhaps, if you did go into the kitchen, or to take the tea in the +servants’-hall, you would do little good, and only bore the folks +assembled there. But so it is. With those fellow-Christians who have +been just saying Amen to your prayers, you have scarcely the community +of Charity. They come, you don’t know whence; they think and talk, you +don’t know what; they die, and you don’t care, or _vice versâ_. They +answer the bell for prayers as they answer the bell for coals: for +exactly three minutes in the day you all kneel together on one +carpet—and, the desires and petitions of the servants and masters over, +the rite called family worship is ended. + +Exeunt servants, save those two who warm the newspaper, administer the +muffins, and serve out the tea. Sir Brian reads his letters, and chumps +his dry toast. Ethel whispers to her mother, she thinks Eliza is +looking very ill. Lady Anne asks, which is Eliza? Is it the woman that +was ill before they left town? If she is ill, Mrs. Trotter had better +send her away. Mrs. Trotter is only a great deal too good-natured. She +is always keeping people who are ill. Then her ladyship begins to read +the _Morning Post_, and glances over the names of the persons who were +present at Baroness Bosco’s ball, and Mrs. Toddle Tompkyns’s _soirée +dansante_ in Belgrave Square. + +“Everybody was there,” says Barnes, looking over from his paper. + +“But who is Mrs. Toddle Tompkyns?” asks mamma. “Who ever heard of a +Mrs. Toddle Tompkyns? What do people mean by going to such a person?” + +“Lady Popinjoy asked the people,” Barnes says gravely. “The thing was +really doosed well done. The woman looked frightened; but she’s pretty, +and I am told the daughter will have a great lot of money.” + +“Is she pretty, and did you dance with her?” asks Ethel. + +“Me dance!” says Mr. Barnes. We are speaking of a time before casinos +were, and when the British youth were by no means so active in dancing +practice as at this present period. Barnes resumed the reading of his +county paper, but presently laid it down, with an execration so brisk +and loud, that his mother gave a little outcry, and even his father +looked up from his letters to ask the meaning of an oath so unexpected +and ungenteel. + +“My uncle, the Colonel of sepoys, and his amiable son have been paying +a visit to Newcome—that’s the news which I have the pleasure to +announce to you,” says Mr. Barnes. + +“You are always sneering about our uncle,” breaks in Ethel, with +impetuous voice, “and saying unkind things about Clive. Our uncle is a +dear, good, kind man, and I love him. He came to Brighton to see us, +and went out every day for hours and hours with Alfred; and Clive, too, +drew pictures for him. And he is good, and kind, and generous, and +honest as his father. And Barnes is always speaking ill of him behind +his back.” + +“And his aunt lets very nice lodgings, and is altogether a most +desirable acquaintance,” says Mr. Barnes. “What a shame it is that we +have not cultivated that branch of the family!” + +“My dear fellow,” cries Sir Brian, “I have no doubt Miss Honeyman is a +most respectable person. Nothing is so ungenerous as to rebuke a +gentleman or a lady on account of their poverty, and I coincide with +Ethel in thinking that you speak of your uncle and his son in terms +which, to say the least, are disrespectful.” + +“Miss Honeyman is a dear little old woman,” breaks in Ethel. “Was not +she kind to Alfred, mamma, and did not she make him nice jelly? And a +Doctor of Divinity—you know Clive’s grandfather was a Doctor of +Divinity, mamma, there’s a picture of him in a wig—is just as good as a +banker, you know he is.” + +“Did you bring some of Miss Honeyman’s lodging-house cards with you, +Ethel?” says her brother, “and had we not better hang up one or two in +Lombard Street; hers and our other relation’s, Mrs. Mason?” + +“My darling love, who is Mrs. Mason?” asks Lady Anne. + +“Another member of the family, ma’am. She was cousin——” + +“She was no such thing, sir,” roars Sir Brian. + +“She was relative and housemaid of my grandfather during his first +marriage. She acted, I believe, as dry nurse to the distinguished +Colonel of sepoys, my uncle. She has retired into private life in her +native town of Newcome, and occupies her latter days by the management +of a mangle. The Colonel and young pothouse have gone down to spend a +few days with their elderly relative. It’s all here in the paper, by +Jove!” Mr. Barnes clenched his fist, and stamped upon the newspaper +with much energy. + +“And so they should go down and see her, and so the Colonel should love +his nurse, and not forget his relations if they are old and poor,” +cries Ethel, with a flush on her face, and tears starting into her +eyes. + +“Hear what the Newcome papers say about it,” shrieks out Mr. Barnes, +his voice quivering, his little eyes flashing out scorn. “It’s in both +the papers, I dare say. It will be in the _Times_ to-morrow. By —— it’s +delightful. Our paper only mentions the gratifying circumstance; here +is the paragraph. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, C.B., a distinguished +Indian officer, and younger brother of our respected townsman and +representative Sir Brian Newcome, Bart., has been staying for the last +week at the King’s Arms, in our city. He has been visited by the +principal inhabitants and leading gentlemen of Newcome, and has come +among us, as we understand, in order to pass a few days with an elderly +relative, who has been living for many years past in great retirement +in this place.’” + +“Well, I see no great harm in that paragraph,” says Sir Brian. “I wish +my brother had gone to the Roebuck, and not to the King’s Arms, as the +Roebuck is our house: but he could not be expected to know much about +the Newcome inns, as he is a _new-comer_ himself. And I think it was +very right of the people to call on him.” + +“Now hear what the _Independent_ says, and see if you like that, sir,” +cries Barnes, grinning fiercely; and he began to read as follows:— + +“‘Mr. _Independent_—I was born and bred a Screwcomite, and am naturally +proud of _everybody_ and _everything_ which bears the revered name of +Screwcome. I am a Briton and a man, though I have not the honour of a +vote for my native borough; if I had, you may be sure I would give it +to our _admired_ and _talented_ representative, Don Pomposo Lickspittle +Grindpauper, Poor House Agincourt, Screwcome, whose ancestors fought +with Julius Cæsar against William the Conqueror, and whose father +certainly wielded a _cloth yard shaft_ in London not fifty years ago. + +“‘Don Pomposo, as you know, seldom favours the town o Screwcome with a +visit.—Our gentry are not of _ancient birth_ enough to be welcome to a +Lady Screwcome. Our manufacturers make their money by trade. Oh, fie I +how can it be supposed that such _vulgarians_ should be received among +the _aristocratic society_ of Screwcome House? Two balls in the +season, and ten dozen o gooseberry, are enough for _them_.’” + +“It’s that scoundrel Parrot,” burst out Sir Brian; “because I wouldn’t +have any more wine of him—No, it’s Vidler, the apothecary. By heavens! +Lady Anne, I told you it would be so. Why didn’t you ask the Miss +Vidlers to your ball?” + +“They were on the list,” cries Lady Anne, “three of them; I did +everything I could; I consulted Mr. Vidler for poor Alfred, and he +actually stopped and saw the dear child take the physic. Why were they +not asked to the ball?” cries her ladyship bewildered; “I declare to +gracious goodness I don’t know.” + +“Barnes scratched their names,” cries Ethel, “out of the list, mamma. +You know you did, Barnes; you said you had gallipots enough.” + +“I don’t think it is like Vidler’s writing,” said Mr. Barnes, perhaps +willing to turn the conversation. “I think it must be that villain Duff +the baker, who made the song about us at the last election;—but hear +the rest of the paragraph,” and he continued to read:— + +“‘The Screwcomites are at this moment favoured with a visit from a +gentleman of the Screwcome family, who, having passed all his life +abroad, is somewhat different from his relatives, whom we all so _love +and honour!_ This distinguished gentleman, this gallant soldier, has +come among us, not merely to see our manufactures—in which Screwcome +can vie with any city in the North—but an old servant and relation of +his family, whom he is not above recognising; who nursed him in his +early days; who has been living in her native place for many years, +supported by the generous bounty of Colonel N———. The gallant officer, +accompanied by his son, a fine youth, has taken repeated drives round +our beautiful environs in one of friend Taplow’s (of the King’s Arms) +open drags, and accompanied by Mrs. ———, now an aged lady, who speaks, +with tears in her eyes, of the goodness and gratitude of her gallant +soldier! + +“‘One day last week they drove to Screwcome House. Will it be believed +that, though the house is only four miles distant from our city—though +Don Pomposo’s family have inhabited it these twelve years for four or +five months every year—Mrs. M——— saw her cousin’s house for the first +time; has never set eyes upon those grandees, except in public places, +since the day when they _honoured_ the county by purchasing the estate +which they own? + +“‘I have, as I repeat, no vote for the borough; but if I had, oh, +wouldn’t I show my respectful gratitude at the next election, and plump +for Pomposo! I shall keep my eye upon him, and am, Mr. +_Independent_,—Your Constant Reader, Peeping Tom.’” + +“The spirit of radicalism abroad in this country,” said Sir Brian +Newcome, crushing his egg-shell desperately, “is dreadful, really +dreadful. We are on the edge of a positive volcano.” Down went the +egg-spoon into its crater. “The worst sentiments are everywhere +publicly advocated; the licentiousness of the press has reached a +pinnacle which menaces us with ruin; there is no law which these +shameless newspapers respect; no rank which is safe from their attacks; +no ancient landmark which the lava-flood of democracy does not threaten +to overwhelm and destroy.” + +“When I was at Spielburg,” Barnes Newcome remarked kindly, “I saw three +long-bearded, putty-faced blaguards pacin up and down a little +courtyard, and Count Keppenheimer told me they were three damned +editors of Milanese newspapers, who had had seven years of imprisonment +already; and last year when Keppenheimer came to shoot at Newcome, I +showed him that old thief, old Batters, the proprietor of the +_Independent_, and Potts, his infernal ally, driving in a dogcart; and +I said to him, Keppenheimer, I wish we had a place where we could lock +up some of our infernal radicals of the press, or that you could take +off those two villains to Spielburg; and as we were passin, that +infernal Potts burst out laughin in my face, and cut one of my pointers +over the head with his whip. We must do something with that +_Independent_, sir.” + +“We must,” says the father, solemnly, “we must put it down, Barnes, we +must put it down.” + +“I think,” says Barnes, “we had best give the railway advertisements to +Batters.” + +“But that makes the man of the _Sentinel_ so angry,” says the elder +persecutor of the press. + +“Then let us give Tom Potts some shootin at any rate; the ruffian is +always poachin about our covers as it is. Speers should be written to, +sir, to keep a look-out upon Batters and that villain his accomplice, +and to be civil to them, and that sort of thing; and, damn it, to be +down upon them whenever he sees the opportunity.” + +During the above conspiracy for bribing or crushing the independence of +a great organ of British opinion, Miss Ethel Newcome held her tongue; +but when her papa closed the conversation by announcing solemnly that +he would communicate with Speers, Ethel turning to her mother said, +“Mamma, is it true that grandpapa has a relation living at Newcome who +is old and poor?” + +“My darling child, how on earth should I know?” says Lady Anne. “I +daresay Mr. Newcome had plenty of poor relations.” + +“I am sure some on your side, Anne, have been good enough to visit me +at the bank,” said Sir Brian, who thought his wife’s ejaculation was a +reflection upon his family, whereas it was the statement of a simple +fact in natural history. “This person was no relation of my father’s at +all. She was remotely connected with his first wife, I believe. She +acted as servant to him, and has been most handsomely pensioned by the +Colonel.” + +“Who went to her, like a kind, dear, good, brave uncle as he is,” cried +Ethel; “the very day I go to Newcome I’ll go to see her.” She caught a +look of negation in her father’s eye—“I will go—that is, if papa will +give me leave,” says Miss Ethel. + +“By Gad, sir,” says Barnes, “I think it is the very best thing she +could do; and the best way of doing it, Ethel can go with one of the +boys and take Mrs. What-do-you-call’em a gown, or a tract, or that sort +of thing, and stop that infernal _Independent’s_ mouth.” + +“If we had gone sooner,” said Miss Ethel, simply, “there would not have +been all this abuse of us in the paper.” To which statement her worldly +father and brother perforce agreeing, we may congratulate good old Mrs. +Mason upon the new and polite acquaintances she is about to make. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. +The Old Ladies + + +The above letter and conversation will show what our active Colonel’s +movements and history had been since the last chapter in which they +were recorded. He and Clive took the Liverpool mail, and travelled from +Liverpool to Newcome with a post-chaise and a pair of horses, which +landed them at the King’s Arms. The Colonel delighted in +post-chaising—the rapid transit through the country amused him and +cheered his spirits. Besides, had he not Dr. Johnson’s word for it, +that a swift journey in a post-chaise was one of the greatest +enjoyments in life, and a sojourn in a comfortable inn one of its chief +pleasures? In travelling he was as happy and noisy as a boy. He talked +to the waiters, and made friends with the landlord; got all the +information which he could gather regarding the towns into which he +came; and drove about from one sight or curiosity to another with +indefatigable good-humour and interest. It was good for Clive to see +men and cities; to visit mills, manufactories, country seats, +cathedrals. He asked a hundred questions regarding all things round +about him; and any one caring to know who Thomas Newcome was, and what +his rank and business, found no difficulty in having his questions +answered by the simple and kindly traveller. + +Mine host of the King’s Arms, Mr. Taplow aforesaid, knew in five +minutes who his guest was, and the errand on which he came. Was not +Colonel Newcome’s name painted on all his trunks and boxes? Was not his +servant ready to answer all questions regarding the Colonel and his +son? Newcome pretty generally introduced Clive to my landlord, when the +latter brought his guest his bottle of wine. With old-fashioned +cordiality, the Colonel would bid the landlord drink a glass of his own +liquor, and seldom failed to say to him, “This is my son, sir. We are +travelling together to see the country. Every English gentleman should +see his own country first, before he goes abroad, as we intend to do +afterwards—to make the Grand Tour. And I will thank you to tell me what +there is remarkable in your town, and what we ought to see—antiquities, +manufactures, and seats in the neighbourhood. We wish to see +everything, sir—everything. Elaborate diaries of these home tours are +still extant, in Clive’s boyish manuscript and the Colonel’s dashing +handwriting—quaint records of places visited, and alarming accounts of +inn bills paid.” + +So Mr. Taplow knew in five minutes that his guest was a brother of Sir +Brian, their member; and saw the note despatched by an ostler to “Mrs. +Sarah Mason, Jubilee Row,” announcing that the Colonel had arrived, and +would be with her after his dinner. Mr. Taplow did not think fit to +tell his guest that the house Sir Brian used—the Blue house—was the +Roebuck, not the King’s Arms. Might not the gentlemen be of different +politics? Mr. Taplow’s wine knew none. + +Some of the jolliest fellows in all Newcome use the Boscawen Room at +the King’s Arms as their club, and pass numberless merry evenings and +crack countless jokes there. + +Duff, the baker; old Mr. Vidler, when he can get away from his medical +labours (and his hand shakes, it must be owned, very much now, and his +nose is very red); Parrot, the auctioneer; and that amusing dog, Tom +Potts, the talented reporter of the _Independent_—were pretty constant +attendants at the King’s Arms; and Colonel Newcome’s dinner was not +over before some of these gentlemen knew what dishes he had had; how he +had called for a bottle of sherry and a bottle of claret, like a +gentleman; how he had paid the postboys, and travelled with a servant +like a top-sawyer; that he was come to shake hands with an old nurse +and relative of his family. Every one of those jolly Britons thought +well of the Colonel for his affectionateness and liberality, and +contrasted it with the behaviour of the Tory Baronet—their +representative. + +His arrival made a sensation in the place. The Blue Club at the Roebuck +discussed it, as well as the uncompromising Liberals at the King’s +Arms. Mr. Speers, Sir Brian’s agent, did not know how to act, and +advised Sir Brian by the next night’s mail, The Reverend Dr. Bulders, +the rector, left his card. + +Meanwhile it was not gain or business, but only love and gratitude, +which brought Thomas Newcome to his father’s native town. Their dinner +over, away went the Colonel and Clive, guided by the ostler, their +previous messenger, to the humble little tenement which Thomas +Newcome’s earliest friend inhabited. The good old woman put her +spectacles into her Bible, and flung herself into her boy’s arms—her +boy who was more than fifty years old. She embraced Clive still more +eagerly and frequently than she kissed his father. She did not know her +Colonel with them whiskers. Clive was the very picture of the dear boy +as he had left her almost twoscore years ago. And as fondly as she hung +on the boy, her memory had ever clung round that early time when they +were together. The good soul told endless tales of her darling’s +childhood, his frolics and beauty. To-day was uncertain to her, but the +past was still bright and clear. As they sat prattling together over +the bright tea-table, attended by the trim little maid, whose services +the Colonel’s bounty secured for his old nurse, the kind old creature +insisted on having Clive by her side. Again and again she would think +he was actually her own boy, forgetting, in that sweet and pious +hallucination, that the bronzed face, and thinned hair, and melancholy +eyes of the veteran before her, were those of her nursling of old days. +So for near half the space of man’s allotted life he had been absent +from her, and day and night wherever he was, in sickness or health, in +sorrow or danger, her innocent love and prayers had attended the absent +darling. Not in vain, not in vain, does he live whose course is so +befriended. Let us be thankful for our race, as we think of the love +that blesses some of us. Surely it has something of Heaven in it, and +angels celestial may rejoice in it, and admire it. + +Having nothing whatever to do, our Colonel’s movements are of course +exceedingly rapid, and he has the very shortest time to spend in any +single place. That evening, Saturday, and the next day, Sunday, when he +will faithfully accompany his dear old nurse to church. And what a +festival is that day for her, when she has her Colonel and that +beautiful brilliant boy of his by her side, and Mr. Hicks, the curate, +looking at him, and the venerable Dr. Bulders himself eyeing him from +the pulpit, and all the neighbours fluttering and whispering, to be +sure, who can be that fine military gentleman, and that splendid young +man sitting by old Mrs. Mason, and leading her so affectionately out of +church? That Saturday and Sunday the Colonel will pass with good old +Mason, but on Monday he must be off; on Tuesday he must be in London, +he has important business in London,—in fact, Tom Hamilton, of his +regiment, comes up for election at the Oriental on that day, and on +such an occasion could Thomas Newcome be absent? He drives away from +the King’s Arms through a row of smirking chambermaids, smiling +waiters, and thankful ostlers, accompanied to the post-chaise, of which +the obsequious Taplow shuts the door; and the Boscawen Room pronounces +him that night to be a trump; and the whole of the busy town, ere the +next day is over, has heard of his coming and departure, praised his +kindliness and generosity, and no doubt contrasted it with the +different behaviour of the Baronet, his brother, who has gone for some +time by the ignominious sobriquet of Screwcome, in the neighbourhood of +his ancestral hall. + +Dear old nurse Mason will have a score of visits to make and to +receive, at all of which you may be sure that triumphal advent of the +Colonel’s will be discussed and admired. Mrs. Mason will show her +beautiful new India shawl, and her splendid Bible with the large print, +and the affectionate inscription, from Thomas Newcome to his dearest +old friend; her little maid will exhibit her new gown; the curate will +see the Bible, and Mrs. Bulders will admire the shawl; and the old +friends and humble companions of the good old lady, as they take their +Sunday walks by the pompous lodge-gates of Newcome Park, which stand +with the Baronet’s new-fangled arms over them, gilded, and filagreed, +and barred, will tell their stories, too, about the kind Colonel and +his hard brother. When did Sir Brian ever visit a poor old woman’s +cottage, or his bailiff exempt from the rent? What good action, except +a few thin blankets and beggarly coal and soup tickets, did Newcome +Park ever do for the poor? And as for the Colonel’s wealth, Lord bless +you, he’s been in India these five-and-thirty years; the Baronet’s +money is a drop in the sea to his. The Colonel is the kindest, the +best, the richest of men. These facts and opinions, doubtless, inspired +the eloquent pen of “Peeping Tom,” when he indited the sarcastic +epistle to the _Newcome Independent_, which we perused over Sir Brian +Newcome’s shoulder in the last chapter. + +And you may be sure Thomas Newcome had not been many weeks in England +before good little Miss Honeyman, at Brighton, was favoured with a +visit from her dear Colonel. The envious Gawler scowling out of his +bow-window, where the fly-blown card still proclaimed that his lodgings +were unoccupied, had the mortification to behold a yellow post-chaise +drive up to Miss Honeyman’s door, and having discharged two gentlemen +from within, trot away with servant and baggage to some house of +entertainment other than Gawler’s. Whilst this wretch was cursing his +own ill fate, and execrating yet more deeply Miss Honeyman’s better +fortune, the worthy little lady was treating her Colonel to a sisterly +embrace and a solemn reception. Hannah, the faithful housekeeper, was +presented, and had a shake of the hand. The Colonel knew all about +Hannah: ere he had been in England a week, a basket containing pots of +jam of her confection, and a tongue of Hannah’s curing, had arrived for +the Colonel. That very night when his servant had lodged Colonel +Newcome’s effects at the neighbouring hotel, Hannah was in possession +of one of the Colonel’s shirts, she and her mistress having previously +conspired to make a dozen of those garments for the family benefactor. + +All the presents which Newcome had ever transmitted to his +sister-in-law from India had been taken out of the cotton and lavender +in which the faithful creature kept them. It was a fine hot day in +June, but I promise you Miss Honeyman wore her blazing scarlet Cashmere +shawl; her great brooch, representing the Taj of Agra, was in her +collar; and her bracelets (she used to say, I am given to understand +they are called bangles, my dear, by the natives) decorated the sleeves +round her lean old hands, which trembled with pleasure as they received +the kind grasp of the Colonel of colonels. How busy those hands had +been that morning! What custards they had whipped!—what a triumph of +pie-crusts they had achieved! Before Colonel Newcome had been ten +minutes in the house, the celebrated veal-cutlets made their +appearance. Was not the whole house adorned in expectation of his +coming? Had not Mr. Kuhn, the affable foreign gentleman of the +first-floor lodgers, prepared a French dish? Was not Betty on the +look-out, and instructed to put the cutlets on the fire at the very +moment when the Colonel’s carriage drove up to her mistress’s door? The +good woman’s eyes twinkled, the kind old hand and voice shook, as, +holding up a bright glass of Madeira, Miss Honeyman drank the Colonel’s +health. “I promise you, my dear Colonel,” says she, nodding her head, +adorned with a bristling superstructure of lace and ribbons, “I promise +you, that I can drink your health in good _wine!_” The wine was of his +own sending, and so were the China fire-screens, and the sandalwood +workbox, and the ivory cardcase, and those magnificent pink and white +chessmen, carved like little sepoys and mandarins, with the castles on +elephants’ backs, George the Third and his queen in pink ivory, against +the Emperor of China and lady in white—the delight of Clive’s +childhood, the chief ornament of the old spinster’s sitting-room. + +Miss Honeyman’s little feast was pronounced to be the perfection of +cookery; and when the meal was over, came a noise of little feet at the +parlour door, which being opened, there appeared, first, a tall nurse +with a dancing baby; second and third, two little girls with little +frocks, little trousers, long ringlets, blue eyes, and blue ribbons to +match; fourth, Master Alfred, now quite recovered from his illness, and +holding by the hand, fifth, Miss Ethel Newcome, blushing like a rose. + +Hannah, grinning, acted as mistress of the ceremonies, calling out the +names of “Miss Newcomes, Master Newcomes, to see the Colonel, if you +please, ma’am,” bobbing a curtsey, and giving a knowing nod to Master +Clive, as she smoothed her new silk apron. Hannah, too, was in new +attire, all crisp and rustling, in the Colonel’s honour. Miss Ethel did +not cease blushing as she advanced towards her uncle; and the honest +campaigner started up, blushing too. Mr. Clive rose also, as little +Alfred, of whom he was a great friend, ran towards him. Clive rose, +laughed, nodded at Ethel, and ate gingerbread nuts all at the same +time. As for Colonel Thomas Newcome and his niece, they fell in love +with each other instantaneously, like Prince Camaralzaman and the +Princess of China. + +I have turned away one artist: the poor creature was utterly +incompetent to depict the sublime, graceful, and pathetic personages +and events with which this history will most assuredly abound, and I +doubt whether even the designer engaged in his place can make such a +portrait of Miss Ethel Newcome as shall satisfy her friends and her own +sense of justice. That blush which we have indicated, he cannot render. +How are you to copy it with a steel point and a ball of printer’s ink? +That kindness which lights up the Colonel’s eyes; gives an expression +to the very wrinkles round about them; shines as a halo round his +face;—what artist can paint it? The painters of old, when they +portrayed sainted personages, were fain to have recourse to compasses +and gold leaf—as if celestial splendour could be represented by Dutch +metal! As our artist cannot come up to this task, the reader will be +pleased to let his fancy paint for itself the look of courtesy for a +woman, admiration for a young beauty, protection for an innocent child, +all of which are expressed upon the Colonel’s kind face, as his eyes +are set upon Ethel Newcome. + +“Mamma has sent us to bid you welcome to England, uncle,” says Miss +Ethel, advancing, and never thinking for a moment of laying aside that +fine blush which she brought into the room, and which is _her_ pretty +symbol of youth, and modesty, and beauty. + +He took a little slim white hand and laid it down on his brown palm, +where it looked all the whiter: he cleared the grizzled mustachio from +his mouth, and stooping down he kissed the little white hand with a +great deal of grace and dignity. There was no point of resemblance, and +yet a something in the girl’s look, voice, and movements, which caused +his heart to thrill, and an image out of the past to rise up and salute +him. The eyes which had brightened his youth (and which he saw in his +dreams and thoughts for faithful years afterwards, as though they +looked at him out of heaven) seemed to shine upon him after +five-and-thirty years. He remembered such a fair bending neck and +clustering hair, such a light foot and airy figure, such a slim hand +lying in his own—and now parted from it with a gap of ten thousand long +days between. It is an old saying, that we forget nothing; as people in +fever begin suddenly to talk the language of their infancy we are +stricken by memory sometimes, and old affections rush back on us as +vivid as in the time when they were our daily talk, when their presence +gladdened our eyes, when their accents thrilled in our ears, when with +passionate tears and grief we flung ourselves upon their hopeless +corpses. Parting is death, at least as far as life is concerned. A +passion comes to an end; it is carried off in a coffin, or weeping in a +post-chaise; it drops out of life one way or other, and the earthclods +close over it, and we see it no more. But it has been part of our +souls, and it is eternal. Does a mother not love her dead infant? a man +his lost mistress? with the fond wife nestling at his side,—yes, with +twenty children smiling round her knee. No doubt, as the old soldier +held the girl’s hand in his, the little talisman led him back to Hades, +and he saw Leonora.—— + +“How do you do, uncle?” say girls Nos. 2 and 3 in a pretty little +infantile chorus. He drops the talisman, he is back in common life +again—the dancing baby in the arms of the bobbing nurse babbles a +welcome. Alfred looks up for a while at his uncle in the white +trousers, and then instantly proposes that Clive should make him some +drawings; and is on his knees at the next moment. He is always climbing +on somebody or something, or winding over chairs, curling through +banisters, standing on somebody’s head, or his own head,—as his +convalescence advances, his breakages are fearful. Miss Honeyman and +Hannah will talk about his dilapidations for years after the little +chap has left them. When he is a jolly young officer in the Guards, and +comes to see them at Brighton, they will show him the blue-dragon +Chayny jar, on which he would sit, and which he cried so fearfully upon +breaking. + +When this little party has gone out smiling to take its walk on the +sea-shore, the Colonel sits down and resumes the interrupted dessert. +Miss Honeyman talks of the children and their mother, and the merits of +Mr. Kuhn, and the beauty of Miss Ethel, glancing significantly towards +Clive, who has had enough of gingerbread nuts and dessert and wine, and +whose youthful nose is by this time at the window. What kind-hearted +woman, young or old, does not love match-making? + +The Colonel, without lifting his eyes from the table, says “she reminds +him of—of somebody he knew once.” + +“Indeed?” cries Miss Honeyman, and thinks Emma must have altered very +much after going to India, for she had fair hair, and white eyelashes, +and not a pretty foot certainly—but, my dear good lady, the Colonel is +not thinking of the late Mrs. Casey. + +He has taken a fitting quantity of the Madeira, the artless greeting of +the people here, young and old, has warmed his heart, and he goes +upstairs to pay a visit to his sister-in-law, to whom he makes his most +courteous bow as becomes a lady of her rank. Ethel takes her place +quite naturally beside him during his visit. Where did he learn those +fine manners which all of us who knew him admired in him? He had a +natural simplicity, an habitual practice of kind and generous thoughts; +a pure mind, and therefore above hypocrisy and affectation—perhaps +those French people with whom he had been intimate in early life had +imparted to him some of the traditional graces of their _vieille +tour_—certainly his half-brothers had inherited none such. “What is +this that Barnes has written about his uncle, that the Colonel is +ridiculous?” Lady Anne said to her daughter that night. “Your uncle is +adorable. I have never seen a more perfect grand Seigneur. He puts me +in mind of my grandfather, though grandpapa’s grand manner was more +artificial, and his voice spoiled by snuff. See the Colonel. He smokes +round the garden, but with what perfect grace! This is the man Uncle +Hobson, and your poor dear papa, have represented to us as a species of +bear! Mr. Newcome, who has himself the ton of a waiter! The Colonel is +perfect. What can Barnes mean by ridiculing him? I wish Barnes had such +a distinguished air; but he is like his poor dear papa. _Que +voulez-vous_, my love? The Newcomes are honourable: the Newcomes are +wealthy: but distinguished—no. I never deluded myself with that notion +when I married your poor dear papa. At once I pronounce Colonel Newcome +a person to be in every way distinguished by us. On our return to +London I shall present him to all our family: poor good man! let him +see that his family have some presentable relations besides those whom +he will meet at Mrs. Newcome’s, in Bryanstone Square. You must go to +Bryanstone Square immediately we return to London. You must ask your +cousins and their governess, and we will give them a little party. Mrs. +Newcome is insupportable, but we must never forsake our relatives, +Ethel. When you come out you will have to dine there, and to go to her +ball. Every young lady in your position in the world has sacrifices to +make, and duties to her family to perform. Look at me. Why did I marry +your poor dear papa? From duty. Has your Aunt Fanny, who ran away with +Captain Canonbury, been happy? They have eleven children, and are +starving at Boulogne. Think of three of Fanny’s boys in yellow +stockings at the Bluecoat School. Your papa got them appointed. I am +sure my papa would have gone mad if he had seen that day! She came with +one of the poor wretches to Park Lane: but I could not see them. My +feelings would not allow me. When my maid,—I had a French maid then, +Louise, you remember; her conduct was _abominable:_ so was +Préville’s—when she came and said that my Lady Fanny was below with a +young gentleman, _qui portait des bas jaunes_, I could not see the +child. I begged her to come up in my room: and, absolutely that I might +not offend her, I went to bed. That wretch Louise met her at Boulogne +and told her afterwards. Good night, we must not stand chattering here +any more. Heaven bless you, my darling! Those are the Colonel’s +windows! Look, he is smoking on his balcony—that must be Clive’s room. +Clive is a good kind boy. It was very kind of him to draw so many +pictures for Alfred. Put the drawings away, Ethel. Mr. Smee saw some in +Park Lane, and said they showed remarkable genius. What a genius your +Aunt Emily had for drawing; but it was flowers! I had no genius in +particular, so mamma used to say—and Doctor Belper said, ‘My dear Lady +Walham’ (it was before my grandpapa’s death), ‘has Miss Anne a genius +for sewing buttons and making puddens?’—puddens he pronounced it. +Goodnight, my own love. Blessings, blessings, on my Ethel!” + +The Colonel from his balcony saw the slim figure of the retreating +girl, and looked fondly after her: and as the smoke of his cigar +floated in the air, he formed a fine castle in it, whereof Clive was +lord, and that pretty Ethel, lady. “What a frank, generous, bright +young creature is yonder!” thought he. “How cheery and gay she is; how +good to Miss Honeyman, to whom she behaved with just the respect that +was the old lady’s due—how affectionate with her brothers and sisters! +What a sweet voice she has! What a pretty little white hand it is! When +she gave it me, it looked like a little white bird lying in mine. I +must wear gloves, by Jove I must, and my coat is old-fashioned, as +Binnie says; what a fine match might be made between that child and +Clive! She reminds me of a pair of eyes I haven’t seen these forty +years. I would like to have Clive married to her; to see him out of the +scrapes and dangers that young fellows encounter, and safe with such a +sweet girl as that. If God had so willed it, I might have been happy +myself, and could have made a woman happy. But the Fates were against +me. I should like to see Clive happy, and then say _Nunc dimittis_. I +shan’t want anything more to-night, Kean, and you can go to bed.” + +“Thank you, Colonel,” says Kean, who enters, having prepared his +master’s bedchamber, and is retiring when the Colonel calls after him: + +“I say, Kean, is that blue coat of mine very old?” + +“Uncommon white about the seams, Colonel,” says the man. + +“Is it older than other people’s coats?”—Kean is obliged gravely to +confess that the Colonel’s coat is very queer. + +“Get me another coat, then—see that I don’t do anything or wear +anything unusual. I have been so long out of Europe, that I don’t know +the customs here, and am not above learning.” + +Kean retires, vowing that his master is an old trump; which opinion he +had already expressed to Mr. Kuhn, Lady Hanne’s man, over a long +potation which those two gentlemen had taken together. And, as all of +us, in one way or another, are subject to this domestic criticism, from +which not the most exalted can escape, I say, lucky is the man whose +servants speak well of him. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. +In which Mr. Sherrick lets his House in Fitzroy Square + + +In spite of the sneers of the _Newcome Independent_, and the Colonel’s +unlucky visit to his nurse’s native place, he still remained in high +favour in Park Lane; where the worthy gentleman paid almost daily +visits, and was received with welcome and almost affection, at least by +the ladies and the children of the house. Who was it that took the +children to Astley’s but Uncle Newcome? I saw him there in the midst of +a cluster of these little people, all children together. He laughed +delighted at Mr. Merryman’s jokes in the ring. He beheld the Battle of +Waterloo with breathless interest, and was amazed—amazed, by Jove, +sir—at the prodigious likeness of the principal actor to the Emperor +Napoleon; whose tomb he had visited on his return from India, as it +pleased him to tell his little audience who sat clustering round him: +the little girls, Sir Brian’s daughters, holding each by a finger of +his honest hands; young Masters Alfred and Edward clapping and +hurrahing by his side; while Mr. Clive and Miss Ethel sat in the back +of the box enjoying the scene, but with that decorum which belonged to +their superior age and gravity. As for Clive, he was in these matters +much older than the grizzled old warrior his father. It did one good to +hear the Colonel’s honest laughs at clown’s jokes, and to see the +tenderness and simplicity with which he watched over this happy brood +of young ones. How lavishly did he supply them with sweetmeats between +the acts! There he sat in the midst of them, and ate an orange himself +with perfect satisfaction. I wonder what sum of money Mr. Barnes +Newcome would have taken to sit for five hours with his young brothers +and sisters in a public box at the theatre and eat an orange in the +face of the audience? When little Alfred went to Harrow, you may be +sure Colonel Newcome and Clive galloped over to see the little man, and +tipped him royally. What money is better bestowed than that of a +schoolboy’s tip? How the kindness is recalled by the recipient in after +days! It blesses him that gives and him that takes. Remember how happy +such benefactions made you in your own early time, and go off on the +very first fine day and tip your nephew at school! + +The Colonel’s organ of benevolence was so large, that he would have +liked to administer bounties to the young folks his nephews and nieces +in Bryanstone Square, as well as to their cousins in Park Lane; but +Mrs. Newcome was a great deal too virtuous to admit of such spoiling of +children. She took the poor gentleman to task for an attempt upon her +boys when those lads came home for their holidays, and caused them +ruefully to give back the shining gold sovereign with which their uncle +had thought to give them a treat. + +“I do not quarrel with _other_ families,” says she; “I do not _allude_ +to other families;” meaning, of course, that she did not allude to Park +Lane. “There may be children who are allowed to receive money from +their father’s grown-up friends. There may be children who hold out +their hands for presents, and thus become mercenary in early life. I +make no reflections with regard to _other_ households. _I_ only look, +and think, and pray for the welfare of my own beloved ones. They want +for nothing. Heaven has bounteously furnished us with every comfort, +with every elegance, with every luxury. Why need we be bounden to +others, who have been ourselves so amply provided? I should consider it +ingratitude, Colonel Newcome, want of proper spirit, to allow my boys +to accept money. Mind, I make _no allusions_. When they go to school +they receive a sovereign a-piece from their father, and a shilling a +week, which is ample pocket-money. When they are at home, I desire that +they may have rational amusements: I send them to the Polytechnic with +Professor Hickson, who kindly explains to them some of the marvels of +science and the wonders of machinery. I send them to the +picture-galleries and the British Museum. I go with them myself to the +delightful lectures at the institution in Albemarle Street. I do not +desire that they should attend theatrical exhibitions. I do not quarrel +with those who go to plays; far from it! Who am I that I should venture +to judge the conduct of others? When you wrote from India, expressing a +wish that your boy should be made acquainted with the works of +Shakspeare, I gave up my own opinion at once. Should I interpose +between a child and his father? I encouraged the boy to go to the play, +and sent him to the pit with one of our footmen.” + +“And you tipped him very handsomely, my dear Maria, too,” said the +good-natured Colonel, breaking in upon her sermon; but Virtue was not +to be put off in that way. + +“And why, Colonel Newcome,” Virtue exclaimed, laying a pudgy little +hand on its heart; “why did I treat Clive so? Because I stood towards +him _in loco parentis;_ because he was as a child to me, and I to him +as a mother. I indulged him more than my own. I loved him with a true +maternal tenderness. _Then_ he was happy to come to our house: _then_ +perhaps Park Lane was not so often open to him as Bryanstone Square: +but I make n_o allusions. Then_ he did not go six times to another +house for once that he came to mine. He was a simple, confiding, +generous boy, was not dazzled by worldly rank or titles of splendour. +He could not find _these_ in Bryanstone Square. A merchant’s wife, a +country lawyer’s daughter—I could not be expected to have my humble +board surrounded by titled aristocracy; I would not if I could. I love +my own family too well; I am too honest, too simple,—let me own it at +once, Colonel Newcome, too _proud!_ And now, now his father has come to +England, and I have resigned him, and he meets with no titled +aristocrats at my house, and he does not come here any more.” + +Tears rolled out of her little eyes as she spoke, and she covered her +round face with her pocket-handkerchief. + +Had Colonel Newcome read the paper that morning, he might have seen +amongst what are called the fashionable announcements, the cause, +perhaps, why his sister-in-law had exhibited so much anger and virtue. +The _Morning Post_ stated, that yesterday Sir Brian and Lady Newcome +entertained at dinner His Excellency the Persian Ambassador and +Bucksheesh Bey; the Right Honourable Cannon Rowe, President of the +Board of Control, and Lady Louisa Rowe; the Earl of H———, the Countess +of Kew, the Earl of Kew, Sir Currey Baughton, Major-General and Mrs. +Hooker, Colonel Newcome, and Mr. Horace Fogey. Afterwards her ladyship +had an assembly, which was attended by, etc. etc. + +This catalogue of illustrious names had been read by Mr. Newcome to her +spouse at breakfast, with such comments as she was in the habit of +making. + +“The President of the Board of Control, the Chairman of the Court of +Directors, and Ex-Governor-General of India, and a whole regiment of +Kews. By Jove, Maria, the Colonel is in good company,” cries Mr. +Newcome, with a laugh. “That’s the sort of dinner you should have given +him. Some people to talk about India. When he dined with us he was put +between old Lady Wormely and Professor Roots. I don’t wonder at his +going to sleep after dinner. I was off myself once or twice during that +confounded long argument between Professor Roots and Dr. Windus. That +Windus is the deuce to talk.” + +“Dr. Windus is a man of science, and his name is of European +celebrity!” says Maria solemnly. “Any intellectual person would prefer +such company to the titled nobodies into whose family your brother has +married.” + +“There you go, Polly; you are always having a shy at Lady Anne and her +relations,” says Mr. Newcome, good-naturedly. + +“A shy! How can you use such vulgar words, Mr. Newcome? What have I to +do with Sir Brian’s titled relations? I do not value nobility. I prefer +people of science—people of intellect—to all the rank in the world.” + +“So you do,” says Hobson her spouse. “You have your party—Lady Anne has +her party. You take your line—Lady Anne takes her line. You are a +superior woman, my dear Polly; every one knows that. I’m a plain +country farmer, I am. As long as you are happy, I am happy too. The +people you get to dine here may talk Greek or algebra for what I care. +By Jove, my dear, I think you can hold your own with the best of them.” + +“I have endeavoured by assiduity to make up for time lost, and an early +imperfect education,” says Mrs. Newcome. “You married a poor country +lawyer’s daughter. You did not seek a partner in the Peerage, Mr. +Newcome.” + +“No, no. Not such a confounded flat as that,” cries Mr. Newcome, +surveying his plump partner behind her silver teapot, with eyes of +admiration. + +“I had an imperfect education, but I knew its blessings, and have, I +trust, endeavoured to cultivate the humble talents which Heaven has +given me, Mr. Newcome.” + +“Humble, by Jove!” exclaims the husband. “No gammon of that sort, +Polly. You know well enough that you are a superior woman. I ain’t a +superior man. I know that: one is enough in a family. I leave the +reading to you, my dear. Here comes my horses. I say, I wish you’d call +on Lady Anne to-day. Do go and see her, now that’s a good girl. I know +she is flighty, and that; and Brian’s back is up a little. But he ain’t +a bad fellow; and I wish I could see you and his wife better friends.” + +On his way to the City, Mr. Newcome rode to look at the new house, No. +120 Fitzroy Square, which his brother, the Colonel, had taken in +conjunction with that Indian friend of his, Mr. Binnie. Shrewd old +cock, Mr. Binnie. Has brought home a good bit of money from India. Is +looking out for safe investments. Has been introduced to Newcome +Brothers. Mr. Newcome thinks very well of the Colonel’s friend. + +The house is vast, but, it must be owned, melancholy. Not long since it +was a ladies’ school, in an unprosperous condition. The scar left by +Madame Latour’s brass plate may still be seen on the tall black door, +cheerfully ornamented in the style of the end of the last century, with +a funereal urn in the centre of the entry, and garlands, and the skulls +of rams at each corner. Madame Latour, who at one time actually kept a +large yellow coach, and drove her parlour young ladies in the Regent’s +Park, was an exile from her native country (Islington was her +birthplace, and Grigson her paternal name), and an outlaw at the suit +of Samuel Sherrick: that Mr. Sherrick whose wine-vaults undermine Lady +Whittlesea’s Chapel where the eloquent Honeyman preaches. + +The house is Mr. Sherrick’s house. Some say his name is Shadrach, and +pretend to have known him as an orange-boy, afterwards as a +chorus-singer in the theatres, afterwards as secretary to a great +tragedian. I know nothing of these stories. He may or he may not be a +partner of Mr. Campion, of Shepherd’s Inn: he has a handsome villa, +Abbey Road, St. John’s Wood, entertains good company, rather loud, of +the sporting sort, rides and drives very showy horses, has boxes at the +Opera whenever he likes, and free access behind the scenes: is +handsome, dark, bright-eyed, with a quantity of jewellery, and a tuft +to his chin; sings sweetly sentimental songs after dinner. Who cares a +fig what was the religion of Mr. Sherrick’s ancestry, or what the +occupation of his youth? Mr. Honeyman, a most respectable man surely, +introduced Sherrick to the Colonel and Binnie. + +Mr. Sherrick stocked their cellar with some of the wine over which +Honeyman preached such lovely sermons. It was not dear; it was not bad +when you dealt with Mr. Sherrick for wine alone. Going into his market +with ready money in your hand, as our simple friends did, you were +pretty fairly treated by Mr. Sherrick. + +The house being taken, we may be certain there was fine amusement for +Clive, Mr. Binnie, and the Colonel, in frequenting the sales, in the +inspection of upholsterers’ shops, and the purchase of furniture for +the new mansion. It was like nobody else’s house. There were three +masters with four or five servants over them. Kean for the Colonel and +his son; a smart boy with boots for Mr. Binnie; Mrs. Kean to cook and +keep house, with a couple of maids under her. The Colonel, himself, was +great at making hash mutton, hot-pot, curry, and pillau. What cosy +pipes did we not smoke in the dining-room, in the drawing-room, or +where we would! What pleasant evenings did we not have with Mr. Binnie’s +books and Schiedam! Then there were the solemn state dinners, at most +of which the writer of this biography had a corner. + +Clive had a tutor—Grindley of Corpus—whom we recommended to him, and +with whom the young gentleman did not fatigue his brains very much; but +his great forte decidedly lay in drawing. He sketched the horses, he +sketched the dogs; all the servants from the blear-eyed boot-boy to the +rosy-cheeked lass, Mrs. Kean’s niece, whom that virtuous housekeeper +was always calling to come downstairs. He drew his father in all +postures—asleep, on foot, on horseback; and jolly little Mr. Binnie, +with his plump legs on a chair, or jumping briskly on the back of the +cob which he rode. He should have drawn the pictures for this book, but +that he no longer condescends to make sketches. Young Ridley was his +daily friend now; and Grindley, his classics and mathematics over in +the morning, and the ride with father over, this pair of young men +would constantly attend Gandish’s Drawing Academy, where, to be sure, +Ridley passed many hours at work on his art, before his young friend +and patron could be spared from his books to his pencil. + +“Oh,” says Clive, if you talk to him now about those early days, “it +was a jolly time! I do not believe there was any young fellow in London +so happy.” And there hangs up in his painting-room now, a head, painted +at one sitting, of a man rather bald, with hair touched with grey, with +a large moustache, and a sweet mouth half smiling beneath it, and +melancholy eyes; and Clive shows that portrait of their grandfather to +his children, and tells them that the whole world never saw a nobler +gentleman. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. +A School of Art + + +British art either finds her peculiar nourishment in melancholy, and +loves to fix her abode in desert places; or it may be her purse is but +slenderly furnished, and she is forced to put up with accommodations +rejected by more prosperous callings. Some of the most dismal quarters +of the town are colonised by her disciples and professors. In walking +through streets which may have been gay and polite when ladies’ +chairmen jostled each other on the pavement, and linkboys with their +torches lighted the beaux over the mud, who has not remarked the +artist’s invasion of those regions once devoted to fashion and gaiety? +Centre windows of drawing-rooms are enlarged so as to reach up into +bedrooms—bedrooms where Lady Betty has had her hair powdered, and where +the painter’s north-light now takes possession of the place which her +toilet-table occupied a hundred years ago. There are degrees in +decadence: after the Fashion chooses to emigrate, and retreats from +Soho or Bloomsbury, let us say, to Cavendish Square, physicians come +and occupy the vacant houses, which still have a respectable look, the +windows being cleaned, and the knockers and plates kept bright, and the +doctor’s carriage rolling round the square, almost as fine as the +countess’s, which has whisked away her ladyship to other regions. A +boarding-house mayhap succeeds the physician, who has followed after +his sick folks into the new country; and then Dick Tinto comes with his +dingy brass plate, and breaks in his north window, and sets up his +sitters’ throne. I love his honest moustache, and jaunty velvet jacket; +his queer figure, his queer vanities, and his kind heart. Why should he +not suffer his ruddy ringlets to fall over his shirt-collar? Why should +he deny himself his velvet? it is but a kind of fustian which costs him +eighteenpence a yard. He is naturally what he is, and breaks out into +costume as spontaneously as a bird sings, or a bulb bears a tulip. And +as Dick, under yonder terrific appearance of waving cloak, bristling +beard, and shadowy sombrero, is a good kindly simple creature, got up +at a very cheap rate, his life is so consistent with his dress; he +gives his genius a darkling swagger, and a romantic envelope, which, +being removed, you find, not a bravo, but a kind chirping soul; not a +moody poet avoiding mankind for the better company of his own great +thoughts, but a jolly little chap who has an aptitude for painting +brocade gowns, a bit of armour (with figures inside them), or trees and +cattle, or gondolas and buildings, or what not; an instinct for the +picturesque, which exhibits itself in his works, and outwardly on his +person; beyond this, a gentle creature loving his friends, his cups, +feasts, merrymakings, and all good things. The kindest folks alive I +have found among those scowling whiskeradoes. They open oysters with +their yataghans, toast muffins on their rapiers, and fill their Venice +glasses with half-and-half. If they have money in their lean purses, be +sure they have a friend to share it. What innocent gaiety, what jovial +suppers on threadbare cloths, and wonderful songs after; what pathos, +merriment, humour does not a man enjoy who frequents their company! Mr. +Clive Newcome, who has long since shaved his beard, who has become a +family man, and has seen the world in a thousand different phases, +avers that his life as an art-student at home and abroad was the +pleasantest part of his whole existence. It may not be more amusing in +the telling than the chronicle of a feast, or the accurate report of +two lovers’ conversation; but the biographer, having brought his hero +to the period of his life, is bound to relate it, before passing to +other occurrences which are to be narrated in their turn. + +We may be sure the boy had many conversations with his affectionate +guardian as to the profession which he should follow. As regarded +mathematical and classical learning, the elder Newcome was forced to +admit, that out of every hundred boys, there were fifty as clever as +his own, and at least fifty more industrious; the army in time of peace +Colonel Newcome thought a bad trade for a young fellow so fond of ease +and pleasure as his son: his delight in the pencil was manifest to all. +Were not his school-books full of caricatures of the masters? Whilst +his tutor, Grindley, was lecturing him, did he not draw Grindley +instinctively under his very nose? A painter Clive was determined to +be, and nothing else; and Clive, being then some sixteen years of age, +began to study the art, _en règle_, under the eminent Mr. Gandish, of +Soho. + +It was that well-known portrait-painter, Alfred Smee, Esq., R.A., who +recommended Gandish to Colonel Newcome, one day when the two gentlemen +met at dinner at Lady Anne Newcome’s table. Mr. Smee happened to +examine some of Clive’s drawings, which the young fellow had executed +for his cousins. Clive found no better amusement than in making +pictures for them, and would cheerfully pass evening after evening in +that diversion. He had made a thousand sketches of Ethel before a year +was over; a year, every day of which seemed to increase the attractions +of the fair young creature, develop her nymph-like form, and give her +figure fresh graces. He also of course drew Alfred and the nursery in +general, Aunt Anne and the Blenheim spaniels, and Mr. Kuhn and his +earrings, the majestic John bringing in the coal-scuttle, and all +persons or objects in that establishment with which he was familiar. +“What a genius the lad has,” the complimentary Mr. Smee averred; “what +a force and individuality there is in all his drawings! Look at his +horses! capital, by Jove, capital! and Alfred on his pony, and Miss +Ethel in her Spanish hat, with her hair flowing in the wind! I must +take this sketch, I positively must now, and show it to Landseer.” And +the courtly artist daintily enveloped the drawing in a sheet of paper, +put it away in his hat, and vowed subsequently that the great painter +had been delighted with the young man’s performance. Smee was not only +charmed with Clive’s skill as an artist, but thought his head would be +an admirable one to paint. Such a rich complexion, such fine turns in +his hair! such eyes! to see real blue eyes was so rare nowadays! And +the Colonel too, if the Colonel would but give him a few sittings, the +grey uniform of the Bengal Cavalry, the silver lace, the little bit of +red ribbon just to warm up the picture! it was seldom, Mr. Smee +declared, that an artist could get such an opportunity for colour. With +our hideous vermilion uniforms there was no chance of doing anything; +Rubens himself could scarcely manage scarlet. Look at the horseman in +Cuyp’s famous picture at the Louvre: the red was a positive blot upon +the whole picture. There was nothing like French grey and silver! All +which did not prevent Mr. Smee from painting Sir Brian in a flaring +deputy-lieutenant’s uniform, and entreating all military men whom he +met to sit to him in scarlet. Clive Newcome the Academician succeeded +in painting, of course for mere friendship’s sake, and because he liked +the subject, though he could not refuse the cheque which Colonel +Newcome sent him for the frame and picture; but no cajoleries could +induce the old campaigner to sit to any artist save one. He said he +should be ashamed to pay fifty guineas for the likeness of his homely +face; he jocularly proposed to James Binnie to have his head put on the +canvas, and Mr. Smee enthusiastically caught at the idea; but honest +James winked his droll eyes, saying his was a beauty that did not want +any paint; and when Mr. Smee took his leave after dinner in Fitzroy +Square, where this conversation was held, James Binnie hinted that the +Academician was no better than an old humbug, in which surmise he was +probably not altogether incorrect. Certain young men who frequented the +kind Colonel’s house were also somewhat of this opinion; and made +endless jokes at the painter’s expense. Smee plastered his sitters with +adulation as methodically as he covered his canvas. He waylaid +gentlemen at dinner; he inveigled unsuspecting folks into his studio, +and had their heads off their shoulders before they were aware. One +day, on our way from the Temple, through Howland Street, to the +Colonel’s house, we beheld Major-General Sir Thomas de Boots, in full +uniform, rushing from Smee’s door to his brougham. The coachman was +absent refreshing himself at a neighbouring tap: the little street-boys +cheered and hurrayed Sir Thomas, as, arrayed in gold and scarlet, he +sate in his chariot. He blushed purple when he beheld us. No artist +would have dared to imitate those purple tones: he was one of the +numerous victims of Mr. Smee. + +One day, then, day to be noted with a white stone, Colonel Newcome, +with his son and Mr. Smee, R.A., walked from the Colonel’s house to +Gandish’s, which was not far removed thence; and young Clive, who was a +perfect mimic, described to his friends, and illustrated, as was his +wont, by diagrams, the interview which he had with that professor. “By +Jove, you must see Gandish, pa!” cries Clive: “Gandish is worth the +whole world. Come and be an art-student. You’ll find such jolly fellows +there! Gandish calls it hart-student, and says, ‘Hars est celare +Hartem’—by Jove he does! He treated us to a little Latin, as he brought +out a cake and a bottle of wine, you know.” + +“The governor was splendid, sir. He wore gloves: you know he only puts +them on on parade days; and turned out for the occasion spick and span. +He ought to be a general officer. He looks like a field-marshal—don’t +he? You should have seen him bowing to Mrs. Gandish and the Miss +Gandishes, dressed all in their best, round the cake-tray! He takes his +glass of wine, and sweeps them all round with a bow. ‘I hope, young +ladies,’ says he, ‘you don’t often go to the students’ room. I’m afraid +the young gentlemen would leave off looking at the statues if you came +in.’ And so they would: for you never saw such guys; but the dear old +boy fancies every woman is a beauty. + +“‘Mr. Smee, you are looking at my picture of “Boadishia?”’ says +Gandish. Wouldn’t he have caught it for his quantities at Grey Friars, +that’s all. + +“‘Yes—ah—yes,’ says Mr. Smee, putting his hand over his eyes, and +standing before it, looking steady, you know, as if he was going to see +whereabouts he should _hit_ Boadishia. + +“‘It was painted when you were a young man, four years before you were +an associate, Smee. Had some success in its time, and there’s good +pints about that picture,’ Gandish goes on. ‘But I never could get my +price for it; and here it hangs in my own room. Igh art won’t do in +this country, Colonel—it’s a melancholy fact.’ + +“‘High art! I should think it _is_ high art!’ whispers old Smee; +‘fourteen feet high, at least!’ And then out loud he says ‘The picture +has very fine points in it, Gandish, as you say. Foreshortening of that +arm, capital! That red drapery carried off into the right of the +picture very skilfully managed!’ + +“‘It’s not like portrait-painting, Smee—Igh art,’ says Gandish. ‘The +models of the hancient Britons in that pictur alone cost me thirty +pound—when I was a struggling man, and had just married my Betsey here. +You reckonise Boadishia, Colonel, with the Roman elmet, cuirass, and +javeling of the period—all studied from the hantique, sir, the glorious +hantique.’ + +“‘All but Boadicea,’ says father. ‘She remains always young.’ And he +began to speak the lines out of Cowper, he did—waving his stick like an +old trump—and famous they are,” cries the lad: + +“When the British warrior queen, +Bleeding from the Roman rods”— + + +“Jolly verses! Haven’t I translated them into alcaics?” says Clive, +with a merry laugh, and resumes his history. + +“‘Oh, I must have those verses in my album,’ cries one of the young +ladies. ‘Did you compose them, Colonel Newcome?’ But Gandish, you see, +is never thinking about any works but his own, and goes on, ‘Study of +my eldest daughter, exhibited 1816.’ + +“‘No, pa, not ’16,’ cries Miss Gandish. She don’t look like a chicken, +I can tell you. + +“‘Admired,’ Gandish goes on, never heeding her,—‘I can show you what +the papers said of it at the time—_Morning Chronicle_ and +_Examiner_—spoke most ighly of it. My son as an infant ’Ercules, +stranglin the serpent over the piano. Fust conception of my picture of +“Non Hangli said Hangeli.”’ + +“‘For which I can guess who were the angels that sat,’ says father. +Upon my word, that old governor! He is a little too strong. But Mr. +Gandish listened no more to him than to Mr. Smee, and went on, +buttering himself all over, as I have read the Hottentots do. ‘Myself +at thirty-three years of age!’ says he, pointing to a portrait of a +gentleman in leather breeches and mahogany boots; ‘I could have been a +portrait-painter, Mr. Smee.’ + +“‘Indeed it was lucky for some of us you devoted yourself to high art, +Gandish,’ Mr. Smee says, and sips the wine and puts it down again, +making a face. It was not first-rate tipple, you see. + +“‘Two girls,’ continues that indomitable Mr. Gandish. ‘Hidea for “Babes +in the Wood.” “View of Pæstum,” taken on the spot by myself, when +travelling with the late lamented Earl of Kew. ‘Beauty, Valour, +Commerce, and Liberty, condoling with Britannia on the death of Admiral +Viscount Nelson,’—allegorical piece drawn at a very early age after +Trafalgar. Mr. Fuseli saw that piece, sir, when I was a student of the +Academy, and said to me, ‘Young man, stick to the antique. There’s +nothing like it.’ Those were ’is very words. If you do me the favour to +walk into the Hatrium, you’ll remark my great pictures also from +English ’istry. An English historical painter, sir, should be employed +chiefly in English ’istry. That’s what I would have done. Why ain’t +there temples for us, where the people might read their history at a +glance, and without knowing how to read? Why is my ‘Alfred’ ’anging up +in this ’all? Because there is no patronage for a man who devotes +himself to Igh art. You know the anecdote, Colonel? King Alfred flying +from the Danes, took refuge in a neaterd’s ’ut. The rustic’s wife told +him to bake a cake, and the fugitive sovering set down to his ignoble +task, and forgetting it in the cares of state, let the cake burn, on +which the woman struck him. The moment chose is when she is lifting her +’and to deliver the blow. The king receives it with majesty mingled +with meekness. In the background the door of the ’ut is open, letting +in the royal officers to announce the Danes are defeated. The daylight +breaks in at the aperture, signifying the dawning of ’Ope. That story, +sir, which I found in my researches in ’istry, has since become so +popular, sir, that hundreds of artists have painted it, hundreds! I who +discovered the legend, have my picture—here!’ + +“‘Now, Colonel,’ says the showman, ‘let me—let me lead you through the +statue gallery. ‘Apollo,’ you see. The ‘Venus Hanadyomene,’ the +glorious Venus of the Louvre, which I saw in 1814, Colonel, in its +glory—the ‘Laocoon’—my friend Gibson’s ‘Nymth,’ you see, is the only +figure I admit among the antiques. Now up this stair to the students’ +room, where I trust my young friend, Mr. Newcome, will labour +assiduously. _Ars longa est_, Mr. Newcome. _Vita_——’” + +“I trembled,” Clive said, “lest my father should introduce a certain +favourite quotation, beginning ‘_ingenuas didicisse_’—but he refrained, +and we went into the room, where a score of students were assembled, +who all looked away from their drawing-boards as we entered. + +“‘Here will be your place, Mr. Newcome,’ says the Professor, ‘and here +that of your young friend—what did you say was his name?’ I told him +Rigby, for my dear old governor has promised to pay for J. J. too, you +know. ‘Mr. Chivers is the senior pupil and custos of the room in the +absence of my son. Mr. Chivers, Mr. Newcome; gentlemen, Mr. Newcome, a +new pupil. My son, Charles Gandish, Mr. Newcome. Assiduity, gentlemen, +assiduity. _Ars longa. Vita brevis, et linea recta brevissima est_. +This way, Colonel, down these steps, across the courtyard, to my own +studio. There, gentlemen,’—and pulling aside a curtain, Gandish says +‘There!’” + +“And what was the masterpiece behind it?” we ask of Clive, after we +have done laughing at his imitation. + +“Hand round the hat, J. J.!” cries Clive. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, +pay your money. Now walk in, for the performance is ‘just a-going to +begin.’” Nor would the rogue ever tell us what Gandish’s curtained +picture was. + +Not a successful painter, Mr. Gandish was an excellent master, and +regarding all artists save one perhaps a good critic. Clive and his +friend J. J. came soon after and commenced their studies under him. The +one took his humble seat at the drawing-board, a poor mean-looking lad, +with worn clothes, downcast features, and a figure almost deformed; the +other adorned by good health, good looks, and the best of tailors; +ushered into the studio with his father and Mr. Smee as his +aides-de-camp on his entry; and previously announced there with all the +eloquence of honest Gandish. “I bet he’s ’ad cake and wine,” says one +youthful student, of an epicurean and satirical turn. “I bet he might +have it every day if he liked.” In fact Gandish was always handing him +sweetmeats of compliments and cordials of approbation. He had +coat-sleeves with silk linings—he had studs in his shirt. How different +was the texture and colour of that garment, to the sleeves Bob Grimes +displayed when he took his coat off to put on his working jacket! +Horses used actually to come for him to Gandish’s door (which was +situated in a certain lofty street in Soho). The Miss G.’s would smile +at him from the parlour window as he mounted and rode splendidly off; +and those opposition beauties, the Miss Levisons, daughters of the +professor of dancing over the way, seldom failed to greet the young +gentleman with an admiring ogle from their great black eyes. Master +Clive was pronounced an ‘out-and-outer,’ a ‘swell and no mistake,’ and +complimented with scarce one dissentient voice by the simple academy at +Gandish’s. Besides, he drew very well. There could be no doubt about +that. Caricatures of the students of course were passing constantly +among them, and in revenge for one which a huge red-haired Scotch +student, Mr. Sandy M’Collop, had made of John James, Clive perpetrated +a picture of Sandy which set the whole room in a roar; and when the +Caledonian giant uttered satirical remarks against the assembled +company, averring that they were a parcel of sneaks, a set of +lick-spittles, and using epithets still more vulgar, Clive slipped off +his fine silk-sleeved coat in an instant, invited Mr. M’Collop into the +back-yard, instructed him in a science which the lad himself had +acquired at Grey Friars, and administered two black eyes to Sandy, +which prevented the young artist from seeing for some days after the +head of the ‘Laocoon’ which he was copying. The Scotchman’s superior +weight and age might have given the combat a different conclusion, had +it endured long after Clive’s brilliant opening attack with his right +and left; but Professor Gandish came out of his painting-room at the +sound of battle, and could scarcely credit his own eyes when he saw +those of poor M’Collop so darkened. To do the Scotchman justice, he +bore Clive no rancour. They became friends there, and afterwards at +Rome, whither they subsequently went to pursue their studies. The fame +of Mr. M’Collop as an artist has long since been established. His +pictures of ‘Lord Lovat in Prison,’ and ‘Hogarth painting him,’ of the +‘Blowing up of the Kirk of Field’ (painted for M’Collop of M’Collop), +of the ‘Torture of the Covenanters,’ the ‘Murder of the Regent,’ the +‘Murder of Rizzio,’ and other historical pieces, all of course from +Scotch history, have established his reputation in South as well as in +North Britain. No one would suppose from the gloomy character of his +works that Sandy M’Collop is one of the most jovial souls alive. Within +six months after their little difference, Clive and he were the +greatest of friends, and it was by the former’s suggestion that Mr. +James Binnie gave Sandy his first commission, who selected the cheerful +subject of ‘The Young Duke of Rothsay starving in Prison.’ + +During this period, Mr. Clive assumed the _toga virilis_, and beheld +with inexpressible satisfaction the first growth of those mustachios +which have since given him such a marked appearance. Being at +Gandish’s, and so near the dancing academy, what must he do but take +lessons in the terpsichorean art too?—making himself as popular with +the dancing folks as with the drawing folks, and the jolly king of his +company everywhere. He gave entertainments to his fellow-students in +the upper chambers in Fitzroy Square, which were devoted to his use, +inviting his father and Mr. Binnie to those parties now and then. And +songs were sung, and pipes were smoked, and many a pleasant supper +eaten. There was no stint: but no excess. No young man was ever seen to +quit those apartments the worse, as it is called, for liquor. Fred +Bayham’s uncle the Bishop could not be more decorous than F. B. as he +left the Colonel’s house, for the Colonel made that one of the +conditions of his son’s hospitality, that nothing like intoxication +should ensue from it. The good gentleman did not frequent the parties +of the juniors. He saw that his presence rather silenced the young men; +and left them to themselves, confiding in Clive’s parole, and went away +to play his honest rubber of whist at the Club. And many a time he +heard the young fellows’ steps tramping by his bedchamber door, as he +lay wakeful within, happy to think his son was happy. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. +New Companions + + +Clive used to give droll accounts of the young disciples at Gandish’s, +who were of various ages and conditions, and in whose company the young +fellow took his place with that good temper and gaiety which have +seldom deserted him in life, and have put him at ease wherever his fate +has led him. He is, in truth, as much at home in a fine drawing-room as +in a public-house parlour; and can talk as pleasantly to the polite +mistress of the mansion, as to the jolly landlady dispensing her drinks +from her bar. Not one of the Gandishites but was after a while well +inclined to the young fellow; from Mr. Chivers, the senior pupil, down +to the little imp Harry Hooker, who knew as much mischief at twelve +years old, and could draw as cleverly as many a student of +five-and-twenty; and Bob Trotter, the diminutive fag of the studio, who +ran on all the young men’s errands, and fetched them in apples, +oranges, and walnuts. Clive opened his eyes with wonder when he first +beheld these simple feasts, and the pleasure with which some of the +young men partook of them. They were addicted to polonies; they did not +disguise their love for Banbury cakes; they made bets in ginger-beer, +and gave and took the odds in that frothing liquor. There was a young +Hebrew amongst the pupils, upon whom his brother-students used +playfully to press ham sandwiches, pork sausages, and the like. This +young man (who has risen to great wealth subsequently, and was bankrupt +only three months since) actually bought cocoa-nuts, and sold them at a +profit amongst the lads. His pockets were never without pencil-cases, +French chalk, garnet brooches, for which he was willing to bargain. He +behaved very rudely to Gandish, who seemed to be afraid before him. It +was whispered that the Professor was not altogether easy in his +circumstances, and that the elder Moss had some mysterious hold over +him. Honeyman and Bayham, who once came to see Clive at the studio, +seemed each disturbed at beholding young Moss seated there (making a +copy of the Marsyas). “Pa knows both those gents,” he informed Clive +afterwards, with a wicked twinkle of his Oriental eyes. “Step in, Mr. +Newcome, any day you are passing down Wardour Street, and see if you +don’t want anything in our way.” (He pronounced the words in his own +way, saying: “Step id, _Bister_ Doocob, ady day idto Vordor Street,” +etc.) This young gentleman could get tickets for almost all the +theatres, which he gave or sold, and gave splendid accounts at +Cavendish’s of the brilliant masquerades. Clive was greatly diverted at +beholding Mr. Moss at one of these entertainments, dressed in a scarlet +coat and top-boots, and calling out, “Yoicks! Hark forward!” fitfully +to another Orientalist, his younger brother, attired like a midshipman. +Once Clive bought a half-dozen of theatre tickets from Mr. Moss, which +he distributed to the young fellows of the studio. But, when this nice +young man tried further to tempt him on the next day, “Mr. Moss,” Clive +said to him with much dignity, “I am very much obliged to you for your +offer, but when I go to the play, I prefer paying at the doors.” + +Mr. Chivers used to sit in one corner of the room, occupied over a +lithographic stone. He was an uncouth and peevish young man; for ever +finding fault with the younger pupils, whose butt he was. Next in rank +and age was M’Collop, before named: and these two were at first more +than usually harsh and captious with Clive, whose prosperity offended +them, and whose dandified manners, free-and-easy ways, and evident +influence over the younger scholars, gave umbrage to these elderly +apprentices. Clive at first returned Mr. Chivers war for war, +controlment for controlment; but when he found Chivers was the son of a +helpless widow; that he maintained her by his lithographic vignettes +for the music-sellers, and by the scanty remuneration of some lessons +which he gave at a school at Highgate;—when Clive saw, or fancied he +saw, the lonely senior eyeing with hungry eyes the luncheons of cheese +and bread, and sweetstuff, which the young lads of the studio enjoyed, +I promise you Mr. Clive’s wrath against Chivers was speedily turned +into compassion and kindness, and he sought, and no doubt found, means +of feeding Chivers without offending his testy independence. + +Nigh to Gandish’s was, and perhaps is, another establishment for +teaching the art of design—Barker’s, which had the additional dignity +of a life academy and costume; frequented by a class of students more +advanced than those of Gandish’s. Between these and the Barkerites +there was a constant rivalry and emulation, in and out of doors. +Gandish sent more pupils to the Royal Academy; Gandish had brought up +three medallists; and the last R.A. student sent to Rome was a +Gandishite. Barker, on the contrary, scorned and loathed Trafalgar +Square, and laughed at its art. Barker exhibited in Pall Mall and +Suffolk Street: he laughed at old Gandish and his pictures, made +mincemeat of his “Angli and Angeli,” and tore “King Alfred” and his +muffins to pieces. The young men of the respective schools used to meet +at Lundy’s coffee-house and billiard-room, and smoke there, and do +battle. Before Clive and his friend J. J. came to Gandish’s, the +Barkerites were having the best of that constant match which the two +academies were playing. Fred Bayham, who knew every coffee-house in +town, and whose initials were scored on a thousand tavern doors, was +for a while a constant visitor at Lundy’s, played pool with the young +men, and did not disdain to dip his beard into their porter-pots, when +invited to partake of their drink; treated them handsomely when he was +in cash himself; and was an honorary member of Barker’s academy. Nay, +when the guardsman was not forthcoming, who was standing for one of +Barker’s heroic pictures, Bayham bared his immense arms and brawny +shoulders, and stood as Prince Edward, with Philippa sucking the +poisoned wound. He would take his friends up to the picture in the +Exhibition, and proudly point to it. “Look at that biceps, sir, and now +look at this—that’s Barker’s masterpiece, sir, and that’s the muscle of +F. B., sir.” In no company was F. B. greater than in the society of the +artists, in whose smoky haunts and airy parlours he might often be +found. It was from F. B. that Clive heard of Mr. Chivers’ struggles and +honest industry. A great deal of shrewd advice could F. B. give on +occasion, and many a kind action and gentle office of charity was this +jolly outlaw known to do and cause to be done. His advice to Clive was +most edifying at this time of our young gentleman’s life, and he owns +that he was kept from much mischief by this queer counsellor. + +A few months after Clive and J. J. had entered at Gandish’s, that +academy began to hold its own against its rival. The silent young +disciple was pronounced to be a genius. His copies were beautiful in +delicacy and finish. His designs were for exquisite grace and richness +of fancy. Mr. Gandish took to himself the credit for J. J.’s genius; +Clive ever and fondly acknowledged the benefit he got from his friend’s +taste and bright enthusiasm and sure skill. As for Clive, if he was +successful in the academy he was doubly victorious out of it. His +person was handsome, his courage high, his gaiety and frankness +delightful and winning. His money was plenty and he spent it like a +young king. He could speedily beat all the club at Lundy’s at +billiards, and give points to the redoubted F. B. himself. He sang a +famous song at their jolly supper-parties: and J. J. had no greater +delight than to listen to his fresh voice, and watch the young +conqueror at the billiard-table, where the balls seemed to obey him. + +Clive was not the most docile of Mr. Gandish’s pupils. If he had not +come to the studio on horseback, several of the young students averred, +Gandish would not always have been praising him and quoting him as that +professor certainly did. It must be confessed that the young ladies +read the history of Clive’s uncle in the Book of Baronets, and that +Gandish jun., probably with an eye to business, made a design of a +picture, in which, according to that veracious volume, one of the +Newcomes was represented as going cheerfully to the stake at +Smithfield, surrounded by some very ill-favoured Dominicans, whose +arguments did not appear to make the least impression upon the martyr +of the Newcome family. Sandy M’Collop devised a counter picture, +wherein the barber-surgeon of King Edward the Confessor was drawn, +operating upon the beard of that monarch. To which piece of satire +Clive gallantly replied by a design, representing Sawney Bean M’Collop, +chief of the clan of that name, descending from his mountains into +Edinburgh, and his astonishment at beholding a pair of breeches for the +first time. These playful jokes passed constantly amongst the young men +of Gandish’s studio. There was no one there who was not caricatured in +one way or another. He whose eyes looked not very straight was depicted +with a most awful squint. The youth whom nature had endowed with +somewhat lengthy nose was drawn by the caricaturists with a prodigious +proboscis. Little Bobby Moss, the young Hebrew artist from Wardour +Street, was delineated with three hats and an old-clothes bag. Nor were +poor J. J.’s round shoulders spared, until Clive indignantly +remonstrated at the hideous hunchback pictures which the boys made of +his friend, and vowed it was a shame to make jokes at such a deformity. + +Our friend, if the truth must be told regarding him, though one of the +most frank, generous, and kind-hearted persons, is of a nature somewhat +haughty and imperious, and very likely the course of life which he now +led and the society which he was compelled to keep, served to increase +some original defects in his character, and to fortify a certain +disposition to think well of himself, with which his enemies not +unjustly reproach him. He has been known very pathetically to lament +that he was withdrawn from school too early, where a couple of years’ +further course of thrashings from his tyrant, old Hodge, he avers, +would have done him good. He laments that he was not sent to college, +where if a young man receives no other discipline, at least he acquires +that of meeting with his equals in society and of assuredly finding his +betters: whereas in poor Mr. Gandish’s studio of art, our young +gentleman scarcely found a comrade that was not in one way or other his +flatterer, his inferior, his honest or dishonest admirer. The influence +of his family’s rank and wealth acted more or less on all those simple +folks, who would run on his errands and vied with each other in winning +the young nabob’s favour. His very goodness of heart rendered him a +more easy prey to their flattery, and his kind and jovial disposition +led him into company from which he had been much better away. I am +afraid that artful young Moss, whose parents dealt in pictures, +furniture, gimcracks, and jewellery, victimised Clive sadly with rings +and chains, shirt-studs and flaming shirt-pins, and such vanities, +which the poor young rogue locked up in his desk generally, only +venturing to wear them when he was out of his father’s sight or of Mr. +Binnie’s, whose shrewd eyes watched him very keenly. + +Mr. Clive used to leave home every day shortly after noon, when he was +supposed to betake himself to Gandish’s studio. But was the young +gentleman always at the drawing-board copying from the antique when his +father supposed him to be so devotedly engaged? I fear his place was +sometimes vacant. His friend J. J. worked every day and all day. Many a +time the steady little student remarked his patron’s absence, and no +doubt gently remonstrated with him, but when Clive did come to his work +he executed it with remarkable skill and rapidity; and Ridley was too +fond of him to say a word at home regarding the shortcomings of the +youthful scapegrace. Candid readers may sometimes have heard their +friend Jones’s mother lament that her darling was working too hard at +college: or Harry’s sisters express their anxiety lest his too rigorous +attendance in chambers (after which he will persist in sitting up all +night reading those dreary law books which cost such an immense sum of +money) should undermine dear Henry’s health; and to such acute persons +a word is sufficient to indicate young Mr. Clive Newcome’s proceedings. +Meanwhile his father, who knew no more of the world than Harry’s simple +sisters or Jones’s fond mother, never doubted that all Clive’s doings +were right, and that his boy was the best of boys. + +“If that young man goes on as charmingly as he has begun,” Clive’s +cousin, Barnes Newcome, said of his kinsman, “he will be a paragon. I +saw him last night at Vauxhall in company with young Moss, whose father +does bills and keeps the bric-a-brac shop in Wardour Street. Two or +three other gentlemen, probably young old-clothes-men, who had +concluded for the day the labours of the bag, joined Mr. Newcome and +his friend, and they partook of rack-punch in an arbour. He is a +delightful youth, cousin Clive, and I feel sure he is about to be an +honour to our family.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +The Colonel at Home + + +Our good Colonel’s house had received a coat of paint, which, like +Madame Latour’s rouge in her latter days, only served to make her +careworn face look more ghastly. The kitchens were gloomy. The stables +were gloomy. Great black passages; cracked conservatory; dilapidated +bathroom, with melancholy waters moaning and fizzing from the cistern; +the great large blank stone staircase—were all so many melancholy +features in the general countenance of the house; but the Colonel +thought it perfectly, cheerful and pleasant, and furnished it in his +rough-and-ready way. One day a cartload of chairs; the next a waggonful +of fenders, fire-irons, and glass and crockery—a quantity of supplies, +in a word, he poured into the place. There were a yellow curtain in the +back drawing-room, and green curtains in the front. The carpet was an +immense bargain, bought dirt cheap, sir, at a sale in Euston Square. He +was against the purchase of a carpet for the stairs. What was the good +of it? What did men want with stair-carpets? His own apartment +contained a wonderful assortment of lumber. Shelves which he nailed +himself, old Indian garments, camphor trunks. What did he want with +gewgaws? anything was good enough for an old soldier. But the spare +bedroom was endowed with all sorts of splendour: a bed as big as a +general’s tent, a cheval glass—whereas the Colonel shaved in a little +cracked mirror, which cost him no more than King Stephen’s breeches—and +a handsome new carpet; while the boards of the Colonel’s bedchamber +were as bare—as bare as old Miss Scragg’s shoulders, which would be so +much more comfortable were they covered up. Mr. Binnie’s bedchamber was +neat, snug, and appropriate. And Clive had a study and bedroom at the +top of the house, which he was allowed to furnish entirely according to +his own taste. How he and Ridley revelled in Wardour Street! What +delightful coloured prints of hunting, racing, and beautiful ladies, +did they not purchase, mount with their own hands, cut out for screens, +frame and glaze, and hang up on the walls. When the rooms were ready +they gave a party, inviting the Colonel and Mr. Binnie by note of hand, +two gentlemen from Lamb Court, Temple, Mr. Honeyman, and Fred Bayham. +We must have Fred Bayham. Fred Bayham frankly asked, “Is Mr. Sherrick, +with whom you have become rather intimate lately—and mind you I say +nothing, but I recommend strangers in London to be cautious about their +friends—is Mr. Sherrick coming to you, young ’un? because if he is, F. +B. must respectfully decline.” + +Mr. Sherrick was not invited, and accordingly F. B. came. But Sherrick +was invited on other days, and a very queer society did our honest +Colonel gather together in that queer house, so dreary, so dingy, so +comfortless, so pleasant. He, who was one of the most hospitable men +alive, loved to have his friends around him; and it must be confessed +that the evening parties now occasionally given in Fitzroy Square were +of the oddest assemblage of people. The correct East India gentlemen +from Hanover Square: the artists, Clive’s friends, gentlemen of all +ages with all sorts of beards, in every variety of costume. Now and +again a stray schoolfellow from Grey Friars, who stared, as well he +might, at the company in which he found himself. Sometimes a few ladies +were brought to these entertainments. The immense politeness of the +good host compensated some of them for the strangeness of his company. +They had never seen such odd-looking hairy men as those young artists, +nor such wonderful women as Colonel Newcome assembled together. He was +good to all old maids and poor widows. Retired captains with large +families of daughters found in him their best friend. He sent carriages +to fetch them and bring them back from the suburbs where they dwelt. +Gandish, Mrs. Gandish, and the four Miss Gandishes in scarlet robes, +were constant attendants at the Colonel’s soirées. + +“I delight, sir, in the ’ospitality of my distinguished military +friend,” Mr. Gandish would say. “The harmy has always been my +passion.—I served in the Soho Volunteers three years myself, till the +conclusion of the war, sir, till the conclusion of the war.” + +It was a great sight to see Mr. Frederick Bayham engaged in the waltz +or the quadrille with some of the elderly houris at the Colonel’s +parties. F. B., like a good-natured F. B. as he was, always chose the +plainest women as partners, and entertained them with profound +compliments and sumptuous conversation. The Colonel likewise danced +quadrilles with the utmost gravity. Waltzing had been invented long +since his time: but he practised quadrilles when they first came in, +about 1817, in Calcutta. To see him leading up a little old maid, and +bowing to her when the dance was ended, and performing cavalier seul +with stately simplicity, was a sight indeed to remember. If Clive +Newcome had not such a fine sense of humour, he would have blushed for +his father’s simplicity.—As it was, the elder’s guileless goodness and +childlike trustfulness endeared him immensely to his son. “Look at the +old boy, Pendennis,” he would say, “look at him leading up that old +Miss Tidswell to the piano. Doesn’t he do it like an old duke? I lay a +wager she thinks she is going to be my mother-in-law; all the women are +in love with him, young and old. ‘Should he upbraid?’ There she goes. +‘I’ll own that he’ll prevail, and sing as sweetly as a nigh-tin-gale!’ +Oh, you old warbler! Look at father’s old head bobbing up and down! +Wouldn’t he do for Sir Roger de Coverley? How do you do, Uncle +Charles?—I say, M’Collop, how gets on the Duke of What-d’ye-call-’em +starving in the castle?—Gandish says it’s very good.” The lad retires +to a group of artists. Mr. Honeyman comes up with a faint smile playing +on his features, like moonlight on the facade of Lady Whittlesea’s +Chapel. + +“These parties are the most singular I have ever seen,” whispers +Honeyman. “In entering one of these assemblies, one is struck with the +immensity of London: and with the sense of one’s own insignificance. +Without, I trust, departing from my clerical character, nay, from my +very avocation as incumbent of a London chapel,—I have seen a good deal +of the world, and here is an assemblage no doubt of most respectable +persons, on scarce one of whom I ever set eyes till this evening. Where +does my good brother find such characters?” + +“That,” says Mr. Honeyman’s interlocutor, “is the celebrated, though +neglected artist, Professor Gandish, whom nothing but jealousy has kept +out of the Royal Academy. Surely you have heard of the great Gandish?” + +“Indeed I am ashamed to confess my ignorance, but a clergyman busy with +his duties knows little, perhaps too little, of the fine arts.” + +“Gandish, sir, is one of the greatest geniuses on whom our ungrateful +country ever trampled; he exhibited his first celebrated picture of +‘Alfred in the Neatherd’s Hut’ (he says he is the first who ever +touched that subject) in 180-; but Lord Nelson’s death, and victory of +Trafalgar, occupied the public attention at that time, and Gandish’s +work went unnoticed. In the year 1816, he painted his great work of +‘Boadicea.’ You see her before you. That lady in yellow, with a light +front and a turban. Boadicea became Mrs. Gandish in that year. So late +as ’27, he brought before the world his ‘Non Angli sed Angeli.’ Two of +the angels are yonder in sea-green dresses—the Misses Gandish. The +youth in Berlin gloves was the little male angelus of that piece.” + +“How came you to know all this, you strange man?” says Mr. Honeyman. + +“Simply because Gandish has told me twenty times. He tells the story to +everybody, every time he sees them. He told it to-day at dinner. +Boadicea and the angels came afterwards.” + +“Satire! satire! Mr. Pendennis,” says the divine, holding up a +reproving finger of lavender kid, “beware of a wicked wit!—But when a +man has that tendency, I know how difficult it is to restrain. My dear +Colonel, good evening! You have a great reception to-night. That +gentleman’s bass voice is very fine; Mr. Pendennis and I were admiring +it. ‘The Wolf’ is a song admirably adapted to show its capabilities.” + +Mr. Gandish’s autobiography had occupied the whole time of the +retirement of the ladies from Colonel Newcome’s dinner-table. Mr. +Hobson Newcome had been asleep during the performance; Sir Curry +Baughton and one or two of the Colonel’s professional and military +guests, silent and puzzled. Honest Mr. Binnie, with his shrewd +good-humoured face, sipping his claret as usual, and delivering a sly +joke now and again to the gentlemen at his end of the table. Mrs. +Newcome had sat by him in sulky dignity; was it that Lady Baughton’s +diamonds offended her?—her ladyship and her daughters being attired in +great splendour for a Court ball, which they were to attend that +evening. Was she hurt because SHE was not invited to that Royal +Entertainment? As the festivities were to take place at an early hour, +the ladies bidden were obliged to quit the Colonel’s house before the +evening part commenced, from which Lady Anne declared she was quite +vexed to be obliged to run away. + +Lady Anne Newcome had been as gracious on this occasion as her +sister-in-law had been out of humour. Everything pleased her in the +house. She had no idea that there were such fine houses in that quarter +of the town. She thought the dinner so very nice,—that Mr. Binnie such a +good-humoured-looking gentleman. That stout gentleman with his collars +turned down like Lord Byron, so exceedingly clever and full of +information. A celebrated artist was he? (courtly Mr. Smee had his own +opinion upon that point, but did not utter it). All those artists are +so eccentric and amusing and clever. Before dinner she insisted upon +seeing Clive’s den with its pictures and casts and pipes. “You horrid +young wicked creature, have you begun to smoke already?” she asks, as +she admires his room. She admired everything. Nothing could exceed her +satisfaction. + +The sisters-in-law kissed on meeting, with that cordiality so +delightful to witness in sisters who dwell together in unity. It was, +“My dear Maria, what an age since I have seen you!” “My dear Anne, our +occupations are so engrossing, our circles are so different,” in a +languid response from the other. “Sir Brian is not coming, I suppose? +Now, Colonel,” she turns in a frisky manner towards him, and taps her +fan, “did I not tell you Sir Brian would not come?” + +“He is kept at the House of Commons, my dear. Those dreadful +committees. He was quite vexed at not being able to come.” + +“I know, I know, dear Anne, there are always excuses to gentlemen in +Parliament; I have received many such. Mr. Shaloo and Mr. M’Sheny, the +leaders of our party, often and often disappoint me. I _knew_ Brian +would not come. _My_ husband came down from Marble Head on purpose this +morning. Nothing would have induced us to give up our brother’s party.” + +“I believe you. I did come down from Marble Head this morning, and I +was four hours in the hay-field before I came away, and in the City +till five, and I’ve been to look at a horse afterwards at Tattersall’s, +and I’m as hungry as a hunter, and as tired as a hodman,” says Mr. +Newcome, with his hands in his pockets. “How do you do, Mr. Pendennis? +Maria, you remember Mr. Pendennis—don’t you?” + +“Perfectly,” replies the languid Maria. Mrs. Gandish, Colonel Topham, +Major M’Cracken, are announced, and then, in diamonds, feathers, and +splendour, Lady Baughton and Miss Baughton, who are going to the +Queen’s ball, and Sir Curry Baughton, not quite in his +deputy-lieutenant’s uniform as yet, looking very shy in a pair of blue +trousers, with a glittering stripe of silver down the seams. Clive +looks with wonder and delight at these ravishing ladies, rustling in +fresh brocades, with feathers, diamonds, and every magnificence. Aunt +Anne has not her Court dress on as yet; and Aunt Maria blushes as she +beholds the new comers, having thought fit to attire herself in a high +dress, with a Quaker-like simplicity, and a pair of gloves more than +ordinarily dingy. The pretty little foot she has, it is true, and +sticks it out from habit; but what is Mrs. Newcome’s foot compared with +that sweet little chaussure which Miss Baughton exhibits and withdraws? +The shiny white satin slipper, the pink stocking which ever and anon +peeps from the rustling folds of her robe, and timidly retires into its +covert—that foot, light as it is, crushes Mrs. Newcome. + +No wonder she winces, and is angry; there are some mischievous persons +who rather like to witness that discomfiture. All Mr. Smee’s flatteries +that day failed to soothe her. She was in the state in which his +canvasses sometimes are, when he cannot paint on them. + +What happened to her alone in the drawing-room, when the ladies invited +to the dinner had departed, and those convoked to the soirée began to +arrive,—what happened to her or to them I do not like to think. The +Gandishes arrived first. Boadicea and the angels. We judged from the +fact that young Mr. Gandish came blushing in to the dessert. Name after +name was announced of persons of whom Mrs. Newcome knew nothing. The +young and the old, the pretty and homely, they were all in their best +dresses, and no doubt stared at Mrs. Newcome, so obstinately plain in +her attire. When we came upstairs from dinner, we found her seated +entirely by herself, tapping her fan at the fireplace. Timid groups of +persons were round about, waiting for the irruption of the gentlemen, +until the pleasure should begin. Mr. Newcome, who came upstairs +yawning, was heard to say to his wife, “Oh, dam, let’s cut!” And they +went downstairs, and waited until their carriage had arrived, when they +quitted Fitzroy Square. + +Mr. Barnes Newcome presently arrived, looking particularly smart and +lively, with a large flower in his button-hole, and leaning on the arm +of a friend. “How do you do, Pendennis?” he says, with a peculiarly +dandified air. “Did you dine here? You look as if you dined here” (and +Barnes, certainly, as if he had dined elsewhere). “I was only asked to +the cold soirée. Who did you have for dinner? You had my mamma and the +Baughtons, and my uncle and aunt, I know, for they are down below in +the library, waiting for the carriage: he is asleep, and she is as +sulky as a bear.” + +“Why did Mrs. Newcome say I should find nobody I knew up here?” asks +Barnes’s companion. “On the contrary, there are lots of fellows I know. +There’s Fred Bayham, dancing like a harlequin. There’s old Gandish, who +used to be my drawing-master; and my Brighton friends, your uncle and +cousin, Barnes. What relations are they to me? must be some relations. +Fine fellow your cousin.” + +“Hm,” growls Barnes. “Very fine boy,—not spirited at all,—not fond of +flattery,—not surrounded by toadies,—not fond of drink,—delightful boy! +See yonder, the young fellow is in conversation with his most intimate +friend, a little crooked fellow, with long hair. Do you know who he is? +he is the son of old Todmoreton’s butler. Upon my life it’s true.” + +“And suppose it is; what the deuce do I care!” cries Lord Kew. “Who can +be more respectable than a butler? A man must be somebody’s son. When I +am a middle-aged man, I hope humbly I shall look like a butler myself. +Suppose you were to put ten of Gunter’s men into the House of Lords, do +you mean to say that they would not look as well as any average ten +peers in the house? Look at Lord Westcot; he is exactly like a butler +that’s why the country has such confidence in him. I never dine with +him but I fancy he ought to be at the sideboard. Here comes that +insufferable little old Smee. How do you do, Mr. Smee?” + +Mr. Smee smiles his sweetest smile. With his rings, diamond +shirt-studs, and red velvet waistcoat, there are few more elaborate +middle-aged bucks than Alfred Smee. “How do you do, my dear lord?” +cries the bland one. “Who would ever have thought of seeing your +lordship here?” + +“Why the deuce not, Mr. Smee?” asks Lord Kew, abruptly. “Is it wrong to +come here? I have been in the house only five minutes, and three people +have said the same thing to me—Mrs. Newcome, who is sitting downstairs +in a rage waiting for her carriage, the condescending Barnes, and +yourself. Why do you come here, Since? How are you, Mr. Gandish? How do +the fine arts go?” + +“Your lordship’s kindness in asking for them will cheer them if +anything will,” says Mr. Gandish. “Your noble family has always +patronised them. I am proud to be reckonised by your lordship in this +house, where the distinguished father of one of my pupils entertains us +this evening. A most promising young man is young Mr. Clive—talents for +a hamateur really most remarkable.” + +“Excellent, upon my word—excellent,” cries Mr. Smee. “I’m not an animal +painter myself, and perhaps don’t think much of that branch of the +profession; but it seems to me the young fellow draws horses with the +most wonderful spirit. I hope Lady Walham is very well, and that she +was satisfied with her son’s portrait. Stockholm, I think, your brother +is appointed to? I wish I might be allowed to paint the elder as well +as the younger brother, my lord.” + +“I am an historical painter; but whenever Lord Kew is painted I hope +his lordship will think of the old servant of his lordship’s family, +Charles Gandish,” cries the Professor. + +“I am like Susannah between the two Elders,” says Lord Kew. “Let my +innocence alone, Smee. Mr. Gandish, don’t persecute my modesty with +your addresses. I won’t be painted. I am not a fit subject for a +historical painter, Mr. Gandish.” + +“Halcibiades sat to Praxiteles, and Pericles to Phridjas,” remarks +Gandish. + +“The cases are not quite similar,” says Lord Kew, languidly. “You are +no doubt fully equal to Praxiteles; but I don’t see my resemblance to +the other party. I should not look well as a hero, and Smee could not +paint me handsome enough.” + +“I would try, my dear lord,” cries Mr. Smee. + +“I know you would, my dear fellow,” Lord Kew answered, looking at the +painter with a lazy scorn in his eyes. “Where is Colonel Newcome, Mr. +Gandish?” Mr. Gandish replied that our gallant host was dancing a +quadrille in the next room; and the young gentleman walked on towards +that apartment to pay his respects to the giver of the evening’s +entertainment. + +Newcome’s behaviour to the young peer was ceremonious, but not in the +least servile. He saluted the other’s superior rank, not his person, as +he turned the guard out for a general officer. He never could be +brought to be otherwise than cold and grave in his behaviour to John +James; nor was it without difficulty, when young Ridley and his son +became pupils at Gandish’s, he could be induced to invite the former to +his parties. “An artist is any man’s equal,” he said. “I have no +prejudice of that sort; and think that Sir Joshua Reynolds and Doctor +Johnson were fit company for any person, of whatever rank. But a young +man whose father may have had to wait behind me at dinner, should not +be brought into my company.” Clive compromises the dispute with a +laugh. “First,” says he, “I will wait till I am asked; and then I +promise I will not go to dine with Lord Todmoreton.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. +Contains more Particulars of the Colonel and his Brethren + + +Clive’s amusements, studies, or occupations, such as they were, filled +his day pretty completely, and caused the young gentleman’s time to +pass rapidly and pleasantly, his father, it must be owned, had no such +resources, and the good Colonel’s idleness hung heavily upon him. He +submitted very kindly to this infliction, however, as he would have +done to any other for Clive’s sake; and though he may have wished +himself back with his regiment again, and engaged in the pursuits in +which his life had been spent, he chose to consider these desires as +very selfish and blameable on his part, and sacrificed them resolutely +for his son’s welfare. The young fellow, I dare say, gave his parent no +more credit for his long self-denial, than many other children award to +theirs. We take such life-offerings as our due commonly. The old French +satirist avers that, in a love affair, there is usually one person who +loves, and the other, _qui se laisse aimer;_ it is only in later days, +perhaps, when the treasures of love are spent, and the kind hand cold +which ministered them, that we remember how tender it was; how soft to +soothe; how eager to shield; how ready to support and caress. The ears +may no longer hear, which would have received our words of thanks so +delightedly. Let us hope those fruits of love, though tardy, are yet +not all too late; and though we bring our tribute of reverence and +gratitude, it may be to a gravestone, there is an acceptance even there +for the stricken heart’s oblation of fond remorse, contrite memories, +and pious tears. I am thinking of the love of Clive Newcome’s father +for him (and, perhaps, young reader, that of yours and mine for +ourselves); how the old man lay awake, and devised kindnesses, and gave +his all for the love of his son; and the young man took, and spent, and +slept, and made merry. Did we not say at our tale’s commencement that +all stories were old? Careless prodigals and anxious elders have been +from the beginning:—and so may love, and repentance, and forgiveness +endure even till the end. + +The stifling fogs, the slippery mud, the dun dreary November mornings, +when the Regent’s Park, where the Colonel took his early walk, was +wrapped in yellow mist, must have been a melancholy exchange for the +splendour of Eastern sunrise, and the invigorating gallop at dawn, to +which, for so many years of his life, Thomas Newcome had accustomed +himself. His obstinate habit of early waking accompanied him to +England, and occasioned the despair of his London domestics, who, if +master wasn’t so awful early, would have found no fault with him; for a +gentleman as gives less trouble to his servants; as scarcely ever rings +the bell for his self; as will brush his own clothes; as will even boil +his own shaving-water in the little hetna which he keeps up in his +dressing-room; as pays so regular, and never looks twice at the +accounts; such a man deserved to be loved by his household, and I dare +say comparisons were made between him and his son, who do ring the +bells, and scold if his boots ain’t nice, and horder about like a young +lord. But Clive, though imperious, was very liberal and good-humoured, +and not the worse served because he insisted upon exerting his youthful +authority. As for friend Binnie, he had a hundred pursuits of his own, +which made his time pass very comfortably. He had all the Lectures at +the British Institution; he had the Geographical Society, the Asiatic +Society, and the Political Economy Club; and though he talked year +after year of going to visit his relations in Scotland, the months and +seasons passed away, and his feet still beat the London pavement. + +In spite of the cold reception his brothers gave him, duty was duty, +and Colonel Newcome still proposed, or hoped to be well with the female +members of the Newcome family; and having, as we have said, plenty of +time on his hands, and living at no very great distance from either of +his brothers’ town houses, when their wives were in London, the elder +Newcome was for paying them pretty constant visits. But after the good +gentleman had called twice or thrice upon his sister-in-law in +Bryanstone Square—bringing, as was his wont, a present for this little +niece, or a book for that—Mrs. Newcome, with her usual virtue, gave him +to understand that the occupation of an English matron, who, besides +her multifarious family duties, had her own intellectual culture to +mind, would not allow her to pass the mornings in idle gossips: and of +course took great credit to herself for having so rebuked him. “I am +not above instruction of any age,” says she, thanking Heaven (or +complimenting it, rather, for having created a being so virtuous and +humble-minded). “When Professor Schroff comes, I sit with my children, +and take lessons in German,—and I say my verbs with Maria and Tommy in +the same class!” Yes, with curtsies and fine speeches she actually +bowed her brother out of doors; and the honest gentleman meekly left +her, though with bewilderment, as he thought of the different +hospitality to which he had been accustomed in the East, where no +friend’s house was ever closed to him, where no neighbour was so busy +but he had time to make Thomas Newcome welcome. + +When Hobson Newcome’s boys came home for the holidays, their kind uncle +was for treating them to the sights of the town, but here Virtue again +interposed and laid its interdict upon pleasure. “Thank you, very much, +my dear Colonel,” says Virtue, “there never was surely such a kind, +affectionate, unselfish creature as you are, and so indulgent for +children, but my boys and yours are brought up on a _very different_ +plan. Excuse me for saying that I do not think it is advisable that +they should even see too much of each other. Clive’s company is not +good for them.” + +“Great heavens, Maria!” cries the Colonel, starting up, “do you mean +that my boy’s society is not good enough for any boy alive?” + +Maria turned very red: she had said not more than she meant, but more +than she meant to say. “My dear Colonel, how hot we are! how angry you +Indian gentlemen become with us poor women! Your boy is much older than +mine. He lives with artists, with all sorts of eccentric people. Our +children are bred on _quite a different plan_. Hobson will succeed his +father in the bank, and dear Samuel I trust will go into the Church. I +told you, before, the views I had regarding the boys: but it was most +kind of you to think of them—most generous and kind.” + +“That nabob of ours is a queer fish,” Hobson Newcome remarked to his +nephew Barnes. “He is as proud as Lucifer, he is always taking huff +about one thing or the other. He went off in a fume the other night +because your aunt objected to his taking the boys to the play. She +don’t like their going to the play. My mother didn’t either. Your aunt +is a woman who is uncommon wideawake, I can tell you.” + +“I always knew, sir, that my aunt was perfectly aware of the time of +the day,” says Barnes, with a bow. + +“And then the Colonel flies out about his boy, and says that my wife +insulted him! I used to like that boy. Before his father came he was a +good lad enough—a jolly brave little fellow.” + +“I confess I did not know Mr. Clive at that interesting period of his +existence,” remarks Barnes. + +“But since he has taken this madcap freak of turning painter,” the +uncle continues, “there is no understanding the chap. Did you ever see +such a set of fellows as the Colonel had got together at his party the +other night? Dirty chaps in velvet coats and beards? They looked like a +set of mountebanks. And this young Clive is going to turn painter!” + +“Very advantageous thing for the family. He’ll do our pictures for +nothing. I always said he was a darling boy,” simpered Barnes. + +“Darling jackass!” growled out the senior. “Confound it, why doesn’t my +brother set him up in some respectable business? I ain’t proud. I have +not married an earl’s daughter. No offence to you, Barnes.” + +“Not at all, sir. I can’t help it if my grandfather is a gentleman,” +says Barnes, with a fascinating smile. + +The uncle laughs. “I mean I don’t care what a fellow is if he is a good +fellow. But a painter! hang it—a painter’s no trade at all—I don’t +fancy seeing one of our family sticking up pictures for sale. I don’t +like it, Barnes.” + +“Hush! here comes his distinguished friend, Mr. Pendennis,” whispers +Barnes; and the uncle growling out, “Damn all literary fellows—all +artists—the whole lot of them!” turns away. Barnes waves three languid +fingers of recognition towards Pendennis: and when the uncle and nephew +have moved out of the club newspaper room, little Tom Eaves comes up +and tells the present reporter every word of their conversation. + +Very soon Mrs. Newcome announced that their Indian brother found the +society of Bryanstone Square very little to his taste, as indeed how +should he? being a man of a good harmless disposition certainly, but of +small intellectual culture. It could not be helped. She had done her +utmost to make him welcome, and grieved that their pursuits were not +more congenial. She heard that he was much more intimate in Park Lane. +Possibly the superior rank of Lady Anne’s family might present charms +to Colonel Newcome, who fell asleep at her assemblies. His boy, she was +afraid, was leading the most _irregular life_. He was growing a pair of +mustachios, and going about with all sorts of wild associates. She +found no fault; who was she, to find fault with any one? But she had +been compelled to hint that her children must not be too intimate with +him. And so, between one brother who meant no unkindness, and another +who was all affection and goodwill, this undoubting woman created +difference, distrust, dislike, which might one day possibly lead to +open rupture. The wicked are wicked, no doubt, and they go astray and +they fall, and they come by their deserts: but who can tell the +mischief which the very virtuous do? + +To her sister-in-law, Lady Anne, the Colonel’s society was more +welcome. The affectionate gentleman never tired of doing kindnesses to +his brother’s many children; and as Mr. Clive’s pursuits now separated +him a good deal from his father, the Colonel, not perhaps without a +sigh that fate should so separate him from the society which he loved +best in the world, consoled himself as best he might with his nephews +and nieces, especially with Ethel, for whom his _belle passion_ +conceived at first sight never diminished. If Uncle Newcome had a +hundred children, Ethel said, who was rather jealous of disposition, he +would spoil them all. He found a fine occupation in breaking a pretty +little horse for her, of which he made her a present, and there was no +horse in the Park that was so handsome, and surely no girl who looked +more beautiful than Ethel Newcome with her broad hat and red ribbon, +with her thick black locks waving round her bright face, galloping +along the ride on Bhurtpore. Occasionally Clive was at their +riding-parties, when the Colonel would fall back and fondly survey the +young people cantering side by side over the grass: but by a tacit +convention it was arranged that the cousins should be but seldom +together; the Colonel might be his niece’s companion and no one could +receive him with a more joyous welcome, but when Mr. Clive made his +appearance with his father at the Park Lane door, a certain _gêne_ was +visible in Miss Ethel, who would never mount except with Colonel +Newcome’s assistance, and who, especially after Mr. Clive’s famous +mustachios made their appearance, rallied him, and remonstrated with +him regarding those ornaments, and treated him with much distance and +dignity. She asked him if he was going into the army? she could not +understand how any but military men could wear mustachios; and then she +looked fondly and archly at her uncle, and said she liked none that +were not grey. + +Clive set her down as a very haughty, spoiled, aristocratic young +creature. If he had been in love with her, no doubt he would have +sacrificed even those beloved new-born whiskers for the charmer. Had he +not already bought on credit the necessary implements in a fine +dressing-case, from young Moss? But he was not in love with her; +otherwise he would have found a thousand opportunities of riding with +her, walking with her, meeting her, in spite of all prohibitions tacit +or expressed, all governesses, guardians, mamma’s punctilios, and kind +hints from friends. For a while, Mr. Clive thought himself in love with +his cousin; than whom no more beautiful young girl could be seen in any +park, ball, or drawing-room; and he drew a hundred pictures of her, and +discoursed about her beauties to J. J., who fell in love with her on +hearsay. But at this time Mademoiselle Saltarelli was dancing at Drury +Lane Theatre, and it certainly may be said that Clive’s first love was +bestowed upon that beauty: whose picture of course he drew in most of +her favourite characters; and for whom his passion lasted until the end +of the season, when her night was announced, tickets to be had at the +theatre, or of Mademoiselle Saltarelli, Buckingham Street, Strand. Then +it was that with a throbbing heart and a five-pound note, to engage +places for the houri’s benefit, Clive beheld Madame Rogomme, +Mademoiselle Saltarelli’s mother, who entertained him in the French +language in a dark parlour smelling of onions. And oh! issuing from the +adjoining dining-room (where was a dingy vision of a feast and pewter +pots upon a darkling tablecloth), could that lean, scraggy, old, +beetle-browed yellow face, who cried, “Ou es tu donc, maman?” with such +a shrill nasal voice—could that elderly vixen be that blooming and +divine Saltarelli? Clive drew her picture as she was, and a likeness of +Madame Rogomme, her mamma; a Mosaic youth, profusely jewelled, and +scented at once with tobacco and eau-de-cologne, occupied Clive’s stall +on Mademoiselle Saltarelli’s night. It was young Mr. Moss, of Gandish’s +to whom Newcome ceded his place, and who laughed (as he always did at +Clive’s jokes) when the latter told the story of his interview with the +dancer. “Paid five pound to see that woman! I could have took you +behind the scenes” (or “beide the seeds,” Mr. Moss said) “and showed +her to you for nothing.” Did he take Clive behind the scenes? Over this +part of the young gentleman’s life, without implying the least harm to +him—for have not others been behind the scenes; and can there be any +more dreary object than those whitened and raddled old women who +shudder at the slips?—over this stage of Clive Newcome’s life we may +surely drop the curtain. + +It is pleasanter to contemplate that kind old face of Clive’s father, +that sweet young blushing lady by his side, as the two ride homewards +at sunset. The grooms behind in quiet conversation about horses, as men +never tire of talking about horses. Ethel wants to know about battles; +about lovers’ lamps, which she has read of in Lalla Rookh. “Have you +ever seen them, uncle, floating down the Ganges of a night?” About +Indian widows. “Did you actually see one burning, and hear her scream +as you rode up?” She wonders whether he will tell her anything about +Clive’s mother: how she must have loved Uncle Newcome! Ethel can’t +bear, somehow, to think that her name was Mrs. Casey, perhaps he was +very fond of her; though he scarcely ever mentions her name. She was +nothing like that good old funny Miss Honeyman at Brighton. Who could +the person be?—a person that her uncle knew ever so long ago—a French +lady, whom her uncle says Ethel often resembles? That is why he speaks +French so well. He can recite whole pages out of Racine. Perhaps it was +the French lady who taught him. And he was not very happy at the +Hermitage (though grandpapa was a very kind good man), and he upset +papa in a little carriage, and was wild, and got into disgrace, and was +sent to India? He could not have been very bad, Ethel thinks, looking +at him with her honest eyes. Last week he went to the Drawing-room, and +papa presented him. His uniform of grey and silver was quite old, yet +he looked much grander than Sir Brian in his new deputy-lieutenant’s +dress. “Next year, when I am presented, you must come too, sir,” says +Ethel. “I insist upon it, you must come too!” + +“I will order a new uniform, Ethel,” says her uncle. + +The girl laughs. “When little Egbert took hold of your sword, uncle, +and asked you how many people you had killed, do you know I had the +same question in my mind; and I thought when you went to the +Drawing-room, perhaps the King will knight him. But instead he knighted +mamma’s apothecary, Sir Danby Jilks: that horrid little man, and I +won’t have you knighted any more.” + +“I hope Egbert won’t ask Sir Danby Jilks how many people HE has +killed,” says the Colonel, laughing; but thinking the joke too severe +upon Sir Danby and the profession, he forthwith apologises by narrating +many anecdotes he knows to the credit of surgeons. How, when the fever +broke out on board the ship going to India, their surgeon devoted +himself to the safety of the crew, and died himself, leaving directions +for the treatment of the patients when he was gone! What heroism the +doctors showed during the cholera in India; and what courage he had +seen some of them exhibit in action: attending the wounded men under +the hottest fire, and exposing themselves as readily as the bravest +troops. Ethel declares that her uncle always will talk of other +people’s courage, and never say a word about his own; “and the only +reason,” she says, “which made me like that odious Sir Thomas de Boots, +who laughs so, and looks so red, and pays such horrid compliments to +all ladies, was, that he praised you, uncle, at Newcome, last year, +when Barnes and he came to us at Christmas. Why did you not come? Mamma +and I went to see your old nurse; and we found her such a nice old +lady.” So the pair talk kindly on, riding homewards through the +pleasant summer twilight. Mamma had gone out to dinner; and there were +cards for three parties afterwards. “Oh, how I wish it was next year!” +says Miss Ethel. + +Many a splendid assembly, and many a brilliant next year, will the +ardent and hopeful young creature enjoy; but in the midst of her +splendour and triumphs, buzzing flatterers, conquered rivals, prostrate +admirers, no doubt she will think sometimes of that quiet season before +the world began for her, and that dear old friend, on whose arm she +leaned while she was yet a young girl. + +The Colonel comes to Park Street early in the forenoon, when the +mistress of the house, surrounded by her little ones, is administering +dinner to them. He behaves with splendid courtesy to Miss Quigley, the +governess, and makes a point of taking wine with her, and of making a +most profound bow during that ceremony. Miss Quigley cannot help +thinking Colonel Newcome’s bow very fine. She has an idea that his late +Majesty must have bowed in that way: she flutteringly imparts this +opinion to Lady Anne’s maid; who tells her mistress, who tells Miss +Ethel, who watches the Colonel the next time he takes wine with Miss +Quigley, and they laugh, and then Ethel tells him; so that the +gentleman and the governess have to blush ever after when they drink +wine together. When she is walking with her little charges in the Park, +or in that before-mentioned paradise nigh to Apsley House, faint +signals of welcome appear on her wan cheeks. She knows the dear Colonel +amongst a thousand horsemen. If Ethel makes for her uncle purses, +guard-chains, antimacassars, and the like beautiful and useful +articles, I believe it is in reality Miss Quigley who does four-fifths +of the work, as she sits alone in the schoolroom, high, high up in that +lone house, when the little ones are long since asleep, before her +dismal little tea-tray, and her little desk containing her mother’s +letters and her mementos of home. + +There are, of course, numberless fine parties in Park Lane, where the +Colonel knows he would be very welcome. But if there be grand +assemblies, he does not care to come. “I like to go to the club best,” +he says to Lady Anne. “We talk there as you do here about persons, and +about Jack marrying, and Tom dying, and so forth. But we have known +Jack and Tom all our lives, and so are interested in talking about +them. Just as you are in speaking of your own friends and habitual +society. They are people whose names I have sometimes read in the +newspaper, but whom I never thought of meeting until I came to your +house. What has an old fellow like me to say to your young dandies or +old dowagers?” + +“Mamma is very odd and sometimes very captious, my dear Colonel,” said +Lady Anne, with a blush; “she suffers so frightfully from tic that we +are all bound to pardon her.” + +Truth to tell, old Lady Kew had been particularly rude to Colonel +Newcome and Clive. Ethel’s birthday befell in the spring, on which +occasion she was wont to have a juvenile assembly, chiefly of girls of +her own age and condition; who came, accompanied by a few governesses, +and they played and sang their little duets and choruses together, and +enjoyed a gentle refection of sponge-cakes, jellies, tea, and the +like.—The Colonel, who was invited to this little party, sent a fine +present to his favourite Ethel; and Clive and his friend J. J. made a +funny series of drawings, representing the life of a young lady as they +imagined it, and drawing her progress from her cradle upwards: now +engaged with her doll, then with her dancing-master; now marching in +her back-board; now crying over her German lessons: and dressed for her +first ball finally, and bestowing her hand upon a dandy, of +preternatural ugliness, who was kneeling at her feet as the happy man. +This picture was the delight of the laughing happy girls; except, +perhaps, the little cousins from Bryanstone Square, who were invited to +Ethel’s party, but were so overpowered by the prodigious new dresses in +which their mamma had attired them, that they could admire nothing but +their rustling pink frocks, their enormous sashes, their lovely new +silk stockings. + +Lady Kew coming to London attended on the party, and presented her +granddaughter with a sixpenny pincushion. The Colonel had sent Ethel a +beautiful little gold watch and chain. Her aunt had complimented her +with that refreshing work, Alison’s History of Europe, richly +bound.—Lady Kew’s pincushion made rather a poor figure among the gifts, +whence probably arose her ladyship’s ill-humour. + +Ethel’s grandmother became exceedingly testy when, the Colonel +arriving, Ethel ran up to him and thanked him for the beautiful watch, +in return for which she gave him a kiss, which, I dare say, amply +repaid Colonel Newcome; and shortly after him Mr. Clive arrived, +looking uncommonly handsome, with that smart little beard and mustachio +with which nature had recently gifted him. As he entered, all the +girls, who had been admiring his pictures, began to clap their hands. +Mr. Clive Newcome blushed, and looked none the worse for that +indication of modesty. + +Lady Kew had met Colonel Newcome a half-dozen times at her daughter’s +house: but on this occasion she had quite forgotten him, for when the +Colonel made her a bow, her ladyship regarded him steadily, and +beckoning her daughter to her, asked who the gentleman was who has just +kissed Ethel? Trembling as she always did before her mother, Lady Anne +explained. Lady Kew said “Oh!” and left Colonel Newcome blushing and +rather _embarrassé de sa personne_—before her. + +With the clapping of hands that greeted Clive’s arrival, the Countess +was by no means more good-humoured. Not aware of her wrath, the young +fellow, who had also previously been presented to her, came forward +presently to make her his compliments. “Pray, who are you?” she said, +looking at him very earnestly in the face. He told her his name. + +“Hm,” said Lady Kew, “I have heard of you, and I have heard very little +good of you.” + +“Will your ladyship please to give me your informant?” cried out +Colonel Newcome. + +Barnes Newcome, who had condescended to attend his sister’s little +fête, and had been languidly watching the frolics of the young people, +looked very much alarmed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. +Is Sentimental, but Short + + +Without wishing to disparage the youth of other nations, I think a +well-bred English lad has this advantage over them, that his bearing is +commonly more modest than theirs. He does not assume the tail-coat and +the manners of manhood too early: he holds his tongue, and listens to +his elders: his mind blushes as well as his cheeks: he does not know +how to make bows and pay compliments like the young Frenchman: nor to +contradict his seniors as I am informed American striplings do. Boys, +who learn nothing else at our public schools, learn at least good +manners, or what we consider to be such; and with regard to the person +at present under consideration, it is certain that all his +acquaintances, excepting perhaps his dear cousin Barnes Newcome, agreed +in considering him as a very frank, manly, modest, and agreeable young +fellow.—My friend Warrington found a grim pleasure in his company; and +his bright face, droll humour, and kindly laughter were always welcome +in our chambers. Honest Fred Bayham was charmed to be in his society; +and used pathetically to aver that he himself might have been such a +youth, had he been blest with a kind father to watch, and good friends +to guide, his early career. In fact, Fred was by far the most didactic +of Clive’s bachelor acquaintances, pursued the young man with endless +advice and sermons, and held himself up as a warning to Clive, and a +touching example of the evil consequences of early idleness and +dissipation. Gentlemen of much higher rank in the world took a fancy to +the lad. Captain Jack Belsize introduced him to his own mess, as also +to the Guard dinner at St. James’s; and my Lord Kew invited him to +Kewbury, his lordship’s house in Oxfordshire, where Clive enjoyed +hunting, shooting, and plenty of good company. Mrs. Newcome groaned in +spirit when she heard of these proceedings; and feared, feared very +much that that unfortunate young man was going to ruin; and Barnes +Newcome amiably disseminated reports amongst his family that the lad +was plunged in all sorts of debaucheries: that he was tipsy every +night: that he was engaged, in his sober moments, with dice, the turf, +or worse amusements: and that his head was so turned by living with Kew +and Belsize, that the little rascal’s pride and arrogance were +perfectly insufferable. Ethel would indignantly deny these charges; +then perhaps credit a few of them; and she looked at Clive with +melancholy eyes when he came to visit his aunt; and I hope prayed that +Heaven might mend his wicked ways. The truth is, the young fellow +enjoyed life, as one of his age and spirit might be expected to do; but +he did very little harm, and meant less; and was quite unconscious of +the reputation which his kind friends were making for him. + +There had been a long-standing promise that Clive and his father were +to go to Newcome at Christmas: and I dare say Ethel proposed to reform +the young prodigal, if prodigal he was, for she busied herself +delightedly in preparing the apartments which they were to inhabit +during their stay—speculated upon it in a hundred pleasant ways, +putting off her visit to this pleasant neighbour, or that pretty scene +in the vicinage, until her uncle should come and they should be enabled +to enjoy the excursion together. And before the arrival of her +relatives, Ethel, with one of her young brothers, went to see Mrs. +Mason; and introduced herself as Colonel Newcome’s niece; and came back +charmed with the old lady, and eager once more in defence of Clive +(when that young gentleman’s character happened to be called in +question by her brother Barnes), for had she not seen the kindest +letter, which Clive had written to old Mrs. Mason, and the beautiful +drawing of his father on horseback and in regimentals, waving his sword +in front of the gallant --th Bengal Cavalry, which the lad had sent down +to the good old woman? He could not be very bad, Ethel thought, who was +so kind and thoughtful for the poor. His father’s son could not be +altogether a reprobate. When Mrs. Mason, seeing how good and beautiful +Ethel was, and thinking in her heart nothing could be too good or +beautiful for Clive, nodded her kind old head at Miss Ethel, and said +she should like to find a husband for her, Miss Ethel blushed, and +looked handsomer than ever; and at home, when she was describing the +interview, never mentioned this part of her talk with Mrs. Mason. + +But the _enfant terrible_, young Alfred, did: announcing to all the +company at dessert, that Ethel was in love with Clive—that Clive was +coming to marry her—that Mrs. Mason, the old woman at Newcome, had told +him so. + +“I dare say she has told the tale all over Newcome!” shrieked out Mr. +Barnes. “I dare say it will be in the Independent next week. By Jove, +it’s a pretty connexion—and nice acquaintances this uncle of ours +brings us!” A fine battle ensued upon the receipt and discussion of +this intelligence: Barnes was more than usually bitter and sarcastic: +Ethel haughtily recriminated, losing her temper, and then her firmness, +until, fairly bursting into tears, she taxed Barnes with meanness and +malignity in for ever uttering stories to his cousin’s disadvantage, +and pursuing with constant slander and cruelty one of the very best of +men. She rose and left the table in great tribulation—she went to her +room and wrote a letter to her uncle, blistered with tears, in which +she besought him not to come to Newcome.—Perhaps she went and looked at +the apartments which she had adorned and prepared for his reception. It +was for him and for his company that she was eager. She had met no one +so generous and gentle, so honest and unselfish, until she had seen +him. + +Lady Anne knew the ways of women very well; and when Ethel that night, +still in great indignation and scorn against Barnes, announced that she +had written a letter to her uncle, begging the Colonel not to come at +Christmas, Ethel’s mother soothed the wounded girl, and treated her +with peculiar gentleness and affection; and she wisely gave Mr. Barnes +to understand, that if he wished to bring about that very attachment, +the idea of which made him so angry, he could use no better means than +those which he chose to employ at present, of constantly abusing and +insulting poor Clive, and awakening Ethel’s sympathies by mere +opposition. And Ethel’s sad little letter was extracted from the +post-bag: and her mother brought it to her, sealed, in her own room, +where the young lady burned it: being easily brought by Lady Anne’s +quiet remonstrances to perceive that it was best no allusion should +take place to the silly dispute which had occurred that evening; and +that Clive and his father should come for the Christmas holidays, if +they were so minded. But when they came, there was no Ethel at Newcome. +She was gone on a visit to her sick aunt, Lady Julia. Colonel Newcome +passed the holidays sadly without his young favourite, and Clive +consoled himself by knocking down pheasants with Sir Brian’s keepers: +and increased his cousin’s attachment for him by breaking the knees of +Barnes’s favourite mare out hunting. It was a dreary entertainment; +father and son were glad enough to get away from it, and to return to +their own humbler quarters in London. + +Thomas Newcome had now been for three years in the possession of that +felicity which his soul longed after; and had any friend of his asked +him if he was happy, he would have answered in the affirmative no +doubt, and protested that he was in the enjoyment of everything a +reasonable man could desire. And yet, in spite of his happiness, his +honest face grew more melancholy: his loose clothes hung only the +looser on his lean limbs: he ate his meals without appetite: his nights +were restless: and he would sit for hours silent in the midst of his +family, so that Mr. Binnie first began jocularly to surmise that Tom +was crossed in love; then seriously to think that his health was +suffering and that a doctor should be called to see him; and at last to +agree that idleness was not good for the Colonel, and that he missed +the military occupation to which he had been for so many years +accustomed. + +The Colonel insisted that he was perfectly happy and contented. What +could he want more than he had—the society of his son, for the present; +and a prospect of quiet for his declining days? Binnie vowed that his +friend’s days had no business to decline as yet; that a sober man of +fifty ought to be at his best; and that Newcome had grown older in +three years in Europe, than in a quarter of a century in the East—all +which statements were true, though the Colonel persisted in denying +them. + +He was very restless. He was always finding business in distant +quarters of England. He must go visit Tom Barker who was settled in +Devonshire, or Harry Johnson who had retired and was living in Wales. +He surprised Mrs. Honeyman by the frequency of his visits to Brighton, +and always came away much improved in health by the sea air, and by +constant riding with the harriers there. He appeared at Bath and at +Cheltenham, where, as we know, there are many old Indians. Mr. Binnie +was not indisposed to accompany him on some of these jaunts—“provided,” +the civilian said, “you don’t take young Hopeful, who is much better +without us; and let us two old fogies enjoy ourselves together.” + +Clive was not sorry to be left alone. The father knew that only too +well. The young man had occupations, ideas, associates, in whom the +elder could take no interest. Sitting below in his blank, cheerless +bedroom, Newcome could hear the lad and his friends talking, singing, +and making merry overhead. Something would be said in Clive’s +well-known tones, and a roar of laughter would proceed from the +youthful company. They had all sorts of tricks, bywords, waggeries, of +which the father could not understand the jest nor the secret. He +longed to share in it, but the party would be hushed if he went in to +join it—and he would come away sad at heart, to think that his presence +should be a signal for silence among them; and that his son could not +be merry in his company. + +We must not quarrel with Clive and Clive’s friends, because they could +not joke and be free in the presence of the worthy gentleman. If they +hushed when he came in, Thomas Newcome’s sad face would seem to look +round—appealing to one after another of them, and asking, “Why don’t +you go on laughing?” A company of old comrades shall be merry and +laughing together, and the entrance of a single youngster will stop the +conversation—and if men of middle age feel this restraint with our +juniors, the young ones surely have a right to be silent before their +elders. The boys are always mum under the eyes of the usher. There is +scarce any parent, however friendly or tender with his children, but +must feel sometimes that they have thoughts which are not his or hers; +and wishes and secrets quite beyond the parental control: and, as +people are vain, long after they are fathers, ay; or grandfathers, and +not seldom fancy that mere personal desire of domination is overweening +anxiety and love for their family, no doubt that common outcry against +thankless children might often be shown to prove, not that the son is +disobedient, but the father too exacting. When a mother (as fond +mothers often will) vows that she knows every thought in her daughter’s +heart, I think she pretends to know a great deal too much; nor can +there be a wholesomer task for the elders, as our young subjects grow +up, naturally demanding liberty and citizen’s rights, than for us +gracefully to abdicate our sovereign pretensions and claims of absolute +control. There’s many a family chief who governs wisely and gently, who +is loth to give the power up when he should. Ah, be sure, it is not +youth alone that has need to learn humility! By their very virtues, and +the purity of their lives, many good parents create flatterers for +themselves, and so live in the midst of a filial court of parasites—and +seldom without a pang of unwillingness, and often not at all, will they +consent to forgo their autocracy, and exchange the tribute they have +been wont to exact of love and obedience for the willing offering of +love and freedom. + +Our good Colonel was not of the tyrannous, but of the loving order of +fathers: and having fixed his whole heart upon this darling youth, his +son, was punished, as I suppose such worldly and selfish love ought to +be punished (so Mr. Honeyman says, at least, in his pulpit), by a +hundred little mortifications, disappointments, and secret wounds, +which stung not the less severely though never mentioned by their +victim. + +Sometimes he would have a company of such gentlemen as Messrs. +Warrington, Honeyman, and Pendennis, when haply a literary conversation +would ensue after dinner; and the merits of our present poets and +writers would be discussed with the claret. Honeyman was well enough +read in profane literature, especially of the lighter sort; and, I dare +say, could have passed a satisfactory examination in Balzac, Dumas, and +Paul de Kock himself, of all whose works our good host was entirely +ignorant,—as indeed he was of graver books, and of earlier books, and +of books in general—except those few which we have said formed his +travelling library. He heard opinions that amazed and bewildered him. +He heard that Byron was no great poet, though a very clever man. He +heard that there had been a wicked persecution against Mr. Pope’s +memory and fame, and that it was time to reinstate him; that his +favourite, Dr. Johnson, talked admirably, but did not write English: +that young Keats was a genius to be estimated in future days with young +Raphael: and that a young gentleman of Cambridge who had lately +published two volumes of verses, might take rank with the greatest +poets of all. Doctor Johnson not write English! Lord Byron not one of +the greatest poets of the world! Sir Walter a poet of the second order! +Mr. Pope attacked for inferiority and want of imagination; Mr. Keats +and this young Mr. Tennyson of Cambridge, the chief of modern poetic +literature! What were these new dicta, which Mr. Warrington delivered +with a puff of tobacco-smoke: to which Mr. Honeyman blandly assented +and Clive listened with pleasure? Such opinions were not of the +Colonel’s time. He tried in vain to construe Oenone, and to make sense +of Lamia. Ulysses he could understand; but what were these prodigious +laudations bestowed on it? And that reverence for Mr. Wordsworth, what +did it mean? Had he not written Peter Bell, and been turned into +deserved ridicule by all the reviews? Was that dreary Excursion to be +compared to Goldsmith’s Traveller, or Doctor Johnson’s Imitation of the +Tenth Satire of Juvenal? If the young men told the truth, where had +been the truth in his own young days, and in what ignorance had our +forefathers been brought up?—Mr. Addison was only an elegant essayist, +and shallow trifler! All these opinions were openly uttered over the +Colonel’s claret, as he and Mr. Binnie sate wondering at the speakers, +who were knocking the gods of their youth about their ears. To Binnie +the shock was not so great; the hard-headed Scotchman had read Hume in +his college days, and sneered at some of the gods even at that early +time. But with Newcome the admiration for the literature of the last +century was an article of belief: and the incredulity of the young men +seemed rank blasphemy. “You will be sneering at Shakspeare next,” he +said: and was silenced, though not better pleased, when his youthful +guests told him, that Doctor Goldsmith sneered at him too; that Dr. +Johnson did not understand him, and that Congreve, in his own day and +afterwards, was considered to be, in some points, Shakspeare’s +superior. “What do you think a man’s criticism is worth, sir,” cries +Mr. Warrington, “who says those lines of Mr. Congreve, about a church— + +‘How reverend is the face of yon tall pile, +Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, +To bear aloft its vast and ponderous roof, +By its own weight made steadfast and immovable; +Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe +And terror on my aching sight’—et cætera + + +what do you think of a critic who says those lines are finer than +anything Shakspeare ever wrote?” A dim consciousness of danger for +Clive, a terror that his son had got into the society of heretics and +unbelievers, came over the Colonel,—and then presently, as was the wont +with his modest soul, a gentle sense of humility. He was in the wrong, +perhaps, and these younger men were right. Who was he, to set up his +judgment against men of letters, educated at college? It was better +that Clive should follow them than him, who had had but a brief +schooling, and that neglected, and who had not the original genius of +his son’s brilliant companions. We particularise these talks, and the +little incidental mortifications which one of the best of men endured, +not because the conversations are worth the remembering or recording, +but because they presently very materially influenced his own and his +son’s future history. + +In the midst of the artists and their talk the poor Colonel was equally +in the dark. They assaulted this Academician and that; laughed at Mr. +Haydon, or sneered at Mr. Eastlake, or the contrary; deified Mr. Turner +on one side of the table, and on the other scorned him as a madman—nor +could Newcome comprehend a word of their jargon. Some sense there must +be in their conversation: Clive joined eagerly in it and took one side +or another. But what was all this rapture about a snuffy brown picture +called Titian, this delight in three flabby nymphs by Rubens, and so +forth? As for the vaunted Antique, and the Elgin Marbles—it might be +that that battered torso was a miracle, and that broken-nosed bust a +perfect beauty. He tried and tried to see that they were. He went away +privily and worked at the National Gallery with a catalogue: and passed +hours in the Museum before the ancient statues, desperately praying to +comprehend them, and puzzled before them as he remembered he was +puzzled before the Greek rudiments as a child when he cried over ὁ, και +ἡ ἀληθής, και τὸ ἀληθὲς. Whereas when Clive came to look at these same +things his eyes would lighten up with pleasure, and his cheeks flush +with enthusiasm. He seemed to drink in colour as he would a feast of +wine. Before the statues he would wave his finger, following the line +of grace, and burst into ejaculations of delight and admiration. “Why +can’t I love the things which he loves?” thought Newcome; “why am I +blind to the beauties which he admires so much—and am I unable to +comprehend what he evidently understands at his young age?” + +So, as he thought what vain egotistical hopes he used to form about the +boy when he was away in India—how in his plans for the happy future, +Clive was to be always at his side; how they were to read, work, play, +think, be merry together—a sickening and humiliating sense of the +reality came over him: and he sadly contrasted it with the former fond +anticipations. Together they were, yet he was alone still. His thoughts +were not the boy’s: and his affections rewarded but with a part of the +young man’s heart. Very likely other lovers have suffered equally. Many +a man and woman has been incensed and worshipped, and has shown no more +feeling than is to be expected from idols. There is yonder statue in +St. Peter’s, of which the toe is worn away with kisses, and which sits, +and will sit eternally, prim and cold. As the young man grew, it seemed +to the father as if each day separated them more and more. He himself +became more melancholy and silent. His friend the civilian marked the +ennui, and commented on it in his laughing way. Sometimes he announced +to the club that Tom Newcome was in love: then he thought it was not +Tom’s heart but his liver that was affected, and recommended blue pill. +O thou fond fool! who art thou, to know any man’s heart save thine +alone? Wherefore were wings made, and do feathers grow, but that birds +should fly? The instinct that bids you love your nest, leads the young +ones to seek a tree and a mate of their own. As if Thomas Newcome by +poring over poems or pictures ever so much could read them with Clive’s +eyes!—as if by sitting mum over his wine, but watching till the lad +came home with his latchkey (when the Colonel crept back to his own +room in his stockings), by prodigal bounties, by stealthy affection, by +any schemes or prayers, he could hope to remain first in his son’s +heart! + +One day going into Clive’s study, where the lad was so deeply engaged +that he did not hear the father’s steps advancing, Thomas Newcome found +his son, pencil in hand, poring over a paper, which, blushing, he +thrust hastily into his breast-pocket, as soon as he saw his visitor. +The father was deeply smitten and mortified. “I—I am sorry you have any +secrets from me, Clive,” he gasped out at length. + +The boy’s face lighted up with humour. “Here it is, father, if you +would like to see:”—and he pulled out a paper which contained neither +more nor less than a copy of very flowery verses, about a certain young +lady, who had succeeded (after I know not how many predecessors) to the +place of _prima donna assoluta_ in Clive’s heart. And be pleased, +madam, not to be too eager with your censure, and fancy that Mr. Clive +or his chronicler would insinuate anything wrong. I dare say you felt a +flame or two before you were married yourself: and that the Captain or +the Curate, and the interesting young foreigner with whom you danced, +caused your heart to beat, before you bestowed that treasure on Mr. +Candour. Clive was doing no more than your own son will do when he is +eighteen or nineteen years old himself—if he is a lad of any spirit and +a worthy son of so charming a lady as yourself. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. +Describes a Visit to Paris; with Accidents and Incidents in London + + +Mr. Clive, as we have said, had now begun to make acquaintances of his +own; and the chimney-glass in his study was decorated with such a +number of cards of invitation, as made his ex-fellow-student of +Gandish’s, young Moss, when admitted into that sanctum, stare with +respectful astonishment. “Lady Bary Rowe at obe,” the young Hebrew read +out; “Lady Baughton at obe, dadsig! By eyes! what a tip-top swell +you’re a gettid to be, Newcome! I guess this is a different sort of +business to the hops at old Levison’s, where you first learned the +polka; and where we had to pay a shilling a glass for negus!” + +“_We_ had to pay! _You_ never paid anything, Moss,” cries Clive, +laughing; and indeed the negus imbibed by Mr. Moss did not cost that +prudent young fellow a penny. + +“Well, well; I suppose at these swell parties you ’ave as bush champade +as ever you like,” continues Moss. “Lady Kicklebury at obe—small early +party. Why, I declare you know the whole peerage! I say, if any of +these swells want a little tip-top lace, a real bargain, or diamonds, +you know, you might put in a word for us, and do us a good turn.” + +“Give me some of your cards,” says Clive; “I can distribute them about +at the balls I go to. But you must treat my friends better than you +serve me. Those cigars which you sent me were abominable, Moss; the +groom in the stable won’t smoke them.” + +“What a regular swell that Newcome has become!” says Mr. Moss to an old +companion, another of Clive’s fellow-students: “I saw him riding in the +Park with the Earl of Kew, and Captain Belsize, and a whole lot of +’em—_I_ know ’em all—and he’d hardly nod to me. I’ll have a horse next +Sunday, and _then_ I’ll see whether he’ll cut me or not. Confound his +airs! For all he’s such a count, I know he’s got an aunt who lets +lodgings at Brighton, and an uncle who’ll be preaching in the Bench if +he don’t keep a precious good look-out.” + +“Newcome is not a bit of a count,” answers Moss’s companion, +indignantly. “He don’t care a straw whether a fellow’s poor or rich; +and he comes up to my room just as willingly as he would go to a +duke’s. He is always trying to do a friend a good turn. He draws the +figure capitally: he _looks_ proud, but he isn’t, and is the +best-natured fellow I ever saw.” + +“He ain’t been in our place this eighteen months,” says Mr. Moss: “I +know that.” + +“Because when he came you were always screwing him with some bargain or +other,” cried the intrepid Hicks, Mr. Moss’s companion for the moment. +“He said he couldn’t afford to know you: you never let him out of your +house without a pin, or a box of eau-de-cologne, or a bundle of cigars. +And when you cut the arts for the shop, how were you and Newcome to go +on together, I should like to know?” + +“I know a relative of his who comes to our ’ouse every three months, to +renew a little bill,” says Mr. Moss, with a grin: “and I know this, if +I go to the Earl of Kew in the Albany, or the Honourable Captain +Belsize, Knightsbridge Barracks, _they_ let me in soon enough. I’m told +his father ain’t got much money.” + +“How the deuce should I know? or what do I care?” cries the young +artist, stamping the heel of his blucher on the pavement. “When I was +sick in that confounded Clipstone Street, I know the Colonel came to +see me, and Newcome too, day after day, and night after night. And when +I was getting well, they sent me wine and jelly, and all sorts of jolly +things. I should like to know how often you came to see me, Moss, and +what you did for a fellow?” + +“Well, I kep away because I thought you wouldn’t like to be reminded of +that two pound three you owe me, Hicks: that’s why I kep away,” says +Mr. Moss, who, I dare say, was good-natured too. And when young Moss +appeared at the billiard-room that night, it was evident that Hicks had +told the story; for the Wardour Street youth was saluted with a roar of +queries, “How about that two pound three that Hicks owes you?” + +The artless conversation of the two youths will enable us to understand +how our hero’s life was speeding. Connected in one way or another with +persons in all ranks, it never entered his head to be ashamed of the +profession which he had chosen. People in the great world did not in +the least trouble themselves regarding him, or care to know whether Mr. +Clive Newcome followed painting or any other pursuit: and though Clive +saw many of his schoolfellows in the world, these entering into the +army, others talking with delight of college, and its pleasures or +studies; yet, having made up his mind that art was his calling, he +refused to quit her for any other mistress, and plied his easel very +stoutly. He passed through the course of study prescribed by Mr. +Gandish, and drew every cast and statue in that gentleman’s studio. +Grindley, his tutor, getting a curacy, Clive did not replace him; but +he took a course of modern languages, which he learned with +considerable aptitude and rapidity. And now, being strong enough to +paint without a master, it was found that there was no good light in +the house in Fitzroy Square; and Mr. Clive must needs have an atelier +hard by, where he could pursue his own devices independently. + +If his kind father felt any pang even at this temporary parting, he was +greatly soothed and pleased by a little mark of attention on the young +man’s part, of which his present biographer happened to be a witness; +for having walked over with Colonel Newcome to see the new studio, with +its tall centre window, and its curtains, and carved wardrobes, china +jars, pieces of armour, and other artistical properties, the lad, with +a very sweet smile of kindness and affection lighting up his honest +face, took one of two Bramah’s house-keys with which he was provided, +and gave it to his father: “That’s your key, sir,” he said to the +Colonel; “and you must be my first sitter, please, father; for though +I’m a historical painter, I shall condescend to do a few portraits, you +know.” The Colonel took his son’s hand, and grasped it; as Clive fondly +put the other hand on his father’s shoulder. Then Colonel Newcome +walked away into the next room for a minute or two, and came back +wiping his moustache with his handkerchief, and still holding the key +in the other hand. He spoke about some trivial subject when he +returned; but his voice quite trembled; and I thought his face seemed +to glow with love and pleasure. Clive has never painted anything better +than that head, which he executed in a couple of sittings; and wisely +left without subjecting it to the chances of further labour. + +It is certain the young man worked much better after he had been +inducted into this apartment of his own. And the meals at home were +gayer; and the rides with his father more frequent and agreeable. The +Colonel used his key once or twice, and found Clive and his friend +Ridley engaged in depicting a life-guardsman,—or a muscular negro,—or a +Malay from a neighbouring crossing, who would appear as Othello, +conversing with a Clipstone Street nymph, who was ready to represent +Desdemona, Diana, Queen Ellinor (sucking poison from the arm of the +Plantagenet of the Blues), or any other model of virgin or maiden +excellence. + +Of course our young man commenced as a historical painter, deeming that +the highest branch of art; and declining (except for preparatory +studies) to operate on any but the largest canvasses. He painted a +prodigious battle-piece of Assaye, with General Wellesley at the head +of the 19th Dragoons charging the Mahratta Artillery, and sabring them +at their guns. A piece of ordnance was dragged into the back-yard, and +the Colonel’s stud put into requisition to supply studies for this +enormous picture. Fred Bayham (a stunning likeness) appeared as the +principal figure in the foreground, terrifically wounded, but still of +undaunted courage, slashing about amidst a group of writhing Malays, +and bestriding the body of a dead cab-horse, which Clive painted, until +the landlady and rest of the lodgers cried out, and for sanitary +reasons the knackers removed the slaughtered charger. So large was this +picture that it could only be got out of the great window by means of +artifice and coaxing; and its transport caused a shout of triumph among +the little boys in Charlotte Street. Will it be believed that the Royal +Academicians rejected the “Battle of Assaye”? The masterpiece was so +big that Fitzroy Square could not hold it; and the Colonel had thoughts +of presenting it to the Oriental Club; but Clive (who had taken a trip +to Paris with his father, as a _délassement_ after the fatigues +incident on this great work), when he saw it, after a month’s interval, +declared the thing was rubbish, and massacred Britons, Malays, +Dragoons, Artillery and all. + +“Hôtel de la Terrasse, Rue de Rivoli, + +“April 27—May 1, 183-. + +“My Dear Pendennis—You said I might write you a line from Paris; and if +you find in my correspondence any valuable hints for the _Pall Mall +Gazette_, you are welcome to use them gratis. Now I am here, I wonder I +have never been here before, and that I have seen the Dieppe packet a +thousand times at Brighton pier without thinking of going on board her. +We had a rough little passage to Boulogne. We went into action as we +cleared Dover pier—when the _first gun_ was fired, and a stout old lady +was carried off by a steward to the cabin; half a dozen more dropped +immediately, and the crew bustled about, bringing basins for the +wounded. The Colonel smiled as he saw them fall. ‘I’m an old sailor,’ +says he to a gentleman on board. ‘I was coming home, sir, and we had +plenty of rough weather on the voyage, I never thought of being unwell. +My boy here, who made the voyage twelve years ago last May, may have +lost his sea-legs; but for me, sir—’ Here a great wave dashed over the +three of us; and would you believe it? in five minutes after, the dear +old governor was as ill as all the rest of the passengers. When we +arrived, we went through a line of ropes to the custom-house, with a +crowd of snobs jeering at us on each side; and then were carried off by +a bawling commissioner to an hotel, where the Colonel, who speaks +French beautifully, you know, told the waiter to get us a _petit +déjeuner soigné;_ on which the fellow, grinning, said, a ‘nice fried +sole, sir,—nice mutton-chop, sir,’ in regular Temple Bar English; and +brought us Harvey sauce with the chops, and the last _Bell’s Life_ to +amuse us after our luncheon. I wondered if all the Frenchmen read +_Bell’s Life_, and if all the inns smell so of brandy-and-water! + +“We walked out to see the town, which I dare say you know, and +therefore shan’t describe. We saw some good studies of fishwomen with +bare legs, and remarked that the soldiers were very dumpy and small. We +were glad when the time came to set off by the diligence; and having +the coupe to ourselves, made a very comfortable journey to Paris. It +was jolly to hear the postillions crying to their horses, and the bells +of the team, and to feel ourselves really in France. We took in +provender at Abbeville and Amiens, and were comfortably landed here +after about six-and-twenty hours of coaching. Didn’t I get up the next +morning and have a good walk in the Tuileries! The chestnuts were out, +and the statues all shining, and all the windows of the palace in a +blaze. It looks big enough for the king of the giants to live in. How +grand it is! I like the barbarous splendour of the architecture, and +the ornaments profuse and enormous with which it is overladen. Think of +Louis XVI. with a thousand gentlemen at his back, and a mob of yelling +ruffians in front of him, giving up his crown without a fight for it; +leaving his friends to be butchered, and himself sneaking into prison! +No end of little children were skipping and playing in the sunshiny +walks, with dresses as bright and cheeks as red as the flowers and +roses in the parterres. I couldn’t help thinking of Barbaroux and his +bloody pikemen swarming in the gardens, and fancied the Swiss in the +windows yonder; where they were to be slaughtered when the King had +turned his back. What a great man that Carlyle is! I have read the +battle in his History so often, that I knew it before I had seen it. +Our windows look out on the obelisk where the guillotine stood. The +Colonel doesn’t admire Carlyle. He says Mrs. Graham’s Letters from +Paris are excellent, and we bought Scott’s Visit to Paris, and Paris +Re-visited, and read them in the diligence. They are famous good +reading; but the Palais Royal is very much altered since Scott’s time: +no end of handsome shops; I went there directly,—the same night we +arrived, when the Colonel went to bed. But there is none of the fun +going on which Scott describes. The _laquais-de-place_ says Charles X. +put an end to it all. + +“Next morning the governor had letters to deliver after breakfast, and +left me at the Louvre door. I shall come and live here, I think. I feel +as if I never want to go away. I had not been ten minutes in the place +before I fell in love with the most beautiful creature the world has +ever seen. She was standing silent and majestic in the centre of one of +the rooms of the statue-gallery; and the very first glimpse of her +struck one breathless with the sense of her beauty. I could not see the +colour of her eyes and hair exactly, but the latter is light, and the +eyes I should think are grey. Her complexion is of a beautiful warm +marble tinge. She is not a clever woman, evidently; I do not think she +laughs or talks much—she seems too lazy to do more than smile. She is +only beautiful. This divine creature has lost an arm, which has been +cut off at the shoulder, but she looks none the less lovely for the +accident. She maybe some two-and-thirty years old; and she was born +about two thousand years ago. Her name is the Venus of Milo. O Victrix! +O lucky Paris! (I don’t mean this present Lutetia, but Priam’s son.) +How could he give the apple to any else but this enslaver—this joy of +gods and men? at whose benign presence the flowers spring up, and the +smiling ocean sparkles, and the soft skies beam with serene light! I +wish we might sacrifice. I would bring a spotless kid, snowy-coated, +and a pair of doves and a jar of honey—yea, honey from Morel’s in +Piccadilly, thyme-flavoured, narbonian, and we would acknowledge the +Sovereign Loveliness, and adjure the Divine Aphrodite. Did you ever see +my pretty young cousin, Miss Newcome, Sir Brian’s daughter? She has a +great look of the huntress Diana. It is sometimes too proud and too +cold for me. The blare of those horns is too shrill and the rapid +pursuit through bush and bramble too daring. O thou generous Venus! O +thou beautiful bountiful calm! At thy soft feet let me kneel—on +cushions of Tyrian purple. Don’t show this to Warrington, please: I +never thought when I began that Pegasus was going to run away with me. + +“I wish I had read Greek a little more at school: it’s too late at my +age; I shall be nineteen soon, and have got my own business; but when +we return I think I shall try and read it with Cribs. What have I been +doing, spending six months over a picture of sepoys and dragoons +cutting each other’s throats? Art ought not to be a fever. It ought to +be a calm; not a screaming bull-fight or a battle of gladiators, but a +temple for placid contemplation, rapt worship, stately rhythmic +ceremony, and music solemn and tender. I shall take down my Snyders and +Rubens when I get home; and turn quietist. To think I have spent weeks +in depicting bony life-guardsmen delivering cut one, or Saint George, +and painting black beggars off a crossing! + +“What a grand thing it is to think of half a mile of pictures at the +Louvre! Not but that there are a score under the old pepper-boxes in +Trafalgar Square as fine as the best here. I don’t care for any Raphael +here, as much as our own St. Catharine. There is nothing more grand. +Could the Pyramids of Egypt or the Colossus of Rhodes be greater than +our Sebastian? and for our Bacchus and Ariadne, you cannot beat the +best you know. But if we have fine jewels, here there are whole sets of +them: there are kings and all their splendid courts round about them. +J. J. and I must come and live here. Oh, such portraits of Titian! Oh, +such swells by Vandyke! I’m sure he must have been as fine a gentleman +as any he painted! It’s a shame they haven’t got a Sir Joshua or two. +At a feast of painters he has a right to a place, and at the high table +too. Do you remember Tom Rogers, of Gandish’s? He used to come to my +rooms—my other rooms in the Square. Tom is here with a fine carrotty +beard, and a velvet jacket, cut open at the sleeves, to show that Tom +has a shirt. I dare say it was clean last Sunday. He has not learned +French yet, but pretends to have forgotten English; and promises to +introduce me to a set of the French artists his _camarades_. There +seems to be a scarcity of soap among these young fellows; and I think I +shall cut off my mustachios; only Warrington will have nothing to laugh +at when I come home. + +“The Colonel and I went to dine at the Café de Paris, and afterwards to +the opera. Ask for _huitres de Marenne_ when you dine here. We dined +with a tremendous French swell, the Vicomte de Florac, _officier +d’ordonnance_ to one of the princes, and son of some old friends of my +father’s. They are of very high birth, but very poor. He will be a duke +when his cousin, the Duc d’Ivry, dies. His father is quite old. The +vicomte was born in England. He pointed out to us no end of famous +people at the opera—a few of the Fauxbourg St. Germain, and ever so +many of the present people:—M. Thiers, and Count Molé, and Georges +Sand, and Victor Hugo, and Jules Janin—I forget half their names. And +yesterday we went to see his mother, Madame de Florac. I suppose she +was an old flame of the Colonel’s, for their meeting was uncommonly +ceremonious and tender. It was like an elderly Sir Charles Grandison +saluting a middle-aged Miss Byron. And only fancy! the Colonel has been +here once before since his return to England! It must have been last +year, when he was away for ten days, whilst I was painting that +rubbishing picture of the Black Prince waiting on King John. Madame de +F. is a very grand lady, and must have been a great beauty in her time. +There are two pictures by Gerard in her salon—of her and M. de Florac. +M. de Florac, old swell, powder, thick eyebrows, hooked nose; no end of +stars, ribbons, and embroidery. Madame also in the dress of the +Empire—pensive, beautiful, black velvet, and a look something like my +cousin’s. She wore a little old-fashioned brooch yesterday, and said, +‘_Voilà, la reconnoissez-vous?_ Last year when you were here, it was in +the country;’ and she smiled at him: and the dear old boy gave a sort +of groan and dropped his head in his hand. I know what it is. I’ve gone +through it myself. I kept for six months an absurd ribbon of that +infernal little flirt Fanny Freeman. Don’t you remember how angry I was +when you abused her? + +“‘Your father and I knew each other when we were children, my friend,’ +the Countess said to me (in the sweetest French accent). He was looking +into the garden of the house where they live, in the Rue Saint +Dominique. ‘You must come and see me often, always. You remind me of +him,’ and she added, with a very sweet kind smile, ‘Do you like best to +think that he was better-looking than you, or that you excel him?’ I +said I should like to be like him. But who is? There are cleverer +fellows, I dare say; but where is there such a good one? I wonder +whether he was very fond of Madame de Florac? The old Count does not +show. He is quite old, and wears a pigtail. We saw it bobbing over his +garden chair. He lets the upper part of his house; Major-General the +Honourable Zeno F. Pokey, of Cincinnati, U.S., lives in it. We saw Mrs. +Pokey’s carriage in the court, and her footmen smoking cigars there; a +tottering old man with feeble legs, as old as old Count de Florac, +seemed to be the only domestic who waited on the family below. + +“Madame de Florac and my father talked about my profession. The +Countess said it was a _belle carrière_. The Colonel said it was better +than the army. ‘_Ah oui, monsieur_,’ says she very sadly. And then he +said, ‘that presently I should very likely come to study at Paris, when +he knew there would be a kind friend to watch over _son garçon_.’ + +“‘But you will be here to watch over him yourself, _mon ami?_’ says the +French lady. + +“Father shook his head. ‘I shall very probably have to go back to +India,’ he said. ‘My furlough is expired. I am now taking my extra +leave. If I can get my promotion, I need not return. Without that I +cannot afford to live in Europe. But my absence in all probability will +be but very short,’ he said. ‘And Clive is old enough now to go on +without me.’ + +“Is this the reason why father has been so gloomy for some months past? +I thought it might have been some of my follies which made him +uncomfortable; and you know I have been trying my best to amend—I have +not half such a tailor’s bill this year as last. I owe scarcely +anything. I have paid off Moss every halfpenny for his confounded rings +and gimcracks. I asked father about this melancholy news as we walked +away from Madame de Florac. + +“He is not near so rich as we thought. Since he has been at home he +says he has spent greatly more than his income, and is quite angry at +his own extravagance. At first he thought he might have retired from +the army altogether; but after three years at home, he finds he cannot +live upon his income. When he gets his promotion as full Colonel, he +will be entitled to a thousand a year; that, and what he has invested +in India, and a little in this country, will be plenty for both of us. +He never seems to think of my making money by my profession. Why, +suppose I sell the ‘Battle of Assaye’ for 500 pounds? that will be +enough to carry me on ever so long, without dipping into the purse of +the dear old father. + +“The Viscount de Florac called to dine with us. The Colonel said he did +not care about going out: and so the Viscount and I went together. +_Trois Frères Provençaux_—he ordered the dinner and of course I paid. +Then we went to a little theatre, and he took me behind the scenes—such +a queer place! We went to the _loge_ of Mademoiselle Fine who acted the +part of ‘Le petit Tambour,’ in which she sings a famous song with a +drum. He asked her and several literary fellows to supper at the Café +Anglais. And I came home ever so late, and lost twenty napoleons at a +game called bouillotte. It was all the change out of a twenty-pound +note which dear old Binnie gave me before we set out, with a quotation +out of Horace, you know, about _Neque tu choreas sperne puer_. O me! +how guilty I felt as I walked home at ever so much o’clock to the Hotel +de la Terrasse, and sneaked into our apartment! But the Colonel was +sound asleep. His dear old boots stood sentries at his bedroom door, +and I slunk into mine as silently as I could. + +“P.S.—Wednesday.—There’s just one scrap of paper left. I have got J. +J.’s letter. He has been to the private view of the Academy (so that +his own picture is in), and the ‘Battle of Assaye’ is refused. Smee +told him it was too big. I dare say it’s very bad. I’m glad I’m away, +and the fellows are not condoling with me. + +“Please go and see Mr. Binnie. He has come to grief. He rode the +Colonel’s horse; came down on the pavement and wrenched his leg, and +I’m afraid the grey’s. Please look at his legs; we can’t understand +John’s report of them. He, I mean Mr. B., was going to Scotland to see +his relations when the accident happened. You know he has always been +going to Scotland to see his relations. He makes light of the business, +and says the Colonel is not to think of coming to him: and _I_ don’t +want to go back just yet, to see all the fellows from Gandish’s and the +Life Academy, and have them grinning at my misfortune. + +“The governor would send his regards, I dare say, but he is out, and I +am always yours affectionately, Clive Newcome.” + +“P.S.—He tipped me himself this morning; isn’t he a kind, dear old +fellow?” + +Arthur Pendennis, Esq., to Clive Newcome, Esq. + +“‘Pall Mall Gazette,’ Journal of Politics, Literature and Fashion, 225 +Catherine Street, Strand, + +“Dear Clive—I regret very much for Fred Bayham’s sake (who has lately +taken the responsible office of Fine Arts Critic for the _P. G._) that +your extensive picture of the ‘Battle of Assaye’ has not found a place +in the Royal Academy Exhibition. F. B. is at least fifteen shillings +out of pocket by its rejection, as he had prepared a flaming eulogium +of your work, which of course is so much waste paper in consequence of +this calamity. Never mind. Courage, my son. The Duke of Wellington you +know was best back at Seringapatam before he succeeded at Assaye. I +hope you will fight other battles, and that fortune in future years +will be more favourable to you. The town does not talk very much of +your discomfiture. You see the parliamentary debates are very +interesting just now, and somehow the ‘Battle of Assaye’ did not seem +to excite the public mind. + +“I have been to Fitzroy Square; both to the stables and the house. The +Houyhnhnm’s legs are very well; the horse slipped on his side and not +on his knees, and has received no sort of injury. Not so Mr. Binnie; +his ankle is much wrenched and inflamed. He must keep his sofa for many +days, perhaps weeks. But you know he is a very cheerful philosopher, +and endures the evils of life with much equanimity. His sister has come +to him. I don’t know whether that may be considered as a consolation of +his evil or an aggravation of it. You know he uses the sarcastic method +in his talk, and it was difficult to understand from him whether he was +pleased or bored by the embraces of his relative. She was an infant +when he last beheld her, on his departure to India. She is now (to +speak with respect) a very brisk, plump, pretty little widow; having, +seemingly, recovered from her grief at the death of her husband, +Captain Mackenzie in the West Indies. Mr. Binnie was just on the point +of visiting his relatives, who reside at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh, +when he met with the fatal accident which prevented his visit to his +native shores. His account of his misfortune and his lonely condition +was so pathetic that Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter put themselves +into the Edinburgh steamer, and rushed to console his sofa. They occupy +your bedroom and sitting-room, which latter Mrs. Mackenzie says no +longer smells of tobacco smoke, as it did when she took possession of +your den. If you have left any papers about, any bills, any +billets-doux, I make no doubt the ladies have read every single one of +them, according to the amiable habits of their sex. The daughter is a +bright little blue-eyed fair-haired lass, with a very sweet voice, in +which she sings (unaided by instrumental music, and seated on a chair +in the middle of the room) the artless ballads of her native country. I +had the pleasure of hearing the ‘Bonnets of Bonny Dundee’ and ‘Jack of +Hazeldean’ from her ruby lips two evenings since; not indeed for the +first time in my life, but never from such a pretty little singer. +Though both ladies speak our language with something of the tone +usually employed by the inhabitants of the northern part of Britain, +their accent is exceedingly pleasant, and indeed by no means so strong +as Mr. Binnie’s own; for Captain Mackenzie was an Englishman, for whose +sake his lady modified her native Musselburgh pronunciation. She tells +many interesting anecdotes of him, of the West Indies, and of the +distinguished regiment of infantry to which the captain belonged. Miss +Rosa is a great favourite with her uncle, and I have had the good +fortune to make their stay in the metropolis more pleasant, by sending +them orders, from the _Pall Mall Gazette_, for the theatres, panoramas, +and the principal sights in town. For pictures they do not seem to care +much; they thought the National Gallery a dreary exhibition, and in the +Royal Academy could be got to admire nothing but the picture of +M’Collop of M’Collop, by our friend of the like name; but they think +Madame Tussaud’s interesting exhibition of waxwork the most delightful +in London; and there I had the happiness of introducing them to our +friend Mr. Frederick Bayham; who, subsequently, on coming to this +office with his valuable contributions on the Fine Arts, made +particular inquiries as to their pecuniary means, and expressed himself +instantly ready to bestow his hand upon the mother or daughter, +provided old Mr. Binnie would make a satisfactory settlement. I got the +ladies a box at the opera, whither they were attended by Captain Goby +of their regiment, godfather to Miss, and where I had the honour of +paying them a visit. I saw your fair young cousin Miss Newcome in the +lobby with her grandmamma Lady Kew. Mr. Bayham with great eloquence +pointed out to the Scotch ladies the various distinguished characters +in the house. The opera delighted them, but they were astounded at the +ballet, from which mother and daughter retreated in the midst of a fire +of pleasantries of Captain Goby. I can fancy that officer at mess, and +how brilliant his anecdotes must be when the company of ladies does not +restrain his genial flow of humour. + +“Here comes Mr. Baker with the proofs. In case you don’t see the _P. +G._ at Galignani’s, I send you an extract from Bayham’s article on the +Royal Academy, where you will have the benefit of his opinion on the +works of some of your friends:— + +“‘617. “Moses Bringing Home the Gross of Green Spectacles,” Smith, +R.A.—Perhaps poor Goldsmith’s exquisite little work has never been so +great a favourite as in the present age. We have here, in a work by one +of our most eminent artists, an homage to the genius of him “who +touched nothing which he did not adorn:” and the charming subject is +handled in the most delicious manner by Mr. Smith. The chiaroscuro is +admirable: the impasto is perfect. Perhaps a very captious critic might +object to the foreshortening of Moses’s left leg; but where there is so +much to praise justly, the _Pall Mall Gazette_ does not care to +condemn. + +“‘420. Our (and the public’s) favourite, Brown, R.A., treats us to a +subject from the best of all stories, the tale “which laughed Spain’s +chivalry away,” the ever new Don Quixote. The incident which Brown has +selected is the “Don’s Attack on the Flock of Sheep;” the sheep are in +his best manner, painted with all his well-known facility and _brio_. +Mr. Brown’s friendly rival, Hopkins, has selected “Gil Blas” for an +illustration this year; and the “Robber’s Cavern” is one of the most +masterly of Hopkins’ productions. + +“‘Great Rooms. 33. “Portrait of Cardinal Cospetto,” O’Gogstay, A.R.A.; +and “Neighbourhood of Corpodibacco—Evening—a Contadina and a +Trasteverino dancing at the door of a Locanda to the music of a +Pifferaro.”—Since his visit to Italy Mr. O’Gogstay seems to have given +up the scenes of Irish humour with which he used to delight us; and the +romance, the poetry, the religion of “Italia la bella” form the +subjects of his pencil. The scene near Corpodibacco (we know the spot +well, and have spent many a happy month in its romantic mountains) is +most characteristic. Cardinal Cospetto, we must say, is a most +truculent prelate, and not certainly an ornament to his church. + +“‘49, 210, 311. Smee, R.A.—Portraits which a Reynolds might be proud +of,—a Vandyke or Claude might not disown. “Sir Brian Newcome, in the +costume of a Deputy-Lieutenant,” “Major-General Sir Thomas de Boots, +K.C.B.,” painted for the 50th Dragoons, are triumphs, indeed, of this +noble painter. Why have we no picture of the Sovereign and her august +consort from Smee’s brush? When Charles II. picked up Titian’s +mahl-stick, he observed to a courtier, “A king you can always have; a +genius comes but rarely.” While we have a Smee among us, and a monarch +whom we admire,—may the one be employed to transmit to posterity the +beloved features of the other! We know our lucubrations are read in +_high places_, and respectfully insinuate _verbum sapienti_. + +“‘1906. “The M’Collop of M’Collop,”—A. M’Collop,—is a noble work of a +young artist, who, in depicting the gallant chief of a hardy Scottish +clan, has also represented a romantic Highland landscape, in the midst +of which, “his foot upon his native heath,” stands a man of splendid +symmetrical figure and great facial advantages. We shall keep our eye +on Mr. M’Collop. + +“‘1367. “Oberon and Titania.” Ridley.—This sweet and fanciful little +picture draws crowds round about it, and is one of the most charming +and delightful works of the present exhibition. We echo the universal +opinion in declaring that it shows not only the greatest promise, but +the most delicate and beautiful performance. The Earl of Kew, we +understand, bought the picture at the private view; and we congratulate +the young painter heartily upon his successful _début_. He is, we +understand, a pupil of Mr. Gandish. Where is that admirable painter? We +miss his bold canvasses and grand historic outline.’ + +“I shall alter a few inaccuracies in the composition of our friend F. +B., who has, as he says, ‘drawn it uncommonly mild in the above +criticism.’ In fact, two days since, he brought in an article of quite +a different tendency, of which he retains only the two last paragraphs; +but he has, with great magnanimity, recalled his previous observations; +and, indeed, he knows as much about pictures as some critics I could +name. + +“Good-bye, my dear Clive! I send my kindest regards to your father; and +think you had best see as little as possible of your bouillotte-playing +French friend and his friends. This advice I know you will follow, as +young men always follow the advice of their seniors and well-wishers. I +dine in Fitzroy Square to-day with the pretty widow and her daughter, +and am yours always, dear Clive, A. P.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. +In which we hear a Soprano and a Contralto + + +The most hospitable and polite of Colonels would not hear of Mrs. +Mackenzie and her daughter quitting his house when he returned to it, +after six weeks’ pleasant sojourn in Paris; nor, indeed, did his fair +guest show the least anxiety or intention to go away. Mrs. Mackenzie +had a fine merry humour of her own. She was an old soldier’s wife, she +said and knew when her quarters were good; and I suppose, since her +honeymoon, when the captain took her to Harrogate and Cheltenham, +stopping at the first hotels, and travelling in a chaise-and-pair the +whole way, she had never been so well off as in that roomy mansion near +Tottenham Court Road. Of her mother’s house at Musselburgh she gave a +ludicrous but dismal account. “Eh, James,” she said, “I think if you +had come to mamma, as you threatened, you would not have staid very +long. It’s a wearisome place. Dr. M’Craw boards with her; and it’s +sermon and psalm-singing from morning till night. My little Josey takes +kindly to the life there, and I left her behind, poor little darling! +It was not fair to bring three of us to take possession of your house, +dear James; but my poor little Rosey was just withering away there. +It’s good for the dear child to see the world a little, and a kind +uncle, who is not afraid of us now he sees us, is he?” Kind Uncle James +was not at all afraid of little Rosey; whose pretty face and modest +manners, and sweet songs, and blue eyes, cheered and soothed the old +bachelor. Nor was Rosey’s mother less agreeable and pleasant. She had +married the captain (it was a love-match, against the will of her +parents, who had destined her to be the third wife of old Dr. M’Mull) +when very young. Many sorrows she had had, including poverty, the +captain’s imprisonment for debt, and his demise; but she was of a gay +and lightsome spirit. She was but three-and-thirty years old, and +looked five-and-twenty. She was active, brisk, jovial, and alert; and +so good-looking, that it was a wonder she had not taken a successor to +Captain Mackenzie. James Binnie cautioned his friend the Colonel +against the attractions of the buxom siren; and laughingly would ask +Clive how he would like Mrs. Mackenzie for a mamaw? + +Colonel Newcome felt himself very much at ease regarding his future +prospects. He was very glad that his friend James was reconciled to his +family, and hinted to Clive that the late Captain Mackenzie’s +extravagance had been the cause of the rupture between him and his +brother-in-law, who had helped that prodigal captain repeatedly during +his life; and, in spite of family quarrels, had never ceased to act +generously to his widowed sister and her family. “But I think, Mr. +Clive,” said he, “that as Miss Rosa is very pretty, and you have a +spare room at your studio, you had best take up your quarters in +Charlotte Street as long as the ladies are living with us.” Clive was +nothing loth to be independent; but he showed himself to be a very good +home-loving youth. He walked home to breakfast every morning, dined +often, and spent the evenings with the family. Indeed, the house was a +great deal more cheerful for the presence of the two pleasant ladies. +Nothing could be prettier than to see the two ladies tripping +downstairs together, mamma’s pretty arm round Rosey’s pretty waist. +Mamma’s talk was perpetually of Rosey. That child was always gay, +always good, always happy! That darling girl woke with a smile on her +face, it was sweet to see her! Uncle James, in his dry way, said, he +dared to say it was very pretty. “Go away, you droll, dear old kind +Uncle James!” Rosey’s mamma would cry out. “You old bachelors are +wicked old things!” Uncle James used to kiss Rosey very kindly and +pleasantly. She was as modest, as gentle, as eager to please Colonel +Newcome as any little girl could be. It was pretty to see her tripping +across the room with his coffee-cup, or peeling walnuts for him after +dinner with her white plump little fingers. + +Mrs. Irons, the housekeeper, naturally detested Mrs. Mackenzie, and was +jealous of her: though the latter did everything to soothe and coax the +governess of the two gentlemen’s establishment. She praised her +dinners, delighted in her puddings, must beg Mrs. Irons to allow her to +see one of those delicious puddings made, and to write the receipt for +her, that Mrs. Mackenzie might use it when she was away. It was Mrs. +Irons’ belief that Mrs. Mackenzie never intended to go away. She had no +ideer of ladies, as were ladies, coming into her kitchen. The maids +vowed that they heard Miss Rosa crying, and mamma scolding in her +bedroom for all she was so soft-spoken. How was that jug broke, and +that chair smashed in the bedroom, that day there was such a awful row +up there? + +Mrs. Mackenzie played admirably, in the old-fashioned way, dances, +reels, and Scotch and Irish tunes, the former, of which filled James +Binnie’s soul with delectation. The good mother naturally desired that +her darling should have a few good lessons of the piano while she was +in London. Rosey was eternally strumming upon an instrument which had +been taken upstairs for her special practice; and the Colonel, who was +always seeking to do harmless jobs of kindness for his friends, +bethought him of little Miss Cann, the governess at Ridley’s, whom he +recommended as an instructress. “Anybody whom you recommend I’m sure, +dear Colonel, we shall like,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, who looked as black +as thunder, and had probably intended to have Monsieur Quatremains or +Signor Twankeydillo; and the little governess came to her pupil. Mrs. +Mackenzie treated her very gruffly and haughtily at first; but as soon +as she heard Miss Cann play, the widow was pacified—nay, charmed. +Monsieur Quatremains charged a guinea for three-quarters of an hour; +while Miss Cann thankfully took five shillings for an hour and a half; +and the difference of twenty lessons, for which dear Uncle James paid, +went into Mrs. Mackenzie’s pocket, and thence probably on to her pretty +shoulders and head in the shape of a fine silk dress and a beautiful +French bonnet, in which Captain Goby said, upon his life, she didn’t +look twenty. + +The little governess trotting home after her lesson would often look in +to Clive’s studio in Charlotte Street, where her two boys, as she +called Clive and J. J., were at work each at his easel. Clive used to +laugh, and tell us, who joked him about the widow and her daughter, +what Miss Cann said about them. Mrs. Mack was not all honey, it +appeared. If Rosey played incorrectly, mamma flew at her with +prodigious vehemence of language, and sometimes with a slap on poor +Rosey’s back. She must make Rosey wear tight boots, and stamp on her +little feet if they refused to enter into the slipper. I blush for the +indiscretion of Miss Cann; but she actually told J. J., that mamma +insisted upon lacing her so tight, as nearly to choke the poor little +lass. Rosey did not fight: Rosey always yielded; and the scolding over +and the tears dried, would come simpering downstairs with mamma’s arm +round her waist, and her pretty artless happy smile for the gentlemen +below. Besides the Scottish songs without music, she sang ballads at +the piano very sweetly. Mamma used to cry at these ditties. “That +child’s voice brings tears into my eyes, Mr. Newcome,” she would say. +“She has never known a moment’s sorrow yet! Heaven grant, heaven grant, +she may be happy! But what shall I be when I lose her?” + +“Why, my dear, when ye lose Rosey, ye’ll console yourself with Josey,” +says droll Mr. Binnie from the sofa, who perhaps saw the manœuvre of +the widow. + +The widow laughs heartily and really. She places a handkerchief over +her mouth. She glances at her brother with a pair of eyes full of +knowing mischief. “Ah, dear James,” she says, “you don’t know what it +is to have a mother’s feelings.” + +“I can partly understand them,” says James. “Rosey, sing me that pretty +little French song.” Mrs. Mackenzie’s attention to Clive was really +quite affecting. If any of his friends came to the house, she took them +aside and praised Clive to them. The Colonel she adored. She had never +met with such a man or seen such a manner. The manners of the Bishop of +Tobago were beautiful, and he certainly had one of the softest and +finest hands in the world; but not finer than Colonel Newcome’s. “Look +at his foot!” (and she put out her own, which was uncommonly pretty, +and suddenly withdrew it, with an arch glance meant to represent a +blush)—“my shoe would fit it! When we were at Coventry Island, Sir +Peregrine Blandy, who succeeded poor dear Sir Rawdon Crawley—I saw his +dear boy was gazetted to a lieutenant-colonelcy in the Guards last +week—Sir Peregrine, who was one of the Prince of Wales’s most intimate +friends, was always said to have the finest manner and presence of any +man of his day; and very grand and noble he was, but I don’t think he +was equal to Colonel Newcome—I don’t really think so. Do you think so, +Mr. Honeyman? What a charming discourse that was last Sunday! I know +there were two pair of eyes not dry in the church. I could not see the +other people just for crying myself. Oh, but I wish we could have you +at Musselburgh! I was bred a Presbyterian, of course; but in much +travelling through the world with my dear husband, I came to love his +church. At home we sit under Dr. M’Craw, of course; but he is so awfully +long! Four hours every Sunday at least, morning and afternoon! It +nearly kills poor Rosey. Did you hear her voice at your church? The +dear girl is delighted with the chants. Rosey, were you not delighted +with the chants?” + +If she is delighted with the chants, Honeyman is delighted with the +chantress and her mamma. He dashes the fair hair from his brow: he sits +down to the piano, and plays one or two of them, warbling a faint vocal +accompaniment, and looking as if he would be lifted off the screw +music-stool, and flutter up to the ceiling. + +“Oh, it’s just seraphic!” says the widow. “It’s just the breath of +incense and the pealing of the organ at the Cathedral at Montreal. +Rosey doesn’t remember Montreal. She was a wee wee child. She was born +on the voyage out, and christened at sea. You remember, Goby.” + +“Gad, I promised and vowed to teach her her catechism; ’gad, but I +haven’t,” says Captain Goby. “We were between Montreal and Quebec for +three years with the Hundredth, and the Hundred Twentieth Highlanders, +and the Thirty-third Dragoon Guards a part of the time; Fipley +commanded them, and a very jolly time we had. Much better than the West +Indies, where a fellow’s liver goes to the deuce with hot pickles and +sangaree. Mackenzie was a dev’lish wild fellow,” whispers Captain Goby +to his neighbour (the present biographer, indeed), “and Mrs. Mack was +as pretty a little woman as ever you set eyes on.” (Captain Goby winks, +and looks peculiarly sly as he makes this statement.) “Our regiment +wasn’t on your side of India, Colonel.” + +And in the interchange of such delightful remarks, and with music and +song, the evening passes away. “Since the house had been adorned by the +fair presence of Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter,” Honeyman said, +always gallant in behaviour and flowery in expression, “it seemed as if +spring had visited it. Its hospitality was invested with a new grace; +its ever welcome little _réunions_ were doubly charming. But why did +these ladies come, if they were to go away again? How—how would Mr. +Binnie console himself (not to mention others) if they left him in +solitude?” + +“We have no wish to leave my brother James in solitude,” cries Mrs. +Mackenzie, frankly laughing. “We like London a great deal better than +Musselburgh.” + +“Oh, that we do!” ejaculates the blushing Rosey. + +“And we will stay as long as ever my brother will keep us,” continues +the widow. + +“Uncle James is so kind and dear,” says Rosey. “I hope he won’t send me +and mamma away.” + +“He were a brute—a savage, if he did!” cries Binnie, with glances of +rapture towards the two pretty faces. Everybody liked them. Binnie +received their caresses very good-humouredly. The Colonel liked every +woman under the sun. Clive laughed and joked and waltzed alternately +with Rosey and her mamma. The latter was the briskest partner of the +two. The unsuspicious widow, poor dear innocent, would leave her girl +at the painting-room, and go shopping herself; but little J. J. also +worked there, being occupied with his second picture: and he was almost +the only one of Clive’s friends whom the widow did not like. She +pronounced the quiet little painter a pert, little, obtrusive, +underbred creature. + +In a word, Mrs. Mackenzie was, as the phrase is, “setting her cap” so +openly at Clive, that none of us could avoid seeing her play: and Clive +laughed at her simple manœuvres as merrily as the rest. She was a merry +little woman. We gave her and her pretty daughter a luncheon in Lamb +Court, Temple; in Sibwright’s chambers—luncheon from Dick’s Coffee +House—ices and dessert from Partington’s in the Strand. Miss Rosey, Mr. +Sibwright, our neighbour in Lamb Court, and the Reverend Charles +Honeyman sang very delightfully after lunch; there was quite a crowd of +porters, laundresses, and boys to listen in the court; Mr. Paley was +disgusted with the noise we made—in fact, the party was perfectly +successful. We all liked the widow, and if she did set her pretty +ribbons at Clive, why should not she? We all liked the pretty, fresh, +modest Rosey. Why, even the grave old benchers in the Temple church, +when the ladies visited it on Sunday, winked their reverend eyes with +pleasure, as they looked at those two uncommonly smart, pretty, +well-dressed, fashionable women. Ladies, go to the Temple church. You +will see more young men, and receive more respectful attention there +than in any place, except perhaps at Oxford or Cambridge. Go to the +Temple church—not, of course, for the admiration which you will excite +and which you cannot help; but because the sermon is excellent, the +choral services beautifully performed, and the church so interesting as +a monument of the thirteenth century, and as it contains the tombs of +those dear Knights Templars! + +Mrs. Mackenzie could be grave or gay, according to her company: nor +could any woman be of more edifying behaviour when an occasional +Scottish friend bringing a letter from darling Josey, or a +recommendatory letter from Josey’s grandmother, paid a visit in Fitzroy +Square. Little Miss Cann used to laugh and wink knowingly, saying, “You +will never get back your bedroom, Mr. Clive. You may be sure that Miss +Josey will come in a few months; and perhaps old Mrs. Binnie, only no +doubt she and her daughter do not agree. But the widow has taken +possession of Uncle James; and she will carry off somebody else if I am +not mistaken. Should you like a stepmother, Mr. Clive, or should you +prefer a wife?” + +Whether the fair lady tried her wiles upon Colonel Newcome the present +writer has no certain means of ascertaining: but I think another image +occupied his heart: and this Circe tempted him no more than a score of +other enchantresses who had tried their spells upon him. If she tried +she failed. She was a very shrewd woman, quite frank in her talk when +such frankness suited her. She said to me, “Colonel Newcome has had +some great passion, once upon a time, I am sure of that, and has no +more heart to give away. The woman who had his must have been a very +lucky woman: though I daresay she did not value what she had; or did +not live to enjoy it—or—or something or other. You see tragedies in +some people’s faces. I recollect when we were in Coventry Island—there +was a chaplain there—a very good man—a Mr. Bell, and married to a +pretty little woman who died. The first day I saw him I said, ‘I know +that man has had a great grief in life. I am sure that he left his +heart in England.’ You gentlemen who write books, Mr. Pendennis, and +stop at the third volume, know very well that the real story often +begins afterwards. My third volume ended when I was sixteen, and was +married to my poor husband. Do you think all our adventures ended then, +and that we lived happy ever after? I live for my darling girls now. +All I want is to see them comfortable in life. Nothing can be more +generous than my dear brother James has been. I am only his +half-sister, you know, and was an infant in arms when he went away. He +had differences with Captain Mackenzie, who was headstrong and +imprudent, and I own my poor dear husband was in the wrong. James could +not live with my poor mother. Neither could by possibility suit the +other. I have often, I own, longed to come and keep house for him. His +home, the society he sees, of men of talents like Mr. Warrington +and—and I won’t mention names, or pay compliments to a man who knows +human nature so well as the author of Walter Lorraine: this house is +pleasanter a thousand times than Musselburgh—pleasanter for me and my +dearest Rosey, whose delicate nature shrunk and withered up in poor +mamma’s society. She was never happy except in my room, the dear child! +She’s all gentleness and affection. She doesn’t seem to show it: but +she has the most wonderful appreciation of wit, of genius, and talent +of all kinds. She always hides her feelings, except from her fond old +mother. I went up into our room yesterday, and found her in tears. I +can’t bear to see her eyes red or to think of her suffering. I asked +her what ailed her, and kissed her. She is a tender plant, Mr. +Pendennis! Heaven knows with what care I have nurtured her! She looked +up smiling on my shoulder. She looked so pretty! ‘Oh, mamma,’ the +darling child said, ‘I couldn’t help it. I have been crying over Walter +Lorraine.’ (Enter Rosey.) Rosey, darling! I have been telling Mr. +Pendennis what a naughty, naughty child you were yesterday, and how you +read a book which I told you you shouldn’t read; for it is a very +wicked book; and though it contains some sad sad truths, it is a great +deal too misanthropic (is that the right word? I’m a poor soldier’s +wife, and no scholar, you know), and a great deal too _bitter;_ and +though the reviews praise it, and the clever people—we are poor simple +country people—we won’t praise it. Sing, dearest, that little song” +(profuse kisses to Rosey), “that pretty thing that Mr. Pendennis +likes.” + +“I am sure that I will sing anything that Mr. Pendennis likes,” says +Rosey, with her candid bright eyes—and she goes to the piano and +warbles “Batti, Batti,” with her sweet fresh artless voice. + +More caresses follow. Mamma is in a rapture. How pretty they look—the +mother and daughter—two lilies twining together! The necessity of an +entertainment at the Temple-lunch from Dick’s (as before mentioned), +dessert from Partington’s, Sibwright’s spoons, his boy to aid ours, +nay, Sib himself, and his rooms, which are so much more elegant than +ours, and where there is a piano and guitar: all these thoughts pass in +rapid and brilliant combination in the pleasant Mr. Pendennis’s mind. +How delighted the ladies are with the proposal! Mrs. Mackenzie claps +her pretty hands, and kisses Rosey again. If osculation is a mark of +love, surely Mrs. Mack is the best of mothers. I may say, without false +modesty, that our little entertainment was most successful. The +champagne was iced to a nicety. The ladies did not perceive that our +laundress, Mrs. Flanagan, was intoxicated very early in the afternoon. +Percy Sibwright sang admirably, and with the greatest spirit, ditties +in many languages. I am sure Miss Rosey thought him (as indeed he is) +one of the most fascinating young fellows about town. To her mother’s +excellent accompaniment Rosey sang her favourite songs (by the way, her +stock was very small—five, I think, was the number). Then the table was +moved into a corner, where the quivering moulds of jelly seemed to keep +time to the music; and whilst Percy played, two couple of waltzers +actually whirled round the little room. No wonder that the court below +was thronged with admirers, that Paley the reading man was in a rage, +and Mrs. Flanagan in a state of excitement. Ah! pleasant days, happy +gold dingy chambers illuminated by youthful sunshine! merry songs and +kind faces—it is pleasant to recall you. Some of those bright eyes +shine no more: some of those smiling lips do not speak. Some are not +less kind, but sadder than in those days: of which the memories revisit +us for a moment, and sink back into the grey past. The dear old Colonel +beat time with great delight to the songs; the widow lit his cigar with +her own fair fingers. That was the only smoke permitted during the +entertainment—George Warrington himself not being allowed to use his +cutty-pipe—though the gay little widow said that she had been used to +smoking in the West Indies and I dare say spoke the truth. Our +entertainment lasted actually until after dark: and a particularly neat +cab being called from St. Clement’s by Mr. Binnie’s boy, you may be +sure we all conducted the ladies to their vehicle: and many a fellow +returning from his lonely club that evening into chambers must have +envied us the pleasure of having received two such beauties. + +The clerical bachelor was not to be outdone by the gentlemen of the +bar; and the entertainment at the Temple was followed by one at +Honeyman’s lodgings, which, I must own, greatly exceeded ours in +splendour, for Honeyman had his luncheon from Gunter’s; and if he had +been Miss Rosey’s mother, giving a breakfast to the dear girl on her +marriage, the affair could not have been more elegant and handsome. We +had but two bouquets at our entertainment; at Honeyman’s there were +four upon the breakfast-table, besides a great pineapple, which must +have cost the rogue three or four guineas, and which Percy Sibwright +delicately cut up. Rosey thought the pineapple delicious. “The dear +thing does not remember the pineapples in the West Indies!” cries Mrs. +Mackenzie; and she gave us many exciting narratives of entertainments +at which she had been present at various colonial governors’ tables. +After luncheon, our host hoped we should have a little music. Dancing, +of course, could not be allowed. “That,” said Honeyman with his +soft-bleating sigh, “were scarcely clerical. You know, besides, you are +in a _hermitage;_ and” (with a glance round the table) “must put up +with Cenobite’s fare.” The fare was, as I have said, excellent. The +wine was bad, as George, and I, and Sib agreed; and in so far we +flattered ourselves that _our_ feast altogether excelled the parson’s. +The champagne especially was such stuff, that Warrington remarked on it +to his neighbour, a dark gentleman, with a tuft to his chin, and +splendid rings and chains. + +The dark gentleman’s wife and daughter were the other two ladies +invited by our host. The elder was splendidly dressed. Poor Mrs. +Mackenzie’s simple gimcracks, though she displayed them to the most +advantage, and could make an ormolu bracelet go as far as another +woman’s emerald clasps, were as nothing compared to the other lady’s +gorgeous jewellery. Her fingers glittered with rings innumerable. The +head of her smelling-bottle was as big as her husband’s gold snuff box, +and of the same splendid material. Our ladies, it must be confessed, +came in a modest cab from Fitzroy Square; these arrived in a splendid +little open carriage with white ponies, and harness all over brass, +which the lady of the rings drove with a whip that was a parasol. Mrs. +Mackenzie, standing at Honeyman’s window, with her arm round Rosey’s +waist, viewed this arrival perhaps with envy. “My dear Mr. Honeyman, +whose are those beautiful horses?” cries Rosey, with enthusiasm. + +The divine says with a faint blush—“It is—ah—it is Mrs. Sherrick and +Miss Sherrick who have done me the favour to come to luncheon.” + +“Wine-merchant. Oh!” thinks Mrs. Mackenzie, who has seen Sherrick’s +brass plate on the cellar door of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel; and hence, +perhaps, she was a trifle more magniloquent than usual, and entertained +us with stories of colonial governors and their ladies, mentioning no +persons but those who “had handles to their names,” as the phrase is. + +Although Sherrick had actually supplied the champagne which Warrington +abused to him in confidence, the wine-merchant was not wounded; on the +contrary, he roared with laughter at the remark, and some of us smiled +who understood the humour of the joke. As for George Warrington, he +scarce knew more about the town than the ladies opposite to him; who, +yet more innocent than George, thought the champagne very good. Mrs. +Sherrick was silent during the meal, looking constantly up at her +husband, as if alarmed and always in the habit of appealing to that +gentleman, who gave her, as I thought, knowing glances and savage +winks, which made me augur that he bullied her at home. Miss Sherrick +was exceedingly handsome: she kept the fringed curtains of her eyes +constantly down; but when she lifted them up towards Clive, who was +very attentive to her (the rogue never sees a handsome woman but to +this day he continues the same practice)—when she looked up and smiled, +she was indeed a beautiful young creature to behold—with her pale +forehead, her thick arched eyebrows, her rounded cheeks, and her full +lips slightly shaded,—how shall I mention the word?—slightly pencilled, +after the manner of the lips of the French governess, Mademoiselle +Lenoir. + +Percy Sibwright engaged Miss Mackenzie with his usual grace and +affability. Mrs. Mackenzie did her very utmost to be gracious, but it +was evident the party was not altogether to her liking. Poor Percy, +about whose means and expectations she had in the most natural way in +the world asked information from me, was not perhaps a very eligible +admirer for darling Rosey. She knew not that Percy can no more help +gallantry than the sun can help shining. As soon as Rosey had done +eating up her pineapple, artlessly confessing (to Percy Sibwright’s +inquiries) that she preferred it to the rasps and hinnyblobs in her +grandmamma’s garden, “Now, dearest Rosey,” cries Mrs. Mack, “now, a +little song. You promised Mr. Pendennis a little song.” Honeyman whisks +open the piano in a moment. The widow takes off her cleaned gloves +(Mrs. Sherrick’s were new, and of the best Paris make), and little +Rosey sings No. 1, followed by No. 2, with very great applause. Mother +and daughter entwine as they quit the piano. “Brava! brava!” says Percy +Sibwright. Does Mr. Clive Newcome say nothing? His back is turned to +the piano, and he is looking with all his might into the eyes of Miss +Sherrick. + +Percy sings a Spanish seguidilla, or a German lied, or a French +romance, or a Neapolitan canzonet, which, I am bound to say, excites +very little attention. Mrs. Ridley is sending in coffee at this +juncture, of which Mrs. Sherrick partakes, with lots of sugar, as she +has partaken of numberless things before. Chicken, plovers’ eggs, +prawns, aspics, jellies, creams, grapes, and what-not. Mr. Honeyman +advances, and with deep respect asks if Mrs. Sherrick and Miss Sherrick +will not be persuaded to sing? She rises and bows, and again takes off +the French gloves, and shows the large white hands glittering with +rings, and, summoning Emily her daughter, they go to the piano. + +“Can she sing,” whispers Mrs. Mackenzie, “can she sing after eating so +much?” Can she sing, indeed! Oh, you poor ignorant Mrs. Mackenzie! Why, +when you were in the West Indies, if you ever read the English +newspapers, you must have read of the fame of Miss Folthorpe. Mrs. +Sherrick is no other than the famous artist, who, after three years of +brilliant triumphs at the Scala, the Pergola, the San Carlo, the opera +in England, forsook her profession, rejected a hundred suitors, and +married Sherrick, who was Mr. Cox’s lawyer, who failed, as everybody +knows, as manager of Drury Lane. Sherrick, like a man of spirit, would +not allow his wife to sing in public after his marriage; but in private +society, of course, she is welcome to perform: and now with her +daughter, who possesses a noble contralto voice, she takes her place +royally at the piano, and the two sing so magnificently that everybody +in the room, with one single exception, is charmed and delighted; and +that little Miss Cann herself creeps up the stairs, and stands with +Mrs. Ridley at the door to listen to the music. + +Miss Sherrick looks doubly handsome as she sings. Clive Newcome is in a +rapture; so is good-natured Miss Rosey, whose little heart beats with +pleasure, and who says quite unaffectedly to Miss Sherrick, with +delight and gratitude beaming from her blue eyes, “Why did you ask me +to sing, when you sing so wonderfully, so beautifully, yourself? Do not +leave the piano, please—do sing again!” And she puts out a kind little +hand towards the superior artist, and, blushing, leads her back to the +instrument. “I’m sure me and Emily will sing for you as much as you +like, dear,” says Mrs. Sherrick, nodding to Rosey good-naturedly. Mrs. +Mackenzie, who has been biting her lips and drumming the time on a +side-table, forgets at last the pain of being vanquished in admiration +of the conquerors. “It was cruel of you not to tell us, Mr. Honeyman,” +she says, “of the—of the treat you had in store for us. I had no idea +we were going to meet professional people; Mrs. Sherrick’s singing is +indeed beautiful.” + +“If you come up to our place in the Regent’s Park, Mr. Newcome,” Mr. +Sherrick says, “Mrs. S. and Emily will give you as many songs as you +like. How do you like the house in Fitzroy Square? Anything wanting +doing there? I’m a good landlord to a good tenant. Don’t care what I +spend on my houses. Lose by ’em sometimes. Name a day when you’ll come +to us; and I’ll ask some good fellows to meet you. Your father and Mr. +Binnie came once. That was when you were a young chap. They didn’t have +a bad evening, I believe. You just come and try us—I can give you as +good a glass of wine as most, I think,” and he smiles, perhaps thinking +of the champagne which Mr. Warrington had slighted. “I’ve ad the close +carriage for my wife this evening,” he continues, looking out of window +at a very handsome brougham which has just drawn up there. “That little +pair of horses steps prettily together, don’t they? Fond of horses? I +know you are. See you in the Park; and going by our house sometimes. +The Colonel sits a horse uncommonly well: so do you, Mr. Newcome. I’ve +often said, ‘Why don’t they get off their horses and say, Sherrick, +we’re come for a bit of lunch and a glass of Sherry?’ Name a day, sir. +Mr. P., will you be in it?” + +Clive Newcome named a day, and told his father of the circumstance in +the evening. The Colonel looked grave. “There was something which I did +not quite like about Mr. Sherrick,” said that acute observer of human +nature. “It was easy to see that the man is not quite a gentleman. I +don’t care what a man’s trade is, Clive. Indeed, who are we, to give +ourselves airs upon that subject? But when I am gone, my boy, and there +is nobody near you who knows the world as I do, you may fall into +designing hands, and rogues may lead you into mischief: keep a sharp +look-out, Clive. Mr. Pendennis, here, knows that there are designing +fellows abroad” (and the dear old gentleman gives a very knowing nod as +he speaks). “When I am gone, keep the lad from harm’s way, Pendennis. +Meanwhile Mr. Sherrick has been a very good and obliging landlord; and +a man who sells wine may certainly give a friend a bottle. I am glad +you had a pleasant evening, boys. Ladies, I hope you have had a +pleasant afternoon. Miss Rosey, you are come back to make tea for the +old gentlemen? James begins to get about briskly now. He walked to +Hanover Square, Mrs. Mackenzie, without hurting his ankle in the +least.” + +“I am almost sorry that he is getting well,” says Mrs. Mackenzie +sincerely. “He won’t want us when he is quite cured.” + +“Indeed, my dear creature!” cries the Colonel, taking her pretty hand +and kissing it; “he will want you, and he shall want you. James no more +knows the world than Miss Rosey here; and if I had not been with him, +would have been perfectly unable to take care of himself. When I am +gone to India, somebody must stay with him; and—and my boy must have a +home to go to,” says the kind soldier, his voice dropping. “I had been +in hopes that his own relatives would have received him more, but never +mind about that,” he cried more cheerfully. “Why, I may not be absent a +year! I perhaps need not go at all—I am second for promotion. A couple +of our old generals may drop any day; and when I get my regiment I come +back to stay, to live at home. Meantime, whilst I am gone, my dear +lady, you will take care of James; and you will be kind to my boy.” + +“That I will!” said the widow, radiant with pleasure, and she took one +of Clive’s hands and pressed it for an instant; and from Clive’s +father’s kind face there beamed out that benediction which always made +his countenance appear to me among the most beautiful of human faces. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. +In which the Newcome Brothers once more meet together in Unity + + +His narrative, as the judicious reader no doubt is aware, is written +maturely and at ease, long after the voyage is over, whereof it +recounts the adventures and perils; the winds adverse and favourable; +the storms, shoals, shipwrecks, islands, and so forth, which Clive +Newcome met in his early journey in life. In such a history events +follow each other without necessarily having a connection with one +another. One ship crosses another ship, and after a visit from one +captain to his comrade, they sail away each on his course. The Clive +Newcome meets a vessel which makes signals that she is short of bread +and water; and after supplying her, our captain leaves her to see her +no more. One or two of the vessels with which we commenced the voyage +together, part company in a gale, and founder miserably; others, after +being wofully battered in the tempest, make port, or are cast upon +surprising islands where all sorts of unlooked-for prosperity awaits +the lucky crew. Also, no doubt, the writer of the book, into whose +hands Clive Newcome’s logs have been put, and who is charged with the +duty of making two octavo volumes out of his friend’s story, dresses up +the narrative in his own way; utters his own remarks in place of +Newcome’s; makes fanciful descriptions of individuals and incidents +with which he never could have been personally acquainted; and commits +blunders, which the critics will discover. A great number of the +descriptions in Cook’s Voyages, for instance, were notoriously invented +by Dr. Hawkesworth, who “did” the book: so in the present volumes, +where dialogues are written down, which the reporter could by no +possibility have heard, and where motives are detected which the +persons actuated by them certainly never confided to the writer, the +public must once for all be warned that the author’s individual fancy +very likely supplies much of the narrative; and that he forms it as +best he may, out of stray papers, conversations reported to him, and +his knowledge, right or wrong, of the characters of the persons +engaged. And, as is the case with the most orthodox histories, the +writer’s own guesses or conjectures are printed in exactly the same +type as the most ascertained patent facts. I fancy, for my part, that +the speeches attributed to Clive, the Colonel, and the rest, are as +authentic as the orations in Sallust or Livy, and only implore the +truth-loving public to believe that incidents here told, and which +passed very probably without witnesses, were either confided to me +subsequently as compiler of this biography, or are of such a nature +that they must have happened from what we know happened after. For +example, when you read such words as QVE ROMANVS on a battered Roman +stone, your profound antiquarian knowledge enables you to assert that +SENATVS POPVLVS was also inscribed there at some time or other. You +take a mutilated statue of Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, or Virorum, and you +pop him on a wanting hand, an absent foot, or a nose which time or +barbarians have defaced. You tell your tales as you can, and state the +facts as you think they must have been. In this manner, Mr. James +(historiographer to Her Majesty), Titus Livius, Professor Alison, +Robinson Crusoe, and all historians proceeded. Blunders there must be +in the best of these narratives, and more asserted than they can +possibly know or vouch for. + +To recur to our own affairs, and the subject at present in hand, I am +obliged here to supply from conjecture a few points of the history, +which I could not know from actual experience or hearsay. Clive, let us +say, is Romanus, and we must add Senatus Populusque to his inscription. +After Mrs. Mackenzie and her pretty daughter had been for a few months +in London, which they did not think of quitting, although Mr. Binnie’s +wounded little leg was now as well and as brisk as ever it had been, a +redintegration of love began to take place between the Colonel and his +relatives in Park Lane. How should we know that there had ever been a +quarrel, or at any rate a coolness? Thomas Newcome was not a man to +talk at length of any such matter; though a word or two occasionally +dropped in conversation by the simple gentleman might lead persons who +chose to interest themselves about his family affairs to form their own +opinions concerning them. After that visit of the Colonel and his son +to Newcome, Ethel was constantly away with her grandmother. The Colonel +went to see his pretty little favourite at Brighton, and once, twice, +thrice, Lady Kew’s door was denied to him. The knocker of that door +could not be more fierce than the old lady’s countenance, when Newcome +met her in her chariot driving on the cliff. Once, forming the +loveliest of a charming Amazonian squadron, led by Mr. Whiskin, the +riding-master, when the Colonel encountered his pretty Ethel, she +greeted him affectionately, it is true; there was still the sweet look +of candour and love in her eyes; but when he rode up to her she looked +so constrained, when he talked about Clive, so reserved, when he left +her, so sad, that he could not but feel pain and commiseration. Back he +went to London, having in a week only caught this single glance of his +darling. + +This event occurred while Clive was painting his picture of the “Battle +of Assaye” before mentioned, during the struggles incident on which +composition he was not thinking much about Miss Ethel, or his papa, or +any other subject but his great work. Whilst Assaye was still in +progress, Thomas Newcome must have had an explanation with his +sister-in-law, Lady Anne, to whom he frankly owned the hopes which he +had entertained for Clive, and who must as frankly have told the +Colonel that Ethel’s family had very different views for that young +lady to those which the simple Colonel had formed. A generous early +attachment, the Colonel thought, is the safeguard of a young man. To +love a noble girl; to wait a while and struggle, and haply do some +little achievement in order to win her; the best task to which his boy +could set himself. If two young people so loving each other were to +marry on rather narrow means, what then? A happy home was better than +the finest house in Mayfair; a generous young fellow, such as, please +God, his son was—loyal, upright, and a gentleman—might pretend surely +to his kinswoman’s hand without derogation; and the affection he bore +Ethel himself was so great, and the sweet regard with which she +returned it, that the simple father thought his kindly project was +favoured by Heaven, and prayed for its fulfilment, and pleased himself +to think, when his campaigns were over, and his sword hung on the wall, +what a beloved daughter he might have to soothe and cheer his old age. +With such a wife for his son, and child for himself, he thought the +happiness of his last years might repay him for friendless boyhood, +lonely manhood, and cheerless exile; and he imparted his simple scheme +to Ethel’s mother, who no doubt was touched as he told his story; for +she always professed regard and respect for him, and in the differences +which afterwards occurred in the family, and the quarrels which divided +the brothers, still remained faithful to the good Colonel. + +But Barnes Newcome, Esquire, was the head of the house, and the +governor of his father and all Sir Brian’s affairs; and Barnes Newcome, +Esquire, hated his cousin Clive, and spoke of him as a beggarly +painter, an impudent snob, an infernal young puppy, and so forth; and +Barnes with his usual freedom of language imparted his opinions to his +Uncle Hobson at the bank, and Uncle Hobson carried them home to Mrs. +Newcome in Bryanstone Square; and Mrs. Newcome took an early +opportunity of telling the Colonel her opinion on the subject, and of +bewailing that love for aristocracy which she saw actuated some folks; +and the Colonel was brought to see that Barnes was his boy’s enemy, and +words very likely passed between them, for Thomas Newcome took a new +banker at this time, and, as Clive informed me, was in very great +dudgeon because Hobson Brothers wrote to him to say that he had +overdrawn his account. “I am sure there is some screw loose,” the +sagacious youth remarked to me; “and the Colonel and the people in Park +Lane are at variance, because he goes there very little now; and he +promised to go to Court when Ethel was presented, and he didn’t go.” + +Some months after the arrival of Mr. Binnie’s niece and sister in +Fitzroy Square, the fraternal quarrel between the Newcomes must have +come to an end—for that time at least—and was followed by a rather +ostentatious reconciliation. And pretty little Rosey Mackenzie was the +innocent and unconscious cause of this amiable change in the minds of +the three brethren, as I gathered from a little conversation with Mrs. +Newcome, who did me the honour to invite me to her table. As she had +not vouchsafed this hospitality to me for a couple of years previously, +and perfectly stifled me with affability when we met,—as her invitation +came quite at the end of the season, when almost everybody was out of +town, and a dinner to a man is no compliment,—I was at first for +declining this invitation, and spoke of it with great scorn when Mr. +Newcome orally delivered it to me at Bays’s Club. + +“What,” said I, turning round to an old man of the world, who happened +to be in the room at the time, “what do these people mean by asking a +fellow to dinner in August, and taking me up after dropping me for two +years?” + +“My good fellow,” says my friend—it was my kind old Uncle Major +Pendennis, indeed—“I have lived long enough about town never to ask +myself questions of that sort. In the world people drop you and take +you up every day. You know Lady Cheddar by sight? I have known her +husband for forty years: I have stayed with them in the country, for +weeks at a time. She knows me as well as she knows King Charles at +Charing Cross, and a doosid deal better, and yet for a whole season she +will drop me—pass me by, as if there was no such person in the world. +Well, sir, what do I do? I never see her. I give you my word I am never +conscious of her existence; and if I meet her at dinner, I’m no more +aware of her than the fellows in the play are of Banquo. What’s the end +of it? She comes round—only last Toosday she came round—and said Lord +Cheddar wanted me to go down to Wiltshire. I asked after the family +(you know Henry Churningham is engaged to Miss Rennet?—a doosid good +match for the Cheddars). We shook hands and are as good friends as +ever. I don’t suppose she’ll cry when I die, you know,” said the worthy +old gentleman with a grin. “Nor shall I go into very deep mourning if +anything happens to her. You were quite right to say to Newcome that +you did not know whether you were free or not, and would look at your +engagements when you got home, and give him an answer. A fellow of that +rank _has_ no right to give himself airs. But they will, sir. Some of +those bankers are as high and mighty as the oldest families. They marry +noblemen’s daughters, by Jove, and think nothing is too good for ’em. +But I should go, if I were you, Arthur. I dined there a couple of +months ago; and the bankeress said something about you: that you and +her nephew were much together, that you were sad wild dogs, I +think—something of that sort. ‘Gad, ma’am,’ says I, ‘boys will be +boys.’ ‘And they grow to be men!’ says she, nodding her head. Queer +little woman, devilish pompous. Dinner confoundedly long, stoopid, +scientific.” + +The old gentleman was on this day inclined to be talkative and +confidential, and I set down some more remarks which he made concerning +my friends. “Your Indian Colonel,” says he, “seems a worthy man.” The +Major quite forgot having been in India himself, unless he was in +company with some very great personage. “He don’t seem to know much of +the world, and we are not very intimate. Fitzroy Square is a dev’lish +long way off for a fellow to go for a dinner, and _entre nous_, the +dinner is rather queer and the company still more so. It’s right for +you who are a literary man to see all sorts of people; but I’m +different, you know, so Newcome and I are not very thick together. They +say he wanted to marry your friend to Lady Anne’s daughter, an +exceedingly fine girl; one of the prettiest girls come out this season. +I hear the young men say so. And that shows how monstrous ignorant of +the world Colonel Newcome is. His son could no more get that girl than +he could marry one of the royal princesses. Mark my words, they intend +Miss Newcome for Lord Kew. Those banker fellows are wild after grand +marriages. Kew will sow his wild oats, and they’ll marry her to him; or +if not to him, to some man of high rank. His father Walham was a weak +young man; but his grandmother, old Lady Kew, is a monstrous clever old +woman, too severe with her children, one of whom ran away and married a +poor devil without a shilling. Nothing could show a more deplorable +ignorance of the world than poor Newcome supposing his son could make +such a match as that with his cousin. Is it true that he is going to +make his son an artist? I don’t know what the dooce the world is coming +to. An artist! By gad, in my time a fellow would as soon have thought +of making his son a hairdresser, or a pastrycook, by gad.” And the +worthy Major gives his nephew two fingers, and trots off to the next +club in St. James’s Street, of which he is a member. + +The virtuous hostess of Bryanstone Square was quite civil and +good-humoured when Mr. Pendennis appeared at her house; and my surprise +was not inconsiderable when I found the whole party from Saint Pancras +there assembled—Mr. Binnie; the Colonel and his son; Mrs. Mackenzie, +looking uncommonly handsome and perfectly well-dressed; and Miss Rosey, +in pink crape, with pearly shoulders and blushing cheeks, and beautiful +fair ringlets—as fresh and comely a sight as it was possible to +witness. Scarcely had we made our bows, and shaken our hands, and +imparted our observations about the fineness of the weather, when, +behold! as we look from the drawing-room windows into the cheerful +square of Bryanstone, a great family coach arrives, driven by a family +coachman in a family wig, and we recognise Lady Anne Newcome’s +carriage, and see her ladyship, her mother, her daughter, and her +husband, Sir Brian, descend from the vehicle. “It is quite a family +party,” whispers the happy Mrs. Newcome to the happy writer conversing +with her in the niche of the window. “Knowing your intimacy with our +brother, Colonel Newcome, we thought it would please him to meet you +here. Will you be so kind as to take Miss Newcome to dinner?” + +Everybody was bent upon being happy and gracious. It was “My dear +brother, how do you do?” from Sir Brian. “My dear Colonel, how glad we +are to see you! how well you look!” from Lady Anne. Miss Newcome ran up +to him with both hands out, and put her beautiful face so close to his +that I thought, upon my conscience, she was going to kiss him. And Lady +Kew, advancing in the frankest manner, with a smile, I must own, rather +awful, playing round her many wrinkles, round her ladyship’s hooked +nose, and displaying her ladyship’s teeth (a new and exceedingly +handsome set), held out her hand to Colonel Newcome, and said briskly, +“Colonel, it is an age since we met.” She turns to Clive with equal +graciousness and good-humour, and says, “Mr. Clive, let me shake hands +with you; I have heard all sorts of good of you, that you have been +painting the most beautiful things, that you are going to be quite +famous.” Nothing can exceed the grace and kindness of Lady Anne Newcome +towards Mrs. Mackenzie: the pretty widow blushes with pleasure at this +greeting; and now Lady Anne must be introduced to Mrs. Mackenzie’s +charming daughter, and whispers in the delighted mother’s ear, “She is +lovely!” Rosey comes up looking rosy indeed, and executes a pretty +curtsey with a great deal of blushing grace. + +Ethel has been so happy to see her dear uncle, that as yet she has had +no eyes for any one else, until Clive advancing, those bright eyes +become brighter still with surprise and pleasure as she beholds him. +For being absent with his family in Italy now, and not likely to see +this biography for many many months, I may say that he is a much +handsomer fellow than our designer has represented; and if that wayward +artist should take this very scene for the purpose of illustration, he +is requested to bear in mind that the hero of this story will wish to +have justice done to his person. There exists in Mr. Newcome’s +possession a charming little pencil-drawing of Clive at this age, and +which Colonel Newcome took with him when he went—whither he is about to +go in a very few pages—and brought back with him to this country. A +florid apparel becomes some men, as simple raiment suits others, and +Clive in his youth was of the ornamental class of mankind—a customer to +tailors, a wearer of handsome rings, shirt-studs, mustachios, long +hair, and the like; nor could he help, in his costume or his nature, +being picturesque and generous and splendid. He was always greatly +delighted with that Scotch man-at-arms in Quentin Durward, who twists +off an inch or two of his gold chain to treat a friend and pay for a +bottle. He would give a comrade a ring or a fine jewelled pin, if he +had no money. Silver dressing-cases and brocade morning-gowns were in +him a sort of propriety at this season of his youth. It was a pleasure +to persons of colder temperament to sun themselves in the warmth of his +bright looks and generous humour. His laughter cheered one like wine. I +do not know that he was very witty; but he was pleasant. He was prone +to blush: the history of a generous trait moistened his eyes instantly. +He was instinctively fond of children, and of the other sex from one +year old to eighty. Coming from the Derby once—a merry party—and +stopped on the road from Epsom in a lock of carriages, during which the +people in the carriage ahead saluted us with many vituperative +epithets, and seized the heads of our leaders,—Clive in a twinkling +jumped off the box, and the next minute we saw him engaged with a +half-dozen of the enemy: his hat gone, his fair hair flying off his +face, his blue eyes flashing with fire, his lips and nostrils quivering +wrath, his right and left hand hitting out, _que c’étoit un plaisir à +voir_. His father sat back in the carriage, looking with delight and +wonder—indeed it was a great sight. Policeman X separated the warriors. +Clive ascended the box again with a dreadful wound in the coat, which +was gashed from the waist to the shoulder. I hardly ever saw the elder +Newcome in such a state of triumph. The postboys quite stared at the +gratuity he gave them, and wished they might drive his lordship to the +Oaks. + +All the time we have been making this sketch Ethel is standing, looking +at Clive; and the blushing youth casts down his eyes before hers. Her +face assumes a look of arch humour. She passes a slim hand over the +prettiest lips and a chin with the most lovely of dimples, thereby +indicating her admiration of Mr. Clive’s mustachios and imperial. They +are of a warm yellowish chestnut colour, and have not yet known the +razor. He wears a low cravat; a shirt-front of the finest lawn, with +ruby buttons. His hair, of a lighter colour, waves almost to his “manly +shoulders broad.” “Upon my word; my dear Colonel,” says Lady Kew, after +looking at him, and nodding her head shrewdly, “I think we were right.” + +“No doubt right in everything your ladyship does, but in what +particularly?” asks the Colonel. + +“Right to keep him out of the way. Ethel has been disposed of these ten +years. Did not Anne tell you? How foolish of her! But all mothers like +to have young men dying for their daughters. Your son is really the +handsomest boy in London. Who is that conceited-looking young man in +the window? Mr. Pen—what? has your son really been very wicked? I was +told he was a sad scapegrace.” + +“I never knew him do, and I don’t believe he ever thought, anything +that was untrue, or unkind, or ungenerous,” says the Colonel. “If any +one has belied my boy to you, and I think I know who his enemy has +been——” + +“The young lady is very pretty,” remarks Lady Kew, stopping the +Colonel’s further outbreak. “How very young her mother looks! Ethel, my +dear! Colonel Newcome must present us to Mrs. Mackenzie and Miss +Mackenzie;” and Ethel, giving a nod to Clive, with whom she has talked +for a minute or two, again puts her hand in her uncle’s, and walks +towards Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter. + +And now let the artist, if he has succeeded in drawing Clive to his +liking, cut a fresh pencil, and give us a likeness of Ethel. She is +seventeen years old; rather taller than the majority of women; of a +countenance somewhat grave and haughty, but on occasion brightening +with humour or beaming with kindliness and affection. Too quick to +detect affectation or insincerity in others, too impatient of dulness +or pomposity, she is more sarcastic now than she became when after +years of suffering had softened her nature. Truth looks out of her +bright eyes, and rises up armed, and flashes scorn or denial, perhaps +too readily, when she encounters flattery, or meanness, or imposture. +After her first appearance in the world, if the truth must be told, +this young lady was popular neither with many men, nor with most women. +The innocent dancing youth who pressed round her, attracted by her +beauty, were rather afraid, after a while, of engaging her. This one +felt dimly that she despised him; another, that his simpering +commonplaces (delights of how many well-bred maidens!) only occasioned +Miss Newcome’s laughter. Young Lord Croesus, whom all maidens and +matrons were eager to secure, was astounded to find that he was utterly +indifferent to her, and that she would refuse him twice or thrice in an +evening, and dance as many times with poor Tom Spring, who was his +father’s ninth son, and only at home till he could get a ship and go to +sea again. The young women were frightened at her sarcasm. She seemed +to know what _fadaises_ they whispered to their partners as they paused +in the waltzes; and Fanny, who was luring Lord Croesus towards her with +her blue eyes, dropped them guiltily to the floor when Ethel’s turned +towards her; and Cecilia sang more out of time than usual; and Clara, +who was holding Freddy, and Charley, and Tommy round her enchanted by +her bright conversation and witty mischief, became dumb and disturbed +when Ethel passed her with her cold face; and old Lady Hookham, who was +playing off her little Minnie now at young Jack Gorget of the Guards, +now at the eager and simple Bob Bateson of the Coldstreams, would slink +off when Ethel made her appearance on the ground, whose presence seemed +to frighten away the fish and the angler. No wonder that the other +Mayfair nymphs were afraid of this severe Diana, whose looks were so +cold and whose arrows were so keen. + +But those who had no cause to heed Diana’s shot or coldness might +admire her beauty; nor could the famous Parisian marble, which Clive +said she resembled, be more perfect in form than this young lady. Her +hair and eyebrows were jet black (these latter may have been too thick +according to some physiognomists, giving rather a stern expression to +the eyes, and hence causing those guilty ones to tremble who came under +her lash), but her complexion was as dazzlingly fair and her cheeks as +red as Miss Rosey’s own, who had a right to those beauties, being a +blonde by nature. In Miss Ethel’s black hair there was a slight natural +ripple, as when a fresh breeze blows over the _melan hudor_—a ripple +such as Roman ladies nineteen hundred years ago, and our own beauties a +short time since, endeavoured to imitate by art, paper, and I believe +crumpling-irons. Her eyes were grey; her mouth rather large; her teeth +as regular and bright as Lady Kew’s own; her voice low and sweet; and +her smile, when it lighted up her face and eyes, as beautiful as spring +sunshine; also they could lighten and flash often, and sometimes, +though rarely, rain. As for her figure—but as this tall slender form is +concealed in a simple white muslin robe (of the sort which I believe is +called _demie toilette_), in which her fair arms are enveloped, and +which is confined at her slim waist by an azure ribbon, and descends to +her feet—let us make a respectful bow to that fair image of Youth, +Health, and Modesty, and fancy it as pretty as we will. Miss Ethel made +a very stately curtsey to Mrs. Mackenzie, surveying that widow calmly, +so that the elder lady looked up and fluttered; but towards Rosey she +held out her hand, and smiled with the utmost kindness, and the smile +was returned by the other; and the blushes with which Miss Mackenzie +was always ready at this time, became her very much. As for Mrs. +Mackenzie—the very largest curve that shall not be a caricature, and +actually disfigure the widow’s countenance—a smile so wide and steady, +so exceedingly rident, indeed, as almost to be ridiculous, may be drawn +upon her buxom face, if the artist chooses to attempt it as it appeared +during the whole of this summer evening, before dinner came (when +people ordinarily look very grave), when she was introduced to the +company: when she was made known to our friends Julia and Maria,—the +darling child, lovely little dears! how like their papa and mamma!—when +Sir Brian Newcome gave her his arm downstairs to the dining-room; when +anybody spoke to her; when John offered her meat, or the gentleman in +the white waistcoat, wine; when she accepted or when she refused these +refreshments; when Mr. Newcome told her a dreadfully stupid story; when +the Colonel called cheerily from his end of the table, “My dear Mrs. +Mackenzie, you don’t take any wine to-day; may I not have the honour of +drinking a glass of champagne with you?” when the new boy from the +country upset some sauce upon her shoulder: when Mrs. Newcome made the +sign for departure; and I have no doubt in the drawing-room, when the +ladies retired thither. “Mrs. Mack is perfectly awful,” Clive told me +afterwards, “since that dinner in Bryanstone Square. Lady Kew and Lady +Anne are never out of her mouth; she has had white muslin dresses made +just like Ethel’s for herself and her daughter. She has bought a +Peerage, and knows the pedigree of the whole Kew family. She won’t go +out in a cab now without the boy on the box; and in the plate for the +cards which she has established in the drawing-room, you know, Lady +Kew’s pasteboard always _will_ come up to the top, though I poke it +down whenever I go into the room. As for poor Lady Trotter, the +governess of St. Kitt’s, you know, and the Bishop of Tobago, they are +quite bowled out: Mrs. Mack has not mentioned them for a week.” + +During the dinner it seemed to me that the lovely young lady by whom I +sate cast many glances towards Mrs. Mackenzie, which did not betoken +particular pleasure. Miss Ethel asked me several questions regarding +Clive, and also respecting Miss Mackenzie: perhaps her questions were +rather downright and imperious, and she patronised me in a manner that +would not have given all gentlemen pleasure. I was Clive’s friend, his +schoolfellow? had I seen him a great deal? know him very well—very well +indeed? Was it true that he had been very thoughtless? very wild? Who +told her so? That was not her question (with a blush). It was not true, +and I ought to know? He was not spoiled? He was very good-natured, +generous, told the truth? He loved his profession very much, and had +great talent? Indeed she was very glad. Why do they sneer at his +profession? It seemed to her quite as good as her father’s and +brother’s. Were artists not very dissipated? Not more so, nor often so +much as other young men? Was Mr. Binnie rich, and was he going to leave +all his money to his niece? How long have you known them? Is Miss +Mackenzie as good-natured as she looks? Not very clever, I suppose. +Mrs. Mackenzie looks very—No, thank you, no more. Grandmamma (she is +very deaf, and cannot hear) scolded me for reading the book you wrote, +and took the book away. I afterwards got it, and read it all. I don’t +think there was any harm in it. Why do you give such bad characters of +women? Don’t you know any good ones? Yes, two as good as any in the +world. They are unselfish: they are pious; they are always doing good; +they live in the country? Why don’t you put them into a book? Why don’t +you put my uncle into a book? He is so good, that nobody could make him +good enough. Before I came out, I heard a young lady—(Lady Clavering’s +daughter, Miss Amory) sing a song of yours. I have never spoken to an +author before. I saw Mr. Lyon at Lady Popinjoy’s, and heard him speak. +He said it was very hot, and he looked so, I am sure. Who is the +greatest author now alive? You will tell me when you come upstairs +after dinner;—and the young lady sails away, following the matrons, who +rise and ascend to the drawing-room. Miss Newcome has been watching the +behaviour of the author by whom she sate; curious to know what such a +person’s habits are; whether he speaks and acts like other people; and +in what respect authors are different from persons “in society.” + +When we had sufficiently enjoyed claret and politics below-stairs, the +gentlemen went to the drawing-room to partake of coffee and the ladies’ +delightful conversation. We had heard previously the tinkling of the +piano above, and the well-known sound of a couple of Miss Rosey’s five +songs. The two young ladies were engaged over an album at a side-table, +when the males of the party arrived. The book contained a number of +Clive’s drawings made in the time of his very early youth for the +amusement of his little cousins. Miss Ethel seemed to be very much +pleased with these performances, which Miss Mackenzie likewise examined +with great good-nature and satisfaction. So she did the views of Rome, +Naples, Marble Hill in the county of Sussex, etc., in the same +collection: so she did the Berlin cockatoo and spaniel which Mrs. +Newcome was working in idle moments: so she did the “Books of Beauty,” +“Flowers of Loveliness,” and so forth. She thought the prints very +sweet and pretty: she thought the poetry very pretty and sweet. Which +did she like best, Mr. Niminy’s “Lines to a bunch of violets,” or Miss +Piminy’s “Stanzas to a wreath of roses”? Miss Mackenzie was quite +puzzled to say which of these masterpieces she preferred; she found +them alike so pretty. She appealed, as in most cases, to mamma. “How, +my darling love, can I pretend to know?” mamma says. “I have been a +soldier’s wife, battling about the world. I have not had your +advantages. I had no drawing-masters, nor music-masters as you have. +You, dearest child, must instruct me in these things.” This poses +Rosey: who prefers to have her opinions dealt out to her like her +frocks, bonnets, handkerchiefs, her shoes and gloves, and the order +thereof; the lumps of sugar for her tea, the proper quantity of +raspberry jam for breakfast; who trusts for all supplies corporeal and +spiritual to her mother. For her own part, Rosey is pleased with +everything in nature. Does she love music? Oh, yes. Bellini and +Donizetti? Oh, yes. Dancing? They had no dancing at grandmamma’s, but +she adores dancing, and Mr. Clive dances very well indeed. (A smile +from Miss Ethel at this admission.) Does she like the country? Oh, she +is so happy in the country! London? London is delightful, and so is the +seaside. She does not really know which she likes best, London or the +country, for mamma is not near her to decide, being engaged listening +to Sir Brian, who is laying down the law to her, and smiling, smiling +with all her might. In fact, Mr. Newcome says to Mr. Pendennis in his +droll, humorous way, “That woman grins like a Cheshire cat.” Who was +the naturalist who first discovered that peculiarity of the cats in +Cheshire? + +In regard to Miss Mackenzie’s opinions, then, it is not easy to +discover that they are decided, or profound, or original; but it seems +pretty clear that she has a good temper, and a happy contented +disposition. And the smile which her pretty countenance wears shows off +to great advantage the two dimples on her pink cheeks. Her teeth are +even and white, her hair of a beautiful colour, and no snow can be +whiter than her fair round neck and polished shoulders. She talks very +kindly and good-naturedly with Julia and Maria (Mrs. Hobson’s precious +ones) until she is bewildered by the statements which those young +ladies make regarding astronomy, botany, and chemistry, all of which +they are studying. “My dears, I don’t know a single word about any of +these abstruse subjects: I wish I did,” she says. And Ethel Newcome +laughs. She too is ignorant upon all these subjects. “I am glad there +is some one else,” says Rosey, with naivete, “who is as ignorant as I +am.” And the younger children, with a solemn air, say they will ask +mamma leave to teach her. So everybody, somehow, great or small, seems +to protect her; and the humble, simple, gentle little thing wins a +certain degree of goodwill from the world, which is touched by her +humility and her pretty sweet looks. The servants in Fitzroy Square +waited upon her much more kindly than upon her smiling bustling mother. +Uncle James is especially fond of his little Rosey. Her presence in his +study never discomposes him; whereas his sister fatigues him with the +exceeding activity of her gratitude, and her energy in pleasing. As I +was going away, I thought I heard Sir Brian Newcome say, “It” (but what +“it” was, of course I cannot conjecture)—“it will do very well. The +mother seems a superior woman.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. +Is passed in a Public-house + + +I had no more conversation with Miss Newcome that night, who had +forgotten her curiosity about the habits of authors. When she had ended +her talk with Miss Mackenzie, she devoted the rest of the evening to +her uncle, Colonel Newcome; and concluded by saying, “And now you will +come and ride with me to-morrow, uncle, won’t you?” which the Colonel +faithfully promised to do. And she shook hands with Clive very kindly: +and with Rosey very frankly, but as I thought with rather a patronising +air: and she made a very stately bow to Mrs. Mackenzie, and so departed +with her father and mother. Lady Kew had gone away earlier. Mrs. +Mackenzie informed us afterwards that the Countess had gone to sleep +after her dinner. If it was at Mrs. Mack’s story about the Governor’s +ball at Tobago, and the quarrel for precedence between the Lord +Bishop’s lady, Mrs. Rotchet, and the Chief Justice’s wife, Lady +Barwise, I should not be at all surprised. + +A handsome fly carried off the ladies to Fitzroy Square, and the two +worthy Indian gentlemen in their company; Clive and I walking, with the +usual Havannah to light us home. And Clive remarked that he supposed +there had been some difference between his father and the bankers: for +they had not met for ever so many months before, and the Colonel always +had looked very gloomy when his brothers were mentioned. “And I can’t +help thinking,” says the astute youth, “that they fancied I was in love +with Ethel (I know the Colonel would have liked me to make up to her), +and that may have occasioned the row. Now, I suppose, they think I am +engaged to Rosey. What the deuce are they in such a hurry to marry me +for?” + +Clive’s companion remarked, “that marriage was a laudable institution: +and an honest attachment an excellent conservator of youthful morals.” +On which Clive replied, “Why don’t you marry yourself?” + +This it was justly suggested was no argument, but a merely personal +allusion foreign to the question, which was, that marriage was +laudable, etc. + +Mr. Clive laughed. “Rosey is as good a little creature as can be,” he +said. “She is never out of temper, though I fancy Mrs. Mackenzie tries +her. I don’t think she is very wise: but she is uncommonly pretty, and +her beauty grows on you. As for Ethel, anything so high and mighty I +have never seen since I saw the French giantess. Going to Court, and +about to parties every night where a parcel of young fools flatter her, +has perfectly spoiled her. By Jove, how handsome she is! How she turns +with her long neck, and looks at you from under those black eyebrows! +If I painted her hair, I think I should paint it almost blue, and then +glaze over with lake. It _is_ blue. And how finely her head is joined +on to her shoulders!”—And he waves in the air an imaginary line with +his cigar. “She would do for Judith, wouldn’t she? Or how grand she +would look as Herodias’s daughter sweeping down a stair—in a great +dress of cloth-of-gold like Paul Veronese—holding a charger before her +with white arms, you know—with the muscles accented like that glorious +Diana at Paris—a savage smile on her face and a ghastly solemn gory +head on the dish. I see the picture, sir, I see the picture!” and he +fell to curling his mustachios just like his brave old father. + +I could not help laughing at the resemblance, and mentioning it to my +friend. He broke, as was his wont, into a fond eulogium of his sire, +wished he could be like him—worked himself up into another state of +excitement, in which he averred “that if his father wanted him to +marry, he would marry that instant. And why not Rosey? She is a dear +little thing. Or why not that splendid Miss Sherrick? What ahead!—a +regular Titian! I was looking at the difference of their colour at +Uncle Honeyman’s that day of the _déjeuner_. The shadows in Rosey’s +face, sir, are all pearly-tinted. You ought to paint her in milk, sir!” +cries the enthusiast. “Have you ever remarked the grey round her eyes, +and the sort of purple bloom of her cheek? Rubens could have done the +colour: but I don’t somehow like to think of a young lady and that +sensuous old Peter Paul in company. I look at her like a little +wild-flower in a field—like a little child at play, sir. Pretty little +tender nursling! If I see her passing in the street, I feel as if I +would like some fellow to be rude to her, that I might have the +pleasure of knocking him down. She is like a little songbird, sir,—a +tremulous, fluttering little linnet that you would take into your hand, +_pavidam quaerentem matrem_, and smooth its little plumes, and let it +perch on your finger and sing. The Sherrick creates quite a different +sentiment—the Sherrick is splendid, stately, sleepy——” + +“Stupid,” hints Clive’s companion. + +“Stupid! Why not? Some women ought to be stupid. What you call dulness +I call repose. Give me a calm woman, a slow woman,—a lazy, majestic +woman. Show me a gracious virgin bearing a lily: not a leering giggler +frisking a rattle. A lively woman would be the death of me. Look at +Mrs. Mack, perpetually nodding, winking, grinning, throwing out signals +which you are to be at the trouble to answer! I thought her delightful +for three days; I declare I was in love with her—that is, as much as I +can be after—but never mind that, I feel I shall never be really in +love again. Why shouldn’t the Sherrick be stupid, I say? About great +beauty there should always reign a silence. As you look at the great +stars, the great ocean, any great scene of nature: you hush, sir. You +laugh at a pantomime, but you are still in a temple. When I saw the +great Venus of the Louvre, I thought—Wert thou alive, O goddess, thou +shouldst never open those lovely lips but to speak lowly, slowly: thou +shouldst never descend from that pedestal but to walk stately to some +near couch, and assume another attitude of beautiful calm. To be +beautiful is enough. If a woman can do that well: who shall demand more +from her? You don’t want a rose to sing. And I think wit is out of +place where there’s great beauty; as I wouldn’t have a Queen to cut +jokes on her throne. I say, Pendennis,”—here broke off the enthusiastic +youth,—“have you got another cigar? Shall we go into Finch’s, and have +a game at billiards? Just one—it’s quite early yet. Or shall we go in +the Haunt? It’s Wednesday night, you know, when all the boys go.” We +tap at a door in an old, old street in Soho: an old maid with a kind, +comical face opens the door, and nods friendly, and says, “How do, sir? +ain’t seen you this ever so long. How do, Mr. Noocom?” “Who’s here?” +“Most everybody’s here.” We pass by a little snug bar, in which a trim +elderly lady is seated by a great fire, on which boils an enormous +kettle; while two gentlemen are attacking a cold saddle of mutton and +West India pickles: hard by Mrs. Nokes the landlady’s elbow—with mutual +bows—we recognise Hickson, the sculptor, and Morgan, the intrepid Irish +chieftain, chief of the reporters of the _Morning Press_ newspaper. We +pass through a passage into a back room, and are received with a roar +of welcome from a crowd of men, almost invisible in the smoke. + +“I am right glad to see thee, boy!” cries a cheery voice (that will +never troll a chorus more). “We spake anon of thy misfortune, gentle +youth! and that thy warriors of Assaye have charged the Academy in +vain. Mayhap thou frightenedst the courtly school with barbarous +visages of grisly war.—Pendennis, thou dost wear a thirsty look! +Resplendent swell! untwine thy choker white, and I will either stand a +glass of grog, or thou shalt pay the like for me, my lad, and tell us +of the fashionable world.” Thus spake the brave old Tom Sarjent,—also +one of the Press, one of the old boys: a good old scholar with a good +old library of books, who had taken his seat any time these forty years +by the chimney-fire in this old Haunt: where painters, sculptors, men +of letters, actors, used to congregate, passing pleasant hours in rough +kindly communion, and many a day seeing the sunrise lighting the rosy +street ere they parted, and Betsy put the useless lamp out and closed +the hospitable gates of the Haunt. + +The time is not very long since, though to-day is so changed. As we +think of it, the kind familiar faces rise up, and we hear the pleasant +voices and singing. There are they met, the honest hearty companions. +In the days when the Haunt was a haunt, stage-coaches were not yet +quite over. Casinos were not invented: clubs were rather rare luxuries: +there were sanded floors, triangular sawdust-boxes, pipes, and tavern +parlours. Young Smith and Brown, from the Temple, did not go from +chambers to dine at the Polyanthus, or the Megatherium, off potage à la +Bisque, turbot au gratin, cotelettes a la What-do-you-call-’em, and a +pint of St. Emilion; but ordered their beefsteak and pint of port from +the “plump head-waiter at the Cock;” did not disdain the pit of the +theatre; and for a supper a homely refection at the tavern. How +delightful are the suppers in Charles Lamb to read of even now!—the +cards—the punch—the candles to be snuffed—the social oysters—the modest +cheer! Whoever snuffs a candle now? What man has a domestic supper +whose dinner-hour is eight o’clock? Those little meetings, in the +memory of many of us yet, are gone quite away into the past. +Five-and-twenty years ago is a hundred years off—so much has our social +life changed in those five lustres. James Boswell himself, were he to +revisit London, would scarce venture to enter a tavern. He would find +scarce a respectable companion to enter its doors with him. It is an +institution as extinct as a hackney-coach. Many a grown man who peruses +this historic page has never seen such a vehicle, and only heard of +rum-punch as a drink which his ancestors used to tipple. + +Cheery old Tom Sarjent is surrounded at the Haunt by a dozen of kind +boon companions. They toil all day at their avocations of art, or +letters, or law, and here meet for a harmless night’s recreation and +converse. They talk of literature, or politics, or pictures, or plays; +socially banter one another over their cheap cups: sing brave old songs +sometimes when they are especially jolly kindly ballads in praise of +love and wine; famous maritime ditties in honour of Old England. I +fancy I hear Jack Brent’s noble voice rolling out the sad, generous +_refrain_ of “The Deserter,” “Then for that reason and for a season we +will be merry before we go,” or Michael Percy’s clear tenor carolling +the Irish chorus of “What’s that to any one, whether or no!” or Mark +Wilder shouting his bottle-song of “Garryowen na gloria.” These songs +were regarded with affection by the brave old frequenters of the Haunt. +A gentleman’s property in a song was considered sacred. It was +respectfully asked for: it was heard with the more pleasure for being +old. Honest Tom Sarjent! how the times have changed since we saw thee! +I believe the present chief of the reporters of the newspaper (which +responsible office Tom filled) goes to Parliament in his brougham, and +dines with the Ministers of the Crown. + +Around Tom are seated grave Royal Academicians, rising gay Associates; +writers of other journals besides the _Pall Mall Gazette;_ a barrister +maybe, whose name will be famous some day: a hewer of marble perhaps: a +surgeon whose patients have not come yet; and one or two men about town +who like this queer assembly better than haunts much more splendid. +Captain Shandon has been here, and his jokes are preserved in the +tradition of the place. Owlet, the philosopher, came once and tried, as +his wont is, to lecture; but his metaphysics were beaten down by a +storm of banter. Slatter, who gave himself such airs because he wrote +in the —— _Review_, tried to air himself at the Haunt, but was choked +by the smoke, and silenced by the unanimous pooh-poohing of the +assembly. Dick Walker, who rebelled secretly at Sarjent’s authority, +once thought to give himself consequence by bringing a young lord from +the Blue Posts, but he was so unmercifully “chaffed” by Tom, that even +the young lord laughed at him. His lordship has been heard to say he +had been taken to a monsus queeah place, queeah set of folks, in a tap +somewhere, though he went away quite delighted with Tom’s affability, +but he never came again. He could not find the place, probably. You +might pass the Haunt in the daytime, and not know it in the least. “I +believe,” said Charley Ormond (A.R.A. he was then)—“I believe in the +day there’s no such place at all: and when Betsy turns the gas off at +the door-lamp as we go away, the whole thing vanishes: the door, the +house, the bar, the Haunt, Betsy, the beer-boy, Mrs. Nokes and all.” It +has vanished: it is to be found no more: neither by night nor by +day—unless the ghosts of good fellows still haunt it. + +As the genial talk and glass go round, and after Clive and his friend +have modestly answered the various queries put to them by good old Tom +Sarjent, the acknowledged Praeses of the assembly and Sachem of this +venerable wigwam, the door opens and another well-known figure is +recognised with shouts as it emerges through the smoke. “Bayham, all +hail!” says Tom. “Frederick, I am right glad to see thee!” + +Bayham says he is disturbed in spirit, and calls for a pint of beer to +console him. + +“Hast thou flown far, thou restless bird of night?” asks Father Tom, +who loves speaking in blank verses. + +“I have come from Cursitor Street,” says Bayham, in a low groan. “I +have just been to see a poor devil in quod there. Is that you, +Pendennis? You know the man—Charles Honeyman.” + +“What!” cries Clive, starting up. + +“O my prophetic soul, my uncle!” growls Bayham. “I did not see the +young one; but ’tis true.” + +The reader is aware that more than the three years have elapsed, of +which time the preceding pages contain the harmless chronicle; and +while Thomas Newcome’s leave has been running out and Clive’s +mustachios growing, the fate of other persons connected with our story +has also had its development, and their fortune has experienced its +natural progress, its increase or decay. Our tale, such as it has +hitherto been arranged, has passed leisurely in scenes wherein the +present tense is perforce adopted; the writer acting as chorus to the +drama, and occasionally explaining, by hints or more open statements, +what has occurred during the intervals of the acts; and how it happens +that the performers are in such or such a posture. In the modern +theatre, as the play-going critic knows, the explanatory personage is +usually of quite a third-rate order. He is the two walking-gentlemen +friends of Sir Harry Courtly, who welcome the young baronet to London, +and discourse about the niggardliness of Harry’s old uncle, the Nabob; +and the depth of Courtly’s passion for Lady Annabel the _première +amoureuse_. He is the confidant in white linen to the heroine in white +satin. He is “Tom, you rascal,” the valet or tiger, more or less +impudent and acute—that well-known menial in top-boots and a livery +frock with red cuffs and collar, whom Sir Harry always retains in his +service, addresses with scurrilous familiarity, and pays so +irregularly: or he is Lucetta, Lady Annabel’s waiting-maid, who carries +the _billets-doux_ and peeps into them; knows all about the family +affairs; pops the lover under the sofa; and sings a comic song between +the scenes. Our business now is to enter into Charles Honeyman’s +privacy, to peer into the secrets of that reverend gentleman, and to +tell what has happened to him during the past months, in which he has +made fitful though graceful appearances on our scene. + +While his nephew’s whiskers have been budding, and his brother-in-law +has been spending his money and leave, Mr. Honeyman’s hopes have been +withering, his sermons growing stale, his once blooming popularity +drooping and running to seed. Many causes have contributed to bring him +to his present melancholy strait. When you go to Lady Whittlesea’s +Chapel now, it is by no means crowded. Gaps are in the pews: there is +not the least difficulty in getting a snug place near the pulpit, +whence the preacher can look over his pocket-handkerchief and see Lord +Dozeley no more: his lordship has long gone to sleep elsewhere and a +host of the fashionable faithful have migrated too. The incumbent can +no more cast his fine eyes upon the French bonnets of the female +aristocracy and see some of the loveliest faces in Mayfair regarding +his with expressions of admiration. Actual dowdy tradesmen of the +neighbourhood are seated with their families in the aisles: Ridley and +his wife and son have one of the very best seats. To be sure Ridley +looks like a nobleman, with his large waistcoat, bald head, and gilt +book: J. J. has a fine head; but Mrs. Ridley! cook and housekeeper is +written on her round face. The music is by no means of its former good +quality. That rebellious and ill-conditioned basso Bellew has seceded, +and seduced the four best singing boys, who now perform glees at the +Cave of Harmony. Honeyman has a right to speak of persecution, and to +compare himself to a hermit in so far that he preaches in a desert. +Once, like another hermit, St. Hierome, he used to be visited by lions. +None such come to him now. Such lions as frequent the clergy are gone +off to lick the feet of other ecclesiastics. They are weary of poor +Honeyman’s old sermons. + +Rivals have sprung up in the course of these three years—have sprung up +round about Honeyman and carried his flock into their folds. We know +how such simple animals will leap one after another, and that it is the +sheepish way. Perhaps a new pastor has come to the church of St. +Jacob’s hard by—bold, resolute, bright, clear, a scholar and no pedant: +his manly voice is thrilling in their ears, he speaks of life and +conduct, of practice as well as faith; and crowds of the most polite +and most intelligent, and best informed, and best dressed, and most +selfish people in the world come and hear him twice at least. There are +so many well-informed and well-dressed etc. etc. people in the world +that the succession of them keeps St. Jacob’s full for a year or more. +Then, it may be, a bawling quack, who has neither knowledge, nor +scholarship, nor charity, but who frightens the public with +denunciations and rouses them with the energy of his wrath, succeeds in +bringing them together for a while till they tire of his din and +curses. Meanwhile the good quiet old churches round about ring their +accustomed bell: open their Sabbath gates: receive their tranquil +congregations and sober priest, who has been busy all the week, at +schools and sick-beds, with watchful teaching, gentle counsel, and +silent alms. + +Though we saw Honeyman but seldom, for his company was not altogether +amusing, and his affectation, when one became acquainted with it, very +tiresome to witness, Fred Bayham, from his garret at Mrs. Ridley’s, +kept constant watch over the curate, and told us of his proceedings +from time to time. When we heard the melancholy news first announced, +of course the intelligence damped the gaiety of Clive and his +companion; and F. B., who conducted all the affairs of life with great +gravity, telling Tom Sarjent that he had news of importance for our +private ear, Tom with still more gravity than F. B.’s, said, “Go, my +children, you had best discuss this topic in a separate room, apart +from the din and fun of a convivial assembly;” and ringing the bell he +bade Betsy bring him another glass of rum-and-water, and one for Mr. +Desborough, to be charged to him. + +We adjourned to another parlour then, where gas was lighted up: and F. +B. over a pint of beer narrated poor Honeyman’s mishap. “Saving your +presence, Clive,” said Bayham, “and with every regard for the youthful +bloom of your young heart’s affections, your uncle Charles Honeyman, +sir, is a bad lot. I have known him these twenty years, when I was at +his father’s as a private tutor. Old Miss Honeyman is one of those +cards which we call trumps—so was old Honeyman a trump; but Charles and +his sister——” + +I stamped on F. B.’s foot under the table. He seemed to have forgotten +that he was about to speak of Clive’s mother. + +“Hem! of your poor mother, I—hem—I may say _vidi tantum_. I scarcely +knew her. She married very young: as I was when she left Borhambury. +But Charles exhibited his character at a very early age—and it was not +a charming one—no, by no means a model of virtue. He always had a +genius for running into debt. He borrowed from every one of the +pupils—I don’t know how he spent it except in hardbake and +alycompaine—and even from old Nosey’s groom,—pardon me, we used to call +your grandfather by that playful epithet (boys will be boys, you +know),—even from the doctor’s groom he took money, and I recollect +thrashing Charles Honeyman for that disgraceful action. + +“At college, without any particular show, he was always in debt and +difficulties. Take warning by him, dear youth! By him and by me, if you +like. See me—me, F. Bayham, descended from the ancient kings that long +the Tuscan sceptre swayed, dodge down a street to get out of sight of a +boot-shop, and my colossal frame tremble if a chap puts his hand on my +shoulder, as you did, Pendennis, the other day in the Strand, when I +thought a straw might have knocked me down! I have had my errors, +Clive. I know ’em. I’ll take another pint of beer, if you please. +Betsy, has Mrs. Nokes any cold meat in the bar? and an accustomed +pickle? Ha! Give her my compliments, and say F. B. is hungry. I resume +my tale. Faults F. B. has, and knows it. Humbug he may have been +sometimes; but I’m not such a complete humbug as Honeyman.” + +Clive did not know how to look at this character of his relative, but +Clive’s companion burst into a fit of laughter, at which F. B. nodded +gravely, and resumed his narrative. “I don’t know how much money he has +had from your governor, but this I can say, the half of it would make +F. B. a happy man. I don’t know out of how much the reverend party has +nobbled his poor old sister at Brighton. He has mortgaged his chapel to +Sherrick, I suppose you know, who is master of it, and could turn him +out any day. I don’t think Sherrick is a bad fellow. I think he’s a +good fellow; I have known him do many a good turn to a chap in +misfortune. He wants to get into society: what more natural? That was +why you were asked to meet him the other day, and why he asked you to +dinner. I hope you had a good one. I wish he’d ask me. + +“Then Moss has got his bills, and Moss’s brother-in-law in Cursitor +Street has taken possession of his revered person. He’s very welcome. +One Jew has the chapel, another Hebrew has the clergyman. It’s +singular, ain’t it? Sherrick might turn Lady Whittlesea into a +synagogue and have the Chief Rabbi into the pulpit, where my uncle the +Bishop has given out the text. + +“The shares of that concern ain’t at a premium. I have had immense fun +with Sherrick about it. I like the Hebrew, sir. He maddens with rage +when F. B. goes and asks him whether any more pews are let overhead. +Honeyman begged and borrowed in order to buy out the last man. I +remember when the speculation was famous, when all the boxes (I mean +the pews) were taken for the season, and you couldn’t get a place, come +ever so early. Then Honeyman was spoilt, and gave his sermons over and +over again. People got sick of seeing the old humbug cry, the old +crocodile! Then we tried the musical dodge. F. B. came forward, sir, +there. That _was_ a coup: I did it, sir. Bellew wouldn’t have sung for +any man but me—and for two-and-twenty months I kept him as sober as +Father Mathew. Then Honeyman didn’t pay him: there was a row in the +sacred building, and Bellew retired. Then Sherrick must meddle in it. +And having heard a chap out Hampstead way who Sherrick thought would +do, Honeyman was forced to engage him, regardless of expense. You +recollect the fellow, sir? The Reverend Simeon Rawkins, the lowest of +the Low Church, sir—a red-haired dumpy man, who gasped at his _h’s_ and +spoke with a Lancashire twang—he’d no more do for Mayfair than Grimaldi +for Macbeth. He and Honeyman used to fight like cat and dog in the +vestry: and he drove away a third part of the congregation. He was an +honest man and an able man too, though not a sound Churchman” (F. B. +said this with a very edifying gravity): “I told Sherrick this the very +day I heard him. And if he had spoken to me on the subject I might have +saved him a pretty penny—a precious deal more than the paltry sum which +he and I had a quarrel about at that time—a matter of business, sir—a +pecuniary difference about a small three months’ thing which caused a +temporary estrangement between us. As for Honeyman, he used to cry +about it. Your uncle is great in the lachrymatory line, Clive Newcome. +He used to go with tears in his eyes to Sherrick, and implore him not +to have Rawkins, but he would. And I must say for poor Charles that the +failure of Lady Whittlesea’s has not been altogether Charles’s fault; +and that Sherrick has kicked down that property. + +“Well, then, sir, poor Charles thought to make it all right by marrying +Mrs. Brumby;—and she was very fond of him and the thing was all but +done, in spite of her sons, who were in a rage as you may fancy. But +Charley, sir, has such a propensity for humbug that he will tell lies +when there is no earthly good in lying. He represented his chapel at +twelve hundred a year, his private means as so-and-so; and when he came +to book up with Briggs the lawyer, Mrs. Brumby’s brother, it was found +that he lied and prevaricated so, that the widow in actual disgust +would have nothing more to do with him. She was a good woman of +business, and managed the hat-shop for nine years, whilst poor Brumby +was at Dr. Tokelys. A first-rate shop it was, too. I introduced Charles +to it. My uncle the Bishop had his shovels there: and they used for a +considerable period to cover _this_ humble roof with tiles,” said F. +B., tapping his capacious forehead; “I am sure he might have had +Brumby,” he added, in his melancholy tones, “but for those unlucky +lies. She didn’t want money. She had plenty. She longed to get into +society, and was bent on marrying a gentleman. + +“But what I can’t pardon in Honeyman is the way in which he has done +poor old Ridley and his wife. I took him there, you know, thinking they +would send their bills in once a month: that he was doing a good +business: in fact, that I had put ’em into a good thing. And the fellow +has told me a score of times that he and the Ridleys were all right. +But he has not only not paid his lodgings, but he has had money of +them: he has given dinners: he has made Ridley pay for wine. He has +kept paying lodgers out of the house, and he tells me all this with a +burst of tears, when he sent for me to Lazarus’s to-night, and I went +to him, sir, because he was in distress—went into the lion’s den, sir!” +says F. B., looking round nobly. “I don’t know how much he owes them: +because of course you know the sum he mentions ain’t the right one. He +never does tell the truth—does Charles. But think of the pluck of those +good Ridleys never saying a single word to F. B. about the debt! ‘We +are poor, but we have saved some money and can lie out of it. And we +think Mr. Honeyman will pay us,’ says Mrs. Ridley to me this very +evening. And she thrilled my heart-strings, sir; and I took her in my +arms, and kissed the old woman,” says Bayham; “and I rather astonished +little Miss Cann, and young J. J., who came in with a picture under his +arm. But she said she had kissed Master Frederick long before J. J. was +born—and so she had: that good and faithful servant—and my emotion in +embracing her was manly, sir, manly.” + +Here old Betsy came in to say that the supper was a-waitin’ for Mr. +Bayham and it was a-getting’ very late; and we left F. B. to his meal; +and bidding adieu to Mrs. Nokes, Clive and I went each to our +habitation. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. +In which Colonel Newcome’s Horses are sold + + +At an hour early the next morning I was not surprised to see Colonel +Newcome at my chambers, to whom Clive had communicated Bayham’s +important news of the night before. The Colonel’s object, as any one +who knew him need scarcely be told, was to rescue his brother-in-law; +and being ignorant of lawyers, sheriffs’-officers, and their +proceedings, he bethought him that he would apply to Lamb Court for +information, and in so far showed some prudence, for at least I knew +more of the world and its ways than my simple client, and was enabled +to make better terms for the unfortunate prisoner, or rather for +Colonel Newcome, who was the real sufferer, than Honeyman’s creditors +might otherwise have been disposed to give. + +I thought it would be more prudent that our good Samaritan should not +see the victim of rogues whom he was about to succour; and left him to +entertain himself with Mr. Warrington in Lamb Court, while I sped to +the lock-up house, where the Mayfair pet was confined. A sickly smile +played over his countenance as he beheld me when I was ushered to his +private room. The reverent gentleman was not shaved; he had partaken of +breakfast. I saw a glass which had once contained brandy on the dirty +tray whereon his meal was placed: a greasy novel from a Chancery Lane +library lay on the table: but he was at present occupied in writing one +or more of those great long letters, those laborious, ornate, eloquent +statements, those documents so profusely underlined, in which the +_machinations of villains_ are laid bare with italic fervour; the +coldness, to use no _harsher_ phrase, of friends on whom reliance +_might have been placed;_ the outrageous conduct of Solomons; the +astonishing failure of Smith to pay a sum of money on which he had +counted as _on the Bank of England;_ finally, the _infallible +certainty_ of repaying (with what heartfelt thanks need not be said) +the loan of so many pounds _next Saturday week at farthest_. All this, +which some readers in the course of their experience have read no doubt +in many handwritings, was duly set forth by poor Honeyman. There was a +wafer in a wine-glass on the table, and the bearer no doubt below to +carry the missive. They always sent these letters by a messenger, who +is introduced in the postscript; he is always sitting in the hall when +you get the letter, and is “a young man waiting for an answer, please.” + +No one can suppose that Honeyman laid a complete statement of his +affairs before the negotiator who was charged to look into them. No +debtor does confess all his debts, but breaks them gradually to his man +of business, factor or benefactor, leading him on from surprise to +surprise; and when he is in possession of the tailor’s little account, +introducing him to the bootmaker. Honeyman’s schedule I felt perfectly +certain was not correct. The detainees against him were trifling. “Moss +of Wardour Street, one hundred and twenty—I believe I have paid him +thousands in this very transaction,” ejaculates Honeyman. “A heartless +West End tradesman hearing of my misfortune—all these people a linked +together, my dear Pendennis, and rush like vultures upon their +prey!—Waddilove, the tailor, has another writ out for ninety-eight +pounds; a man whom I have made by my recommendations! Tobbins, the +bootmaker, his neighbour in Jermyn Street, forty-one pounds more, and +that is all—I give you my word, all. In a few months, when my pew-rents +will be coming in, I should have settled with those cormorants; +otherwise, my total and irretrievable ruin, and the disgrace and +humiliation of a prison attends me. I know it; I can bear it; I have +been wretchedly weak, Pendennis: I can say mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, +and I can—bear—my—penalty.” In his finest moments he was never more +pathetic. He turned his head away, and concealed it in a handkerchief +not so white as those which veiled his emotions at Lady Whittlesea’s. + +How by degrees this slippery penitent was induced to make other +confessions; how we got an idea of Mrs. Ridley’s account from him, of +his dealings with Mr. Sherrick, need not be mentioned here. The +conclusion to which Colonel Newcome’s ambassador came was, that to help +such a man would be quite useless; and that the Fleet Prison would be a +most wholesome retreat for this most reckless divine. Ere the day was +out, Messrs. Waddilove and Tobbins had conferred with their neighbour +in St. James’s, Mr. Brace; and there came a detainer from that +haberdasher for gloves, cravats, and pocket-handkerchiefs, that might +have done credit to the most dandified young Guardsman. Mr. Warrington +was on Mr. Pendennis’s side, and urged that the law should take its +course. “Why help a man,” said he, “who will not help himself? Let the +law sponge out the fellow’s debts; set him going again with twenty +pounds when he quits the prison, and get him a chaplaincy in the Isle +of Man.” + +I saw by the Colonel’s grave kind face that these hard opinions did not +suit him. “At all events, sir, promise us,” we said, “that you will pay +nothing yourself—that you won’t see Honeyman’s creditors, and let +people, who know the world better, deal with him.” “Know the world, +young man!” cries Newcome; “I should think if I don’t know the world at +my age, I never shall.” And if he had lived to be as old as Jahaleel, a +boy could still have cheated him. + +“I do not scruple to tell you,” he said, after a pause during which a +plenty of smoke was delivered from the council of three, “that I have—a +fund—which I had set aside for mere purposes of pleasure, I give you my +word, and a part of which I shall think it my duty to devote to poor +Honeyman’s distresses. The fund is not large. The money was intended, +in fact:—however, there it is. If Pendennis will go round to these +tradesmen, and make some composition with them, as their prices have +been no doubt enormously exaggerated, I see no harm. Besides the +tradesfolk, there is good Mrs. Ridley and Mr. Sherrick—we must see +them; and, if we can, set this luckless Charles again on his legs. We +have read of other prodigals who were kindly treated; and we may have +debts of our own to forgive, boys.” + +Into Mr. Sherrick’s account we had no need to enter. That gentleman had +acted with perfect fairness by Honeyman. He laughingly said to us, “You +don’t imagine I would lend that chap a shilling without security? I +will give him fifty or a hundred. Here’s one of his notes, with +What-do-you-call-’ems—that rum fellow Bayham’s name as drawer. A nice +pair, ain’t they? Pooh! _I_ shall never touch ’em. I lent some money on +the shop overhead,” says Sherrick, pointing to the ceiling (we were in +his counting-house in the cellar of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel), “because +I thought it was a good speculation. And so it was at first. The people +liked Honeyman. All the nobs came to hear him. Now the speculation +ain’t so good. He’s used up. A chap can’t be expected to last for ever. +When I first engaged Mademoiselle Bravura at my theatre, you couldn’t +get a place for three weeks together. The next year she didn’t draw +twenty pounds a week. So it was with Pottle and the regular drama +humbug. At first it was all very well. Good business, good houses, our +immortal bard, and that sort of game. They engaged the tigers and the +French riding people over the way; and there was Pottle bellowing away +in my place to the orchestra and the orders. It’s all a speculation. +I’ve speculated in about pretty much everything that’s going: in +theatres, in joint-stock jobs, in building-ground, in bills, in gas and +insurance companies, and in this chapel. Poor old Honeyman! I won’t +hurt him. About that other chap I put in to do the first business—that +red-haired chap, Rawkins—I think I was wrong. I think he injured the +property. But I don’t know everything, you know. I wasn’t bred to know +about parsons—quite the reverse. I thought, when I heard Rawkins at +Hampstead, he was just the thing. I used to go about, sir, just as I +did to the provinces, when I had the theatre—Camberwell, Islington, +Kennington, Clapton, all about, and hear the young chaps. Have a glass +of sherry; and here’s better luck to Honeyman. As for that Colonel, +he’s a trump, sir! I never see such a man. I have to deal with such a +precious lot of rogues, in the City and out of it, among the swells and +all, you know, that to see such a fellow refreshes me; and I’d do +anything for him. You’ve made a good thing of that _Pall Mall Gazette!_ +I tried papers too; but mine didn’t do. I don’t know why. I tried a +Tory one, moderate Liberal, and out-and-out uncompromising Radical. I +say, what d’ye think of a religious paper, the _Catechism_, or some +such name? Would Honeyman do as editor? I’m afraid it’s all up with the +poor cove at the chapel.” And I parted with Mr. Sherrick, not a little +edified by his talk, and greatly relieved as to Honeyman’s fate. The +tradesmen of Honeyman’s body were appeased; and as for Mr. Moss, when +he found that the curate had no effects, and must go before the +Insolvent Court, unless Moss chose to take the composition which we +were empowered to offer him, he too was brought to hear reason, and +parted with the stamped paper on which was poor Honeyman’s signature. +Our negotiation had like to have come to an end by Clive’s untimely +indignation, who offered at one stage of the proceedings to pitch young +Moss out of window; but nothing came of this most ungentlemanlike +behaviour on Noocob’s part, further than remonstrance and delay in the +proceedings; and Honeyman preached a lovely sermon at Lady Whittlesea’s +the very next Sunday. He had made himself much liked in the +sponging-house, and Mr. Lazarus said, “if he hadn’t a got out time +enough, I’d a let him out for Sunday, and sent one of my men with him +to show him the way ome, you know; for when a gentleman behaves as a +gentleman to me, I behave as a gentleman to him.” + +Mrs. Ridley’s account, and it was a long one, was paid without a single +question, or the deduction of a farthing; but the Colonel rather +sickened of Honeyman’s expressions of rapturous gratitude, and received +his professions of mingled contrition and delight very coolly. “My +boy,” says the father to Clive, “you see to what straits debt brings a +man, to tamper with truth to have to cheat the poor. Think of flying +before a washerwoman, or humbling yourself to a tailor, or eating a +poor man’s children’s bread!” Clive blushed, I thought, and looked +rather confused. + +“Oh, father,” says he, “I—I’m afraid I owe some money too—not much; but +about forty pound, five-and-twenty for cigars, and fifteen I borrowed +of Pendennis, and—and I’ve been devilish annoyed about it all this +time.” + +“You stupid boy,” says the father “I knew about the cigars bill, and +paid it last week. Anything I have is yours, you know. As long as there +is a guinea, there is half for you. See that every shilling we owe is +paid before—before a week is over. And go down and ask Binnie if I can +see him in his study. I want to have some conversation with him.” When +Clive was gone away, he said to me in a very sweet voice, “In God’s +name, keep my boy out of debt when I am gone, Arthur. I shall return to +India very soon.” + +“Very soon, sir! You have another year’s leave,” said I. + +“Yes, but no allowances, you know; and this affair of Honeyman’s has +pretty nearly emptied the little purse I had set aside for European +expenses. They have been very much heavier than I expected. As it is, I +overdrew my account at my brother’s, and have been obliged to draw +money from my agents in Calcutta. A year sooner or later (unless two of +our senior officers had died, when I should have got my promotion and +full colonel’s pay with it, and proposed to remain in this country)—a +year sooner or later, what does it matter? Clive will go away and work +at his art, and see the great schools of painting while I am absent. I +thought at one time how pleasant it would be to accompany him. But +_l’homme propose_, Pendennis. I fancy now a lad is not the better for +being always tied to his parent’s apron-string. You young fellows are +too clever for me. I haven’t learned your ideas or read your books. I +feel myself very often an old damper in your company. I will go back, +sir, where I have some friends, where I am somebody still. I know an +honest face or two, white and brown, that will lighten up in the old +regiment when they see Tom Newcome again. God bless you, Arthur. You +young fellows in this country have such cold ways that we old ones +hardly know how to like you at first. James Binnie and I, when we first +came home, used to talk you over, and think you laughed at us. But you +didn’t, I know. God Almighty bless you, and send you a good wife, and +make a good man of you. I have bought a watch, which I would like you +to wear in remembrance of me and my boy, to whom you were so kind when +you were boys together in the old Grey Friars.” I took his hand, and +uttered some incoherent words of affection and respect. Did not Thomas +Newcome merit both from all who knew him? + +His resolution being taken, our good Colonel began to make silent but +effectual preparations for his coming departure. He was pleased during +these last days of his stay to give me even more of his confidence than +I had previously enjoyed, and was kind enough to say that he regarded +me almost as a son of his own, and hoped I would act as elder brother +and guardian to Clive. Ah! who is to guard the guardian? The younger +brother had many nobler qualities than belonged to the elder. The world +had not hardened Clive, nor even succeeded in spoiling him. I perceive +I am diverging from his history into that of another person, and will +return to the subject proper of the book. + +Colonel Newcome expressed himself as being particularly touched and +pleased with his friend Binnie’s conduct, now that the Colonel’s +departure was determined. “James is one of the most generous of men, +Pendennis, and I am proud to be put under an obligation to him, and to +tell it too. I hired this house, as you are aware, of our speculative +friend Mr. Sherrick, and am answerable for the payment of the rent till +the expiry of the lease. James has taken the matter off my hands +entirely. The place is greatly too large for him, but he says that he +likes it, and intends to stay, and that his sister and niece shall be +his housekeepers. Clive” (here, perhaps, the speaker’s voice drops a +little)—“Clive will be the son of the house still, honest James says, +and God bless him. James is richer than I thought by near a lakh of +rupees—and here is a hint for you, Master Arthur. Mr. Binnie has +declared to me in confidence that if his niece, Miss Rosey, shall marry +a person of whom he approves, he will leave her a considerable part of +his fortune.” + +The Colonel’s confidant here said that his own arrangements were made +in another quarter, to which statement the Colonel replied knowingly, +“I thought so. A little bird has whispered to me the name of a certain +Miss A. I knew her grandfather, an accommodating old gentleman, and I +borrowed some money from him when I was a subaltern at Calcutta. I tell +you in strict confidence, my dear young friend, that I hope and trust a +certain young gentleman of your acquaintance may be induced to think +how good and pretty and sweet-tempered a girl Miss Mackenzie is, and +that she may be brought to like him. If you young men would marry in +good time good and virtuous women—as I am sure—ahem!—Miss Amory is—half +the temptations of your youth would be avoided. You would neither be +dissolute, has many of you seem to me, or cold and selfish, which are +worse vices still. And my prayer is, that my Clive may cast anchor +early out of the reach of temptation, and mate with some such kind girl +as Binnie’s niece. When I first came home I formed other plans for him +which could not be brought to a successful issue; and knowing his +ardent disposition, and having kept an eye on the young rogue’s +conduct, I tremble lest some mischance with a woman should befall him, +and long to have him out of danger.” + +So the kind scheme of the two elders was, that their young ones should +marry and be happy ever after, like the Prince and Princess of the +Fairy Tale: and dear Mrs. Mackenzie (have I said that at the +commencement of her visit to her brother she made almost open love to +the Colonel?), dear Mrs. Mack was content to forgo her own chances so +that her darling Rosey might be happy. We used to laugh and say, that +as soon as Clive’s father was gone, Josey would be sent for to join +Rosey. But little Josey being under her grandmother’s sole influence +took a most gratifying and serious turn; wrote letters, in which she +questioned the morality of operas, Towers of London, and waxworks; and, +before a year was out, married Elder Bogie, of Mr. M’Craw’s church. + +Presently was to be read in the _Morning Post_ an advertisement of the +sale of three horses (the description and pedigree following), “the +property of an officer returning to India. Apply to the groom, at the +stables, 150 Fitzroy Square.” + +The Court of Directors invited Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome to an +entertainment given to Major-General Sir Ralph Spurrier, K.C.B., +appointed Commander-in-Chief at Madras. Clive was asked to this dinner +too, “and the governor’s health was drunk, sir,” Clive said, “after +dinner, and the dear old fellow made such a good speech, in returning +thanks!” + +He, Clive, and I made a pilgrimage to Grey Friars, and had the Green to +ourselves, it being the Bartlemytide vacation, and the boys all away. +One of the good old Poor Brothers whom we both recollected accompanied +us round the place; and we sate for a while in Captain Scarsdale’s +little room (he had been a Peninsular officer, who had sold out, and +was fain in his old age to retire into this calm retreat). And we +talked, as old schoolmates and lovers talk, about subjects interesting +to schoolmates and lovers only. + +One by one the Colonel took leave of his friends, young and old; ran +down to Newcome, and gave Mrs. Mason a parting benediction; slept a +night at Tom Smith’s, and passed a day with Jack Brown; went to all the +boys’ and girls’ schools where his little _protégés_ were, so as to be +able to take the very last and most authentic account of the young +folks to their parents in India; spent a week at Marble Hill, and shot +partridges there, but for which entertainment, Clive said, the place +would have been intolerable; and thence proceeded to Brighton to pass a +little time with good Miss Honeyman. As for Sir Brian’s family, when +Parliament broke up, of course, they did not stay in town. Barnes, of +course, had part of a moor in Scotland, whither his uncle and cousin +did not follow him. The rest went abroad. Sir Brian wanted the waters +of Aix-la-Chapelle. The brothers parted very good friends; Lady Anne, +and all the young people, heartily wished him farewell. I believe Sir +Brian even accompanied the Colonel downstairs from the drawing-room, in +Park Lane, and actually came out and saw his brother into his cab (just +as he would accompany old Lady Bagges when she came to look at her +account at the bank, from the parlour to her carriage). But as for +Ethel, she was not going to be put off with this sort of parting and +the next morning a cab dashed up to Fitzroy Square, and a veiled lady +came out thence, and was closeted with Colonel Newcome for five +minutes, and when he led her back to the carriage there were tears in +his eyes. + +Mrs. Mackenzie joked about the transaction (having watched it from the +dining-room windows), and asked the Colonel who his sweetheart was? +Newcome replied very sternly, that he hoped no one would ever speak +lightly of that young lady, whom he loved as his own daughter; and I +thought Rosey looked vexed at the praises thus bestowed. This was the +day before we all went down to Brighton. Miss Honeyman’s lodgings were +taken for Mr. Binnie and his ladies. Clive and her dearest Colonel had +apartments next door. Charles Honeyman came down and preached one of +his very best sermons. Fred Bayham was there, and looked particularly +grand and noble on the pier and the cliff. I am inclined to think he +had had some explanation with Thomas Newcome, which had placed F. B. in +a state of at least temporary prosperity. Whom did he not benefit whom +he knew, and what eye that saw him did not bless him? F. B. was greatly +affected at Charles’s sermon, of which our party of course could see +the allusions. Tears actually rolled down his brown cheeks; for Fred +was a man very easily moved, and, as it were, a softened sinner. Little +Rosey and her mother sobbed audibly, greatly to the surprise of stout +old Miss Honeyman, who had no idea of such watery exhibitions, and to +the discomfiture of poor Newcome, who was annoyed to have his praises +even hinted in that sacred edifice. Good Mr. James Binnie came for once +to church; and, however variously their feelings might be exhibited or, +repressed, I think there was not one of the little circle there +assembled who did not bring to the place a humble prayer and a gentle +heart. It was the last Sabbath-bell our dear friend was to hear for +many a day on his native shore. The great sea washed the beach as we +came out, blue with the reflection of the skies, and its innumerable +waves crested with sunshine. I see the good man and his boy yet +clinging to him, as they pace together by the shore. + +The Colonel was very much pleased by a visit from Mr. Ridley and the +communication which he made (my Lord Todmorden has a mansion and park +in Sussex, whence Mr. Ridley came to pay his duty to Colonel Newcome). +He said he “never could forget the kindness with which the Colonel have +a treated him. His lordship have taken a young man, which Mr. Ridley +had brought him up under his own eye, and can answer for him, Mr. R. +says, with impunity; and which he is to be his lordship’s own man for +the future. And his lordship have appointed me his steward, and having, +as he always hev been, been most liberal in point of sellary. And me +and Mrs. Ridley was thinking, sir, most respectfully, with regard to +our son, Mr. John James Ridley—as good and honest a young man, which I +am proud to say it, that if Mr. Clive goes abroad we should be most +proud and happy if John James went with him. And the money which you +have paid us so handsome, Colonel, he shall have it; which it was the +excellent ideer of Miss Cann; and my lord have ordered a pictur of John +James in the most libral manner, and have asked my son to dinner, sir, +at his lordship’s own table, which I have faithfully served him +five-and-thirty years.” Ridley’s voice fairly broke down at this part +of his speech, which evidently was a studied composition, and he +uttered no more of it, for the Colonel cordially shook him by the hand, +and Clive jumped up clapping his, and saying that it was the greatest +wish of his heart that J. J. and he should be companions in France and +Italy. “But I did not like to ask my dear old father,” he said, “who +has had so many calls on his purse, and besides, I knew that J. J. was +too independent to come as my follower.” + +The Colonel’s berth has been duly secured ere now. This time he makes +the overland journey; and his passage is to Alexandria, taken in one of +the noble ships of the Peninsular and Oriental Company. His kit is as +simple as a subaltern’s; I believe, but for Clive’s friendly +compulsion, he would have carried back no other than the old uniform +which has served him for so many years. Clive and his father travelled +to Southampton together by themselves. F. B. and I took the Southampton +coach: we had asked leave to see the last of him, and say a “God bless +you” to our dear old friend. So the day came when the vessel was to +sail. We saw his cabin, and witnessed all the bustle and stir on board +the good ship on a day of departure. Our thoughts, however, were fixed +but on one person—the case, no doubt, with hundreds more on such a day. +There was many a group of friends closing wistfully together on the +sunny deck, and saying the last words of blessing and farewell. The +bustle of the ship passes dimly round about them; the hurrying noise of +crew and officers running on their duty; the tramp and song of the men +at the capstan-bars; the bells ringing, as the hour for departure comes +nearer and nearer, as mother and son, father and daughter, husband and +wife, hold hands yet for a little while. We saw Clive and his father +talking together by the wheel. Then they went below; and a passenger, +her husband, asked me to give my arm to an almost fainting lady, and to +lead her off the ship. Bayham followed us, carrying their two children +in his arms, as the husband turned away and walked aft. The last bell +was ringing, and they were crying, “Now for the shore.” The whole ship +had begun to throb ere this, and its great wheels to beat the water, +and the chimneys had flung out their black signals for sailing. We were +as yet close on the dock, and we saw Clive coming up from below, +looking very pale; the plank was drawn after him as he stepped on land. + +Then, with three great cheers from the dock, and from the crew in the +bows, and from the passengers on the quarter-deck, the noble ship +strikes the first stroke of her destined race, and swims away towards +the ocean. “There he is, there he is,” shouts Fred Bayham, waving his +hat. “God bless him, God bless him!” I scarce perceived at the ship’s +side, beckoning an adieu, our dear old friend, when the lady, whose +husband had bidden me to lead her away from the ship, fainted in my +arms. Poor soul! Her, too, has fate stricken. Ah, pangs of hearts torn +asunder, passionate regrets, cruel, cruel partings! Shall you not end +one day, ere many years; when the tears shall be wiped from all eyes, +and there shall be neither sorrow nor pain? + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. +Youth and Sunshine + + +Although Thomas Newcome was gone back to India in search of more money, +finding that he could not live upon his income at home, he was +nevertheless rather a wealthy man; and at the moment of his departure +from Europe had two lakhs of rupees invested in various Indian +securities. “A thousand a year,” he thought, “more, added to the +interest accruing from my two lakhs, will enable us to live very +comfortably at home. I can give Clive ten thousand pounds when he +marries, and five hundred a year out of my allowances. If he gets a +wife with some money, they may have every enjoyment of life; and as for +his pictures, he can paint just as few or as many of those as he +pleases.” Newcome did not seem seriously to believe that his son would +live by painting pictures, but considered Clive as a young prince who +chose to amuse himself with painting. The Muse of Painting is a lady +whose social station is not altogether recognised with us as yet. The +polite world permits a gentleman to amuse himself with her; but to take +her for better or for worse! forsake all other chances and cleave unto +her! to assume her name! Many a respectable person would be as much +shocked at the notion, as if his son had married an opera-dancer. + +Newcome left a hundred a year in England, of which the principal sum +was to be transferred to his boy as soon as he came of age. He endowed +Clive further with a considerable annual sum, which his London bankers +would pay: “And if these are not enough,” says he kindly, “you must +draw upon my agents, Messrs. Frank and Merryweather at Calcutta, who +will receive your signature just as if it was mine.” Before going away, +he introduced Clive to F. and M.’s corresponding London house, Jolly +and Baines, Fog Court—leading out of Leadenhall—Mr. Jolly, a myth as +regarded the firm, now married to Lady Julia Jolly—a Park in +Kent—evangelical interest—great at Exeter Hall meetings—knew Clive’s +grandmother—that is, Mrs. Newcome, a most admirable woman. Baines +represents a house in the Regent’s Park, with an emigrative tendency +towards Belgravia—musical daughters—Herr Moscheles, Benedick, +Ella,—Osborne, constantly at dinner-sonatas in P flat (op. 936), +composed and dedicated to Miss Euphemia Baines, by her most obliged, +most obedient servant, Ferdinando Blitz. Baines hopes that his young +friend will come constantly to York Terrace, where the most girls will +be happy to see him; and mentions at home a singular whim of Colonel +Newcome’s, who can give his son twelve or fifteen hundred a year, and +makes an artist of him. Euphemia and Flora adore artists; they feel +quite interested about this young man. “He was scribbling caricatures +all the time I was talking with his father in my parlour,” says Mr. +Baines, and produces a sketch of an orange-woman near the Bank, who had +struck Clive’s eyes, and been transferred to the blotting-paper in Fog +Court. “_He_ needn’t do anything,” said good-natured Mr. Baines. “I +guess all the pictures he’ll paint won’t sell for much.” + +“Is he fond of music, papa?” asks Miss. “What a pity he had not come to +our last evening; and now the season is over!” + +“And Mr. Newcome is going out of town. He came to me, to-day for +circular notes—says he’s going through Switzerland and into Italy—lives +in Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square. Queer place, ain’t it? Put his +name down in your book, and ask him to dinner next season.” + +Before Clive went away, he had an apparatus of easels, +sketching-stools, umbrellas, and painting-boxes, the most elaborate and +beautiful that Messrs. Soap and Isaac could supply. It made J. J.’s +eyes glisten to see those lovely gimcracks of art; those smooth +mill-boards, those slab-tinted sketching-blocks, and glistening rows of +colour-tubes lying in their boxes, which seemed to cry, “Come, squeeze +me.” If painting-boxes made painters, if sketching-stools would but +enable one to sketch, surely I would hasten this very instant to +Messrs. Soap and Isaac! but, alas! these pretty toys no more make +artists than cowls make monks. + +As a proof that Clive did intend to practise his profession, and to +live by it too, at this time he took four sporting sketches to a +printseller in the Haymarket, and disposed of them at the rate of seven +shillings and sixpence per sketch. His exultation at receiving a +sovereign and half a sovereign from Mr. Jones was boundless. “I can do +half a dozen of these things easily in a morning,” he says. “Two +guineas a day is twelve guineas—say ten guineas a week, for I won’t +work on Sundays, and may take a holiday in the week besides. Ten +guineas a week is five hundred a year. That is pretty nearly as much +money as I shall want, and I need not draw the dear old governor’s +allowance at all.” He wrote an ardent letter, full of happiness and +affection, to the kind father, which he shall find a month after he has +arrived in India, and read to his friends in Calcutta and Barrackpore. +Clive invited many of his artist friends to a grand feast in honour of +the thirty shillings. The King’s Arms, Kensington, was the hotel +selected (tavern beloved of artists for many score years!). Gandish was +there, and the Gandishites, and some chosen spirits from the Life +Academy, Clipstone Street, and J. J. was vice-president, with Fred +Bayham by his side, to make the speeches and carve the mutton; and I +promise you many a merry song was sung, and many a health drunk in +flowing bumpers; and as jolly a party was assembled as any London +contained that day. The _beau monde_ had quitted it; the Park was empty +as we crossed it; and the leaves of Kensington Gardens had begun to +fall, dying after the fatigues of a London season. We sang all the way +home through Knightsbridge and by the Park railings, and the Covent +Garden carters halting at the Half-way House were astonished at our +choruses. There is no half-way house now; no merry chorus at midnight. + +Then Clive and J. J. took the steamboat to Antwerp; and those who love +pictures may imagine how the two young men rejoiced in one of the most +picturesque cities of the world; where they went back straightway into +the sixteenth century; where the inn at which they stayed (delightful +old Grand Laboureur, thine ancient walls are levelled! thy comfortable +hospitalities exist no more!) seemed such a hostelry as that where +Quentin Durward first saw his sweetheart; where knights of Velasquez or +burgomasters of Rubens seemed to look from the windows of the +tall-gabled houses and the quaint porches; where the Bourse still +stood, the Bourse of three hundred years ago, and you had but to supply +figures with beards and ruffs, and rapiers and trunk-hose, to make the +picture complete; where to be awakened by the carillon of the bells was +to waken to the most delightful sense of life and happiness; where +nuns, actual nuns, walked the streets, and every figure in the Place de +Meir, and every devotee at church, kneeling and draped in black, or +entering the confessional (actually the confessional!), was a +delightful subject for the new sketchbook. Had Clive drawn as much +everywhere as at Antwerp, Messrs. Soap and Isaac might have made a +little income by supplying him with materials. + +After Antwerp, Clive’s correspondent gets a letter dated from the Hotel +de Suede at Brussels, which contains an elaborate eulogy of the cookery +and comfort of that hotel, where the wines, according to the writer’s +opinion, are unmatched almost in Europe. And this is followed by a +description of Waterloo, and a sketch of Hougoumont, in which J. J. is +represented running away in the character of a French grenadier, Clive +pursuing him in the lifeguard’s habit, and mounted on a thundering +charger. + +Next follows a letter from Bonn. Verses about Drachenfels of a not very +superior style of versification; an account of Crichton, an old Grey +Friars man, who has become a student at the university; of a commerz, a +drunken bout, and a students’ duel at Bonn. “And whom should I find +here,” says Mr. Clive, “but Aunt Anne, Ethel, Miss Quigley, and the +little ones, the whole detachment under the command of Kuhn? Uncle +Brian is staying at Aix. He is recovered from his attack. And, upon my +conscience, I think my pretty cousin looks prettier every day. + +“When they are not in London,” Clive goes on to write, “or I sometimes +think when Barnes or old Lady Kew are not looking over them, they are +quite different. You know how cold they have latterly seemed to us, and +how their conduct annoyed my dear old father. Nothing can be kinder +than their behaviour since we have met. It was on the little hill at +Godesberg: J. J. and I were mounting to the ruin, followed by the +beggars who waylay you, and have taken the place of the other robbers +who used to live there, when there came a procession of donkeys down +the steep, and I heard a little voice cry, ‘Hullo! it’s Clive! hooray, +Clive!’ and an ass came pattering down the declivity, with a little +pair of white trousers at an immensely wide angle over the donkey’s +back, and behold there was little Alfred grinning with all his might. + +“He turned his beast and was for galloping up the hill again, I suppose +to inform his relations; but the donkey refused with many kicks, one of +which sent Alfred plunging amongst the stones, and we were rubbing him +down just as the rest of the party came upon us. Miss Quigley looked +very grim on an old white pony; my aunt was on a black horse that might +have turned grey, he is so old. Then come two donkeysful of children, +with Kuhn as supercargo; then Ethel on donkey-back, too, with a bunch +of wildflowers in her hand, a great straw hat with a crimson ribbon, a +white muslin jacket, you know, bound at the waist with a ribbon of the +first, and a dark skirt, with a shawl round her feet which Kuhn had +arranged. As she stopped, the donkey fell to cropping greens in the +hedge; the trees there chequered her white dress and face with shadow. +Her eyes, hair, and forehead were in shadow too—but the light was all +upon her right cheek: upon her shoulder down to her arm, which was of a +warmer white, and on the bunch of flowers which she held, blue, yellow, +and red poppies, and so forth. + +“J. J. says, ‘I think the birds began to sing louder when she came.’ We +have both agreed that she is the handsomest woman in England. It’s not +her form merely, which is certainly as yet too thin and a little +angular—it is her colour. I do not care for woman or picture without +colour. O, ye carnations! O, ye _lilia mista rosis!_ O such black hair +and solemn eyebrows! It seems to me the roses and carnations have +bloomed again since we saw them last in London, when they were drooping +from the exposure to night air, candle-light, and heated ballrooms. + +“Here I was in the midst of a regiment of donkeys, bearing a crowd of +relations; J. J. standing modestly in the background—beggars completing +the group, and Kuhn ruling over them with voice and gesture, oaths and +whip. Throw in the Rhine in the distance flashing by the Seven +Mountains—but mind and make Ethel the principal figure: if you make her +like, she certainly _will_ be—and other lights will be only minor +fires. You may paint her form, but you can’t paint her colour; that is +what beats us in nature. A line must come right; you can force that +into its place, but you can’t compel the circumambient air. There is no +yellow I know of will make sunshine, and no blue that is a bit like +sky. And so with pictures: I think you only get signs of colour, and +formulas to stand for it. That brick-dust which we agree to receive as +representing a blush, look at it—can you say it is in the least like +the blush which flickers and varies as it sweeps over the down of the +cheek—as you see sunshine playing over a meadow? Look into it and see +what a variety of delicate blooms there are! a multitude of flowerets +twining into one tint! We may break our colour-pots and strive after +the line alone: that is palpable and we can grasp it—the other is +impossible and beyond us.” Which sentiment I here set down, not on +account of its worth (and I think it is contradicted—as well as +asserted—in more than one of the letters I subsequently had from Mr. +Clive, but it may serve to show the ardent and impulsive disposition of +this youth), by whom all beauties of art and nature, animate or +inanimate (the former especially), were welcomed with a gusto and +delight whereof colder temperaments are incapable. The view of a fine +landscape, a fine picture, a handsome woman, would make this harmless +young sensualist tipsy with pleasure. He seemed to derive an actual +hilarity and intoxication as his eye drank in these sights; and, though +it was his maxim that all dinners were good, and he could eat bread and +cheese and drink small beer with perfect good-humour, I believe that he +found a certain pleasure in a bottle of claret, which most men’s +systems were incapable of feeling. + +This springtime of youth is the season of letter-writing. A lad in high +health and spirits, the blood running briskly in his young veins, and +the world, and life, and nature bright and welcome to him, looks out, +perforce, for some companion to whom he may impart his sense of the +pleasure which he enjoys, and which were not complete unless a friend +were by to share it. I was the person most convenient for the young +fellow’s purpose; he was pleased to confer upon me the title of friend +_en titre_, and confidant in particular; to endow the confidant in +question with a number of virtues and excellences which existed very +likely only in the lad’s imagination; to lament that the confidant had +no sister whom he, Clive, might marry out of hand; and to make me a +thousand simple protests of affection and admiration, which are noted +here as signs of the young man’s character, by no means as proofs of +the goodness of mine. The books given to the present biographer by “his +affectionate friend, Clive Newcome,” still bear on the titlepages the +marks of that boyish hand and youthful fervour. He had a copy of Walter +Lorraine bound and gilt with such splendour as made the author blush +for his performance, which has since been seen at the bookstalls at a +price suited to the very humblest purses. He fired up and fought a +newspaper critic (whom Clive met at the Haunt one night) who had dared +to write an article in which that work was slighted; and if, in the +course of nature, his friendship has outlived that rapturous period, +the kindness of the two old friends, I hope, is not the less because it +is no longer romantic, and the days of white vellum and gilt edges have +passed away. From the abundance of the letters which the affectionate +young fellow now wrote, the ensuing portion of his youthful history is +compiled. It may serve to recall passages of their early days to such +of his seniors as occasionally turn over the leaves of a novel; and in +the story of his faults, indiscretions, passions, and actions, young +readers may be reminded of their own. + +Now that the old Countess, and perhaps Barnes, were away, the barrier +between Clive and this family seemed to be withdrawn. The young folks +who loved him were free to see him as often as he would come. They were +going to Baden: would he come too? Baden was on the road to +Switzerland, he might journey to Strasbourg, Basle, and so on. Clive +was glad enough to go with his cousins, and travel in the orbit of such +a lovely girl as Ethel Newcome. J. J. performed the second part always +when Clive was present: and so they all travelled to Coblentz, Mayence, +and Frankfort together, making the journey which everybody knows, and +sketching the mountains and castles we all of us have sketched. Ethel’s +beauty made all the passengers on all the steamers look round and +admire. Clive was proud of being in the suite of such a lovely person. +The family travelled with a pair of those carriages which used to +thunder along the Continental roads a dozen years since, and from +interior, box, and rumble discharge a dozen English people at hotel +gates. + +The journey is all sunshine and pleasure and novelty: the circular +notes with which Mr. Baines of Fog Court has supplied Clive Newcome, +Esquire, enabled that young gentleman to travel with great ease and +comfort. He has not yet ventured upon engaging a _valet de chambre_, it +being agreed between him and J. J. that two travelling artists have no +right to such an aristocratic appendage; but he has bought a snug +little britzska at Frankfort (the youth has very polite tastes, is +already a connoisseur in wine, and has no scruple in ordering the best +at the hotels), and the britzska travels in company with Lady Anne’s +caravan, either in its wake so as to be out of reach of the dust, or +more frequently ahead of that enormous vehicle and its tender, in which +come the children and the governess of Lady Anne Newcome, guarded by a +huge and melancholy London footman, who beholds Rhine and Neckar, +valley and mountain, village and ruin, with a like dismal composure. +Little Alfred and little Egbert are by no means sorry to escape from +Miss Quigley and the tender, and for a stage ride or two in Clive’s +britzska. The little girls cry sometimes to be admitted to that +privilege. I dare say Ethel would like very well to quit her place in +the caravan, where she sits, circumvented by mamma’s dogs, and books, +bags, dressing-boxes, and gimcrack cases, without which apparatus some +English ladies of condition cannot travel; but Miss Ethel is grown up, +she is out, and has been presented at Court, and is a person of too +great dignity now to sit anywhere but in the place of state in the +chariot corner. I like to think, for my part, of the gallant young +fellow taking his pleasure and enjoying his holiday, and few sights are +more pleasant than to watch a happy, manly English youth, free-handed +and generous-hearted, content and good-humour shining in his honest +face, pleased and pleasing, eager, active, and thankful for services, +and exercising bravely his noble youthful privilege to be happy and to +enjoy. Sing, cheery spirit, whilst the spring lasts; bloom whilst the +sun shines, kindly flowers of youth! You shall be none the worse +to-morrow for having been happy to-day, if the day brings no action to +shame it. As for J. J., he too had his share of enjoyment; the charming +scenes around him did not escape his bright eye, he absorbed pleasure +in his silent way, he was up with the sunrise always, and at work with +his eyes and his heart if not with his hands. A beautiful object too is +such a one to contemplate, a pure virgin soul, a creature gentle, +pious, and full of love, endowed with sweet gifts, humble and timid; +but for truth’s and justice’s sake inflexible, thankful to God and man, +fond, patient, and faithful. Clive was still his hero as ever, his +patron, his splendid young prince and chieftain. Who was so brave, who +was so handsome, generous, witty as Clive? To hear Clive sing, as the +lad would whilst they were seated at their work, or driving along on +this happy journey, through fair landscapes in the sunshine, gave J. J. +the keenest pleasure; his wit was a little slow, but he would laugh +with his eyes at Clive’s sallies, or ponder over them and explode with +laughter presently, giving a new source of amusement to these merry +travellers, and little Alfred would laugh at J. J.’s laughing; and so, +with a hundred harmless jokes to enliven, and the ever-changing, +ever-charming smiles of nature to cheer and accompany it, the happy +day’s journey would come to an end. + +So they travelled by the accustomed route to the prettiest town of all +places where Pleasure has set up her tents; and where the gay, the +melancholy, the idle or occupied, grave or haughty, come for amusement, +or business, or relaxation; where London beauties, having danced and +flirted all the season, may dance and flirt a little more; where +well-dressed rogues from all quarters of the world assemble; where I +have seen severe London lawyers, forgetting their wigs and the Temple, +trying their luck against fortune and M. Bénazet; where wistful +schemers conspire and prick cards down, and deeply meditate the +infallible coup; and try it, and lose it, and borrow a hundred francs +to go home; where even virtuous British ladies venture their little +stakes, and draw up their winnings with trembling rakes, by the side of +ladies who are not virtuous at all, no, not even by name; where young +prodigals break the bank sometimes, and carry plunder out of a place +which Hercules himself could scarcely compel; where you meet wonderful +countesses and princesses, whose husbands are almost always absent on +their vast estates—in Italy, Spain, Piedmont—who knows where their +lordships’ possessions are?—while trains of suitors surround those +wandering Penelopes their noble wives; Russian Boyars, Spanish Grandees +of the Order of the Fleece, Counts of France, and Princes Polish and +Italian innumerable, who perfume the gilded halls with their +tobacco-smoke, and swear in all languages against the black and the +red. The famous English monosyllable by which things, persons, luck, +even eyes, are devoted to the infernal gods, we may be sure is not +wanting in that Babel. Where does one not hear it? “D—— the luck,” says +Lord Kew, as the croupier sweeps off his lordship’s rouleaux. “D—— the +luck,” says Brown the bagman, who has been backing his lordship with +five-franc pieces. “Ah, body of Bacchus!” says Count Felice, whom we +all remember a courier. “Ah, sacré coup,” cries M. le Vicomte de +Florac, as his last louis parts company from him—each cursing in his +native tongue. Oh, sweet chorus! + +That Lord Kew should be at Baden is no wonder. If you heard of him at +the Finish, or at Buckingham Palace ball, or in a watch-house, or at +the Third Cataract, or at a Newmarket meeting, you would not be +surprised. He goes everywhere; does everything with all his might; +knows everybody. Last week he won who knows how many thousand louis +from the bank (it appears Brown has chosen one of the unlucky days to +back his lordship). He will eat his supper as gaily after a great +victory as after a signal defeat; and we know that to win with +magnanimity requires much more constancy than to lose. His sleep will +not be disturbed by one event or the other. He will play skittles all +the morning with perfect contentment, romp with children in the +forenoon (he is the friend of half the children in the place), or he +will cheerfully leave the green table and all the risk and excitement +there, to take a hand at sixpenny whist with General Fogey, or to give +the six Miss Fogeys a turn each in the ballroom. From H.R.H. the Prince +Royal of ——, who is the greatest guest at Baden, down to Brown the +bagman, who does not consider himself the smallest, Lord Kew is hail +fellow with everybody, and has a kind word from and for all. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. +In which Clive begins to see the World + + +In the company assembled at Baden, Clive found one or two old +acquaintances; among them his friend of Paris, M. de Florac, not in +quite so brilliant a condition as when Newcome had last met him on the +Boulevard. Florac owned that Fortune had been very unkind to him at +Baden; and, indeed, she had not only emptied his purse, but his +portmanteaus, jewel-box, and linen-closet—the contents of all of which +had ranged themselves on the red and black against Monsieur Bénazet’s +crown-pieces: whatever side they took was, however, the unlucky one. +“This campaign has been my Moscow, _mon cher_,” Florac owned to Clive. +“I am conquered by Bénazet; I have lost in almost every combat. I have +lost my treasure, my baggage, my ammunition of war, everything but my +honour, which, _au reste_, Mons. Bénazet will not accept as a stake; if +he would, there are plenty here, believe me, who would set it on the +trente-et-quarante. Sometimes I have had a mind to go home; my mother, +who is an angel all forgiveness, would receive her prodigal, and kill +the fatted veal for me. But what will you? He annoys me—the domestic +veal. Besides, my brother the Abbé, though the best of Christians, is a +Jew upon certain matters; a Bénazet who will not _troquer_ absolution +except against repentance; and I have not for a sou of repentance in my +pocket! I have been sorry, yes—but it was because odd came up in place +of even, or the reverse. The accursed _après_ has chased me like a +remorse, and when black has come up I have wished myself converted to +red. Otherwise I have no repentance—I am _joueur_—nature has made me +so, as she made my brother _dévot_. The Archbishop of Strasbourg is of +our parents; I saw his grandeur when I went lately to Strasbourg, on my +last pilgrimage to the Mont de Piété. I owned to him that I would pawn +his cross and ring to go play: the good prelate laughed, and said his +chaplain should keep an eye on them. Will you dine with me? The +landlord of my hotel was the intendant of our cousin, the Duc d’Ivry, +and will give me credit to the day of judgment. I do not abuse his +noble confidence. My dear! there are covers of silver put upon my table +every day with which I could retrieve my fortune, did I listen to the +suggestions of Satanas; but I say to him, _Vade retro_. Come and dine +with me—Duluc’s kitchen is very good.” + +These easy confessions were uttered by a gentleman who was nearly forty +years of age, and who had indeed played the part of a young man in +Paris and the great European world so long, that he knew or chose to +perform no other. He did not want for abilities; had the best temper in +the world; was well bred and gentlemanlike always; and was gay even +after Moscow. His courage was known, and his character for bravery and +another kind of gallantry probably exaggerated by his bad reputation. +Had his mother not been alive, perhaps he would have believed in the +virtue of no woman. But this one he worshipped, and spoke with +tenderness and enthusiasm of her constant love and patience and +goodness. “See her miniature!” he said, “I never separate myself from +it—oh, never! It saved my life in an affair about—about a woman who was +not worth the powder which poor Jules and I burned for her. His ball +struck me here, upon the waistcoat, bruising my rib and sending me to +my bed, which I never should have left alive but for this picture. Oh, +she is an angel, my mother! I am sure that Heaven has nothing to deny +that saint, and that her tears wash out my sins.” + +Clive smiled. “I think Madame de Florac must weep a good deal,” he +said. + +“_Enormément_, my friend! My faith! I do not deny it! I give her cause, +night and evening. I am possessed by demons! This little Affenthaler +wine of this country has a little smack which is most agreeable. The +passions tear me, my young friend! Play is fatal, but play is not so +fatal as woman. Pass me the écrévisses, they are most succulent. Take +warning by me, and avoid both. I saw you _rôder_ round the green +tables, and marked your eyes as they glistened over the heaps of gold, +and looked at some of our beauties of Baden. Beware of such sirens, +young man! and take me for your Mentor; avoiding what I have done—that +understands itself. You have not played as yet? Do not do so; above all +avoid a martingale, if you do. Play ought not to be an affair of +calculation, but of inspiration. I have calculated infallibly, and what +has been the effect? Gousset empty, tiroirs empty, nécessaire parted +for Strasbourg! Where is my fur pelisse, Frédéric?” + +“Parbleu, vous le savez bien, Monsieur le Vicomte,” says Frédéric, the +domestic, who was waiting on Clive and his friend. + +“A pelisse lined with true sable, and, worth three thousand francs, +that I won of a little Russian at billiards. That pelisse at Strasbourg +(where the infamous worms of the Mount of Piety are actually gnawing +her). Two hundred francs and this _reconnaissance_, which Frédéric +receive, are all that now represent the pelisse. How many chemises have +I, Frédéric?” + +“Eh, parbleu, Monsieur le Vicomte sait bien que nous avons toujours +vingt-quatre chemises,” says Frédéric, grumbling. + +Monsieur le Vicomte springs up shrieking from the dinner-table. +“Twenty-four shirts,” says he, “and I have been a week without a louis +in my pocket! _Bélître! Nigaud!_” He flings open one drawer after +another, but there are no signs of that—superfluity of linen of which +the domestic spoke, whose countenance now changes from a grim frown to +a grim smile. + +“Ah, my faithful Frédéric, I pardon thee! Mr. Newcome will understand +my harmless _supercherie_. Frédéric was in my company of the Guard, and +remains with me since. He is Caleb Balderstone and I am Ravenswood. +Yes, I am Edgard. Let us have coffee and a cigar, Balderstone.” + +“Plait-il, Monsieur le Vicomte?” says the French Caleb. + +“Thou comprehendest not English. Thou readest not Valtare Scott, thou!” +cries the master. “I was recounting to Monsieur Newcome thy history and +my misfortunes. Go seek coffee for us, _Nigaud_.” And as the two +gentlemen partake of that exhilarating liquor, the elder confides gaily +to his guest the reason why he prefers taking coffee at the hotel to +the coffee at the great Café of the Redoute, with a _duris urgéns in +rebus égestāss!_ pronounced in the true French manner. + +Clive was greatly amused by the gaiety of the Viscount after his +misfortunes and his Moscow; and thought that one of Mr. Baines’s +circular notes might not be ill laid out in succouring this hero. It +may have been to this end that Florac’s confessions tended; though, to +do him justice, the incorrigible young fellow would confide his +adventures to any one who would listen; and the exact state of his +wardrobe, and the story of his pawned pelisse, dressing-case, rings and +watches, were known to all Baden. + +“You tell me to marry and range myself,” said Clive (to whom the +Viscount was expatiating upon the charms of the _superbe_ young +_Anglaise_ with whom he had seen Clive walking on the promenade). “Why +do you not marry and range yourself too?” + +“Eh, my dear! I am married already. You do not know it? I am married +since the Revolution of July. Yes. We were poor in those days, as poor +we remain. My cousins the Duc d’Ivry’s sons and his grandson were still +alive. Seeing no other resource and pursued by the Arabs, I espoused +the Vicomtesse de Florac. I gave her my name, you comprehend, in +exchange for her own odious one. She was Miss Higg. Do you know the +family Higg of Manchesterre in the comte of Lancastre? She was then a +person of a ripe age. The Vicomtesse is now—ah! it is fifteen years +since, and she dies not. Our union was not happy, my friend—Madame Paul +de Florac is of the reformed religion—not of the Anglican Church, you +understand—but a dissident I know not of what sort. We inhabited the +Hôtel de Florac for a while after our union, which was all of +convenience, you understand. She filled her salon with ministers to +make you die. She assaulted my poor father in his garden-chair, whence +he could not escape her. She told my sainted mother that she was an +idolatress—she who only idolatrises her children! She called us other +poor Catholics who follow the rites of our fathers, _des Romishes;_ and +Rome, Babylon; and the Holy Father—a scarlet—eh! a scarlet abomination. +She outraged my mother, that angel; essayed to convert the antechamber +and the office; put little books in the Abbé’s bedroom. Eh, my friend! +what a good king was Charles IX., and his mother what a wise sovereign! +I lament that Madame de Florac should have escaped the St. Barthelemi, +when no doubt she was spared on account of her tender age. We have been +separated for many years; her income was greatly exaggerated. Beyond +the payment of my debts I owe her nothing. I wish I could say as much +of all the rest of the world. Shall we take a turn of promenade? +_Mauvais sujet!_ I see you are longing to be at the green table.” + +Clive was not longing to be at the green table: but his companion was +never easy at it or away from it. Next to winning, losing, M. de Florac +said, was the best sport—next to losing, looking on. So he and Clive +went down to the Redoute, where Lord Kew was playing with a crowd of +awestruck amateurs and breathless punters admiring his valour and +fortune; and Clive, saying that he knew nothing about the game, took +out five Napoleons from his purse, and besought Florac to invest them +in the most profitable manner at roulette. The other made some faint +attempts at a scruple: but the money was speedily laid on the table, +where it increased and multiplied amazingly too; so that in a quarter +of an hour Florac brought quite a handful of gold pieces to his +principal. Then Clive, I dare say blushing as he made the proposal, +offered half the handful of Napoleons to M. de Florac, to be repaid +when he thought fit. And fortune must have been very favourable to the +husband of Miss Higg that night; for in the course of an hour he +insisted on paying back Clive’s loan; and two days afterwards appeared +with his shirt-studs (of course with his shirts also), released from +captivity, his watch, rings, and chains, on the parade; and was +observed to wear his celebrated fur pelisse as he drove back in a +britzska from Strasbourg. “As for myself,” wrote Clive, “I put back +into my purse the five Napoleons with which I had begun; and laid down +the whole mass of winnings on the table, where it was doubled and then +quadrupled, and then swept up by the croupiers, greatly to my ease of +mind. And then Lord Kew asked me to supper and we had a merry night.” + +This was Mr. Clive’s first and last appearance as a gambler. J. J. +looked very grave when he heard of these transactions. Clive’s French +friend did not please his English companion at all, nor the friends of +Clive’s French friend, the Russians, the Spaniards, the Italians, of +sounding titles and glittering decorations, and the ladies who belonged +to their society. He saw by chance Ethel, escorted by her cousin Lord +Kew, passing through a crowd of this company one day. There was not one +woman there who was not the heroine of some discreditable story. It was +the Comtesse Calypso who had been jilted by the Duc Ulysse. It was the +Marquise Ariane to whom the Prince Thésée had behaved so shamefully, +and who had taken to Bacchus as a consolation. It was Madame Médée, who +had absolutely killed her old father by her conduct regarding Jason: +she had done everything for Jason: she had got him the _toison d’or_ +from the Queen Mother, and now had to meet him every day with his +little blonde bride on his arm! J. J. compared Ethel, moving in the +midst of these folks, to the Lady amidst the rout of Comus. There they +were the Fauns and Satyrs: there they were, the merry Pagans: drinking +and dancing, dicing and sporting; laughing out jests that never should +be spoken; whispering rendezvous to be written in midnight calendars; +jeering at honest people who passed under their palace windows—jolly +rebels and repealers of the law. Ah, if Mrs. Brown, whose children are +gone to bed at the hotel, knew but the history of that calm +dignified-looking gentleman who sits under her, and over whose patient +back she frantically advances and withdraws her two-franc piece, whilst +his own columns of louis d’or are offering battle to fortune—how she +would shrink away from the shoulder which she pushes! That man so calm +and well bred, with a string of orders on his breast, so well dressed, +with such white hands, has stabbed trusting hearts; severed family +ties; written lying vows; signed false oaths; torn up pitilessly tender +appeals for redress, and tossed away into the fire supplications +blistered with tears; packed cards and cogged dice; or used pistol or +sword as calmly and dexterously as he now ranges his battalions of gold +pieces. + +Ridley shrank away from such lawless people with the delicacy belonging +to his timid and retiring nature, but it must be owned that Mr. Clive +was by no means so squeamish. He did not know, in the first place, the +mystery of their iniquities; and his sunny kindly spirit, undimmed by +any of the cares which clouded it subsequently, was disposed to shine +upon all people alike. The world was welcome to him: the day a +pleasure: all nature a gay feast: scarce any dispositions discordant +with his own (for pretension only made him laugh, and hypocrisy he will +never be able to understand if he lives to be a hundred years old): the +night brought him a long sleep, and the morning a glad waking. To those +privileges of youth what enjoyments of age are comparable? what +achievements of ambition? what rewards of money and fame? Clive’s happy +friendly nature shone out of his face; and almost all who beheld it +felt kindly towards him. As those guileless virgins of romance and +ballad, who walk smiling through dark forests charming off dragons and +confronting lions, the young man as yet went through the world +harmless; no giant waylaid him as yet; no robbing ogre fed on him: and +(greatest danger of all for one of his ardent nature) no winning +enchantress or artful siren coaxed him to her cave, or lured him into +her waters—haunts into which we know so many young simpletons are +drawn, where their silly bones are picked and their tender flesh +devoured. + +The time was short which Clive spent at Baden, for it has been said the +winter was approaching, and the destination of our young artists was +Rome; but he may have passed some score of days here, to which he and +another person in that pretty watering-place possibly looked back +afterwards, as not the unhappiest period of their lives. Among Colonel +Newcome’s papers to which the family biographer has had subsequent +access, there are a couple of letters from Clive, dated Baden, at this +time, and full of happiness, gaiety, and affection. Letter No. 1 says, +“Ethel is the prettiest girl here. At the assemblies all the princes, +counts, dukes, Parthians, Medes, and Elamites, are dying to dance with +her. She sends her dearest love to her uncle.” By the side of the words +“prettiest girl,” was written in a frank female hand the monosyllable +“_Stuff;_” and as a note to the expression “dearest love,” with a star +to mark the text and the note, are squeezed, in the same feminine +characters, at the bottom of Clive’s page, the words, “_That I do. E. +N._” + +In letter No. 2, the first two pages are closely written in Clive’s +handwriting, describing his pursuits and studies, and giving amusing +details of the life at Baden, and the company whom he met +there—narrating his _rencontre_ with their Paris friend, M. de Florac, +and the arrival of the Duchesse d’Ivry, Florac’s cousin, whose titles +the Vicomte will probably inherit. Not a word about Florac’s gambling +propensities are mentioned in the letter; but Clive honestly confesses +that he has staked five Napoleons, doubled them, quadrupled them, won +ever so much, lost it all back again, and come away from the table with +his original five pounds in his pocket—proposing never to play any +more. “Ethel,” he concluded, “is looking over my shoulder. She thinks +me such a delightful creature that she is never easy without me. She +bids me to say that I am the best of sons and cousins, and am, in a +word, a darling du—” The rest of this important word is not given, but +_goose_ is added in the female hand. In the faded ink, on the yellow +paper that may have crossed and recrossed oceans, that has lain locked +in chests for years, and buried under piles of family archives, while +your friends have been dying and your head has grown white—who has not +disinterred mementos like these—from which the past smiles at you so +sadly, shimmering out of Hades an instant but to sink back again into +the cold shades, perhaps with a faint, faint sound as of a remembered +tone—a ghostly echo of a once familiar laughter? I was looking of late +at a wall in the Naples Museum, whereon a boy of Herculaneum eighteen +hundred years ago had scratched with a nail the figure of a soldier. I +could fancy the child turning round and smiling on me after having done +his etching. Which of us that is thirty years old has not had his +Pompeii? Deep under ashes lies the Life of Youth,—the careless Sport, +the Pleasure and Passion, the darling Joy. You open an old letter-box +and look at your own childish scrawls, or your mother’s letters to you +when you were at school; and excavate your heart. Oh me, for the day +when the whole city shall be bare and the chambers unroofed—and every +cranny visible to the Light above, from the Forum to the Lupanar! + +Ethel takes up the pen. “My dear uncle,” she says, “while Clive is +sketching out of window, let me write you a line or two on his paper, +though _I know you like to hear no one speak_ but him. I wish I could +draw him for you as he stands yonder, looking the picture of good +health, good spirits, and good humour. Everybody likes him. He is quite +unaffected; always gay; always pleased. He draws more and more +beautifully every day; and his affection for young Mr. Ridley, who is +really a most excellent and astonishing young man, and actually a +better artist than Clive himself, is most romantic, and does your son +the greatest credit. You will order Clive not to sell his pictures, +won’t you? I know it is not wrong, but your son might look higher than +to be an artist. It is a rise for Mr. Ridley, but a fall for him. An +artist, an organist, a pianist, all these are very good people, but you +know not _de notre monde_, and Clive ought to belong to it. + +“We met him at Bonn on our way to a great family gathering here; where, +I must tell you, we are assembled for what I call the Congress of +Baden! The chief of the house of Kew is here, and what time he does not +devote to skittles, to smoking cigars, to the _jeu_ in the evenings, to +Madame d’Ivry, to Madame de Cruchecassée, and the foreign people (of +whom there are a host here of the worst kind, as usual), he graciously +bestows on me. Lord and Lady Dorking are here, with their meek little +daughter, Clara Pulleyn; and Barnes is coming. Uncle Hobson has +returned to Lombard Street to relieve guard. I think you will hear +before very long of Lady Clara Newcome. Grandmamma, who was to have +presided at the Congress of Baden, and still, you know, reigns over the +house of Kew, has been stopped at Kissingen with an attack of +rheumatism; I pity poor Aunt Julia, who can never leave her. Here are +all our news. I declare I have filled the whole page; men write closer +than we do. I wear the dear brooch you gave me, often and often; I +think of you always, dear, kind uncle, as your affectionate Ethel.” + +Besides roulette and trente-et-quarante, a number of amusing games are +played at Baden, which are not performed, so to speak, _sur table_. +These little diversions and _jeux de société_ can go on anywhere; in an +alley in the park; in a picnic to this old schloss, or that pretty +hunting-lodge; at a tea-table in a lodging-house or hotel; in a ball at +the Redoute; in the play-rooms behind the backs of the gamblers, whose +eyes are only cast upon rakes and rouleaux, and red and black; or on +the broad walk in front of the conversation rooms, where thousands of +people are drinking and chattering, lounging and smoking, whilst the +Austrian brass band, in the little music pavilion, plays the most +delightful mazurkas and waltzes. Here the widow plays her black suit +and sets her bright eyes against the rich bachelor, elderly or young as +may be. Here the artful practitioner, who has dealt in a thousand such +games, engages the young simpleton with more money than wit; and +knowing his weakness and her skill, we may safely take the odds, and +back rouge et couleur to win. Here mamma, not having money, perhaps, +but metal more attractive, stakes her virgin daughter against Count +Fettacker’s forests and meadows; or Lord Lackland plays his coronet, of +which the jewels have long since been in pawn, against Miss Bags’ +three-per-cents. And so two or three funny little games were going on +at Baden amongst our immediate acquaintance; besides that vulgar sport +round the green table, at which the mob, with whom we have little to +do, was elbowing each other. A hint of these domestic prolusions has +been given to the reader in the foregoing extract from Miss Ethel +Newcome’s letter: likewise some passions have been in play, of which a +modest young English maiden could not be aware. Do not, however, let us +be too prematurely proud of our virtue. That tariff of British virtue +is wonderfully organised. Heaven help the society which made its laws! +Gnats are shut out of its ports, or not admitted without scrutiny and +repugnance, whilst herds of camels are let in. The law professes to +exclude some goods (or bads shall we call them?)—well, some articles of +baggage, which are yet smuggled openly under the eyes of winking +officers, and worn every day without shame. Shame! What is shame? +Virtue is very often shameful according to the English social +constitution, and shame honourable. Truth, if yours happens to differ +from your neighbour’s, provokes your friend’s coldness, your mother’s +tears, the world’s persecution. Love is not to be dealt in, save under +restrictions which kill its sweet, healthy, free commerce. Sin in man +is so light, that scarce the fine of a penny is imposed; while for +woman it is so heavy that no repentance can wash it out. Ah! yes; all +stories are old. You proud matrons in your Mayfair markets, have you +never seen a virgin sold, or sold one? Have you never heard of a poor +wayfarer fallen among robbers, and not a Pharisee to help him? of a +poor woman fallen more sadly yet, abject in repentance and tears, and a +crowd to stone her? I pace this broad Baden walk as the sunset is +gilding the hills round about, as the orchestra blows its merry tunes, +as the happy children laugh and sport in the alleys, as the lamps of +the gambling-palace are lighted up, as the throngs of pleasure-hunters +stroll, and smoke, and flirt, and hum: and wonder sometimes, is it the +sinners who are the most sinful? Is it poor Prodigal yonder amongst the +bad company, calling black and red and tossing the champagne; or +brother Straitlace that grudges his repentance? Is it downcast Hagar +that slinks away with poor little Ishmael in her hand; or bitter old +virtuous Sarah, who scowls at her from my demure Lord Abraham’s arm? + +One day of the previous May, when of course everybody went to visit the +Water-colour Exhibitions, Ethel Newcome was taken to see the pictures +by her grandmother, that rigorous old Lady Kew, who still proposed to +reign over all her family. The girl had high spirit, and very likely +hot words had passed between the elder and the younger lady; such as I +am given to understand will be uttered in the most polite families. +They came to a piece by Mr. Hunt, representing one of those figures +which he knows how to paint with such consummate truth and pathos—a +friendless young girl cowering in a doorway, evidently without home or +shelter. The exquisite fidelity of the details, and the plaintive +beauty of the expression of the child, attracted old Lady Kew’s +admiration, who was an excellent judge of works of art; and she stood +for some time looking at the drawing, with Ethel by her side. Nothing, +in truth, could be more simple or pathetic; Ethel laughed, and her +grandmother looking up from her stick on which she hobbled about, saw a +very sarcastic expression in the girl’s eyes. + +“You have no taste for pictures, only for painters, I suppose,” said +Lady Kew. + +“I was not looking at the picture,” said Ethel, still with a smile, +“but at the little green ticket in the corner.” + +“Sold,” said Lady Kew. “Of course it is sold; all Mr. Hunt’s pictures +are sold. There is not one of them here on which you won’t see the +green ticket. He is a most admirable artist. I don’t know whether his +comedy or tragedy are the most excellent.” + +“I think, grandmamma,” Ethel said, “we young ladies in the world, when +we are exhibiting, ought to have little green tickets pinned on our +backs, with ‘Sold’ written on them; it would prevent trouble and any +future haggling, you know. Then at the end of the season the owner +would come to carry us home.” + +Grandmamma only said, “Ethel, you are a fool,” and hobbled on to Mr. +Cattermole’s picture hard by. “What splendid colour; what a romantic +gloom; what a flowing pencil and dexterous hand!” Lady Kew could +delight in pictures, applaud good poetry, and squeeze out a tear over a +good novel too. That afternoon, young Dawkins, the rising water-colour +artist, who used to come daily to the gallery and stand delighted +before his own piece, was aghast to perceive that there was no green +ticket in the corner of his frame, and he pointed out the deficiency to +the keeper of the pictures. His landscape, however, was sold and paid +for, so no great mischief occurred. On that same evening, when the +Newcome family assembled at dinner in Park Lane, Ethel appeared with a +bright green ticket pinned in the front of her white muslin frock, and +when asked what this queer fancy meant, she made Lady Kew a curtsey, +looking her full in the face, and turning round to her father, said, “I +am a _tableau-vivant_, papa. I am Number 46 in the Exhibition of the +Gallery of Painters in Water-colours.” + +“My love, what do you mean?” says mamma; and Lady Kew, jumping up on +her crooked stick with immense agility, tore the card out of Ethel’s +bosom, and very likely would have boxed her ears, but that her parents +were present and Lord Kew announced. + +Ethel talked about pictures the whole evening, and would talk of +nothing else. Grandmamma went away furious. “She told Barnes, and when +everybody was gone there was a pretty row in the building,” said Madam +Ethel, with an arch look, when she narrated the story. “Barnes was +ready to kill me and eat me; but I never was afraid of Barnes.” And the +biographer gathers from this little anecdote, narrated to him, never +mind by whom, at a long subsequent period, that there had been great +disputes in Sir Brian Newcome’s establishment, fierce drawing-room +battles, whereof certain pictures of a certain painter might have +furnished the cause, and in which Miss Newcome had the whole of the +family forces against her. That such battles take place in other +domestic establishments, who shall say or shall not say? Who, when he +goes out to dinner, and is received by a bland host with a gay shake of +the hand, and a pretty hostess with a gracious smile of welcome, dares +to think that Mr. Johnson upstairs, half an hour before, was swearing +out of his dressing-room at Mrs. Johnson, for having ordered a turbot +instead of a salmon, or that Mrs. Johnson now talking to Lady Jones so +nicely about their mutual darling children, was crying her eyes out as +her maid was fastening her gown, as the carriages were actually driving +up? The servants know these things, but not we in the dining-room. Hark +with what a respectful tone Johnson begs the clergyman present to say +grace! + +Whatever these family quarrels may have been, let bygones be bygones, +and let us be perfectly sure, that to whatever purpose Miss Ethel +Newcome, for good or for evil, might make her mind up, she had quite +spirit enough to hold her own. She chose to be Countess of Kew because +she chose to be Countess of Kew; had she set her heart on marrying Mr. +Kuhn, she would have had her way, and made the family adopt it, and +called him dear Fritz, as by his godfathers and godmothers, in his +baptism, Mr. Kuhn was called. Clive was but a fancy, if he had even +been so much as that, not a passion, and she fancied a pretty +four-pronged coronet still more. + +So that the diatribe wherein we lately indulged, about the selling of +virgins, by no means applies to Lady Anne Newcome, who signed the +address to Mrs. Stowe, the other day, along with thousands more virtuous +British matrons; but should the reader haply say, “Is thy fable, O +Poet, narrated concerning Tancred Pulleyn, Earl of Dorking, and +Sigismunda, his wife?” the reluctant moralist is obliged to own that +the cap _does_ fit those noble personages, of whose lofty society you +will, however, see but little. + +For though I would like to go into an Indian Brahmin’s house, and see +the punkahs, and the purdahs and tattys, and the pretty brown maidens +with great eyes, and great nose-rings, and painted foreheads, and slim +waists cased in Cashmir shawls, Kincob scarfs, curly slippers, gilt +trousers, precious anklets and bangles; and have the mystery of Eastern +existence revealed to me (as who would not who has read the Arabian +Nights in his youth?), yet I would not choose the moment when the +Brahmin of the house was dead, his women howling, his priests doctoring +his child of a widow, now frightening her with sermons, now drugging +her with bang, so as to push her on his funeral pile at last, and into +the arms of that carcase, stupefied, but obedient and decorous. And +though I like to walk, even in fancy, in an earl’s house, splendid, +well ordered, where there are feasts and fine pictures and fair ladies +and endless books and good company; yet there are times when the visit +is not pleasant; and when the parents in that fine house are getting +ready their daughter for sale, and frightening away her tears with +threats, and stupefying her grief with narcotics, praying her and +imploring her, and dramming her and coaxing her, and blessing her, and +cursing her perhaps, till they have brought her into such a state as +shall fit the poor young thing for that deadly couch upon which they +are about to thrust her. When my lord and lady are so engaged I prefer +not to call at their mansion, Number 1000 in Grosvenor Square, but to +partake of a dinner of herbs rather than of that stalled ox which their +cook is roasting whole. There are some people who are not so squeamish. +The family comes, of course; the Most Reverend the Lord Arch-Brahmin of +Benares will attend the ceremony; there will be flowers and lights and +white favours; and quite a string of carriages up to the pagoda; and +such a breakfast afterwards; and music in the street and little parish +boys hurrahing; and no end of speeches within and tears shed (no +doubt), and His Grace the Arch-Brahmin will make a highly appropriate +speech, just with a faint scent of incense about it as such a speech +ought to have; and the young person will slip away unperceived, and +take off her veils, wreaths, orange-flowers, bangles and finery, and +will put on a plain dress more suited for the occasion, and the +house-door will open—and there comes the SUTTEE in company of the body: +yonder the pile is waiting on four wheels with four horses, the crowd +hurrahs and the deed is done. + +This ceremony amongst us is so stale and common that to be sure there +is no need to describe its rites, and as women sell themselves for what +you call an establishment every day; to the applause of themselves, +their parents, and the world, why on earth should a man ape at +originality and pretend to pity them? Never mind about the lies at the +altar, the blasphemy against the godlike name of love, the sordid +surrender, the smiling dishonour. What the deuce does a _mariage de +convenance_ mean but all this, and are not such sober Hymeneal torches +more satisfactory often than the most brilliant love matches that ever +flamed and burnt out? Of course. Let us not weep when everybody else is +laughing: let us pity the agonised duchess when her daughter, Lady +Atalanta, runs away with the doctor—of course, that’s respectable; let +us pity Lady Iphigenia’s father when that venerable chief is obliged to +offer up his darling child; but it is over _her_ part of the business +that a decorous painter would throw the veil now. Her ladyship’s +sacrifice is performed, and the less said about it the better. + +Such was the case regarding an affair which appeared in due subsequence +in the newspapers not long afterwards under the fascinating title of +“Marriage in High Life,” and which was in truth the occasion of the +little family Congress of Baden which we are now chronicling. We all +know—everybody at least who has the slightest acquaintance with the +army list—that, at the commencement of their life, my Lord Kew, my Lord +Viscount Rooster, the Earl of Dorking’s eldest son, and the Honourable +Charles Belsize, familiarly called Jack Belsize, were subaltern +officers in one of His Majesty’s regiments of cuirassier guards. They +heard the chimes at midnight like other young men, they enjoyed their +fun and frolics as gentlemen of spirit will do; sowing their wild oats +plentifully, and scattering them with boyish profusion. Lord Kew’s luck +had blessed him with more sacks of oats than fell to the lot of his +noble young companions. Lord Dorking’s house is known to have been long +impoverished; an excellent informant, Major Pendennis, has entertained +me with many edifying accounts of the exploits of Lord Rooster’s +grandfather “with the wild Prince and Poins,” of his feats in the +hunting-field, over the bottle, over the dice-box. He played two nights +and two days at a sitting with Charles Fox, when they both lost sums +awful to reckon. He played often with Lord Steyne, and came away, as +all men did, dreadful sufferers from those midnight encounters. His +descendants incurred the penalties of the progenitor’s imprudence, and +Chanticlere, though one of the finest castles in England, is splendid +but for a month in the year. The estate is mortgaged up to the very +castle windows. “Dorking cannot cut a stick or kill a buck in his own +park,” the good old Major used to tell with tragic accents, “he lives +by his cabbages, grapes, and pineapples, and the fees which people give +for seeing the place and gardens, which are still the show of the +county, and among the most splendid in the island. When Dorking is at +Chanticlere, Ballard, who married his sister, lends him the plate and +sends three men with it. Four cooks inside, and four maids and six +footmen on the roof, with a butler driving, come down from London in a +trap, and wait the month. And as the last carriage of the company +drives away, the servants’ coach is packed, and they all bowl back to +town again. It’s pitiable, sir, pitiable.” + +In Lord Kew’s youth, the names of himself and his two noble friends +appeared on innumerable slips of stamped paper, conveying pecuniary +assurances of a promissory nature; all of which promises, my Lord Kew +singly and most honourably discharged. Neither of his two +companions-in-arms had the means of meeting these engagements. Ballard, +Rooster’s uncle, was said to make his lordship some allowance. As for +Jack Belsize: how he lived; how he laughed; how he dressed himself so +well, and looked so fat and handsome; how he got a shilling to pay for +a cab or a cigar; what ravens fed him; was a wonder to all. The young +men claimed kinsmanship with one another, which those who are learned +in the peerage may unravel. + +When Lord Dorking’s eldest daughter married the Honourable and +Venerable Dennis Gallowglass, Archdeacon of Bullintubber (and at +present Viscount Gallowglass and Killbrogue, and Lord Bishop of +Ballyshannon), great festivities took place at Chanticlere, whither the +relatives of the high contracting parties were invited. Among them came +poor Jack Belsize, and hence the tears which are dropping at Baden at +this present period of our history. Clara Pulleyn was then a pretty +little maiden of sixteen, and Jack a handsome guardsman of six or seven +and twenty. As she had been especially warned against Jack as a wicked +young rogue, whose _antécédents_ were wofully against him; as she was +never allowed to sit near him at dinner, or to walk with him, or to +play at billiards with him, or to waltz with him; as she was scolded if +he spoke a word to her, or if he picked up her glove, or touched her +hand in a round game, or caught him when they were playing at +blindman’s-buff; as they neither of them had a penny in the world, and +were both very good-looking, of course Clara was always catching Jack +at blindman’s-buff; constantly lighting upon him in the shrubberies or +corridors, etc. etc. etc. She fell in love (she was not the first) with +Jack’s broad chest and thin waist; she thought his whiskers as indeed +they were, the handsomest pair in all His Majesty’s Brigade of +Cuirassiers. + +We know not what tears were shed in the vast and silent halls of +Chanticlere, when the company were gone, and the four cooks, and four +maids, six footmen, and temporary butler had driven back in their +private trap to the metropolis, which is not forty miles distant from +that splendid castle. How can we tell? The guests departed, the +lodge-gates shut; all is mystery:—darkness with one pair of wax candles +blinking dismally in a solitary chamber; all the rest dreary vistas of +brown hollands, rolled Turkey carpets, gaunt ancestors on the walls +scowling out of the twilight blank. The imagination is at liberty to +depict his lordship, with one candle, over his dreadful endless tapes +and papers; her ladyship with the other, and an old, old novel, wherein +perhaps, Mrs. Radcliffe describes a castle as dreary as her own; and +poor little Clara sighing and crying in the midst of these funereal +splendours, as lonely and heart-sick as Oriana in her moated +grange:—poor little Clara! + +Lord Kew’s drag took the young men to London; his lordship driving, and +the servants sitting inside. Jack sat behind with the two grooms, and +tooted on a cornet-a-piston in the most melancholy manner. He partook +of no refreshment on the road. His silence at his clubs was remarked: +smoking, billiards, military duties, and this and that, roused him a +little, and presently Jack was alive again. But then came the season, +Lady Clara Pulleyn’s first season in London, and Jack was more alive +than ever. There was no ball he did not go to; no opera (that is to +say, no opera of _certain_ operas) which he did not frequent. It was +easy to see by his face, two minutes after entering a room, whether the +person he sought was there or absent; not difficult for those who were +in the secret to watch in another pair of eyes the bright kindling +signals which answered Jack’s fiery glances. Ah! how beautiful he +looked on his charger on the birthday, all in a blaze of scarlet, and +bullion, and steel. O Jack! tear her out of yon carriage, from the side +of yonder livid, feathered, painted, bony dowager! place her behind you +on the black charger; cut down the policeman, and away with you! The +carriage rolls in through St. James’s Park; Jack sits alone with his +sword dropped to the ground, or only _atra cura_ on the crupper behind +him; and Snip, the tailor, in the crowd, thinks it is for fear of him +Jack’s head droops. Lady Clara Pulleyn is presented by her mother, the +Countess of Dorking; and Jack is arrested that night as he is going out +of White’s to meet her at the Opera. + +Jack’s little exploits are known in the Insolvent Court, where he made +his appearances as Charles Belsize, commonly called the Honourable +Charles Belsize, whose dealings were smartly chronicled by the +indignant moralists of the press of those days. The _Scourge_ flogged +him heartily. The _Whip_ (of which the accomplished editor was himself +in Whitecross Street prison) was especially virtuous regarding him; and +the _Penny Voice of Freedom_ gave him an awful dressing. I am not here +to scourge sinners; I am true to my party; it is the other side this +humble pen attacks; let us keep to the virtuous and respectable, for as +for poor sinners they get the whipping-post every day. One person was +faithful to poor Jack through all his blunders and follies and +extravagance and misfortunes, and that was the pretty young girl of +Chanticlere, round whose young affections his luxuriant whiskers had +curled. And the world may cry out at Lord Kew for sending his brougham +to the Queen’s Bench prison, and giving a great feast at Grignon’s to +Jack on the day of his liberation, but I for one will not quarrel with +his lordship. He and many other sinners had a jolly night. They said +Kew made a fine speech, in hearing and acknowledging which Jack Belsize +wept copiously. Barnes Newcome was in a rage at Jack’s manumission, and +sincerely hoped Mr. Commissioner would give him a couple of years +longer; and cursed and swore with a great liberality on hearing of his +liberty. + +That this poor prodigal should marry Clara Pulleyn, and by way of a +dowry lay his schedule at her feet, was out of the question. His noble +father, Lord Highgate, was furious against him; his eldest brother +would not see him; he had given up all hopes of winning his darling +prize long ago, and one day there came to him a great packet bearing +the seal of Chanticlere, containing a wretched little letter signed C. +P., and a dozen sheets of Jack’s own clumsy writing, delivered who +knows how, in what crush-rooms, quadrilles, bouquets, balls, and in +which were scrawled Jack’s love and passion and ardour. How many a time +had he looked into the dictionary at White’s, to see whether eternal +was spelt with an e, and adore with one a or two! There they were, the +incoherent utterances of his brave longing heart; and those two +wretched, wretched lines signed C., begging that C.’s little letters +might too be returned or destroyed. To do him justice, he burnt them +loyally every one along with his own waste paper. He kept not one +single little token which she had given him or let him take. The rose, +the glove, the little handkerchief which she had dropped to him, how he +cried over them! The ringlet of golden hair—he burnt them all, all in +his own fire in the prison, save a little, little bit of the hair, +which might be any one’s, which was the colour of his sister’s. Kew saw +the deed done; perhaps he hurried away when Jack came to the very last +part of the sacrifice, and flung the hair into the fire, where he would +have liked to fling his heart and his life too. + +So Clara was free, and the year when Jack came out of prison and went +abroad, she passed the season in London dancing about night after +night, and everybody said she was well out of that silly affair with +Jack Belsize. It was then that Barnes Newcome, Esq., a partner of the +wealthy banking firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcome, son and heir of +Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome, Bart., and M. P., descended in right +line from Bryan de Newcomyn, slain at Hastings, and barber-surgeon to +Edward the Confessor, etc. etc., cast the eyes of regard on the Lady +Clara Pulleyn, who was a little pale and languid certainly, but had +blue eyes, a delicate skin, and a pretty person, and knowing her +previous history as well as you who have just perused it, deigned to +entertain matrimonial intentions towards her ladyship. + +Not one of the members of these most respectable families, excepting +poor little Clara perhaps, poor little fish (as if she had any call but +to do her duty, or to ask _à quelle sauce elle serait mangée_), +protested against this little affair of traffic; Lady Dorking had a +brood of little chickens to succeed Clara. There was little Hennie, who +was sixteen, and Biddy, who was fourteen, and Adelaide, and who knows +how many more? How could she refuse a young man, not very agreeable it +is true, nor particularly amiable, nor of good birth, at least on his +father’s side, but otherwise eligible, and heir to so many thousands a +year? The Newcomes, on their side, think it a desirable match. Barnes, +it must be confessed, is growing rather selfish, and has some bachelor +ways which a wife will reform. Lady Kew is strongly for the match. With +her own family interest, Lord Steyne and Lord Kew, her nephews, and +Barnes’s own father-in-law, Lord Dorking, in the Peers, why shall not +the Newcomes sit there too, and resume the old seat which all the world +knows they had in the time of Richard III.? Barnes and his father had +got up quite a belief about a Newcome killed at Bosworth, along with +King Richard, and hated Henry VII. as an enemy of their noble race. So +all the parties were pretty well agreed. Lady Anne wrote rather a +pretty little poem about welcoming the white Fawn to the Newcome +bowers, and “Clara” was made to rhyme with “fairer,” and “timid does +and antlered deer to dot the glades of Chanticlere,” quite in a +picturesque way. Lady Kew pronounced that the poem was very pretty +indeed. + +The year after Jack Belsize made his foreign tour he returned to London +for the season. Lady Clara did not happen to be there; her health was a +little delicate, and her kind parents took her abroad; so all things +went on very smoothly and comfortably indeed. + +Yes, but when things were so quiet and comfortable, when the ladies of +the two families had met at the Congress of Baden, and liked each other +so much, when Barnes and his papa the Baronet, recovered from his +illness, were actually on their journey from Aix-la-Chapelle, and Lady +Kew in motion from Kissingen to the Congress of Baden, why on earth +should Jack Belsize, haggard, wild, having been winning great sums, it +was said, at Hombourg, forsake his luck there, and run over frantically +to Baden? He wore a great thick beard, a great slouched hat—he looked +like nothing more or less than a painter or an Italian brigand. +Unsuspecting Clive, remembering the jolly dinner which Jack had +procured for him at the Guards’ mess in St. James’s, whither Jack +himself came from the Horse Guards—simple Clive, seeing Jack enter the +town, hailed him cordially, and invited him to dinner, and Jack +accepted, and Clive told him all the news he had of the place; how Kew +was there, and Lady Anne Newcome, and Ethel; and Barnes was coming. “I +am not very fond of him either,” says Clive, smiling, when Belsize +mentioned his name. So Barnes was coming to marry that pretty little +Lady Clara Pulleyn. The knowing youth! I dare say he was rather pleased +with his knowledge of the fashionable world, and the idea that Jack +Belsize would think he, too, was somebody. + +Jack drank an immense quantity of champagne, and the dinner over, as +they could hear the band playing from Clive’s open windows in the snug +clean little Hôtel de France, Jack proposed they should go on the +promenade. M. de Florac was of the party; he had been exceedingly +jocular when Lord Kew’s name was mentioned, and said, “Ce petit Kiou! +M. le Duc d’Ivry, mon oncle, l’honore d’une amitié toute particulière.” +These three gentlemen walked out; the promenade was crowded, the was +band playing “Home, sweet Home” very sweetly, and the very first +persons they met on the walk were the Lords of Kew and Dorking, on the +arm of which latter venerable peer his daughter Lady Clara was hanging. + +Jack Belsize, in a velvet coat, with a sombrero slouched over his face, +with a beard reaching to his waist, was, no doubt, not recognised at +first by the noble lord of Dorking, for he was greeting the other two +gentlemen with his usual politeness and affability; when, of a sudden, +Lady Clara looking up, gave a little shriek and fell down lifeless on +the gravel walk. Then the old earl recognised Mr. Belsize, and Clive +heard him say, “You villain, how dare you come here?” + +Belsize had flung himself down to lift up Clara, calling her +frantically by her name, when old Dorking sprang to seize him. + +“Hands off, my lord,” said the other, shaking the old man from his +back. “Confound you, Jack, hold your tongue,” roars out Kew. Clive runs +for a chair, and a dozen were forthcoming. Florac skips back with a +glass of water. Belsize runs towards the awakening girl: and the +father, for an instant losing all patience and self-command, trembling +in every limb, lifts his stick, and says again, “Leave her, you +ruffian.” “Lady Clara has fainted again, sir,” says Captain Belsize. “I +am staying at the Hôtel de France. If you touch me, old man” (this in a +very low voice), “by Heaven I shall kill you. I wish you good morning;” +and taking a last long look at the lifeless girl, he lifts his hat and +walks away. Lord Dorking mechanically takes his hat off, and stands +stupidly gazing after him. He beckoned Clive to follow him, and a crowd +of the frequenters of the place are by this time closed round the +fainting young lady. + +Here was a pretty incident in the Congress of Baden! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. +In which Barnes comes a-wooing + + +Ethel had all along known that her holiday was to be a short one, and +that, her papa and Barnes arrived, there was to be no more laughing and +fun and sketching and walking with Clive; so she took the sunshine +while it lasted, determined to bear with a stout heart the bad weather. + +Sir Brian Newcome and his eldest born arrived at Baden on the very +night of Jack Belsize’s performance upon the promenade; of course it +was necessary to inform the young bridegroom of the facts. His +acquaintances of the public, who by this time know his temper, and are +acquainted with his language, can imagine the explosions of the one and +the vehemence of the other; it was a perfect _feu d’artifice_ of oaths +which he sent up. Mr. Newcome only fired off these volleys of curses +when he was in a passion, but then he was in a passion very frequently. + +As for Lady Clara’s little accident, he was disposed to treat that very +lightly. “Poor dear Clara, of course, of course,” he said, “she’s been +accustomed to fainting fits; no wonder she was agitated on the sight of +that villain, after his infernal treatment of her. If I had been there” +(a volley of oaths comes here along the whole line) “I should have +strangled the scoundrel; I should have murdered him.” + +“Mercy, Barnes!” cries Lady Anne. + +“It was a mercy Barnes was not there,” says Ethel, gravely; “a fight +between him and Captain Belsize would have been awful indeed.” + +“I am afraid of no man, Ethel,” says Barnes fiercely, with another +oath. + +“Hit one of your own size, Barnes,” says Miss Ethel (who had a number +of school-phrases from her little brothers, and used them on occasions +skilfully). “Hit Captain Belsize, he has no friends.” + +As Jack Belsize from his height and strength was fitted to be not only +an officer but actually a private in his former gallant regiment, and +brother Barnes was but a puny young gentleman, the idea of a personal +conflict between them was rather ridiculous. Some notion of this sort +may have passed through Sir Brian’s mind, for the Baronet said with his +usual solemnity, “It is the cause, Ethel, it is the cause, my dear, +which gives strength; in such a cause as Barnes’s, with a beautiful +young creature to protect from a villain, any man would be strong, any +man would be strong.” “Since his last attack,” Barnes used to say, “my +poor old governor is exceedingly shaky, very groggy about the head;” +which was the fact. Barnes was already master at Newcome and the bank, +and awaiting with perfect composure the event which was to place the +blood-red hand of the Newcome baronetcy on his own brougham. + +Casting his eyes about the room, a heap of drawings, the work of a +well-known hand which he hated, met his eye. There were a half-dozen +sketches of Baden; Ethel on horseback again; the children and the dogs +just in the old way. “D—— him, is he here?” screams out Barnes. “Is +that young pothouse villain here? and hasn’t Kew knocked his head off? +Is Clive Newcome here, sir,” he cries out to his father. “The Colonel’s +son. I have no doubt they met by——” + +“By what, Barnes?” says Ethel. + +“Clive is here, is he?” says the Baronet; “making caricatures, hey? You +did not mention him in your letters, Lady Anne.” + +Sir Brian was evidently very much touched by his last attack. + +Ethel blushed; it was a curious fact, but there had been no mention of +Clive in the ladies’ letters to Sir Brian. + +“My dear, we met him by the merest chance, at Bonn, travelling with a +friend of his; and he speaks a little German, and was very useful to +us, and took one of the boys in his britzska the whole way.” + +“Boys always crowd in a carriage,” says Sir Brian. “Kick your shins; +always in the way. I remember, when we used to come in the carriage +from Clapham, when we were boys, I used to kick my brother Tom’s shins. +Poor Tom, he was a devilish wild fellow in those days. You don’t +recollect Tom, my Lady Anne?” + +Further anecdotes from Sir Brian are interrupted by Lord Kew’s arrival. +“How dydo, Kew!” cries Barnes. “How’s Clara?” and Lord Kew walking up +with great respect to shake hands with Sir Brian, says, “I am glad to +see you looking so well, sir,” and scarcely takes any notice of Barnes. +That Mr. Barnes Newcome was an individual not universally beloved, is a +point of history of which there can be no doubt. + +“You have not told me how Clara is, my good fellow,” continues Barnes. +“I have heard all about her meeting with that villain, Jack Belsize.” + +“Don’t call names, my good fellow,” says Lord Kew. “It strikes me you +don’t know Belsize well enough to call him by nicknames or by other +names. Lady Clara Pulleyn, I believe, is very unwell indeed.” + +“Confound the fellow! How dared he to come here?” cries Barnes, backing +from this little rebuff. + +“Dare is another ugly word. I would advise you not to use it to the +fellow himself.” + +“What do you mean?” says Barnes, looking very serious in an instant. + +“Easy, my good friend. Not so very loud. It appears, Ethel, that poor +Jack—_I_ know him pretty well, you see, Barnes, and may call him by +what names I like—had been dining to-day with cousin Clive; he and M. +de Florac; and that they went with Jack to the promenade, not in the +least aware of Mr. Jack Belsize’s private affairs, or of the shindy +that was going to happen.” + +“By Jove, he shall answer for it,” cries out Barnes in a loud voice. + +“I dare say he will, if you ask him,” says the other drily; “but not +before ladies. He’d be afraid of frightening them. Poor Jack was always +as gentle as a lamb before women. I had some talk with the Frenchman +just now,” continued Lord Kew gaily, as if wishing to pass over this +side of the subject. “Mi Lord Kiou,” says he, “we have made your friend +Jac to hear reason. He is a little _fou_, your friend Jack. He drank +champagne at dinner like an ogre. How is the _charmante_ Miss Clara? +Florac, you see, calls her Miss Clara, Barnes; the world calls her Lady +Clara. You call her Clara. You happy dog, you.” + +“I don’t see why that infernal young cub of a Clive is always meddling +in our affairs,” cries out Barnes, whose rage was perpetually being +whipped into new outcries. “Why has he been about this house? Why is he +here?” + +“It is very well for you that he was, Barnes,” Lord Kew said. “The +young fellow showed great temper and spirit. There has been a famous +row, but don’t be alarmed, it is all over. It is all over, everybody +may go to bed and sleep comfortably. Barnes need not get up in the +morning to punch Jack Belsize’s head. I’m sorry for your +disappointment, you Fenchurch Street fire-eater. Come away. It will be +but proper, you know, for a bridegroom elect to go and ask news of _la +charmante_ Miss Clara.” + +“As we went out of the house,” Lord Kew told Clive, “I said to Barnes +that every word I had uttered upstairs with regard to the +reconciliation was a lie. That Jack Belsize was determined to have his +blood, and was walking under the lime-trees by which we had to pass +with a thundering big stick. You should have seen the state the fellow +was in, sir. The sweet youth started back, and turned as yellow as a +cream cheese. Then he made a pretext to go into his room, and said it +was for his pocket-handkerchief, but I know it was for a pistol; for he +dropped his hand from my arm into his pocket, every time I said ‘Here’s +Jack,’ as we walked down the avenue to Lord Dorking’s apartment.” + +A great deal of animated business had been transacted during the two +hours subsequent to poor Lady Clara’s mishap. Clive and Belsize had +returned to the former’s quarters, while gentle J. J. was utilising the +last rays of the sun to tint a sketch which he had made during the +morning. He fled to his own apartment on the arrival of the +fierce-looking stranger, whose glaring eyes, pallid looks, shaggy +beard, clutched hands, and incessant gasps and mutterings as he strode +up and down, might well scare a peaceable person. Very terrible must +Jack have looked as he trampled those boards in the growing twilight, +anon stopping to drink another tumbler of champagne, then groaning +expressions of inarticulate wrath, and again sinking down on Clive’s +bed with a dropping head and breaking voice, crying, “Poor little +thing, poor little devil.” + +“If the old man sends me a message, you will stand by me, won’t you, +Newcome? He was a fierce old fellow in his time, and I have seen him +shoot straight enough at Chanticlere. I suppose you know what the +affair is about?” + +“I never heard of it before, but I think I understand,” says Clive, +gravely. + +“I can’t ask Kew, he is one of the family; he is going to marry Miss +Newcome. It is no use asking him.” + +All Clive’s blood tingled at the idea that any man was going to marry +Miss Newcome. He knew it before—a fortnight since, and it was nothing +to him to hear it. He was glad that the growing darkness prevented his +face from being seen. “I am of the family, too,” said Clive, “and +Barnes Newcome and I had the same grandfather.” + +“Oh, yes, old boy—old banker, the weaver, what was he? I forgot,” says +poor Jack, kicking on Clive’s bed, “in that family the Newcomes don’t +count. I beg your pardon,” groans poor Jack. + +They lapse into silence, during which Jack’s cigar glimmers from the +twilight corner where Clive’s bed is; whilst Clive wafts his fragrance +out of the window where he sits, and whence he has a view of Lady Anne +Newcome’s windows to the right, over the bridge across the little +rushing river, at the Hotel de Hollande hard by. The lights twinkle in +the booths under the pretty lime avenues. The hum of distant voices is +heard; the gambling-palace is all in a blaze; it is an assembly night, +and from the doors of the conversation rooms, as they open and close, +escape gusts of harmony. Behind on the little hill the darkling woods +lie calm, the edges of the fir-trees cut sharp against the sky, which +is clear with a crescent moon and the lambent lights of the starry +hosts of heaven. Clive does not see pine-robed hills and shining stars, +nor think of pleasure in its palace yonder, nor of pain writhing on his +own bed within a few feet of him, where poor Belsize was groaning. His +eyes are fixed upon a window whence comes the red light of a lamp, +across which shadows float now and again. So every light in every booth +yonder has a scheme of its own: every star above shines by itself; and +each individual heart of ours goes on brightening with its own hopes, +burning with its own desires, and quivering with its own pain. + +The reverie is interrupted by the waiter, who announces M. le Vicomte +de Florac, and a third cigar is added to the other two smoky lights. +Belsize is glad to see Florac, whom he has known in a thousand haunts. +“He will do my business for me. He has been out half a dozen times,” +thinks Jack. It would relieve the poor fellow’s boiling blood that some +one would let a little out. He lays his affair before Florac; he +expects a message from Lord Dorking. + +“Comment donc?” cries Florac; “il y avait donc quelque chose! Cette +pauvre petite Miss! Vous voulez tuer le père, après avoir délaissé la +fille? Cherchez d’autres témoins, Monsieur. Le Vicomte de Florac ne se +fait pas complice de telles lâchetés.” + +“By Heaven,” says Jack, sitting up on the bed, with his eyes glaring, +“I have a great mind, Florac, to wring your infernal little neck, and +to fling you out of the window. Is all the world going to turn against +me? I am half mad as it is. If any man dares to think anything wrong +regarding that little angel, or to fancy that she is not as pure, and +as good, and as gentle, and as innocent, by Heaven, as any angel +there,—if any man thinks I’d be the villain to hurt her, I should just +like to see him,” says Jack. “By the Lord, sir, just bring him to me. +Just tell the waiter to send him upstairs. Hurt her! I hurt her! Oh! +I’m a fool! a fool! a d——d fool! Who’s that?” + +“It’s Kew,” says a voice out of the darkness from behind cigar No. 4, +and Clive now, having a party assembled, scrapes a match and lights his +candles. + +“I heard your last words, Jack,” Lord Kew says bluntly, “and you never +spoke more truth in your life. Why did you come here? What right had +you to stab that poor little heart over again, and frighten Lady Clara +with your confounded hairy face? You promised me you would never see +her. You gave your word of honour you wouldn’t, when I gave you the +money to go abroad. Hang the money, I don’t mind that; it was on your +promise that you would prowl about her no more. The Dorkings left +London before you came there; they gave you your innings. They have +behaved kindly and fairly enough to that poor girl. How was she to +marry such a bankrupt beggar as you are? What you have done is a shame, +Charley Belsize. I tell you it is unmanly and cowardly.” + +“Pst,” says Florac, “numero deux, voilà le mot lâche.” + +“Don’t bite your thumb at me,” Kew went on. “I know you could thrash +me, if that’s what you mean by shaking your fists; so could most men. I +tell you again—you have done a bad deed; you have broken your word of +honour, and you knocked down Clara Pulleyn to-day as cruelly as if you +had done it with your hand.” + +With this rush upon him, and fiery assault of Kew, Belsize was quite +bewildered. The huge man flung up his great arms, and let them drop at +his side as a gladiator that surrenders, and asks for pity. He sank +down once more on the iron bed. + +“I don’t know,” says he, rolling and rolling round, in one of his great +hands, one of the brass knobs of the bed by which he was seated. “I +don’t know, Frank,” says he, “what the world is coming to, or me +either; here is twice in one night I have been called a coward by you, +and by that little what-d’-you-call-’m. I beg your pardon, Florac. I +don’t know whether it is very brave in you to hit a chap when he is +down: hit again, I have no friends. I have acted like a blackguard, I +own that; I did break my promise; you had that safe enough, Frank, my +boy; but I did not think it would hurt her to see me,” says he, with a +dreadful sob in his voice. “By—I would have given ten years of my life +to look at her. I was going mad without her. I tried every place, +everything; went to Ems, to Wiesbaden, to Hombourg, and played like +hell. It used to excite me once, and now I don’t care for it. I won no +end of money,—no end for a poor beggar like me, that is; but I couldn’t +keep away. I couldn’t, and if she had been at the North Pole, by +Heavens I would have followed her.” + +“And so just to look at her, just to give your confounded stupid eyes +two minutes’ pleasure, you must bring about all this pain, you great +baby,” cries Kew, who was very soft-hearted, and in truth quite torn +himself by the sight of poor Jack’s agony. + +“Get me to see her for five minutes, Kew,” cries the other, griping his +comrade’s hand in his; “but for five minutes.” + +“For shame,” cries Lord Kew, shaking away his hand, “be a man, Jack, +and have no more of this puling. It’s not a baby, that must have its +toy, and cries because it can’t get it. Spare the poor girl this pain, +for her own sake, and balk yourself of the pleasure of bullying and +making her unhappy.” + +Belsize started up with looks that were by no means pleasant. “There’s +enough of this chaff I have been called names, and blackguarded quite +sufficiently for one sitting. I shall act as I please. I choose to take +my own way, and if any gentleman stops me he has full warning.” And he +fell to tugging his mustachios, which were of a dark tawny hue, and +looked as warlike as he had ever done on any field-day. + +“I take the warning!” said Lord Kew. “And if I know the way you are +going, as I think I do, I will do my best to stop you, madman as you +are! You can hardly propose to follow her to her own doorway and pose +yourself before your mistress as the murderer of her father, like +Rodrigue in the French play. If Rooster were here it would be his +business to defend his sister; In his absence I will take the duty on +myself, and I say to you, Charles Belsize, in the presence of these +gentlemen, that any man who iusults this young lady, who persecutes her +with his presence, knowing it can but pain her, who persists in +following her when he has given his word of honour to avoid her, that +such a man is——” + +“What, my Lord Kew?” cries Belsize, whose chest began to heave. + +“You know what,” answers the other. “You know what a man is who insults +a poor woman, and breaks his word of honour. Consider the word said, +and act upon it as you think fit.” + +“I owe you four thousand pounds, Kew,” says Belsize, “and I have got +four thousand on the bills, besides four hundred when I came out of +that place.” + +“You insult me the more,” cries Kew, flashing out, “by alluding to the +money. If you will leave this place to-morrow, well and good; if not, +you will please to give me a meeting. Mr. Newcome will you be so kind +as to act as my friend? We are connexions, you know, and this gentleman +chooses to insult a lady who is about to become one of our family.” + +“C’est bien, milord. Ma foi! c’est d’agir en vrai gentilhomme,” says +Florac, delighted. “Touchez-là, mon petit Kiou. Tu as du cœur. Godam! +you are a brave! A brave fellow!” and the Viscount reached out his hand +cordially to Lord Kew. + +His purpose was evidently pacific. From Kew he turned to the great +guardsman, and taking him by the coat began to apostrophise him. “And +you, mon gros,” says he, “is there no way of calming this hot blood +without a saignée? Have you a penny to the world? Can you hope to carry +off your Chiméne, O Rodrigue, and live by robbing afterwards on the +great way? Suppose you kill ze Fazér, you kill Kiou, you kill Roostere, +your Chiméne will have a pretty moon of honey.” + +“What the devil do you mean about your Chiméne and your Rodrigue? Do +you mean, Viscount——?” says Belsize, “Jack Belsize once more, and he +dashed his hand across his eyes. Kew has riled me, and he drove me half +wild. I ain’t much of a Frenchman, but I know enough of what you said, +to say it’s true, by Jove, and that Frank Kew’s a trump. That’s what +you mean. Give us your hand, Frank. God bless you, old boy; don’t be +too hard upon me, you know I’m d——d miserable, that I am. Hullo! What’s +this?” Jack’s pathetic speech was interrupted at this instant, for the +Vicomte de Florac in his enthusiasm rushed into his arms, and jumped up +towards his face and proceeded to kiss Jack. A roar of immense +laughter, as he shook the little Viscount off, cleared the air and +ended this quarrel. + +Everybody joined in this chorus, the Frenchman with the rest, who said, +“he loved to laugh meme when he did not know why.” And now came the +moment of the evening, when Clive, according to Lord Kew’s saying, +behaved so well and prevented Barnes from incurring a great danger. In +truth, what Mr. Clive did or said amounted exactly to nothing. What +moments can we not all remember in our lives when it would have been so +much wittier and wiser to say and do nothing? + +Florac, a very sober drinker like most of his nation, was blessed with +a very fine appetite, which, as he said, renewed itself thrice a day at +least. He now proposed supper, and poor Jack was for supper too, and +especially more drink, champagne and seltzer-water; “bring champagne +and seltzer-water, there is nothing like it.” Clive could not object to +this entertainment, which was ordered forthwith, and the four young men +sat down to share it. + +Whilst Florac was partaking of his favourite écrévisses, giving not +only his palate but his hands, his beard, his mustachios and cheeks a +full enjoyment of the sauce which he found so delicious, he chose to +revert now and again to the occurrences which had just passed, and +which had better perhaps have been forgotten, and gaily rallied Belsize +upon his warlike humour. “If ze petit pretendu was here, what would you +have done wiz him, Jac? You would croquer im, like zis ecrevisse, hein? +You would mache his bones, hein?” + +Jack, who had forgotten to put the seltzer-water into his champagne, +writhed at the idea of having Barnes Newcome before him, and swore, +could he but see Barnes, he would take the little villain’s life. + +And but for Clive, Jack might actually have beheld his enemy. Young +Clive after the meal went to the window with his eternal cigar, and of +course began to look at That Other window. Here, as he looked, a +carriage had at the moment driven up. He saw two servants descend, then +two gentlemen, and then he heard a well-known voice swearing at the +couriers. To his credit be it said, he checked the exclamation which +was on his lips, and when he came back to the table did not announce to +Kew or his right-hand neighbour Belsize, that his uncle and Barnes had +arrived. Belsize, by this time, had had quite too much wine: when the +viscount went away, poor Jack’s head was nodding; he had been awake all +the night before; sleepless for how many nights previous. He scarce +took any notice of the Frenchman’s departure. + +Lord Kew remained. He was for taking Jack to walk, and for reasoning +with him further, and for entering more at large than perhaps he chose +to do before the two others upon this family dispute. Clive took a +moment to whisper to Lord Kew, “My uncle and Barnes are arrived, don’t +let Belsize go out; for goodness’ sake let us get him to bed.” + +And lest the poor fellow should take a fancy to visit his mistress by +moonlight, when he was safe in his room Lord Kew softly turned the key +in Mr. Jack’s door. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. +A Retreat + + +As Clive lay awake revolving the strange incidents of the day, and +speculating upon the tragedy in which he had been suddenly called to +take a certain part, a sure presentiment told him that his own happy +holiday was come to an end, and that the clouds and storm which he had +always somehow foreboded, were about to break and obscure this brief +pleasant period of sunshine. He rose at a very early hour, flung his +windows open, looked out no doubt towards those other windows in the +neighbouring hotel, where he may have fancied he saw a curtain +stirring, drawn by a hand that every hour now he longed more to press. +He turned back into his chamber with a sort of groan, and surveyed some +of the relics of the last night’s little feast, which still remained on +the table. There were the champagne-flasks which poor Jack Belsize had +emptied, the tall seltzer-water bottle, from which the gases had issued +and mingled with the hot air of the previous night’s talk; glasses with +dregs of liquor, ashes of cigars, or their black stumps, strewing the +cloth; the dead men, the burst guns of yesterday’s battle. Early as it +was, his neighbour J. J had been up before him. Clive could hear him +singing as was his wont when the pencil went well, and the colours +arranged themselves to his satisfaction over his peaceful and happy +work. + +He pulled his own drawing-table to the window, set out his board and +colour-box, filled a great glass from the seltzer-water bottle, drank +some of the vapid liquor, and plunged his brushes in the rest, with +which he began to paint. The work all went wrong. There was no song for +him over his labour; he dashed brush and board aside after a while, +opened his drawers, pulled out his portmanteaus from under the bed, and +fell to packing mechanically. J. J. heard the noise from the next room, +and came in smiling, with a great painting-brush in his mouth. + +“Have the bills in, J. J.,” says Clive. “Leave your cards on your +friends, old boy; say good-bye to that pretty little strawberry-girl +whose picture you have been doing; polish it off to-day, and dry the +little thing’s tears. I read P.P.C. in the stars last night, and my +familiar spirit came to me in a vision, and said, ‘Clive, son of +Thomas, put thy travelling-boots on.’” + +Lest any premature moralist should prepare to cry fie against the good, +pure-minded little J. J., I hereby state that his strawberry-girl was a +little village maiden of seven years old, whose sweet little picture a +bishop purchased at the next year’s Exhibition. + +“Are you going already?” cries J. J., removing the bit out of his +mouth. “I thought you had arranged parties for a week to come, and that +the princesses and the duchesses had positively forbidden the departure +of your lordship!” + +“We have dallied at Capua long enough,” says Clive; “and the legions +have the route for Rome. So wills Hannibal, the son of Hasdrubal.” + +“The son of Hasdrubal is quite right,” his companion answered; “the +sooner we march the better. I have always said it; I will get all the +accounts in. Hannibal has been living like a voluptuous Carthaginian +prince. One, two, three champagne-bottles! There will be a deuce of a +bill to pay.” + +“Ah! there _will_ be a deuce of a bill to pay,” says Clive, with a +groan whereof J. J. knew the portent; for the young men had the +confidence of youth one in another. Clive was accustomed to pour out +his full heart to any crony who was near him; and indeed had he spoken +never a word, his growing attachment to his cousin was not hard to see. +A hundred times, and with the glowing language and feelings of youth, +with the fire of his twenty years, with the ardour of a painter, he had +spoken of her and described her. Her magnanimous simplicity, her +courage and lofty scorn, her kindness towards her little family, her +form, her glorious colour of rich carnation and dazzling white, her +queenly grace when quiescent and in motion, had constantly formed the +subjects of this young gentleman’s ardent eulogies. As he looked at a +great picture or statue, as the Venus of Milo, calm and deep, +unfathomably beautiful as the sea from which she sprung; as he looked +at the rushing Aurora of the Rospigliosi, or the Assumption of Titian, +more bright and glorious than sunshine, or that divine Madonna and +divine Infant, of Dresden, whose sweet faces must have shone upon +Raphael out of heaven; his heart sang hymns, as it were, before these +gracious altars; and, somewhat as he worshipped these masterpieces of +his art, he admired the beauty of Ethel. + +J. J. felt these things exquisitely after his manner, and enjoyed +honest Clive’s mode of celebration and rapturous fioriture of song; but +Ridley’s natural note was much gentler, and he sang his hymns in +plaintive minors. Ethel was all that was bright and beautiful but—but +she was engaged to Lord Kew. The shrewd kind confidant used gently to +hint the sad fact to the impetuous hero of this piece. The impetuous +hero knew this quite well. As he was sitting over his painting-board he +would break forth frequently, after his manner, in which laughter and +sentiment were mingled, and roar out with all the force of his healthy +young lungs— + +“But her heart it is another’s, she never—can—be—mine;” + + +and then hero and confidant would laugh each at his drawing-table. Miss +Ethel went between the two gentlemen by the name of Alice Grey. + +Very likely, Night, the Grey Mentor, had given Clive Newcome the +benefit of his sad counsel. Poor Belsize’s agony, and the wretchedness +of the young lady who shared in the desperate passion, may have set our +young man a-thinking; and Lord Kew’s frankness and courage, and honour, +whereof Clive had been a witness during the night, touched his heart +with a generous admiration, and manned him for a trial which he felt +was indeed severe. He thought of the dear old father ploughing the seas +on the way to his duty, and was determined, by Heaven’s help, to do his +own. Only three weeks since, when strolling careless about Bonn he had +lighted upon Ethel and the laughing group of little cousins, he was a +boy as they were, thinking but of the enjoyment of the day and the +sunshine, as careless as those children. And now the thoughts and +passions which had sprung up in a week or two, had given him an +experience such as years do not always furnish; and our friend was to +show, not only that he could feel love in his heart, but that he could +give proof of courage, and self-denial, and honour. + +“Do you remember, J. J.,” says he, as boots and breeches went plunging +into the portmanteau, and with immense energy, he pummels down one upon +the other, “do you remember” (a dig into the snowy bosom of a dress +cambric shirt) “my dear old father’s only campaign story of his running +away” (a frightful blow into the ribs of a waistcoat), “running away at +Asseer-Ghur?” + +“Asseer-What?” says J. J. wondering. + +“The siege of Asseer-Ghur!” says Clive, “fought in the eventful year +1803: Lieutenant Newcome, who has very neat legs, let me tell you, +which also he has imparted to his descendants, had put on a new pair of +leather breeches, for he likes to go handsomely dressed into action. +His horse was shot, the enemy were upon him, and the governor had to +choose between death and retreat. I have heard his brother-officers say +that my dear old father was the bravest man they ever knew, the coolest +hand, sir. What do you think it was Lieutenant Newcome’s duty to do +under these circumstances? To remain alone as he was, his troop having +turned about, and to be cut down by the Mahratta horsemen—to perish or +to run, sir?” + +“I know which I should have done,” says Ridley. + +“Exactly. Lieutenant Newcome adopted that course. His bran-new leather +breeches were exceedingly tight, and greatly incommoded the rapidity of +his retreating movement, but he ran away, sir, and afterwards begot +your obedient servant. That is the history of the battle of +Asseer-Ghur.” + +“And now for the moral,” says J. J., not a little amused. + +“J. J., old boy, this is my battle of Asseer-Ghur. I am off. Dip into +the money-bag: pay the people: be generous, J. J., but not too +prodigal. The chambermaid is ugly, yet let her not want for a crown to +console her at our departure. The waiters have been brisk and servile; +reward the slaves for their labours. Forget not the humble boots, so +shall he bless us when we depart. For artists are gentlemen, though +Ethel does not think so. De—No—God bless her, God bless her,” groans +out Clive, cramming his two fists into his eyes. If Ridley admired him +before, he thought none the worse of him now. And if any generous young +fellow in life reads the Fable, which may possibly concern him, let him +take a senior’s counsel and remember that there are perils in our +battle, God help us, from which the bravest had best run away. + +Early as the morning yet was, Clive had a visitor, and the door opened +to let in Lord Kew’s honest face. Ridley retreated before it into his +own den; the appearance of earls scared the modest painter, though he +was proud and pleased that his Clive should have their company. Lord +Kew indeed lived in more splendid apartments on the first floor of the +hotel, Clive and his friend occupying a couple of spacious chambers on +the second story. “You are an early bird,” says Kew. “I got up myself +in a panic before daylight almost; Jack was making a deuce of a row in +his room, and fit to blow the door out. I have been coaxing him for +this hour; I wish we had thought of giving him a dose of laudanum last +night; if it finished him, poor old boy, it would do him no harm.” And +then, laughing, he gave Clive an account of his interview with Barnes +on the previous night. “You seem to be packing up to go, too,” says +Lord Kew, with a momentary glance of humour darting from his keen eyes. +“The weather is breaking up here, and if you are going to cross the St. +Gothard, as the Newcomes told me, the sooner the better. It’s bitter +cold over the mountains in October.” + +“Very cold,” says Clive, biting his nails. + +“Post or Vett.?” asks my lord. + +“I bought a carriage at Frankfort,” says Clive, in an offhand manner. + +“Hulloh!” cries the other, who was perfectly kind, and entirely frank +and pleasant, and showed no difference in his conversation with men of +any degree, except perhaps that to his inferiors in station he was a +little more polite than to his equals; but who would as soon have +thought of a young artist leaving Baden in a carriage of his own as of +his riding away on a dragon. + +“I only gave twenty pounds for the carriage; it’s a little light thing, +we are two, a couple of horses carry us and our traps, you know, and we +can stop where we like. I don’t depend upon my profession,” Clive +added, with a blush. “I made three guineas once, and that is the only +money I ever gained in my life.” + +“Of course, my dear fellow, have not I been to your father’s house? At +that pretty ball, and seen no end of fine people there? We are young +swells. I know that very well. We only paint for pleasure.” + +“We are artists, and we intend to paint for money, my lord,” says +Clive. “Will your lordship give me an order?” + +“My lordship serves me right,” the other said. “I think, Newcome, as +you are going, I think you might do some folks here a good turn, though +the service is rather a disagreeable one. Jack Belsize is not fit to be +left alone. I can’t go away from here just now for reasons of state. Do +be a good fellow and take him with you. Put the Alps between him and +this confounded business, and if I can serve you in any way I shall be +delighted, if you will furnish me with the occasion. Jack does not know +yet that our amiable Barnes is here. I know how fond you are of him. I +have heard the story—glass of claret and all. We all love Barnes. How +that poor Lady Clara can have accepted him the Lord knows. We are +fearfully and wonderfully made, especially women.” + +“Good heavens,” Clive broke out, “can it be possible that a young +creature can have been brought to like such a selfish, insolent coxcomb +as that, such a cocktail as Barnes Newcome? You know very well, Lord +Kew, what his life is. There was a poor girl whom he brought out of a +Newcome factory when he was a boy himself, and might have had a heart +one would have thought, whom he ill-treated, whom he deserted, and +flung out of doors without a penny, upon some pretence of her +infidelity towards him; who came and actually sat down on the steps of +Park Lane with a child on each side of her, and not their cries and +their hunger, but the fear of his own shame and a dread of a +police-court, forced him to give her a maintenance. I never see the +fellow but I loathe him, and long to kick him out of window and this +man is to marry a noble young lady because forsooth he is a partner in +a bank, and heir to seven or eight thousand a year. Oh, it is a shame, +it is a shame! It makes me sick when I think of the lot which the poor +thing is to endure.” + +“It is not a nice story,” said Lord Kew, rolling a cigarette; “Barnes +is not a nice man. I give you that in. You have not heard it talked +about in the family, have you?” + +“Good heavens! you don’t suppose that I would speak to Ethel, to Miss +Newcome, about such a foul subject as that?” cries Clive. “I never +mentioned it to my own father. He would have turned Barnes out of his +doors if he had known it.” + +“It was the talk about town, I know,” Kew said dryly. “Everything is +told in those confounded clubs. I told you I give up Barnes. I like him +no more than you do. He may have treated the woman ill, I suspect he +has not an angelical temper: but in this matter he has not been so bad, +so very bad as it would seem. The first step is wrong, of course—those +factory towns—that sort of thing, you know—well, well, the commencement +of the business is a sad one. But he is not the only sinner in London. +He has declared on his honour to me when the matter was talked about, +and he was coming on for election at Bays’s, and was as nearly as any +man I ever knew in my life,—he declared on his word that he only parted +from poor Mrs. Delacy, (Mrs. Delacy, the devil used to call herself) +because he found that she had served him—as such women will serve men. +He offered to send his children to school in Yorkshire—rather a cheap +school—but she would not part with them. She made a scandal in order to +get good terms, and she succeeded. He was anxious to break the +connexion: he owned it had hung like a millstone round his neck and +caused him a great deal of remorse—annoyance you may call it. He was +immensely cut up about it. I remember, when that fellow was hanged for +murdering a woman, Barnes said he did not wonder at his having done it. +Young men make those connexions in their early lives and rue them all +their days after. He was heartily sorry, that we may take for granted. +He wished to lead a proper life. My grandmother managed this business +with the Dorkings. Lady Kew still pulls stroke oar in our boat, you +know, and the old woman will not give up her place. They know +everything, the elders do. He is a clever fellow. He is witty in his +way. When he likes he can make himself quite agreeable to some people. +There has been no sort of force. You don’t suppose young ladies are +confined in dungeons and subject to tortures, do you? But there is a +brood of Pulleyns at Chanticlere, and old Dorking has nothing to give +them. His daughter accepted Barnes of her own free will, he knowing +perfectly well of that previous affair with Jack. The poor devil bursts +into the place yesterday and the girl drops down in a faint. She will +see Belsize this very day if he likes. I took a note from Lady Dorking +to him at five o’clock this morning. If he fancies that there is any +constraint put upon Lady Clara’s actions she will tell him with her own +lips that she has acted of her own free will. She will marry the +husband she has chosen and do her duty by him. You are quite a young un +who boil and froth up with indignation at the idea that a girl hardly +off with an old love should take on with a new——” + +“I am not indignant with her,” says Clive, “for breaking with Belsize, +but for marrying Barnes.” + +“You hate him, and you know he is your enemy; and, indeed, young +fellow, he does not compliment you in talking about you. A pretty young +scapegrace he has made you out to be, and very likely thinks you to be. +It depends on the colours in which a fellow is painted. Our friends and +our enemies draw us,—and I often think both pictures are like,” +continued the easy world-philosopher. “You hate Barnes, and cannot see +any good in him. He sees none in you. There have been tremendous +shindies in Park Lane _à propos_ of your worship, and of a subject +which I don’t care to mention,” said Lord Kew, with some dignity; “and +what is the upshot of all this malevolence? I like you; I like your +father, I think he is a noble old boy; there are those who represented +him as a sordid schemer. Give Mr. Barnes the benefit of common charity +at any rate; and let others like him, if you do not. + +“And as for this romance of love,” the young nobleman went on, kindling +as he spoke, and forgetting the slang and colloquialisms with which we +garnish all our conversation—“this fine picture of Jenny and Jessamy +falling in love at first sight, billing and cooing in an arbour, and +retiring to a cottage afterwards to go on cooing and billing—Psha! what +folly is this! It is good for romances, and for misses to sigh about; +but any man who walks through the world with his eyes open, knows how +senseless is all this rubbish. I don’t say that a young man and woman +are not to meet, and to fall in love that instant, and to marry that +day year, and love each other till they are a hundred; that is the +supreme lot—but that is the lot which the gods only grant to Baucis and +Philemon, and a very, very few besides. As for the rest, they must +compromise; make themselves as comfortable as they can, and take the +good and the bad together. And as for Jenny and Jessamy, by Jove! look +round among your friends, count up the love matches, and see what has +been the end of most of them! Love in a cottage! Who is to pay the +landlord for the cottage? Who is to pay for Jenny’s tea and cream, and +Jessamy’s mutton-chops? If he has cold mutton, he will quarrel with +her. If there is nothing in the cupboard, a pretty meal they make. No, +you cry out against people in our world making money marriages. Why, +kings and queens marry on the same understanding. My butcher has saved +a stockingful of money, and marries his daughter to a young salesman; +Mr. and Mrs. Salesman prosper in life, and get an alderman’s daughter +for their son. My attorney looks out amongst his clients for an +eligible husband for Miss Deeds; sends his son to the bar, into +Parliament, where he cuts a figure and becomes attorney-general, makes +a fortune, has a house in Belgrave Square, and marries Miss Deeds of +the second generation to a peer. Do not accuse us of being more sordid +than our neighbours. We do but as the world does; and a girl in our +society accepts the best _parti_ which offers itself, just as Miss +Chummey, when entreated by two young gentlemen of the order of +costermongers, inclines to the one who rides from market on a moke, +rather than to the gentleman who sells his greens from a handbasket.” + +This tirade, which his lordship delivered with considerable spirit, was +intended no doubt to carry a moral for Clive’s private hearing; and +which, to do him justice, the youth was not slow to comprehend. The +point was, “Young man, if certain persons of rank choose to receive you +very kindly, who have but a comely face, good manners, and three or +four hundred pounds a year, do not presume upon their good-nature, or +indulge in certain ambitious hopes which your vanity may induce you to +form. Sail down the stream with the brass-pots, Master Earthen-pot, but +beware of coming too near! You are a nice young man, but there are +prizes which are some too good for you, and are meant for your betters. +And you might as well ask the prime minister for the next vacant garter +as expect to wear on your breast such a star as Ethel Newcome.” + +Before Clive made his accustomed visit to his friends at the hotel +opposite, the last great potentiary had arrived who was to take part in +the family Congress of Baden. In place of Ethel’s flushing cheeks and +bright eyes, Clive found, on entering Lady Anne Newcome’s sitting-room, +the parchment-covered features and the well-known hooked beak of the +old Countess of Kew. To support the glances from beneath the bushy +black eyebrows on each side of that promontory was no pleasant matter. +The whole family cowered under Lady Kew’s eyes and nose, and she ruled +by force of them. It was only Ethel whom these awful features did not +utterly subdue and dismay. + +Besides Lady Kew, Clive had the pleasure of finding his lordship, her +grandson, Lady Anne and children of various sizes, and Mr. Barnes; not +one of whom was the person whom Clive desired to behold. + +The queer glance in Kew’s eye directed towards Clive, who was himself +not by any means deficient in perception, informed him that there had +just been a conversation in which his own name had figured. Having been +abusing Clive extravagantly as he did whenever he mentioned his +cousin’s name, Barnes must needs hang his head when the young fellow +came in. His hand was yet on the chamber-door, and Barnes was calling +his miscreant and scoundrel within; so no wonder Barnes had a hangdog +look. But as for Lady Kew, that veteran diplomatist allowed no signs of +discomfiture, or any other emotion, to display themselves on her +ancient countenance. Her bushy eyebrows were groves of mystery, her +unfathomable eyes were wells of gloom. + +She gratified Clive by a momentary loan of two knuckly old fingers, +which he was at liberty to hold or to drop; and then he went on to +enjoy the felicity of shaking hands with Mr. Barnes, who, observing and +enjoying his confusion over Lady Kew’s reception, determined to try +Clive in the same way, and he gave Clive at the same time a +supercilious “How de dah,” which the other would have liked to drive +down his throat. A constant desire to throttle Mr. Barnes—to beat him +on the nose—to send him flying out of window, was a sentiment with +which this singular young man inspired many persons whom he accosted. A +biographer ought to be impartial, yet I own, in a modified degree, to +have partaken of this sentiment. He looked very much younger than his +actual time of life, and was not of commanding stature; but patronised +his equals, nay, let us say, his betters, so insufferably, that a +common wish for his suppression existed amongst many persons in +society. + +Clive told me of this little circumstance, and I am sorry to say of his +own subsequent ill behaviour. “We were standing apart from the ladies,” +so Clive narrated, “when Barnes and I had our little passage-of-arms. +He had tried the finger business upon me before, and I had before told +him, either to shake hands or to leave it alone. You know the way in +which the impudent little beggar stands astride, and sticks his little +feet out. I brought my heel well down on his confounded little +varnished toe, and gave it a scrunch which made Mr. Barnes shriek out +one of his loudest oaths.” + +“D—— clumsy ——!” screamed out Barnes. + +Clive said, in a low voice, “I thought you only swore at women, +Barnes.” + +“It is you that say things before women, Clive,” cries his cousin, +looking very furious. + +Mr. Clive lost all patience. “In what company, Barnes, would you like +me to say, that I think you are a snob? Will you have it on the Parade? +Come out and I will speak to you.” + +“Barnes can’t go out on the Parade,” cries Lord Kew, bursting out +laughing: “there’s another gentleman there wanting him.” And two of the +three young men enjoyed this joke exceedingly. I doubt whether Barnes +Newcome Newcome, Esq., of Newcome, was one of the persons amused. + +“What wickedness are you three boys laughing at?” cries Lady Anne, +perfectly innocent and good-natured; “no good, I will be bound. Come +here, Clive.” Our young friend, it must be premised, had no sooner +received the thrust of Lady Kew’s two fingers on entering, than it had +been intimated to him that his interview with that gracious lady was at +an end. For she had instantly called her daughter to her, with whom her +ladyship fell a-whispering; and then it was that Clive retreated from +Lady Kew’s hand, to fall into Barnes’s. + +“Clive trod on Barnes’s toe,” cries out cheery Lord Kew, “and has hurt +Barnes’s favourite corn, so that he cannot go out, and is actually +obliged to keep the room. That’s what we were laughing at.” + +“Hem!” growled Lady Kew. She knew to what her grandson alluded. Lord +Kew had represented Jack Belsize, and his thundering big stick, in the +most terrific colours to the family council. The joke was too good a +one not to serve twice. + +Lady Anne, in her whispered conversation with the old Countess, had +possibly deprecated her mother’s anger towards poor Clive, for when he +came up to the two ladies, the younger took his hand with great +kindness, and said, “My dear Clive, we are very sorry you are going. +You were of the greatest use to us on the journey. I am sure you have +been uncommonly good-natured and obliging, and we shall all miss you +very much.” Her gentleness smote the generous young fellow, and an +emotion of gratitude towards her for being so compassionate to him in +his misery, caused his cheeks to blush and his eyes perhaps to moisten. +“Thank you, dear aunt,” says he, “you have been very good and kind to +me. It is I that shall feel lonely; but—but it is quite time that I +should go to my work.” + +“Quite time!” said the severe possessor of the eagle beak. “Baden is a +bad place for young men. They make acquaintances here of which very +little good can come. They frequent the gambling-tables, and live with +the most disreputable French Viscounts. We have heard of your +goings-on, sir. It is a great pity that Colonel Newcome did not take +you with him to India.” + +“My dear mamma,” cries Lady Anne, “I am sure Clive has been a very good +boy indeed.” The old lady’s morality put a stop to Clive’s pathetic +mood, and he replied with a great deal of spirit, “Dear Lady Anne, you +have been always very good, and kindness is nothing surprising from +you; but Lady Kew’s advice, which I should not have ventured to ask, is +an unexpected favour; my father knows the extent of the gambling +transactions to which your ladyship was pleased to allude, and +introduced me to the gentleman whose acquaintance you don’t seem to +think eligible.” + +“My good young man, I think it is time you were off,” Lady Kew said, +this time with great good-humour; she liked Clive’s spirit, and as long +as he interfered with none of her plans, was quite disposed to be +friendly with him. “Go to Rome, go to Florence, go wherever you like, +and study very hard, and make very good pictures, and come back again, +and we shall all be very glad to see you. You have very great +talents—these sketches are really capital.” + +“Is not he very clever, mamma?” said kind Lady Anne, eagerly. Clive +felt the pathetic mood coming on again, and an immense desire to hug +Lady Anne in his arms, and to kiss her. How grateful are we—how touched +a frank and generous heart is for a kind word extended to us in our +pain! The pressure of a tender hand nerves a man for an operation, and +cheers him for the dreadful interview with the surgeon. + +That cool old operator, who had taken Mr. Clive’s case in hand, now +produced her shining knife, and executed the first cut with perfect +neatness and precision. “We are come here, as I suppose you know, Mr. +Newcome, upon family matters, and I frankly tell you that I think, for +your own sake, you would be much better away. I wrote my daughter a +great scolding when I heard that you were in this place.” + +“But it was by the merest chance, mamma, indeed it was,” cries Lady +Anne. + +“Of course, by the merest chance, and by the merest chance I heard of +it too. A little bird came and told me at Kissingen. You have no more +sense, Anne, than a goose. I have told you so a hundred times. Lady +Anne requested you to stay, and I, my good young friend, request you to +go away.” + +“I needed no request,” said Clive. “My going, Lady Kew, is my own act. +I was going without requiring any guide to show me to the door.” + +“No doubt you were, and my arrival is the signal for Mr. Newcome’s _bon +jour_. I am Bogey, and I frighten everybody away. By the scene which +you witnessed yesterday, my good young friend, and all that painful +_esclandre_ on the promenade, you must see how absurd, and dangerous, +and wicked—yes, wicked it is for parents to allow intimacies to spring +up between young people, which can only lead to disgrace and +unhappiness. Lady Dorking was another good-natured goose. I had not +arrived yesterday ten minutes, when my maid came running in to tell me +of what had occurred on the promenade; and, tired as I was, I went that +instant to Jane Dorking and passed the evening with her, and that poor +little creature to whom Captain Belsize behaved so cruelly. She does +not care a fig for him—not one fig. Her childish inclination is passed +away these two years, whilst Mr. Jack was performing his feats in +prison; and if the wretch flatters himself that it was on his account +she was agitated yesterday, he is perfectly mistaken, and you may tell +him Lady Kew said so. She is subject to fainting fits. Dr. Finck has +been attending her ever since she has been here. She fainted only last +Tuesday at the sight of a rat walking about their lodgings (they have +dreadful lodgings, the Dorkings), and no wonder she was frightened at +the sight of that great coarse tipsy wretch! She is engaged, as you +know, to your connexion, my grandson, Barnes:—in all respects a most +eligible union. The rank of life of the parties suits them to one +another. She is a good young woman, and Barnes has experienced from +persons of another sort such horrors, that he will know the blessing of +domestic virtue. It was high time he should. I say all this in perfect +frankness to you. + +“Go back again and play in the garden, little brats” (this to the +innocents who came frisking in from the lawn in front of the windows). +“You have been? And Barnes sent you in here? Go up to Miss Quigley. No, +stop. Go and tell Ethel to come down; bring her down with you. Do you +understand?” + +The unconscious infants toddle upstairs to their sister; and Lady Kew +blandly says, “Ethel’s engagement to my grandson, Lord Kew, has long +been settled in our family, though these things are best not talked +about until they are quite determined, you know, my dear Mr. Newcome. +When we saw you and your father in London, we heard that you too-that +you too were engaged to a young lady in your own rank of life, a +Miss—what was her name?—Miss MacPherson, Miss Mackenzie. Your aunt, +Mrs. Hobson Newcome, who I must say is a most blundering silly person, +had set about this story. It appears there is no truth in it. Do not +look surprised that I know about your affairs. I am an old witch, and +know numbers of things.” + +And, indeed, how Lady Kew came to know this fact, whether her maid +corresponded with Lady Anne’s maid, what her ladyship’s means of +information were, avowed or occult, this biographer has never been able +to ascertain. Very likely Ethel, who in these last three weeks had been +made aware of that interesting circumstance, had announced it to Lady +Kew in the course of a cross-examination, and there may have been a +battle between the granddaughter and the grandmother, of which the +family chronicler of the Newcomes has had no precise knowledge. That +there were many such I know—skirmishes, sieges, and general +engagements. When we hear the guns, and see the wounded, we know there +has been a fight. Who knows had there been a battle-royal, and was Miss +Newcome having her wounds dressed upstairs? + +“You will like to say good-bye to your cousin, I know,” Lady Kew +continued, with imperturbable placidity. “Ethel, my dear, here is Mr. +Clive Newcome, who has come to bid us all good-bye.” The little girls +came trotting down at this moment, each holding a skirt of their elder +sister. She looked rather pale, but her expression was haughty—almost +fierce. + +Clive rose up as she entered, from the sofa by the old Countess’s side, +which place she had pointed him to take during the amputation. He rose +up and put his hair back off his face, and said very calmly, “Yes, I’m +come to say good-bye. My holidays are over, and Ridley and I are off +for Rome; good-bye, and God bless you, Ethel.” + +She gave him her hand and said, “Good-bye, Clive,” but her hand did not +return his pressure, and dropped to her side, when he let it go. + +Hearing the words good-bye, little Alice burst into a howl, and little +Maude, who was an impetuous little thing, stamped her little red shoes +and said, “It san’t be good-bye. Tlive san’t go.” Alice, roaring, clung +hold of Clive’s trousers. He took them up gaily, each on an arm, as he +had done a hundred times, and tossed the children on to his shoulders, +where they used to like to pull his yellow mustachios. He kissed the +little hands and faces, and a moment after was gone. + +“Qu’as-tu?” says M. de Florac, meeting him going over the bridge to his +own hotel. “Qu’as-tu, mon petit Claive? Est-ce qu’on vient de +t’arracher une dent?” + +“C’est ça,” says Clive, and walked into the Hôtel de France. “Hulloh! +J. J.! Ridley!” he sang out. “Order the trap out and let’s be off.” “I +thought we were not to march till to-morrow,” says J. J., divining +perhaps that some catastrophe had occurred. Indeed, Mr. Clive was going +a day sooner than he had intended. He woke at Fribourg the next +morning. It was the grand old cathedral he looked at, not Baden of the +pine-clad hills, of the pretty walks and the lime-tree avenues. Not +Baden, the prettiest booth of all Vanity Fair. The crowds and the +music, the gambling-tables and the cadaverous croupiers and chinking +gold, were far out of sight and hearing. There was one window in the +Hôtel de Hollande that he thought of, how a fair arm used to open it in +the early morning, how the muslin curtain in the morning air swayed to +and fro. He would have given how much to see it once more! Walking +about at Fribourg in the night, away from his companions, he had +thought of ordering horses, galloping back to Baden, and once again +under that window, calling Ethel, Ethel. But he came back to his room +and the quiet J. J., and to poor Jack Belsize, who had had his tooth +taken out too. + +We had almost forgotten Jack, who took a back seat in Clive’s carriage, +as befits a secondary personage in this history, and Clive in truth had +almost forgotten him too. But Jack having his own cares and business, +and having rammed his own carpet-bag, brought it down without a word, +and Clive found him environed in smoke when he came down to take his +place in the little britzska. I wonder whether the window at the Hôtel +de Hollande saw him go? There are some curtains behind which no +historian, however prying, is allowed to peep. + +“Tiens, le petit part,” says Florac of the cigar, who was always +sauntering. “Yes, we go,” says Clive. “There is a fourth place, +Viscount; will you come too?” + +“I would love it well,” replies Florac, “but I am here in faction. My +cousin and seigneur M. le Duc d’Ivry is coming all the way from +Bagneres de Bigorre. He says he counts on me:—affaires mon cher, +affaires d’etat.” + +“How pleased the duchess will be! Easy with that bag!” shouts Clive. +“How pleased the princess will be!” In truth he hardly knew what he was +saying. + +“Vous croyez; vous croyez,” says M. de Florac. “As you have a fourth +place, I know who had best take it.” + +“And who is that?” asked the young traveller. + +Lord Kew and Barnes, Esq., of Newcome, came out of the Hotel de +Hollande at this moment. Barnes slunk back, seeing Jack Belsize’s hairy +face. Kew ran over the bridge. “Good-bye, Clive. Good-bye, Jack.” +“Good-bye, Kew.” It was a great handshake. Away goes the postillion +blowing his horn, and young Hannibal has left Capua behind him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. +Madame la Duchesse + + +In one of Clive Newcome’s letters from Baden, the young man described +to me, with considerable humour and numerous illustrations as his wont +was, a great lady to whom he was presented at that watering-place by +his friend Lord Kew. Lord Kew had travelled in the East with Monsieur +le Duc and Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry—the prince being an old friend of +his lordship’s family. He is the “Q” of Madame d’Ivry’s book of +travels, Footprints of the Gazelles, by a daughter of the Crusaders, in +which she prays so fervently for Lord Kew’s conversion. He is the “Q” +who rescued the princess from the Arabs, and performed many a feat +which lives in her glowing pages. He persists in saying that he never +rescued Madame la Princesse from any Arabs at all, except from one +beggar who was bawling out for bucksheesh, and whom Kew drove away with +a stick. They made pilgrimages to all the holy places, and a piteous +sight it was, said Lord Kew, to see the old prince in the Jerusalem +processions at Easter pacing with bare feet and a candle. Here Lord Kew +separated from the prince’s party. His name does not occur in the last +part of the Footprints; which, in truth, are filled full of strange +rhapsodies, adventures which nobody was but the princess, and mystic +disquisitions. She hesitates at nothing, like other poets of her +nation: not profoundly learned, she invents where she has not acquired: +mingles together religion and the opera; and performs Parisian +_pas-de-ballet_ before the gates of monasteries and the cells of +anchorites. She describes, as if she had herself witnessed the +catastrophe, the passage of the Red Sea: and, as if there were no doubt +of the transaction, an unhappy love-affair between Pharaoh’s eldest son +and Moses’s daughter. At Cairo, _à propos_ of Joseph’s granaries, she +enters into a furious tirade against Putiphar, whom she paints as an +old savage, suspicious and a tyrant. They generally have a copy of the +Footprints of the Gazelles at the Circulating Library at Baden, as +Madame d’Ivry constantly visits that watering-place. M. le Duc was not +pleased with the book, which was published entirely without his +concurrence, and which he described as one of the ten thousand follies +of Madame la Duchesse. + +This nobleman was five-and-forty years older than his duchess. France +is the country where that sweet Christian institution of _mariages de +convenance_ (which so many folks of the family about which this story +treats are engaged in arranging) is most in vogue. There the newspapers +daily announce that M. de Foy has a bureau de confiance, where families +may arrange marriages for their sons and daughters in perfect comfort +and security. It is but a question of money on one side and the other. +Mademoiselle has so many francs of dot; Monsieur has such and such +_rentes_ or lands in possession or reversion, an _étude d’avoué_, a +shop with a certain _clientèle_ bringing him such and such an income, +which may be doubled by the judicious addition of so much capital, and +the pretty little matrimonial arrangement is concluded (the agent +touching his percentage), or broken off, and nobody unhappy, and the +world none the wiser. The consequences of the system I do not pretend +personally to know; but if the light literature of a country is a +reflex of its manners, and French novels are a picture of French life, +a pretty society must that be into the midst of which the London reader +may walk in twelve hours from this time of perusal, and from which only +twenty miles of sea separate us. + +When the old Duke d’Ivry, of the ancient ancient nobility of France, an +emigrant with Artois, a warrior with Conde, an exile during the reign +of the Corsican usurper, a grand prince, a great nobleman afterwards, +though shorn of nineteen-twentieths of his wealth by the +Revolution,—when the Duke d’Ivry lost his two sons, and his son’s son +likewise died, as if fate had determined to end the direct line of that +noble house, which had furnished queens to Europe, and renowned chiefs +to the Crusaders—being of an intrepid spirit, the Duke was ill disposed +to yield to his redoubtable enemy, in spite of the cruel blows which +the latter had inflicted upon him, and when he was more than sixty +years of age, three months before the July Revolution broke out, a +young lady of a sufficient nobility, a virgin of sixteen, was brought +out of the convent of the Sacré Cœur at Paris, and married with immense +splendour and ceremony to this princely widower. The most august names +signed the book of the civil marriage. Madame la Dauphine and Madame la +Duchesse de Berri complimented the young bride with royal favours. Her +portrait by Dubufe was in the Exhibition next year, a charming young +duchess indeed, with black eyes, and black ringlets, pearls on her +neck, and diamonds in her hair, as beautiful as a princess of a fairy +tale. M. d’Ivry, whose early life may have been rather oragious, was +yet a gentleman perfectly well conserved. Resolute against fate his +enemy (one would fancy fate was of an aristocratic turn, and took +especial delight in combats with princely houses; the Atridae, the +Borbonidae, the Ivrys,—the Browns and Joneses being of no account), the +prince seemed to be determined not only to secure a progeny, but to +defy age. At sixty he was still young, or seemed to be so. His hair was +as black as the princess’s own, his teeth as white. If you saw him on +the Boulevard de Gand, sunning among the youthful exquisites there, or +riding _au Bois_, with a grace worthy of old Franconi himself, you +would take him for one of the young men, of whom indeed up to his +marriage he retained a number of the graceful follies and amusements, +though his manners had a dignity acquired in old days of Versailles and +the Trianon, which the moderns cannot hope to imitate. He was as +assiduous behind the scenes of the opera as any journalist, or any +young dandy of twenty years. He “ranged himself,” as the French phrase +is, shortly before his marriage, just like any other young bachelor: +took leave of Phryne and Aspasie in the coulisses, and proposed to +devote himself henceforth to his charming young wife. + +The affreux catastrophe of July arrived. The ancient Bourbons were once +more on the road to exile (save one wily old remnant of the race, who +rode grinning over the barricades, and distributing poignees de main to +the stout fists that had pummelled his family out of France). M. le Duc +d’Ivry, who lost his place at court, his appointments which helped his +income very much, and his peerage would no more acknowledge the usurper +of Neuilly, than him of Elba. The ex-peer retired to his _terres_. He +barricaded his house in Paris against all supporters of the citizen +king; his nearest kinsman, M. de Florac, among the rest, who for his +part cheerfully took his oath of fidelity, and his seat in Louis +Philippe’s house of peers, having indeed been accustomed to swear to +all dynasties for some years past. + +In due time Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry gave birth to a child, a +daughter, whom her noble father received with but small pleasure. What +the Duke desired, was an heir to his name, a Prince of Moncontour, to +fill the place of the sons and grandsons gone before him, to join their +ancestors in the tomb. No more children, however, blessed the old +Duke’s union. Madame d’Ivry went the round of all the watering-places: +pilgrimages were tried: vows and gifts to all saints supposed to be +favourable to the d’Ivry family, or to families in general:—but the +saints turned a deaf ear; they were inexorable since the true religion +and the elder Bourbons were banished from France. + +Living by themselves in their ancient castles, or their dreary mansion +of the Faubourg St. Germain, I suppose the Duke and Duchess grew tried +of one another, as persons who enter into a _mariage de convenance_ +sometimes, nay, as those who light a flaming love-match, and run away +with one another, will be found to do. A lady of one-and-twenty, and a +gentleman of sixty-six, alone in a great castle, have not unfrequently +a third guest at their table, who comes without a card, and whom they +cannot shut out, though they keep their doors closed ever so. His name +is Ennui, and many a long hour and weary night must such folks pass in +the unbidden society of this Old Man of the Sea; this daily guest at +the board; this watchful attendant at the fireside; this assiduous +companion who _will_ walk out with you; this sleepless restless +bedfellow. + +At first, M. d’Ivry, that well-conserved nobleman who never would allow +that he was not young, exhibited no sign of doubt regarding his own +youth except an extreme jealousy and avoidance of all other young +fellows. Very likely Madame la Duchesse may have thought men in general +dyed their hair, wore stays, and had the rheumatism. Coming out of the +convent of the Sacré Cœur, how was the innocent young lady to know +better? You see, in these _mariages de convenance_, though a coronet +may be convenient to a beautiful young creature, and a beautiful young +creature may be convenient to an old gentleman, there are articles +which the marriage-monger cannot make to convene at all: tempers over +which M. de Foy and his like have no control; and tastes which cannot +be put into the marriage settlements. So this couple were unhappy, and +the Duke and Duchess quarrelled with one another like the most vulgar +pair who ever fought across a table. + +In this unhappy state of home affairs, madame took to literature, +monsieur to politics. She discovered that she was a great unappreciated +soul, and when a woman finds that treasure in her bosom of course she +sets her own price on the article. Did you ever see the first poems of +Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry, Les Cris de l’Ame? She used to read them to +her very intimate friends, in white, with her hair a good deal down her +back. They had some success. Dubufe having painted her as a Duchess, +Scheffer depicted her as a Muse. That was in the third year of her +marriage, when she rebelled against the Duke her husband, insisted on +opening her saloons to art and literature, and, a fervent devotee +still, proposed to unite genius and religion. Poets had interviews with +her. Musicians came and twanged guitars to her. + +Her husband, entering her room, would fall over the sabre and spurs of +Count Almaviva from the boulevard, or Don Basilio with his great +sombrero and shoe-buckles. The old gentleman was breathless and +bewildered in following her through all her vagaries. He was of old +France, she of new. What did he know of the Ecole Romantique, and these +_jeunes gens_ with their Marie Tudors and Tours de Nesle, and +sanguineous histories of queens who sewed their lovers into sacks, +emperors who had interviews with robber captains in Charlemagne’s tomb, +Buridans and Hernanis, and stuff? Monsieur le Vicomte de Chateaubriand +was a man of genius as a writer, certainly immortal; and M. de +Lamartine was a young man extremely _bien pensant_, but, _ma foi_, give +him _Crébillon fils_, or a bonne farce of M. Vade to make laugh; for +the great sentiments, for the beautiful style, give him M. de Lormian +(although Bonapartist) or the Abbé de Lille. And for the new school! +bah! these little Dumass, and Hugos, and Mussets, what is all that? “M. +de Lormian shall be immortal, monsieur,” he would say, “when all these +_freluquets_ are forgotten.” After his marriage he frequented the +coulisses of the opera no more; but he was a pretty constant attendant +at the Théatre Français, where you might hear him snoring over the +_chefs-d’œuvres_ of French tragedy. + +For some little time after 1830, the Duchesse was as great a Carlist as +her husband could wish; and they conspired together very comfortably at +first. Of an adventurous turn, eager for excitement of all kinds, +nothing would have better pleased the Duchesse than to follow MADAME in +her adventurous courses in La Vendee, disguised as a boy above all. She +was persuaded to stay at home, however, and aid the good cause at +Paris; while Monsieur le Duc went off to Brittany to offer his old +sword to the mother of his king. But MADAME was discovered up the +chimney at Rennes, and all sorts of things were discovered afterwards. +The world said that our silly little Duchess of Paris was partly the +cause of the discovery. Spies were put upon her, and to some people she +would tell anything. M. le Duc, on paying his annual visit to august +exiles at Goritz, was very badly received: Madame la Dauphine gave him +a sermon. He had an awful quarrel with Madame la Duchesse on returning +to Paris. He provoked Monsieur le Comte Tiercelin, le beau Tiercelin, +an officer of ordonnance of the Duke of Orleans, into a duel, _à +propos_ of a cup of coffee in a salon; he actually wounded the beau +Tiercelin—he sixty-five years of age! his nephew, M. de Florac, was +loud in praise of his kinsman’s bravery. + +That pretty figure and complexion which still appear so captivating in +M. Dubufe’s portrait of Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry, have long existed—it +must be owned only in paint. “_Je la préfère à l’huile_,” the Vicomte +de Florac said of his cousin. “She should get her blushes from Monsieur +Dubufe—those of her present furnishers are not near so natural.” +Sometimes the Duchess appeared with these postiches roses, sometimes of +a mortal paleness. Sometimes she looked plump, on other occasions +wofully thin. “When she goes into the world,” said the same chronicler, +“ma cousine surrounds herself with _jupons_—c’est pour défendre sa +vertu: when she is in a devotional mood, she gives up rouge, roast +meat, and crinoline, and _fait maigre absolument_.” To spite the Duke +her husband, she took up with the Vicomte de Florac, and to please +herself she cast him away. She took his brother, the Abbé de Florac, +for a director, and presently parted from him. “Mon frère, ce saint +homme ne parle jamais de Madame la Duchesse, maintenant,” said the +Vicomte. “She must have confessed to him des choses affreuses—oh, +oui!—affreuses ma parole d’honneur!” + +The Duke d’Ivry being archiroyaliste, Madame la Duchesse must make +herself ultra-Philippiste. “Oh, oui! tout ce qu’il y a de plus Madame +Adélaide au monde!” cried Florac. “She raffoles of M. le Régent. She +used to keep a fast of the day of the supplice of Philippe Egalité, +Saint and Martyr. I say used, for to make to enrage her husband, and to +recall the Abbé my brother, did she not advise herself to consult M. le +Pasteur Grigou, and to attend the preach at his Temple? When this sheep +had brought her shepherd back, she dismissed the Pasteur Grigou. Then +she tired of M. l’Abbé again, and my brother is come out from her, +shaking his good head. Ah! she must have put things into it which +astonished the good Abbé! You know he has since taken the Dominican +robe? My word of honour! I believe it was terror of her that drove him +into a convent. You shall see him at Rome, Clive. Give him news of his +elder, and tell him this gross prodigal is repenting amongst the swine. +My word of honour! I desire but the death of Madame la Vicomtesse de +Florac, to marry and range myself! + +“After being Royalist, Philippist, Catholic, Huguenot, Madame d’Ivry +must take to Pantheism, to bearded philosophers who believe in nothing, +not even in clean linen, eclecticism, republicanism, what know I? All +her changes have been chronicled by books of her composition. Les +Démons, poem Catholic; Charles IX. is the hero and the demons are shot +for the most part at the catastrophe of St. Bartholomew. My good +mother, all good Catholic as she is, was startled by the boldness of +this doctrine. Then there came Une Dragonnade, par Mme. la Duchesse +d’Ivry, which is all on your side. That was of the time of the Pastor +Grigou, that one. The last was Les Dieux déchus, poème en 20 chants, +par Mme. la D—— d’I. Guard yourself well from this Muse! If she takes a +fancy to you she will never leave you alone. If you see her often, she +will fancy you are in love with her, and tell her husband. She always +tells my uncle—afterwards—after she has quarrelled with you and grown +tired of you! Eh, being in London once, she had the idea to make +herself a _Quakre;_ wore the costume, consulted a minister of that +culte, and quarrelled with him as of rule. It appears the Quakers do +not beat themselves, otherwise my poor uncle must have paid of his +person. + +“The turn of the philosophers then came, the chemists, the natural +historians, what know I? She made a laboratory in her hotel, and +rehearsed poisons like Madame de Brinvilliers—she spent hours in the +Jardin des Plantes. Since she has grown _affreusement maigre_ and wears +mounting robes, she has taken more than ever to the idea that she +resembles Mary Queen of Scots. She wears a little frill and a little +cap. Every man she loves, she says, has come to misfortune. She calls +her lodgings Lochleven. Eh! I pity the landlord of Lochleven! She calls +ce gros Blackball, vous savez, that pillar of estaminets, that prince +of mauvais-ton, her Bothwell; little Mijaud, the poor little pianist, +she named her Rizzio; young Lord Greenhorn who was here with governor, +a Monsieur of Oxfort, she christened her Darnley, and the Minister +Anglican, her John Knox! The poor man was quite enchanted! Beware of +this haggard siren, my little Clive!—mistrust her dangerous song! Her +cave is _jonchée_ with the bones of her victims. Be you not one!” + +Far from causing Clive to avoid Madame la Duchesse, these cautions very +likely would have made him only the more eager to make her +acquaintance, but that a much nobler attraction drew him elsewhere. At +first, being introduced to Madame d’Ivry’s salon, he was pleased and +flattered, and behaved himself there merrily and agreeably enough. He +had not studied Horace Vernet for nothing; he drew a fine picture of +Kew rescuing her from the Arabs, with a plenty of sabres, pistols, +burnouses, and dromedaries. He made a pretty sketch of her little girl +Antoinette, and a wonderful likeness of Miss O’Grady, the little girl’s +governess, the mother’s dame de compagnie;—Miss O’Grady, with the +richest Milesian brogue, who had been engaged to give Antoinette the +pure English accent. But the French lady’s great eyes and painted +smiles would not bear comparison with Ethel’s natural brightness and +beauty. Clive, who had been appointed painter in ordinary to the Queen +of Scots, neglected his business, and went over to the English faction; +so did one or two more of the Princess’s followers, leaving her Majesty +by no means well pleased at their desertion. + +There had been many quarrels between M. d’Ivry and his next-of-kin. +Political differences, private differences—a long story. The Duke, who +had been wild himself, could not pardon the Vicomte de Florac for being +wild. Efforts at reconciliation had been made which ended +unsuccessfully. The Vicomte de Florac had been allowed for a brief +space to be intimate with the chief of his family, and then had been +dismissed for being too intimate. Right or wrong, the Duke was jealous +of all young men who approached the Duchesse. “He is suspicious,” +Madame de Florac indignantly said, “because he remembers: and he thinks +other men are like himself.” The Vicomte discreetly said, “My cousin +has paid me the compliment to be jealous of me,” and acquiesced in his +banishment with a shrug. + +During the emigration the old Lord Kew had been very kind to exiles, M. +d’Ivry amongst the number; and that nobleman was anxious to return to +all Lord Kew’s family when they came to France the hospitality which he +had received himself in England. He still remembered or professed to +remember Lady Kew’s beauty. How many women are there, awful of aspect, +at present, of whom the same pleasing legend is not narrated! It must +be true, for do not they themselves confess it? I know of few things +more remarkable or suggestive of philosophic contemplation than those +physical changes. + +When the old Duke and the old Countess met together and talked +confidentially, their conversation bloomed into a jargon wonderful to +hear. Old scandals woke up, old naughtinesses rose out of their graves, +and danced, and smirked, and gibbered again, like those wicked nuns +whom Bertram and Robert le Diable evoke from their sepulchres whilst +the bassoon performs a diabolical incantation. The Brighton Pavilion +was tenanted; Ranelagh and the Pantheon swarmed with dancers and masks; +Perdita was found again, and walked a minuet with the Prince of Wales. +Mrs. Clarke and the Duke of York danced together—a pretty dance. The +old Duke wore a _jabot_ and _ailes-de-pigeon_, the old Countess a hoop, +and a cushion on her head. If haply the young folks came in, the elders +modified their recollections, and Lady Kew brought honest old King +George and good old ugly Queen Charlotte to the rescue. Her ladyship +was sister of the Marquis of Steyne: and in some respects resembled +that lamented nobleman. Their family had relations in France (Lady Kew +had always a pied-a-terre at Paris, a bitter little scandal-shop, where +_les bien-pensants_ assembled and retailed the most awful stories +against the reigning dynasty). It was she who handed over le petit +Kiou, when quite a boy, to Monsieur and Madame d’Ivry, to be _lancé_ +into Parisian society. He was treated as a son of the family by the +Duke, one of whose many Christian names, his lordship, Francis George +Xavier, Earl of Kew and Viscount Walham, bears. If Lady Kew hated any +one (and she could hate very considerably) she hated her +daughter-in-law, Walham’s widow, and the Methodists who surrounded her. +Kew remain among a pack of psalm-singing old women and parsons with his +mother! Fi donc! Frank was Lady Kew’s boy; she would form him, marry +him, leave him her money if he married to her liking, and show him +life. And so she showed it to him. + +Have you taken your children to the National Gallery in London, and +shown them the “Marriage a la Mode?” Was the artist exceeding the +privilege of his calling in painting the catastrophe in which those +guilty people all suffer? If this fable were not true, if many and many +of your young men of pleasure had not acted it, and rued the moral, I +would tear the page. You know that in our Nursery Tales there is +commonly a good fairy to counsel, and a bad one to mislead the young +prince. You perhaps feel that in your own life there is a Good +Principle imploring you to come into its kind bosom, and a Bad Passion +which tempts you into its arms. Be of easy minds good-natured people! +Let us disdain surprises and _coups-de-théâtre_ for once; and tell +those good souls who are interested about him, that there is a Good +Spirit coming to the rescue of our young Lord Kew. + +Surrounded by her court and royal attendants, La Reine Marie used +graciously to attend the play-table, where luck occasionally declared +itself for and against her Majesty. Her appearance used to create not a +little excitement in the Saloon of Roulette, the game which she +patronised, it being more “fertile of emotions” than the slower +trente-et-quarante. She dreamed of numbers, had favourite incantations +by which to conjure them: noted the figures made by peels of peaches +and so forth, the numbers of houses, on hackney-coaches—was +superstitious _comme toutes les rimes poétiques_. She commonly brought +a beautiful agate bonbonniere full of gold pieces, when she played. It +was wonderful to see her grimaces: to watch her behaviour: her appeals +to heaven, her delight and despair. Madame la Baronne de la +Cruchecassée played on one side of her, Madame la Comtesse de +Schlangenbad on the other. When she had lost all her money her Majesty +would condescend to borrow—not from those ladies:—knowing the royal +peculiarity, they never had any money; they always lost; they swiftly +pocketed their winnings and never left a mass on the table, or quitted +it, as courtiers will, when they saw luck was going against their +sovereign. The officers of her household were Count Punter, a +Hanoverian, the Cavaliere Spada, Captain Blackball of a mysterious +English regiment, which might be any one of the hundred and twenty in +the Army List, and other noblemen and gentlemen, Greeks, Russians, and +Spaniards. Mr. and Mrs. Jones (of England), who had made the princess’s +acquaintance at Bagneres (where her lord still remained in the gout) +and perseveringly followed her all the way to Baden, were dazzled by +the splendour of the company in which they found themselves. Miss Jones +wrote such letters to her dearest friend Miss Thompson, Cambridge +Square, London, as caused that young person to crever with envy. Bob +Jones, who had grown a pair of mustachios since he left home, began to +think slightingly of poor little Fanny Thompson, now he had got into +“the best Continental society.” Might not he quarter a countess’s coat +on his brougham along with the Jones arms, or, more slap-up still, have +the two shields painted on the panels with the coronet over? “Do you +know the princess calls herself the Queen of Scots, and she calls me +Julian Avenel?” says Jones delighted, to Clive, who wrote me about the +transmogrification of our schoolfellow, an attorney’s son, whom I +recollected a snivelling little boy at Grey Friars. “I say, Newcome, +the princess is going to establish an order,” cried Bob in ecstasy. +Every one of her aides-de-camp had a bunch of orders at his button, +excepting, of course, poor Jones. + +Like all persons who beheld her, when Miss Newcome and her party made +their appearance at Baden, Monsieur de Florac was enraptured with her +beauty. “I speak of it constantly before the Duchesse. I know it +pleases her,” so the Vicomte said. “You should have seen her looks when +your friend M. Jones praised Miss Newcome! She ground her teeth with +fury. Tiens ce petit sournois de Kiou! He always spoke of her as a mere +sac d’argent that he was about to marry—an ingot of the cité—une fille +de Lord Maire. Have all English bankers such pearls of daughters? If +the Vicomtesse de Florac had but quitted the earth, dont elle fait +l’ornement—I would present myself to the charmante meess and ride a +steeple-chase with Kiou!” That he should win it the Viscount never +doubted. + +When Lady Anne Newcome first appeared in the ballroom at Baden, Madame +la Duchesse d’Ivry begged the Earl of Kew (_notre filleul_, she called +him) to present her to his aunt miladi and her charming daughter. “My +_filleul_ had not prepared me for so much grace,” she said, turning a +look towards Lord Kew, which caused his lordship some embarrassment. +Her kindness and graciousness were extreme. Her caresses and +compliments never ceased all the evening. She told the mother and the +daughter too that she had never seen any one so lovely as Ethel. +Whenever she saw Lady Anne’s children in the walks she ran to them (so +that Captain Blackball and Count Punter, A.D.C., were amazed at her +tenderness), she _étouffé’d_ them with kisses. What lilies and roses! +What lovely little creatures! What companions for her own Antoinette. +“This is your governess, Miss Quigli; mademoiselle, you must let me +present you to Miss O’Gredi, your compatriot, and I hope your children +will be always together.” The Irish Protestant governess scowled at the +Irish Catholic—there was a Boyne Water between them. + +Little Antoinette; a lonely little girl, was glad to find any +companions. “Mamma kisses me on the promenade,” she told them in her +artless way. “She never kisses me at home!” One day when Lord Kew with +Florac and Clive were playing with the children, Antoinette said, +“Pourquoi ne venez-vous plus chez nous, M. de Kew? And why does mamma +say you are a _lâche?_ She said so yesterday to ces messieurs. And why +does mamma say thou art only a vaurien, mon cousin? Thou art always +very good for me. I love thee better than all those messieurs. Ma tante +Florac a été bonne pour moi à Paris aussi—Ah! qu’elle a été bonne!” + +“C’est que les anges aiment bien les petits chérubins, and my mother is +an angel, seest thou,” cries Florac, kissing her. + +“Thy mother is not dead,” said little Antoinette, “then why dost thou +cry, my cousin?” And the three spectators were touched by this little +scene and speech. + +Lady Anne Newcome received the caresses and compliments of Madame la +Duchesse with marked coldness on the part of one commonly so very +good-natured. Ethel’s instinct told her that there was something wrong +in this woman, and she shrank from her with haughty reserve. The girl’s +conduct was not likely to please the French lady, but she never relaxed +in her smiles and her compliments, her caresses, and her professions of +admiration. She was present when Clara Pulleyn fell; and, prodigal of +_câlineries_ and consolation, and shawls and scent-bottles, to the +unhappy young lady, she would accompany her home. She inquired +perpetually after the health of _cette pauvre petite Miss Clara_. Oh, +how she railed against _ces Anglaises_ and their prudery! Can you fancy +her and her circle, the tea-table set in the twilight that evening, the +court assembled, Madame de la Cruchecassée and Madame de Schlangenbad; +and their whiskered humble servants, Baron Punter and Count Spada, and +Marquis Iago, and Prince Iachimo, and worthy Captain Blackball? Can you +fancy a moonlight conclave, and ghouls feasting on the fresh corpse of +a reputation:—the gibes and sarcasms, the laughing and the gnashing of +teeth? How they tear the dainty limbs, and relish the tender morsels! + +“The air of this place is not good for you, believe me, my little Kew; +it is dangerous. Have pressing affairs in England; let your château +burn down; or your intendant run away, and pursue him. Partez, mon +petit Kiou; partez, or evil will come of it.” Such was the advice which +a friend of Lord Kew gave the young nobleman. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. +Barnes’s Courtship + + +Ethel had made various attempts to become intimate with her future +sister-in-law; had walked, and ridden, and talked with Lady Clara +before Barnes’s arrival. She had come away not very much impressed with +respect for Lady Clara’s mental powers; indeed, we have said that Miss +Ethel was rather more prone to attack women than to admire them, and +was a little hard upon the fashionable young persons of her +acquaintance and sex. In after life, care and thought subdued her +pride, and she learned to look at society more good-naturedly; but at +this time, and for some years after, she was impatient of commonplace +people, and did not choose to conceal her scorn. Lady Clara was very +much afraid of her. Those timid little thoughts, which would come out, +and frisk and gambol with pretty graceful antics, and advance +confidingly at the sound of Jack Belsize’s jolly voice, and nibble +crumbs out of his hand, shrank away before Ethel, severe nymph with the +bright eyes, and hid themselves under the thickets and in the shade. +Who has not overheard a simple couple of girls, or of lovers possibly, +pouring out their little hearts, laughing at their own little jokes, +prattling and prattling away unceasingly, until mamma appears with her +awful didactic countenance, or the governess with her dry moralities, +and the colloquy straightway ceases, the laughter stops, the chirp of +the harmless little birds is hushed. Lady Clara being of a timid +nature, stood in as much awe of Ethel as of her father and mother; +whereas her next sister, a brisk young creature of seventeen, who was +of the order of romps or tomboys, was by no means afraid of Miss +Newcome, and indeed a much greater favourite with her than her placid +elder sister. + +Young ladies may have been crossed in love, and have had their +sufferings, their frantic moments of grief and tears, their wakeful +nights, and so forth; but it is only in very sentimental novels that +people occupy themselves perpetually with that passion: and, I believe, +what are called broken hearts are very rare articles indeed. Tom is +jilted—is for a while in a dreadful state—bores all his male +acquaintance with his groans and his frenzy—rallies from the +complaint—eats his dinner very kindly—takes an interest in the next +turf event, and is found at Newmarket, as usual, bawling out the odds +which he will give or take. Miss has her paroxysm and recovery—Madame +Crinoline’s new importations from Paris interest the young creature—she +deigns to consider whether pink or blue will become her most—she +conspires with her maid to make the spring morning dresses answer for +the autumn—she resumes her books, piano, and music (giving up certain +songs perhaps that she used to sing)—she waltzes with the Captain—gets +a colour—waltzes longer, better, and ten times quicker than Lucy, who +is dancing with the Major—replies in an animated manner to the +Captain’s delightful remarks—takes a little supper—and looks quite +kindly at him before she pulls up the carriage windows. + +Clive may not like his cousin Barnes Newcome, and many other men share +in that antipathy, but all ladies do not. It is a fact that Barnes, +when he likes, can make himself a very pleasant fellow. He is +dreadfully satirical, that is certain; but many persons are amused by +those dreadful satirical young men: and to hear fun made of our +neighbours, even of some of our friends, does not make us very angry. +Barnes is one of the very best waltzers in all society, that is the +truth; whereas it must be confessed Some One Else was very heavy and +slow, his great foot always crushing you, and he always begging your +pardon. Barnes whirls a partner round a room ages after she is ready to +faint. What wicked fun he makes of other people when he stops! He is +not handsome, but in his face there is something odd-looking and +distinguished. It is certain he has beautiful small feet and hands. + +He comes every day from the City, drops in, in his quiet unobtrusive +way, and drinks tea at five o’clock; always brings a budget of the +funniest stories with him, makes mamma laugh, Clara laugh, Henrietta, +who is in the schoolroom still, die of laughing. Papa has the highest +opinion of Mr. Newcome as a man of business: if he had had such a +friend in early life his affairs would not be where they now are, poor +dear kind papa! Do they want to go anywhere, is not Mr. Newcome always +ready? Did he not procure that delightful room for them to witness the +Lord Mayor’s show; and make Clara die of laughing at those odd City +people at the Mansion House ball? He is at every party, and never tired +though he gets up so early: he waltzes with nobody else: he is always +there to put Lady Clara in the carriage: at the drawing-room he looked +quite handsome in his uniform of the Newcome Hussars, bottle-green and +silver lace: he speaks Politics so _exceedingly_ well with papa and +gentlemen after dinner: he is a sound conservative, full of practical +good sense and information, with no dangerous new-fangled ideas, such +as young men have. When poor dear Sir Brian Newcome’s health gives way +quite, Mr. Newcome will go into Parliament, and then he will resume the +old barony which has been in abeyance in the family since the reign of +Richard the Third. They had fallen quite, quite low. Mr. Newcome’s +grandfather came to London with a satchel on his back, like +Whittington. Isn’t it romantic? + +This process has been going on for months. It is not in one day that +poor Lady Clara has been made to forget the past, and to lay aside her +mourning. Day after day, very likely, the undeniable faults and many +peccadilloes of—of that other person, have been exposed to her. People +around the young lady may desire to spare her feelings, but can have no +interest in screening Poor Jack from condign reprobation. A wild +prodigal—a disgrace to his order—a son of old Highgate’s leading such a +life, and making such a scandal! Lord Dorking believes Mr. Belsize to +be an abandoned monster and fiend in human shape; gathers and relates +all the stories that ever have been told to the young man’s +disadvantage, and of these be sure there are enough, and speaks of him +with transports of indignation. At the end of months of unwearied +courtship, Mr. Barnes Newcome is honestly accepted, and Lady Clara is +waiting for him at Baden, not unhappy to receive him; when walking on +the promenade with her father, the ghost of her dead love suddenly +rises before her, and the young lady faints to the ground. + +When Barnes Newcome thinks fit he can be perfectly placable in his +demeanour and delicate in his conduct. What he said upon this painful +subject was delivered with the greatest propriety. He did not for one +moment consider that Lady Clara’s agitation arose from any present +feeling in Mr. Belsize’s favour, but that she was naturally moved by +the remembrance of the past, and the sudden appearance which recalled +it. “And but that a lady’s name should never be made the subject of +dispute between men,” Newcome said to Lord Dorking, with great dignity, +“and that Captain Belsize has opportunely quitted the place, I should +certainly have chastised him. He and another adventurer, against whom I +have had to warn my own family, have quitted Baden this afternoon. I am +glad that both are gone, Captain Belsize especially; for my temper, my +lord, is hot, and I do not think I should have commanded it.” + +Lord Kew, when the elder lord informed him of this admirable speech of +Barnes Newcome’s, upon whose character, prudence, and dignity the Earl +of Dorking pronounced a fervent eulogium, shook his head gravely, and +said, “Yes, Barnes was a dead shot, and a most determined fellow:” and +did not burst out laughing until he and Lord Dorking had parted. Then +to be sure he took his fill of laughter, he told the story to Ethel, he +complimented Barnes on his heroic self-denial; the joke of the +thundering big stick was nothing to it. Barnes Newcome laughed too; he +had plenty of humour, Barnes. “I think you might have whopped Jack when +he came out from his interview with the Dorkings,” Kew said: “the poor +devil was so bewildered and weak, that Alfred might have thrashed him. +At other times you would find it more difficult, Barnes my man.” Mr. B. +Newcome resumed his dignity; said a joke was a joke, and there was +quite enough of this one; which assertion we may be sure he +conscientiously made. + +That meeting and parting between the old lovers passed with a great +deal of calm and propriety on both sides. Miss’s parents of course were +present when Jack at their summons waited upon them and their daughter, +and made his hang-dog bow. My Lord Dorking said (poor Jack in the +anguish of his heart had poured out the story to Clive Newcome +afterwards), “Mr. Belsize, I have to apologise for words which I used +in my heat yesterday, and which I recall and regret, as I am sure you +do that there should have been any occasion for them.” + +Mr. Belsize looking at the carpet said he was very sorry. + +Lady Dorking here remarked, that as Captain Belsize was now at Baden, +he might wish to hear from Lady Clara Pulleyn’s own lips that the +engagement into which she had entered was formed by herself, certainly +with the consent and advice of her family. “Is it not so, my dear?” + +Lady Clara said, “Yes, mamma,” with a low curtsey. + +“We have now to wish you good-bye, Charles Belsize,” said my lord, with +some feeling. “As your relative, and your father’s old friend, I wish +you well. I hope your future course in life may not be so unfortunate +as the past year. I request that we may part friends. Good-bye, +Charles. Clara, shake hands with Captain Belsize. My Lady Dorking, you +will please to give Charles your hand. You have known him since he was +a child; and—and—we are sorry to be obliged to part in this way.” In +this wise Mr. Jack Belsize’s tooth was finally extracted; and for the +moment we wish him and his brother-patient a good journey. + +Little lynx-eyed Dr. Von Finck, who attends most of the polite company +at Baden, drove ceaselessly about the place that day, with the _real_ +version of the fainting-fit story, about which we may be sure the +wicked and malicious, and the uninitiated, had a hundred absurd +details. Lady Clara ever engaged to Captain Belsize? Fiddle-de-dee! +Everybody knew the Captain’s affairs, and that he could no more think +of marrying than flying. Lady Clara faint at seeing him! she fainted +before he came up; she was always fainting, and had done so thrice in +the last week to his knowledge. Lord Dorking had a nervous affection of +his right arm, and was always shaking his stick. He did not say +Villain, he said William; Captain Belsize’s name is William. It is not +so in the Peerage? Is he called Jack in the Peerage? Those Peerages are +always wrong. These candid explanations of course had their effect. +Wicked tongues were of course instantaneously silent. People were +entirely satisfied; they always are. The next night being Assembly +night, Lady Clara appeared at the rooms and danced with Lord Kew and +Mr. Barnes Newcome. All the society was as gracious and good-humoured +as possible, and there was no more question of fainting than of burning +down the Conversation-house. But Madame de Cruchecassée, and Madame de +Schlangenbad, and those horrid people whom the men speak to, but whom +the women salute with silent curtseys, persisted in declaring that +there was no prude like an English prude; and to Dr. Finck’s oaths, +assertions, explanations, only replied, with a shrug of their bold +shoulders, “Taisez-vous, Docteur, vous n’êtes qu’une vieille bête.” + +Lady Kew was at the rooms, uncommonly gracious. Miss Ethel took a few +turns of the waltz with Lord Kew, but this nymph looked more _farouche_ +than upon ordinary days. Bob Jones, who admired her hugely, asked leave +to waltz with her, and entertained her with recollections of Clive +Newcome at school. He remembered a fight in which Clive had been +engaged, and recounted that action to Miss Newcome, who seemed to be +interested. He was pleased to deplore Clive’s fancy for turning artist, +and that Miss Newcome recommended him to have his likeness taken, for +she said his appearance was exceedingly picturesque. He was going on +with further prattle, but she suddenly cut Mr. Jones short, making him +a bow, and going to sit down by Lady Kew. “And the next day, sir,” said +Bob, with whom the present writer had the happiness of dining at a mess +dinner at the Upper Temple, “when I met her on the walk, sir, she cut +me as dead as a stone. The airs those swells give themselves is enough +to make any man turn republican.” + +Miss Ethel indeed was haughty, very haughty, and of a difficult temper. +She spared none of her party except her kind mother, to whom Ethel +always was kind, and her father, whom, since his illnesses, she tended +with much benevolence and care. But she did battle with Lady Kew +repeatedly, coming to her Aunt Julia’s rescue, on whom her mother as +usual exercised her powers of torturing. She made Barnes quail before +her by the shafts of contempt which she flashed at him; and she did not +spare Lord Kew, whose good-nature was no shield against her scorn. The +old queen-mother was fairly afraid of her; she even left off beating +Lady Julia when Ethel came in, of course taking her revenge in the +young girl’s absence, but trying in her presence to soothe and please +her. Against Lord Kew the young girl’s anger was most unjust, and the +more cruel because the kindly young nobleman never spoke a hard word of +any one mortal soul, and, carrying no arms, should have been assaulted +by none. But his very good-nature seemed to make his young opponent +only the more wrathful; she shot because his honest breast was bare; it +bled at the wounds which she inflicted. Her relatives looked at her +surprised at her cruelty, and the young man himself was shocked in his +dignity and best feelings by his cousin’s wanton ill-humour. + +Lady Kew fancied she understood the cause of this peevishness, and +remonstrated with Miss Ethel. “Shall we write a letter to Lucerne, and +order Dick Tinto back again?” said her ladyship. “Are you such a fool, +Ethel, as to be hankering after that young scapegrace, and his yellow +beard? His drawings are very pretty. Why, I think he might earn a +couple of hundred a year as a teacher, and nothing would be easier than +to break your engagement with Kew, and whistle the drawing-master back +again.” + +Ethel took up the whole heap of Clive’s drawings, lighted a taper, +carried the drawings to the fireplace, and set them in a blaze. “A very +pretty piece of work,” says Lady Kew, “and which proves satisfactorily +that you don’t care for the young Clive at all. Have we arranged a +correspondence? We are cousins, you know; we may write pretty cousinly +letters to one another.” A month before the old lady would have +attacked her with other arms than sarcasm, but she was scared now, and +dared to use no coarser weapons. “Oh!” cried Ethel in a transport, +“what a life ours is, and how you buy and sell, and haggle over your +children! It is not Clive I care about, poor boy. Our ways of life are +separate. I cannot break from my own family, and I know very well how +you would receive him in it. Had he money, it would be different. You +would receive him, and welcome him, and hold out your hands to him; but +he is only a poor painter, and we forsooth are bankers in the City; and +he comes among us on sufferance, like those concert-singers whom mamma +treats with so much politeness, and who go down and have supper by +themselves. Why should they not be as good as we are?” + +“M. de C——, my dear, is of a noble family,” interposed Lady Kew; “when +he has given up singing and made his fortune, no doubt he can go back +into the world again.” + +“Made his fortune, yes,” Ethel continued, “that is the cry. There never +were, since the world began, people so unblushingly sordid! We own it, +and are proud of it. We barter rank against money, and money against +rank, day after day. Why did you marry my father to my mother? Was it +for his wit? You know he might have been an angel and you would have +scorned him. Your daughter was bought with papa’s money as surely as +ever Newcome was. Will there be no day when this mammon-worship will +cease among us?” + +“Not in my time or yours, Ethel,” the elder said, not unkindly; perhaps +she thought of a day long ago before she was old herself. + +“We are sold,” the young girl went on, “we are as much sold as Turkish +women; the only difference being that our masters may have but one +Circassian at a time. No, there is no freedom for us. I wear my green +ticket, and wait till my master comes. But every day as I think of our +slavery, I revolt against it more. That poor wretch, that poor girl +whom my brother is to marry, why did she not revolt and fly? I would, +if I loved a man sufficiently, loved him better than the world, than +wealth, than rank, than fine houses and titles,—and I feel I love these +best,—I would give up all to follow him. But what can I be with my name +and my parents? I belong to the world like all the rest of my family. +It is you who have bred us up; you who are answerable for us. Why are +there no convents to which we can fly? You make a fine marriage for me; +you provide me with a good husband, a kind soul, not very wise, but +very kind; you make me what you call happy, and I would rather be at +the plough like the women here.” + +“No, you wouldn’t, Ethel,” replies the grandmother, drily. “These are +the fine speeches of schoolgirls. The showers of rain would spoil your +complexion—you would be perfectly tired in an hour, and come back to +luncheon—you belong to your belongings, my dear, and are not better +than the rest of the world:—very good-looking, as you know perfectly +well, and not very good-tempered. It is lucky that Kew is. Calm your +temper, at least before marriage; such a prize does not fall to a +pretty girl’s lot every day. Why, you sent him away quite seared by +your cruelty; and if he is not playing at roulette, or at billiards, I +dare say he is thinking what a little termagant you are, and that he +had best pause while it is yet time. Before I was married, your poor +grandfather never knew I had a temper; of after-days I say nothing; but +trials are good for all of us, and he bore his like an angel.” + +Lady Kew, too, on this occasion at least, was admirably good-humoured. +She also when it was necessary could put a restraint on her temper, +and, having this match very much at heart, chose to coax and to soothe +her granddaughter rather than to endeavour to scold and frighten her. + +“Why do you desire this marriage so much, grandmamma,” the girl asked. +“My cousin is not very much in love,—at least I should fancy not,” she +added, blushing. “I am bound to own Lord Kew is not in the least eager, +and I think if you were to tell him to wait for five years he would be +quite willing. Why should you be so very anxious?” + +“Why, my dear? Because I think young ladies who want to go and work in +the fields, should make hay while the sun shines; because I think it is +high time that Kew should _ranger_ himself; because I am sure he will +make the best husband, and Ethel the prettiest Countess in England.” +And the old lady, seldom exhibiting any signs of affection, looked at +her granddaughter very fondly. From her Ethel looked up into the glass, +which very likely repeated on its shining face the truth her elder had +just uttered. Shall we quarrel with the girl for that dazzling +reflection; for owning that charming truth, and submitting to the +conscious triumph? Give her her part of vanity, of youth, of desire to +rule and be admired. Meanwhile Mr. Clive’s drawings have been crackling +in the fireplace at her feet, and the last spark of that combustion is +twinkling out unheeded. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. +Lady Kew at the Congress + + +When Lady Kew heard that Madame d’Ivry was at Baden, and was informed +at once of the French lady’s graciousness towards the Newcome family, +and of her fury against Lord Kew, the old Countess gave a loose to that +energetic temper with which nature had gifted her; a temper which she +tied up sometimes and kept from barking and biting; but which when +unmuzzled was an animal of whom all her ladyship’s family had a just +apprehension. Not one of them but in his or her time had been wounded, +lacerated, tumbled over, otherwise frightened or injured by this unruly +brute. The cowards brought it sops and patted it; the prudent gave it a +clear berth, and walked round so as not to meet it; but woe be to those +of the family who had to bring the meal, and prepare the litter, and +(to speak respectfully) share the kennel with Lady Kew’s “Black Dog!” +Surely a fine furious temper, if accompanied with a certain magnanimity +and bravery which often go together with it, is one of the most +precious and fortunate gifts with which a gentleman or lady can be +endowed. A person always ready to fight is certain of the greatest +consideration amongst his or her family circle. The lazy grow tired of +contending with him; the timid coax and flatter him; and as almost +every one is timid or lazy, a bad-tempered man is sure to have his own +way. It is he who commands, and all the others obey. If he is a +gourmand, he has’ what he likes for dinner; and the tastes of all the +rest are subservient to him. She (we playfully transfer the gender, as +a bad temper is of both sexes) has the place which she likes best in +the drawing-room; nor do her parents, nor her brothers and sisters, +venture to take her favourite chair. If she wants to go to a party, +mamma will dress herself in spite of her headache; and papa, who hates +those dreadful soirées, will go upstairs after dinner and put on his +poor old white neckcloth, though he has been toiling at chambers all +day, and must be there early in the morning—he will go out with her, we +say, and stay for the cotillon. If the family are taking their tour in +the summer, it is she who ordains whither they shall go, and when they +shall stop. If he comes home late, the dinner is kept for him, and not +one dares to say a word though ever so hungry. If he is in a good +humour, how every one frisks about and is happy! How the servants jump +up at his bell and run to wait upon him! How they sit up patiently, and +how eagerly they rush out to fetch cabs in the rain! Whereas for you +and me, who have the tempers of angels, and never were known to be +angry or to complain, nobody cares whether we are pleased or not. Our +wives go to the milliners and send us the bill, and we pay it; our John +finishes reading the newspaper before he answers our bell, and brings +it to us; our sons loll in the arm-chair which we should like; fill the +house with their young men, and smoke in the dining-room; our tailors +fit us badly; our butchers give us the youngest mutton; our tradesmen +dun us much more quickly than other people’s, because they know we are +good-natured; and our servants go out whenever they like, and openly +have their friends to supper in the kitchen. When Lady Kew said _Sic +volo, sic jubeo_, I promise you few persons of her ladyship’s +belongings stopped, before they did her biddings, to ask her reasons. + +If, which very seldom happens, there are two such imperious and +domineering spirits in a family, unpleasantries of course will arise +from their contentions; or, if out of doors the family Bajazet meets +with some other violent Turk, dreadful battles ensue, all the allies on +either side are brought in, and the surrounding neighbours perforce +engaged in the quarrel. This was unluckily the case in the present +instance. Lady Kew, unaccustomed to have her will questioned at home, +liked to impose it abroad. She judged the persons around her with great +freedom of speech. Her opinions were quoted, as people’s sayings will +be; and if she made bitter speeches, depend on it they lost nothing in +the carrying. She was furious against Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry, and +exploded in various companies whenever that lady’s name was mentioned. +“Why was she not with her husband? Why was the poor old Duke left to +his gout, and this woman trailing through the country with her vagabond +court of billiard-markers at her heels? She to call herself Mary Queen +of Scots, forsooth!—well, she merited the title in some respects, +though she had not murdered her husband as yet. Ah! I should like to be +Queen Elizabeth if the Duchess is Queen of Scots!” said the old lady, +shaking her old fist. And these sentiments being uttered in public, +upon the promenade, to mutual friends, of course the Duchess had the +benefit of Lady Kew’s remarks a few minutes after they were uttered; +and her grace, and the distinguished princes, counts, and noblemen in +her court, designated as billiard-markers by the old Countess, returned +the latter’s compliments with pretty speeches of their own. Scandals +were dug up respecting her ladyship, so old that one would have thought +them forgotten these forty years,—so old that they happened before most +of the Newcomes now extant were born, and surely therefore are out of +the province of this contemporary biography. Lady Kew was indignant +with her daughter (there were some moments when any conduct of her +friends did not meet her ladyship’s approbation) even for the scant +civility with which Lady Anne had received the Duchess’s advances. +“Leave a card upon her!—yes, send a card by one of your footmen; but go +in to see her—because she was at the window and saw you drive up.—Are +you mad, Anne? That was the very reason you should not have come out of +your carriage. But you are so weak and good-natured, that if a +highwayman stopped you, you would say, ‘Thank you, sir,’ as you gave +him your purse: yes, and if Mrs. Macheath called on you afterwards you +would return the visit!” + +Even had these speeches been made _about_ the Duchess, and some of them +not addressed to her, things might have gone on pretty well. If we +quarrelled with all the people who abuse us behind our backs, and began +to tear their eyes out as soon as we set ours on them, what a life it +would be, and when should we have any quiet? Backbiting is all fair in +society. Abuse me, and I will abuse you; but let us be friends when we +meet. Have not we all entered a dozen rooms, and been sure, from the +countenances of the amiable persons present, that they had been +discussing our little peculiarities, perhaps as we were on the stairs? +Was our visit, therefore, the less agreeable? Did we quarrel and say +hard words to one another’s faces? No—we wait until some of our dear +friends take their leave, and then comes our turn. My back is at my +neighbour’s service; as soon as that is turned let him make what faces +he thinks proper: but when we meet we grin and shake hands like +well-bred folk, to whom clean linen is not more necessary than a clean +sweet-looking countenance, and a nicely got-up smile, for company. + +Here was Lady Kew’s mistake. She wanted, for some reason, to drive +Madame d’Ivry out of Baden; and thought there were no better means of +effecting this object than by using the high hand, and practising those +frowns upon the Duchess which had scared away so many other persons. +But the Queen of Scots was resolute, too, and her band of courtiers +fought stoutly round about her. Some of them could not pay their bills, +and could not retreat: others had courage, and did not choose to fly. +Instead of coaxing and soothing Madame d’Ivry, Madame de Kew thought by +a brisk attack to rout and dislodge her. She began on almost the very +first occasion when the ladies met. “I was so sorry to hear that +Monsieur le Duc was ill at Bagneres, Madame la Duchesse,” the old lady +began on their very first meeting, after the usual salutations had +taken place. + +“Madame la Comtesse is very kind to interest herself in Monsieur +d’Ivry’s health. Monsieur le Duc at his age is not disposed to travel. +You, dear miladi, are more happy in being always able to retain the +_goût des voyages!_” + +“I come to my family! my dear Duchess.” + +“How charmed they must be to possess you! Miladi Anne, you must be +inexpressibly consoled by the presence of a mother so tender! Permit me +to present Madame la Comtesse de la Cruchecassée to Madame la Comtesse +de Kew. Miladi is sister to that amiable Marquis of Steyne, whom you +have known, Ambrosine! Madame la Baronne de Schlangenbad, Miladi Kew. +Do you not see the resemblance to milor? These ladies have enjoyed the +hospitalities—the splendours of Gaunt House. They were of those famous +routs of which the charming Mistress Crawley, _la semillante Becki_, +made part! How sad the Hôtel de Gaunt must be under the present +circumstances! Have you heard, miladi, of the charming Mistress Becki? +Monsieur le Duc describes her as the most _spirituelle_ Englishwoman he +ever met.” The Queen of Scots turns and whispers her lady of honour, +and shrugs and taps her forehead. Lady Kew knows that Madame d’Ivry +speaks of her nephew, the present Lord Steyne, who is not in his right +mind. The Duchess looks round, and sees a friend in the distance whom +she beckons. “Comtesse, you know already monsieur the Captain +Blackball? He makes the delight of our society!” A dreadful man with a +large cigar, a florid waistcoat, and billiards written on his +countenance, swaggers forward at the Duchess’s summons. The Countess of +Kew has not gained much by her attack. She has been presented to +Cruchecassée and Schlangenbad. She sees herself on the eve of becoming +the acquaintance of Captain Blackball. + +“Permit me, Duchess, to choose my _English_ friends at least for +myself,” says Lady Kew, drumming her foot. + +“But, madam, assuredly! You do not love this good Monsieur de +Blackball? Eh! the English manners are droll, pardon me for saying so. +It is wonderful how proud you are as a nation, and how ashamed you are +of your compatriots!” + +“There are some persons who are ashamed of nothing, Madame la +Duchesse,” cries Lady Kew; losing her temper. + +“Is that _gracieuseté_ for me? How much goodness! This good Monsieur de +Blackball is not very well bred; but, for an Englishman, he is not too +bad. I have met with people who are more ill-bred than Englishmen in my +travels.” + +“And they are?” said Lady Anne, who had been in vain endeavouring to +put an end to this colloquy. + +“Englishwomen, madam! I speak not for you. You are kind; you—you are +too soft, dear Lady Anne, for a persecutor.” + +The counsels of the worldly woman who governed and directed that branch +of the Newcome family of whom it is our business to speak now for a +little while, bore other results than those which the elderly lady +desired and foresaw. Who can foresee everything and always? Not the +wisest among us. When his Majesty Louis XIV., jockeyed his grandson on +to the throne of Spain (founding thereby the present revered dynasty of +that country), did he expect to peril his own, and bring all Europe +about his royal ears? Could a late King of France, eager for the +advantageous establishment of one of his darling sons, and anxious to +procure a beautiful Spanish princess, with a crown and kingdom in +reversion, for the simple and obedient youth, ever suppose that the +welfare of his whole august race and reign would be upset by that smart +speculation? We take only the most noble examples to illustrate the +conduct of such a noble old personage as her ladyship of Kew, who +brought a prodigious deal of trouble upon some of the innocent members +of her family, whom no doubt she thought to better in life by her +experienced guidance and undoubted worldly wisdom. We may be as deep as +Jesuits, know the world ever so well, lay the best-ordered plans, and +the profoundest combinations, and by a certain not unnatural turn of +fate, we, and our plans and combinations, are sent flying before the +wind. We may be as wise as Louis Philippe, that many-counselled Ulysses +whom the respectable world admired so; and after years of patient +scheming, and prodigies of skill, after coaxing, wheedling, doubling, +bullying, wisdom, behold yet stronger powers interpose: and schemes, +and skill and violence, are nought. + +Frank and Ethel, Lady Kew’s grandchildren, were both the obedient +subjects of this ancient despot: this imperious old Louis XIV. in a +black front and a cap and ribbon, this scheming old Louis Philippe in +tabinet; but their blood was good and their tempers high; and for all +her bitting and driving, and the training of her _manége_, the generous +young colts were hard to break. Ethel, at this time, was especially +stubborn in training, rebellious to the whip, and wild under harness; +and the way in which Lady Kew managed her won the admiration of her +family: for it was a maxim among these folks that no one could manage +Ethel but Lady Kew. Barnes said no one could manage his sister but his +grandmother. He couldn’t, that was certain. Mamma never tried, and +indeed was so good-natured, that rather than ride the filly, she would +put the saddle on her own back and let the filly ride her; no, there +was no one but her ladyship capable of managing that girl, Barnes +owned, who held Lady Kew in much respect and awe. “If the tightest hand +were not kept on her, there’s no knowing what she mightn’t do,” said +her brother. “Ethel Newcome, by Jove, is capable of running away with +the writing-master.” + +After poor Jack Belsize’s mishap and departure, Barnes’s own bride +showed no spirit at all, save one of placid contentment. She came at +call and instantly, and went through whatever paces her owner demanded +of her. She laughed whenever need was, simpered and smiled when spoken +to, danced whenever she was asked; drove out at Barnes’s side in Kew’s +phaeton, and received him certainly not with warmth, but with +politeness and welcome. It is difficult to describe the scorn with +which her sister-in-law regarded her. The sight of the patient timid +little thing chafed Ethel, who was always more haughty and flighty and +bold when in Clara’s presence than at any other time. Her ladyship’s +brother, Captain Lord Viscount Rooster, before mentioned, joined the +family party at this interesting juncture. My Lord Rooster found +himself surprised, delighted, subjugated by Miss Newcome, her wit and +spirit. “By Jove, she is a plucky one,” his lordship exclaimed. “To +dance with her is the best fun in life. How she pulls all the other +girls to pieces, by Jove, and how splendidly she chaffs everybody! +But,” he added with the shrewdness and sense of humour which +distinguished the young officer, “I’d rather dance with her than marry +her—by a doosid long score—I don’t envy you that part of the business, +Kew, my boy.” Lord Kew did not set himself up as a person to be envied. +He thought his cousin beautiful: and with his grandmother, that she +would make a very handsome Countess; and he thought the money which +Lady Kew would give or leave to the young couple a very welcome +addition to his means. + +On the next night, when there was a ball at the room, Miss Ethel chose +to appear in a toilette the very grandest and finest which she had ever +assumed, who was ordinarily exceedingly simple in her attire, and +dressed below the mark of the rest of the world. Her clustering +ringlets, her shining white shoulders, her splendid raiment (I believe +indeed it was her court-dress which the young lady assumed) astonished +all beholders. She _écrasé’d_ all other beauties by her appearance; so +much so that Madame d’Ivry’s court could not but look, the men in +admiration, the women in dislike, at this dazzling young creature. None +of the countesses, duchesses, princesses, Russ, Spanish, Italian, were +so fine or so handsome. There were some New York ladies at Baden as +there are everywhere else in Europe now. Not even these were more +magnificent than Miss Ethel. General Jeremiah J. Bung’s lady owned that +Miss Newcome was fit to appear in any party in Fourth Avenue. She was +the only well-dressed English girl Mrs. Bung had seen in Europe. A +young German Durchlaucht deigned to explain to his aide-de-camp how +very handsome he thought Miss Newcome. All our acquaintances were of +one mind. Mr. Jones of England pronounced her stunning; the admirable +Captain Blackball examined her points with the skill of an amateur, and +described them with agreeable frankness. Lord Rooster was charmed as he +surveyed her, and complimented his late companion-in-arms on the +possession of such a paragon. Only Lord Kew was not delighted—nor did +Miss Ethel mean that he should be. She looked as splendid as Cinderella +in the prince’s palace. But what need for all this splendour? this +wonderful toilette? this dazzling neck and shoulders, whereof the +brightness and beauty blinded the eyes of lookers-on? She was dressed +as gaudily as an actress of the Varietes going to a supper at Trois +Frères. “It was Mademoiselle Mabille en habit de cœur,” Madame d’Ivry +remarked to Madame Schlangenbad. Barnes, who with his bride-elect for a +partner made a vis-a-vis for his sister and the admiring Lord Rooster, +was puzzled likewise by Ethel’s countenance and appearance. Little Lady +Clara looked like a little schoolgirl dancing before her. + +One, two, three, of the attendants of her Majesty the Queen of Scots +were carried off in the course of the evening by the victorious young +beauty, whose triumph had the effect, which the headstrong girl perhaps +herself anticipated, of mortifying the Duchesse d’Ivry, of exasperating +old Lady Kew, and of annoying the young nobleman to whom Miss Ethel was +engaged. The girl seemed to take a pleasure in defying all three, a +something embittered her, alike against her friends and her enemies. +The old dowager chaffed and vented her wrath upon Lady Anne and Barnes. +Ethel kept the ball alive by herself almost. She refused to go home, +declining hints and commands alike. She was engaged for ever so many +dances more. Not dance with Count Punter? it would be rude to leave him +after promising him. Not waltz with Captain Blackball? He was not a +proper partner for her? Why then did Kew know him? Lord Kew walked and +talked with Captain Blackball every day. Was she to be so proud as not +to know Lord Kew’s friends? She greeted the Captain with a most +fascinating smile as he came up whilst the controversy was pending, and +ended it by whirling round the room in his arms. + +Madame d’Ivry viewed with such pleasure as might be expected the +defection of her adherents, and the triumph of her youthful rival, who +seemed to grow more beautiful with each waltz, so that the other +dancers paused to look at her, the men breaking out in enthusiasm, the +reluctant women being forced to join in the applause. Angry as she was, +and knowing how Ethel’s conduct angered her grandson, old Lady Kew +could not help admiring the rebellious beauty, whose girlish spirit was +more than a match for the imperious dowager’s tough old resolution. As +for Mr. Barnes’s displeasure, the girl tossed her saucy head, shrugged +her fair shoulders, and passed on with a scornful laugh. In a word, +Miss Ethel conducted herself as a most reckless and intrepid young +flirt, using her eyes with the most consummate effect, chattering with +astounding gaiety, prodigal of smiles, gracious thanks and killing +glances. What wicked spirit moved her? Perhaps had she known the +mischief she was doing, she would have continued it still. + +The sight of this wilfulness and levity smote poor Lord Kew’s honest +heart with cruel pangs of mortification. The easy young nobleman had +passed many a year of his life in all sorts of wild company. The +_chaumière_ knew him, and the balls of Parisian actresses, the +coulisses of the opera at home and abroad. Those pretty heads of ladies +whom nobody knows, used to nod their shining ringlets at Kew, from +private boxes at theatres, or dubious Park broughams. He had run the +career of young men of pleasure, and laughed and feasted with jolly +prodigals and their company. He was tired of it: perhaps he remembered +an earlier and purer life, and was sighing to return to it. Living as +he had done amongst the outcasts, his ideal of domestic virtue was high +and pure. He chose to believe that good women were entirely good. +Duplicity he could not understand; ill-temper shocked him: wilfulness +he seemed to fancy belonged only to the profane and wicked; not to good +girls, with good mothers, in honest homes. Their nature was to love +their families; to obey their parents; to tend their poor; to honour +their husbands; to cherish their children. Ethel’s laugh woke him up +from one of these simple reveries very likely, and then she swept round +the ballroom rapidly, to the brazen notes of the orchestra. He never +offered to dance with her more than once in the evening; went away to +play, and returned to find her still whirling to the music. Madame +d’Ivry remarked his tribulation and gloomy face, though she took no +pleasure at his discomfiture, knowing that Ethel’s behaviour caused it. + +In plays and novels, and I dare say in real life too sometimes, when +the wanton heroine chooses to exert her powers of fascination, and to +flirt with Sir Harry or the Captain, the hero, in a pique, goes off and +makes love to somebody else: both acknowledge their folly after a +while, shake hands, and are reconciled, and the curtain drops, or the +volume ends. But there are some people too noble and simple for these +amorous scenes and smirking artifices. When Kew was pleased he laughed, +when he was grieved he was silent. He did not deign to hide his grief +or pleasure under disguises. His error, perhaps, was in forgetting that +Ethel was very young; that her conduct was not design so much as +girlish mischief and high spirits; and that if young men have their +frolics, sow their wild oats, and enjoy their pleasure, young women may +be permitted sometimes their more harmless vagaries of gaiety, and +sportive outbreaks of wilful humour. + +When she consented to go home at length, Lord Kew brought Miss +Newcome’s little white cloak for her (under the hood of which her +glossy curls, her blushing cheeks, and bright eyes looked provokingly +handsome), and encased her in this pretty garment without uttering one +single word. She made him a saucy curtsey in return for this act of +politeness, which salutation he received with a grave bow; and then he +proceeded to cover up old Lady Kew, and to conduct her ladyship to her +chariot. Miss Ethel chose to be displeased at her cousin’s displeasure. +What were balls made for but that people should dance? She a flirt? She +displease Lord Kew? If she chose to dance, she would dance; she had no +idea of his giving himself airs; besides it was such fun taking away +the gentlemen of Mary Queen of Scots’ court from her; such capital fun! +So she went to bed, singing and performing wonderful roulades as she +lighted her candle and retired to her room. She had had such a jolly +evening!! such famous fun, and, I dare say (but how shall a novelist +penetrate these mysteries?), when her chamber door was closed, she +scolded her maid and was as cross as two sticks. You see there come +moments of sorrow after the most brilliant victories; and you conquer +and rout the enemy utterly, and then regret that you fought. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. +The End of the Congress of Baden + + +Mention has been made of an elderly young person from Ireland, engaged +by Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry, as companion and teacher of English for +her little daughter. When Miss O’Grady, as she did some time +afterwards, quitted Madame d’Ivry’s family, she spoke with great +freedom regarding the behaviour of that duchess, and recounted horrors +which she, the latter, had committed. A number of the most terrific +anecdotes issued from the lips of the indignant Miss, whose volubility +Lord Kew was obliged to check, not choosing that his countess, with +whom he was paying a bridal visit to Paris, should hear such dreadful +legends. It was there that Miss O’Grady, finding herself in misfortune, +and reading of Lord Kew’s arrival at the Hôtel Bristol, waited upon his +lordship and the Countess of Kew, begging them to take tickets in a +raffle for an invaluable ivory writing-desk, sole relic of her former +prosperity, which she proposed to give her friends the chance of +acquiring: in fact, Miss O’Grady lived for some years on the produce of +repeated raffles for this beautiful desk: many religious ladies of the +Faubourg St. Germain taking an interest in her misfortunes, and +alleviating them by the simple lottery system. Protestants as well as +Catholics were permitted to take shares in Miss O’Grady’s raffles; and +Lord Kew, good-natured then as always, purchased so many tickets, that +the contrite O’Grady informed him of a transaction which had nearly +affected his happiness, and in which she took a not very creditable +share. “Had I known your lordship’s real character,” Miss O’G was +pleased to say, “no tortures would have induced me to do an act for +which I have undergone penance. It was that black-hearted woman, my +lord, who maligned your lordship to me: that woman whom I called friend +once, but who is the most false, depraved, and dangerous of her sex.” +In this way do ladies’ companions sometimes speak of ladies when +quarrels separate them, when confidential attendants are dismissed, +bearing away family secrets in their minds, and revenge in their +hearts. + +The day after Miss Ethel’s feats at the assembly, old Lady Kew went +over to advise her granddaughter, and to give her a little timely +warning about the impropriety of flirtations; above all, with such men +as are to be found at watering-places, persons who are never seen +elsewhere in society. “Remark the peculiarities of Kew’s temper, who +never flies into a passion like you and me, my dear,” said the old lady +(being determined to be particularly gracious and cautious); “when once +angry he remains so, and is so obstinate that it is almost impossible +to coax him into good-humour. It is much better, my love, to be like +us,” continued the old lady, “to fly out in a rage and have it over; +but que voulez-vous? such is Frank’s temper, and we must manage him.” +So she went on, backing her advice by a crowd of examples drawn from +the family history; showing how Kew was like his grandfather, her own +poor husband; still more like his late father, Lord Walham; between +whom and his mother there had been differences, chiefly brought on by +my Lady Walham, of course, which had ended in the almost total +estrangement of mother and son. Lady Kew then administered her advice, +and told her stories with Ethel alone for a listener; and in a most +edifying manner, she besought Miss Newcome to _ménager_ Lord Kew’s +susceptibilities, as she valued her own future comfort in life, as well +as the happiness of a most amiable man, of whom, if properly managed, +Ethel might make what she pleased. We have said Lady Kew managed +everybody, and that most of the members of her family allowed +themselves to be managed by her ladyship. + +Ethel, who had permitted her grandmother to continue her sententious +advice, while she herself sat tapping her feet on the floor, and +performing the most rapid variations of that air which is called the +Devil’s Tattoo, burst out, at length, to the elder lady’s surprise, +with an outbreak of indignation, a flushing face, and a voice quivering +with anger. + +“This most amiable man,” she cried out, “that you design for me, I know +everything about this most amiable man, and thank you and my family for +the present you make me! For the past year, what have you been doing? +Every one of you! my father, my brother, and you yourself, have been +filling my ears wit cruel reports against a poor boy, whom you chose to +depict as everything that was dissolute and wicked, when there was +nothing against him; nothing, but that he was poor. Yes, you yourself, +grandmamma, have told me many and many a time, that Clive Newcome was +not a fit companion for us; warned me against his bad courses, and +painted him as extravagant, unprincipled, I don’t know how bad. How +bad! I know how good he is; how upright, generous, and truth-telling: +though there was not a day until lately, that Barnes did not make some +wicked story against him,—Barnes, who, I believe, is bad himself, +like—like other young men. Yes, I am sure there was something about +Barnes in that newspaper which my father took away from me. And you +come, and you lift up your hands, and shake your head, because I dance +with one gentleman or another. You tell me I am wrong; mamma has told +me so this morning. Barnes, of course, has told me so, and you bring me +Frank as a pattern, and tell me to love and honour and obey _him!_ Look +here,” and she drew out a paper and put it into Lady Kew’s hands. “Here +is Kew’s history, and I believe it is true; yes, I am sure it is true.” + +The old dowager lifted her eyeglass to her black eyebrow, and read a +paper written in English, and bearing no signature, in which many +circumstances of Lord Kew’s life were narrated for poor Ethel’s +benefit. It was not a worse life than that of a thousand young men of +pleasure, but there were Kew’s many misdeeds set down in order: such a +catalogue as we laugh at when Leporello trolls it, and sings his +master’s victories in France, Italy, and Spain. Madame d’Ivry’s name +was not mentioned in this list, and Lady Kew felt sure that the outrage +came from her. + +With real ardour Lady Kew sought to defend her grandson from some of +the attacks here made against him; and showed Ethel that the person who +could use such means of calumniating him, would not scruple to resort +to falsehood in order to effect her purpose. + +“Her purpose!” cries Ethel. “How do you know it is a woman?” Lady Kew +lapsed into generalities. She thought the handwriting was a woman’s—at +least it was not likely that a man should think of addressing an +anonymous letter to a young lady, and so wreaking his hatred upon Lord +Kew. “Besides, Frank has had no rivals—except—except one young +gentleman who has carried his paint-boxes to Italy,” says Lady Kew. +“You don’t think your dear Colonel’s son would leave such a piece of +mischief behind him? You must act, my dear,” continued her ladyship, +“as if this letter had never been written at all; the person who wrote +it no doubt will watch you. Of course we are too proud to allow him to +see that we are wounded; and pray, pray do not think of letting poor +Frank know a word about this horrid transaction.” + +“Then the letter is true?” burst out Ethel. “You know it is true, +grandmamma, and that is why you would have me keep it a secret from my +cousin; besides,” she added, with a little hesitation, “your caution +comes too late, Lord Kew has seen the letter.” + +“You fool!” screamed the old lady, “you were not so mad as to show it +to him?” + +“I am sure the letter is true,” Ethel said, rising up very haughtily. +“It is not by calling me bad names that your ladyship will disprove it. +Keep them, if you please, for my Aunt Julia; she is sick and weak, and +can’t defend herself. I do not choose to bear abuse from you, or +lectures from Lord Kew. He happened to be here a short while since, +when the letter arrived. He had been good enough to come to preach me a +sermon on his own account. He to find fault with my actions!” cried +Miss Ethel, quivering with wrath and clenching the luckless paper in +her hand. “He to accuse me of levity, and to warn me against making +improper acquaintances! He began his lectures too soon. I am not a +lawful slave yet, and prefer to remain unmolested, at least as long as +I am free.” + +“And you told Frank all this, Miss Newcome, and you showed him that +letter?” said the old lady. + +“The letter was actually brought to me whilst his lordship was in the +midst of his sermon,” Ethel replied. “I read it as he was making his +speech,” she continued, gathering anger and scorn as she recalled the +circumstances of the interview. “He was perfectly polite in his +language. He did not call me a fool or use a single other bad name. He +was good enough to advise me and to make such virtuous pretty speeches, +that if he had been a bishop he could not have spoken better; and as I +thought the letter was a nice commentary on his lordship’s sermon, I +gave it to him. I gave it to him,” cried the young woman, “and much +good may it do him. I don’t think my Lord Kew will preach to me again +for some time.” + +“I don’t think he will indeed,” said Lady Kew, in a hard dry voice. +“You don’t know what you may have done. Will you be pleased to ring the +bell and order my carriage? I congratulate you on having performed a +most charming morning’s work.” + +Ethel made her grandmother a very stately curtsey. I pity Lady Julia’s +condition when her mother reached home. + +All who know Lord Kew may be pretty sure that in that unlucky interview +with Ethel, to which the young lady has alluded, he just said no single +word to her that was not kind, and just, and gentle. Considering the +relation between them, he thought himself justified in remonstrating +with her as to the conduct which she chose to pursue, and in warning +her against acquaintances of whom his own experience had taught him the +dangerous character. He knew Madame d’Ivry and her friends so well that +he would not have his wife-elect a member of their circle. He could not +tell Ethel what he knew of those women and their history. She chose not +to understand his hints—did not, very likely, comprehend them. She was +quite young, and the stories of such lives as theirs had never been +told before her. She was indignant at the surveillance which Lord Kew +exerted over her, and the authority which he began to assume. At +another moment and in a better frame of mind she would have been +thankful for his care, and very soon and ever after she did justice to +his many admirable qualities—his frankness, honesty, and sweet temper. +Only her high spirit was in perpetual revolt at this time against the +bondage in which her family strove to keep her. The very worldly +advantages of the position which they offered her served but to chafe +her the more. Had her proposed husband been a young prince with a crown +to lay at her feet, she had been yet more indignant very likely, and +more rebellious. Had Kew’s younger brother been her suitor, or Kew in +his place, she had been not unwilling to follow her parents’ wishes. +Hence the revolt in which she was engaged—the wayward freaks and +outbreaks her haughty temper indulged in. No doubt she saw the justice +of Lord Kew’s reproofs. That self-consciousness was not likely to add +to her good-humour. No doubt she was sorry for having shown Lord Kew +the letter the moment after she had done that act, of which the poor +young lady could not calculate the consequences that were now to ensue. + +Lord Kew, on glancing over the letter, at once divined the quarter +whence it came. The portrait drawn of him was not unlike, as our +characters described by those who hate us are not unlike. He had passed +a reckless youth; indeed he was sad and ashamed of that past life, +longed like the poor prodigal to return to better courses, and had +embraced eagerly the chance afforded him of a union with a woman young, +virtuous, and beautiful, against whom and against heaven he hoped to +sin no more. If we have told or hinted at more of his story than will +please the ear of modern conventionalism, I beseech the reader to +believe that the writer’s purpose at least is not dishonest, nor +unkindly. The young gentleman hung his head with sorrow over that sad +detail of his life and its follies. What would he have given to be able +to say to Ethel, “This is not true.” + +His reproaches to Miss Newcome of course were at once stopped by this +terrible assault on himself. The letter had been put in the Baden +post-box, and so had come to its destination. It was in a disguised +handwriting. Lord Kew could form no idea even of the sex of the scribe. +He put the envelope in his pocket, when Ethel’s back was turned. He +examined the paper when he left her. He could make little of the +superscription or of the wafer which had served to close the note. He +did not choose to caution Ethel as to whether she should burn the +letter or divulge it to her friends. He took his share of the pain, as +a boy at school takes his flogging, stoutly and in silence. + +When he saw Ethel again, which he did in an hour’s time, the generous +young gentleman held his hand out to her. “My dear,” he said, “if you +had loved me you never would have shown me that letter.” It was his +only reproof. After that he never again reproved or advised her. + +Ethel blushed. “You are very brave and generous, Frank,” said, bending +her head, “and I am captious and wicked.” He felt the hot tear blotting +on his hand from his cousin’s downcast eyes. + +He kissed her little hand. Lady Anne, who was in the room with her +children when these few words passed between the two in a very low +tone, thought it was a reconciliation. Ethel knew it was a renunciation +on Kew’s part—she never liked him so much as at that moment. The young +man was too modest and simple to guess himself what the girl’s feelings +were. Could he have told them, his fate and hers might have been +changed. + +“You must not allow our kind letter-writing friend,” Lord Kew +continued, “to fancy we are hurt. We must walk out this afternoon, and +we must appear very good friends.” + +“Yes, always, Kew,” said Ethel, holding out her hand again. The next +minute her cousin was at the table carving roast-fowls, and +distributing the portions to the hungry children. + +The assembly of the previous evening had been one of those which the +_fermier des jeux_ at Baden beneficently provides for the frequenters +of the place, and now was to come off a much more brilliant +entertainment, in which poor Clive, who is far into Switzerland by this +time, was to have taken a share. The Bachelors had agreed to give a +ball, one of the last entertainments of the season: a dozen or more of +them had subscribed the funds, and we may be sure Lord Kew’s name was +at the head of the list, as it was of any list, of any scheme, whether +of charity or fun. The English were invited, and the Russians were +invited; the Spaniards and Italians, Poles, Prussians, and Hebrews; all +the motley frequenters of the place, and the warriors in the Duke of +Baden’s army. Unlimited supper was set in the restaurant. The +dancing-room glittered with extra lights, and a profusion of cut-paper +flowers decorated the festive scene. Everybody was present, those +crowds with whom our story has nothing to do, and those two or three +groups of persons who enact minor or greater parts in it. Madame d’Ivry +came in a dress of stupendous splendour, even more brilliant than that +in which Miss Ethel had figured at the last assembly. If the Duchess +intended to _écraser_ Miss Newcome by the superior magnificence of her +toilet, she was disappointed. Miss Newcome wore a plain white frock on +the occasion, and resumed, Madame d’Ivry said, her _rôle_ of _ingenue_ +for that night. + +During the brief season in which gentlemen enjoyed the favour of Mary +Queen of Scots, that wandering sovereign led them through all the paces +and vagaries of a regular passion. As in a fair, where time is short +and pleasures numerous, the master of the theatrical booth shows you a +tragedy, a farce, and a pantomime, all in a quarter of an hour, having +a dozen new audiences to witness his entertainments in the course of +the forenoon; so this lady with her platonic lovers went through the +complete dramatic course,—tragedies of jealousy, pantomimes of rapture, +and farces of parting. There were billets on one side and the other; +hints of a fatal destiny, and a ruthless, lynx-eyed tyrant, who held a +demoniac grasp over the Duchess by means of certain secrets which he +knew: there were regrets that we had not known each other sooner: why +were we brought out of our convent and sacrificed to Monsieur le Duc? +There were frolic interchanges of fancy and poesy: pretty _bouderies;_ +sweet reconciliations; yawns finally—and separation. Adolphe went out +and Alphonse came in. It was the new audience; for which the bell rang, +the band played, and the curtain rose; and the tragedy, comedy, and +farce were repeated. + +Those Greenwich performers who appear in the theatrical pieces +above-mentioned, make a great deal more noise than your stationary +tragedians; and if they have to denounce a villain, to declare a +passion, or to threaten an enemy, they roar, stamp, shake their fists, +and brandish their sabres, so that every man who sees the play has +surely a full pennyworth for his penny. Thus Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry +perhaps a little exaggerated her heroines’ parts liking to strike her +audiences quickly, and also to change them often. Like good performers, +she flung herself heart and soul into the business of the stage, and +was what she acted. She was Phedre, and if in the first part of the +play she was uncommonly tender to Hippolyte, in the second she hated +him furiously. She was Medea, and if Jason was _volage_, woe to Creusa! +Perhaps our poor Lord Kew had taken the first character in a +performance with Madame d’Ivry; for his behaviour in which part it was +difficult enough to forgive him; but when he appeared at Baden the +affianced husband of one of the most beautiful young creatures in +Europe,—when his relatives scorned Madame d’Ivry,—no wonder she was +maddened and enraged, and would have recourse to revenge, steel, +poison. + +There was in the Duchess’s court a young fellow from the South of +France, whose friends had sent him to _faire son droit_ at Paris, where +he had gone through the usual course of pleasure and studies of the +young inhabitants of the Latin Quarter. He had at one time exalted +republican opinions, and had fired his shot with distinction at St. +Méri. He was a poet of some little note—a book of his lyrics, Les Râles +d’un Asphyxié, having made a sensation at the time of their appearance. +He drank great quantities of absinthe of a morning; smoked incessantly; +played roulette whenever he could get a few pieces; contributed to a +small journal, and was especially great in his hatred of _l’infame +Angleterre. Delenda est Carthago_ was tattooed beneath his +shirt-sleeves. Fifine and Clarisse, young milliners of the students’ +district, had punctured this terrible motto on his manly right arm. _Le +léopard_, emblem of England, was his aversion; he shook his fist at the +caged monster in the Garden of Plants. He desired to have “Here lies an +enemy of England” engraved upon his early tomb. He was skilled at +billiards and dominoes, adroit in the use of arms, of unquestionable +courage and fierceness. Mr. Jones of England was afraid of M. de +Castillonnes, and cowered before his scowls and sarcasms. Captain +Blackball, the other English aide-de-camp of the Duchesse d’Ivry, a +warrior of undoubted courage, who had been “on the ground” more than +once, gave him a wide berth, and wondered what the little beggar meant +when he used to say, “Since the days of the Prince Noir, monsieur, my +family has been at feud with l’Angleterre!” His family were grocers at +Bordeaux, and his father’s name was M. Cabasse. He had married a noble +in the revolutionary times; and the son at Paris called himself Victor +Cabasse de Castillonnes; then Victor C. de Castillonnes; then M. de +Castillonnes. One of the followers of the Black Prince had insulted a +lady of the house of Castillonnes, when the English were lords of +Guienne; hence our friend’s wrath against the Leopard. He had written, +and afterwards dramatised a terrific legend describing the +circumstances, and the punishment of the Briton by a knight of the +Castillonnes family. A more awful coward never existed in a melodrama +than that felon English knight. His _blanche-fille_, of course, died of +hopeless love for the conquering Frenchman, her father’s murderer. The +paper in which the feuilleton appeared died at the sixth number of the +story. The theatre of the Boulevard refused the drama; so the author’s +rage against _l’infame Albion_ was yet unappeased. On beholding Miss +Newcome, Victor had fancied a resemblance between her and Agnes de +Calverley, the blanche Miss of his novel and drama, and cast an eye of +favour upon the young creature. He even composed verses in her honour +(for I presume that the “Miss Betti” and the Princess Crimhilde of the +poems which he subsequently published, were no other than Miss Newcome, +and the Duchess, her rival). He had been one of the lucky gentlemen who +had danced with Ethel on the previous evening. On the occasion of the +ball, he came to her with a highflown compliment, and a request to be +once more allowed to waltz with her—a request to which he expected a +favourable answer, thinking, no doubt, that his wit, his powers of +conversation, and the _amour qui flambait dans son regard_, had had +their effect upon the charming Meess. Perhaps he had a copy of the very +verses in his breast-pocket, with which he intended to complete his +work of fascination. For her sake alone, he had been heard to say that +he would enter into a truce with England, and forget the hereditary +wrongs of his race. + +But the blanche Miss on this evening declined to waltz with him. His +compliments were not of the least avail. He retired with them and his +unuttered verses in his crumpled bosom. Miss Newcome only danced in one +quadrille with Lord Kew, and left the party quite early, to the despair +of many of the bachelors, who lost the fairest ornament of their ball. + +Lord Kew, however, had been seen walking with her in public, and +particularly attentive to her during her brief appearance in the +ballroom; and the old Dowager, who regularly attended all places of +amusement, and was at twenty parties and six dinners the week before +she died, thought fit to be particularly gracious to Madame d’Ivry upon +this evening, and, far from shunning the Duchesse’s presence or being +rude to her, as on former occasions, was entirely smiling and +good-humoured. Lady Kew, too, thought there had been a reconciliation +between Ethel and her cousin. Lady Anne had given her mother some +account of the handshaking. Kew’s walk with Ethel, the quadrille which +she had danced with him alone, induced the elder lady to believe that +matters had been made up between the young people. + +So, by way of showing the Duchesse that her little shot of the morning +had failed in its effect, as Frank left the room with his cousin, Lady +Kew gaily hinted, “that the young earl was aux petits soins with Miss +Ethel; that she was sure her old friend, the Duc d’Ivry, would be glad +to hear that his godson was about to range himself. He would settle +down on his estates. He would attend to his duties as an English peer +and a country gentleman. We shall go home,” says the benevolent +Countess, “and kill the veau gras, and you shall see our dear prodigal +will become a very quiet gentleman.” + +The Duchesse said, “my Lady Kew’s plan was most edifying. She was +charmed to hear that Lady Kew loved veal; there were some who thought +that meat rather insipid.” A waltzer came to claim her hand at this +moment; and as she twirled round the room upon that gentleman’s arm, +wafting odours as she moved, her pink silks, pink feathers, pink +ribands, making a mighty rustling, the Countess of Kew had the +satisfaction of thinking that she had planted an arrow in that +shrivelled little waist, which Count Punter’s arms embraced, and had +returned the stab which Madame d’Ivry had delivered in the morning. + +Mr. Barnes, and his elect bride, had also appeared, danced, and +disappeared. Lady Kew soon followed her young ones; and the ball went +on very gaily, in spite of the absence of these respectable personages. + +Being one of the managers of the entertainment, Lord Kew returned to it +after conducting Lady Anne and her daughter to their carriage, and now +danced with great vigour, and with his usual kindness, selecting those +ladies whom other waltzers rejected because they were too old, or too +plain, or too stout, or what not. But he did not ask Madame d’Ivry to +dance. He could condescend to dissemble so far as to hide the pain +which he felt; but did not care to engage in that more advanced +hypocrisy of friendship, which for her part, his old grandmother had +not shown the least scruple in assuming. + +Amongst other partners, my lord selected that intrepid waltzer, the +Gräfinn von Gumpelheim, who, in spite of her age, size, and large +family, never lost a chance of enjoying her favourite recreation. “Look +with what a camel my lord waltzes,” said M. Victor to Madame d’Ivry, +whose slim waist he had the honour of embracing to the same music. +“What man but an Englishman would ever select such a dromedary?” + +“Avant de se marier,” said Madame d’Ivry, “il faut avouer que my lord +se permet d’enormes distractions.” + +“My lord marries himself! And when and whom?” cried the Duchesse’s +partner. + +“Miss Newcome. Do not you approve of his choice? I thought the eyes of +Stenio” (the Duchess called M. Victor, Stenio) “looked with some favour +upon that little person. She is handsome, even very handsome. Is it not +so often in life, Stenio? Are not youth and innocence (I give Miss +Ethel the compliment of her innocence, now surtout that the little +painter is dismissed)—are we not cast into the arms of jaded roues? +Tender young flowers, are we not torn from our convent gardens, and +flung into a world of which the air poisons our pure life, and withers +the sainted buds of hope and love and faith? Faith! The mocking world +tramples on it, n’est-ce pas? Love! The brutal world strangles the +heaven-born infant at its birth. Hope! It smiled at me in my little +convent chamber, played among the flowers which I cherished, warbled +with the birds that I loved. But it quitted me at the door of the +world, Stenio. It folded its white wings and veiled its radiant face! +In return for my young love, they gave me—sixty years, the dregs of a +selfish heart, egotism cowering over its fire, and cold for all its +mantle of ermine! In place of the sweet flowers of my young years, they +gave me these, Stenio!” and she pointed to her feathers and her +artificial roses. “Oh, I should like to crush them under my feet!” and +she put out the neatest little slipper. The Duchesse was great upon her +wrongs, and paraded her blighted innocence to every one who would feel +interested by that piteous spectacle. The music here burst out more +swiftly and melodiously than before; the pretty little feet forgot +their desire to trample upon the world. She shrugged the lean little +shoulders—“Eh!” said the Queen of Scots, “dansons et oublions;” and +Stenio’s arm once more surrounded her fairy waist (she called herself a +fairy; other ladies called her a skeleton); and they whirled away in +the waltz again and presently she and Stenio came bumping up against +the stalwart Lord Kew and the ponderous Madame de Gumpelheim, as a +wherry dashes against the oaken ribs of a steamer. + +The little couple did not fall; they were struck on to a neighbouring +bench, luckily: but there was a laugh at the expense of Stenio and the +Queen of Scots—and Lord Kew, settling his panting partner on to a seat, +came up to make excuses for his awkwardness to the lady who had been +its victim. At the laugh produced by the catastrophe, the Duchesse’s +eyes gleamed with anger. + +“M. de Castillonnes,” she said to her partner, “have you had any +quarrel with that Englishman?” + +“With ce milor? But no,” said Stenio. + +“He did it on purpose. There has been no day but his family has +insulted me!” hissed out the Duchesse, and at this moment Lord Kew came +up to make his apologies. He asked a thousand pardons of Madame la +Duchesse for being so maladroit. + +“Maladroit! et tres maladroit, monsieur,” says Stenio, curling his +moustache; “c’est bien le mot, monsieur! + +“Also, I make my excuses to Madame la Duchesse, which I hope she will +receive,” said Lord Kew. The Duchesse shrugged her shoulders and sunk +her head. + +“When one does not know how to dance, one ought not to dance,” +continued the Duchesse’s knight. + +“Monsieur is very good to give me lessons in dancing,” said Lord Kew. + +“Any lessons which you please, milor!” cries Stenio; “and everywhere +where you will them.” + +Lord Kew looked at the little man with surprise. He could not +understand so much anger for so trifling an accident, which happens a +dozen times in every crowded ball. He again bowed to the Duchesse, and +walked away. + +“This is your Englishman—your Kew, whom you vaunt everywhere,” said +Stenio to M. de Florac, who was standing by and witnessed the scene. +“Is he simply bête, or is he poltroon as well? I believe him to be +both.” + +“Silence, Victor!” cried Florac, seizing his arm, and drawing him away. +“You know me, and that I am neither one or the other. Believe my word, +that my Lord Kew wants neither courage nor wit!” + +“Will you be my witness, Florac?” continues the other. + +“To take him your excuses? yes. It is you who have insulted—” + +“Yes, parbleu, I have insulted!” says the Gascon. + +“—A man who never willingly offended soul alive. A man full of heart: +the most frank: the most loyal. I have seen him put to the proof, and +believe me he is all I say.” + +“Eh! so much the better for me!” cried the Southron. “I shall have the +honour of meeting a gallant man: and there will be two on the field.” + +“They are making a tool of you, my poor Gascon,” said M. de Florac, who +saw Madame d’Ivry’s eyes watching the couple. She presently took the +arm of the noble Count de Punter, and went for fresh air into the +adjoining apartment, where play was going on as usual; and Lord Kew and +his friend Lord Rooster were pacing the room apart from the gamblers. + +My Lord Rooster, at something which Kew said, looked puzzled, and said, +“Pooh, stuff, damned little Frenchman! Confounded nonsense!” + +“I was searching you, milor!” said Madame d’Ivry, in a most winning +tone, tripping behind him with her noiseless little feet. “Allow me a +little word. Your arm! You used to give it me once, mon filleul! I hope +you think nothing of the rudeness of M. de Castillonnes; he is a +foolish Gascon: he must have been too often to the buffet this +evening.” + +Lord Kew said, No, indeed, he thought nothing of de Castillonnes’ +rudeness. + +“I am so glad! These heroes of the salle-d’armes have not the commonest +manners. These Gascons are always flamberge au vent. What would the +charming Miss Ethel say, if she heard of the dispute?” + +“Indeed there is no reason why she should hear of it,” said Lord Kew, +“unless some obliging friend should communicate it to her.” + +“Communicate it to her—the poor dear! who would be so cruel as to give +her pain?” asked the innocent Duchesse. “Why do you look at me so, +Frank?” + +“Because I admire you,” said her interlocutor, with a bow. “I have +never seen Madame la Duchesse to such advantage as to-day.” + +“You speak in enigmas! Come back with me to the ballroom. Come and +dance with me once more. You used to dance with me. Let us have one +waltz more, Kew. And then, and then, in a day or two I shall go back to +Monsieur le Duc, and tell him that his filleul is going to marry the +fairest of all Englishwomen and to turn hermit in the country, and +orator in the Chamber of Peers. You have wit! ah si—you have wit!” And +she led back Lord Kew, rather amazed himself at what he was doing, into +the ballroom; so that the good-natured people who were there, and who +beheld them dancing, could not refrain from clapping their hands at the +sight of this couple. + +The Duchess danced as if she was bitten by that Neapolitan spider +which, according to the legend, is such a wonderful dance-incentor. She +would have the music quicker and quicker. She sank on Kew’s arm, and +clung on his support. She poured out all the light of her languishing +eyes into his face. Their glances rather confused than charmed him. But +the bystanders were pleased; they thought it so good-hearted of the +Duchesse, after the little quarrel, to make a public avowal of +reconciliation! + +Lord Rooster looking on, at the entrance of the dancing-room, over +Monsieur de Florac’s shoulder, said, “It’s all right! She’s a clipper +to dance, the little Duchess.” + +“The viper!” said Florac, “how she writhes!” + +“I suppose that business with the Frenchman is all over,” says Lord +Rooster. “Confounded piece of nonsense.” + +“You believe it finished? We shall see!” said Florac, who perhaps knew +his fair cousin better. When the waltz was over, Kew led his partner to +a seat, and bowed to her; but though she made room for him at her side, +pointing to it, and gathering up her rustling robes so that he might +sit down, he moved away, his face full of gloom. He never wished to be +near her again. There was something more odious to him in her +friendship than her hatred. He knew hers was the hand that had dealt +that stab at him and Ethel in the morning. He went back and talked with +his two friends in the doorway. “Couch yourself, my little Kiou,” said +Florac. “You are all pale. You were best in bed, mon garçon!” + +“She has made me promise to take her in to supper,” Kew said, with a +sigh. + +“She will poison you,” said the other. “Why have they abolished the +roue chez nous? My word of honour they should retabliche it for this +woman.” + +“There is one in the next room,” said Kew, with a laugh, “Come, +Vicomte, let us try our fortune,” and he walked back into the +play-room. + +That was the last night on which Lord Kew ever played a gambling game. +He won constantly. The double zero seemed to obey him; so that the +croupiers wondered at his fortune. Florac backed it; saying with the +superstition of a gambler, “I am sure something goes to arrive to this +boy.” From time to time M. de Florac went back to the dancing-room, +leaving his mise under Kew’s charge. He always found his heaps +increased; indeed the worthy Vicomte wanted a turn of luck in his +favour. On one occasion he returned with a grave face, saying to Lord +Rooster, “She has the other one in hand. We are going to see.” +“Trente-six encor! et rouge gagne,” cried the croupier with his nasal +tone, Monsieur de Florac’s pockets overflowed with double Napoleons, +and he stopped his play, luckily, for Kew putting down his winnings, +once, twice, thrice, lost them all. + +When Lord Kew had left the dancing-room, Madame d’Ivry saw Stenio +following him with fierce looks, and called back that bearded bard. +“You were going to pursue M. de Kew,” she said: “I knew you were. Sit +down here, sir,” and she patted him down on her seat with her fan. + +“Do you wish that I should call him back, madame?” said the poet, with +the deepest tragic accents. + +“I can bring him when I want him, Victor,” said the lady. + +“Let us hope others will be equally fortunate,” the Gascon said, with +one hand in his breast, the other stroking his moustache. + +“Fi, monsieur, que vous sentez le tabac! je vous le défends, +entendez-vous, monsieur?” + +“Pourtant, I have seen the day when Madame la Duchesse did not disdain +a cigar,” said Victor. “If the odour incommodes, permit that I retire.” + +“And you also would quit me, Stenio? Do you think I did not mark your +eyes towards Miss Newcome? your anger when she refused you to dance? +Ah! we see all. A woman does not deceive herself, do you see? You send +me beautiful verses, Poet. You can write as well of a statue or a +picture, of a rose or a sunset, as of the heart of a woman. You were +angry just now because I danced with M. de Kew. Do you think in a +woman’s eyes jealousy is unpardonable?” + +“You know how to provoke it, madame,” continued the tragedian. + +“Monsieur,” replied the lady, with dignity, “am I to render you an +account of all my actions, and ask your permission for a walk?” + +“In fact, I am but the slave, madame,” groaned the Gascon, “I am not +the master.” + +“You are a very rebellious slave, monsieur,” continues the lady, with a +pretty moue, and a glance of the large eyes artfully brightened by her +rouge. “Suppose—suppose I danced with M. de Kew, not for his +sake—Heaven knows to dance with him is not a pleasure—but for yours. +Suppose I do not want a foolish quarrel to proceed. Suppose I know that +he is ni sot ni poltron as you pretend. I overheard you, sir, talking +with one of the basest of men, my good cousin, M. de Florac: but it is +not of him I speak. Suppose I know the Comte de Kew to be a man, cold +and insolent, ill-bred, and grossier, as the men of his nation are—but +one who lacks no courage—one who is terrible when roused; might I have +no occasion to fear, not for him, but——” + +“But for me! Ah, Marie! Ah, madame! Believe you that a man of my blood +will yield a foot to any Englishman? Do you know the story of my race? +do you know that since my childhood I have vowed hatred to that nation? +Tenez, madame, this M. Jones who frequents your salon, it was but +respect for you that has enabled me to keep my patience with this +stupid islander. This Captain Blackball, whom you distinguish, who +certainly shoots well, who mounts well to horse, I have always thought +his manners were those of the marker of a billiard. But I respect him +because he has made war with Don Carlos against the English. But this +young M. de Kew, his laugh crisps me the nerves; his insolent air makes +me bound; in beholding him I said to myself, I hate you; think whether +I love him better after having seen him as I did but now, madame!” +Also, but this Victor did not say, he thought Kew had laughed at him at +the beginning of the evening, when the blanche Miss had refused to +dance with him. + +“Ah, Victor, it is not him, but you that I would save,” said the +Duchess. And the people round about, and the Duchess herself, +afterwards said, yes, certainly, she had a good heart. She entreated +Lord Kew; she implored M. Victor; she did everything in her power to +appease the quarrel between him and the Frenchman. + +After the ball came the supper, which was laid at separate little +tables, where parties of half a dozen enjoyed themselves. Lord Kew was +of the Duchess’s party, where our Gascon friend had not a seat. But +being one of the managers of the entertainment, his lordship went about +from table to table, seeing that the guests at each lacked nothing. He +supposed too that the dispute with the Gascon had possibly come to an +end; at any rate, disagreeable as the other’s speech had been, he had +resolved to put up with it, not having the least inclination to drink +the Frenchman’s blood, or to part with his own on so absurd a quarrel. +He asked people in his good-natured way to drink wine with him; and +catching M. Victor’s eye scowling at him from a distant table, he sent +a waiter with a champagne-bottle to his late opponent, and lifted his +glass as a friendly challenge. The waiter carried the message to M. +Victor, who, when he heard it, turned up his glass, and folded his arms +in a stately manner. “M. de Castillonnes dit qu’il refuse, milor,” said +the waiter, rather scared. “He charged me to bring that message to +milor.” Florac ran across to the angry Gascon. It was not while at +Madame d’Ivry’s table that Lord Kew sent his challenge and received his +reply; his duties as steward had carried him away from that pretty +early. + +Meanwhile the glimmering dawn peered into the windows of the +refreshment-room, and behold, the sun broke in and scared all the +revellers. The ladies scurried away like so many ghosts at cock-crow, +some of them not caring to face that detective luminary. Cigars had +been lighted ere this; the men remained smoking them with those +sleepless German waiters still bringing fresh supplies of drink. Lord +Kew gave the Duchesse d’Ivry his arm, and was leading her out; M. de +Castillonnes stood scowling directly in their way, upon which, with +rather an abrupt turn of the shoulder, and a “Pardon, monsieur,” Lord +Kew pushed by, and conducted the Duchesse to her carriage. She did not +in the least see what had happened between the two gentlemen in the +passage; she ogled, and nodded, and kissed her hands quite +affectionately to Kew as the fly drove away. + +Florac in the meanwhile had seized his compatriot, who had drunk +champagne copiously with others, if not with Kew, and was in vain +endeavouring to make him hear reason. The Gascon was furious; he vowed +that Lord Kew had struck him. “By the tomb of my mother,” he bellowed, +“I swear I will have his blood!” Lord Rooster was bawling out, “D—— +him, carry him to bed, and shut him up;” which remarks Victor did not +understand, or two victims would doubtless have been sacrificed on his +mamma’s mausoleum. + +When Kew came back (as he was only too sure to do), the little Gascon +rushed forward with a glove in his hand, and having an audience of +smokers round about him, made a furious speech about England, leopards, +cowardice, insolent islanders, and Napoleon at St. Helena; and demanded +reason for Kew’s conduct during the night. As he spoke, he advanced +towards Lord Kew, glove in hand, and lifted it as if he was actually +going to strike. + +“There is no need for further words,” said Lord Kew, taking his cigar +out of his mouth. “If you don’t drop that glove, upon my word I will +pitch you out of the window. Ha!—Pick the man up, somebody. You’ll bear +witness, gentlemen, I couldn’t help myself. If he wants me in the +morning, he knows where to find me.” + +“I declare that my Lord Kew has acted with great forbearance, and under +the most brutal provocation—the most brutal provocation, entendez-vows, +M. Cabasse?” cried out M. de Florac, rushing forward to the Gascon, who +had now risen; “monsieur’s conduct has been unworthy of a Frenchman and +a gallant homme.” + +“D—— it, he has had it on his nob, though,” said Lord Viscount Rooster, +laconically. + +“Ah, Roosterre! ceci n’est pas pour rire,” Florac cried sadly, as they +both walked away with Lord Kew; “I wish that first blood was all that +was to be shed in this quarrel” + +“Gaw! how he did go down!” cried Rooster, convulsed with laughter. + +“I am very sorry for it,” said Kew, quite seriously; “I couldn’t help +it. God forgive me.” And he hung down his head. He thought of the past, +and its levities, and punishment coming after him _pede claudo_. It was +with all his heart the contrite young man said “God forgive me.” He +would take what was to follow as the penalty of what had gone before. + +“Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas immolat, mon pauvre Kiou,” said his +French friend. And Lord Rooster, whose classical education had been +much neglected, turned round and said, “Hullo, mate, what ship’s that?” + +Viscount Rooster had not been two hours in bed, when the Count de +Punter (formerly of the Black Jägers) waited upon him upon the part of +M. de Castillonnes and the Earl of Kew, who had referred him to the +Viscount to arrange matters for a meeting between them. As the meeting +must take place out of the Baden territory, and they ought to move +before the police prevented them, the Count proposed that they should +at once make for France; where, as it was an affair of honneur, they +would assuredly be let to enter without passports. + +Lady Anne and Lady Kew heard that the gentlemen after the ball had all +gone out on a hunting-party, and were not alarmed for four-and-twenty +hours at least. On the next day none of them returned; and on the day +after, the family heard that Lord Kew had met with rather a dangerous +accident; but all the town knew he had been shot by M. de Castillonnes +on one of the islands on the Rhine, opposite Kehl, where he was now +lying. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. +Across the Alps + + +Our discursive muse must now take her place in the little britzska in +which Clive Newcome and his companions are travelling, and cross the +Alps in that vehicle, beholding the snows on St. Gothard, and the +beautiful region through which the Ticino rushes on its way to the +Lombard lakes, and the corn-covered great plains of the Milanese; and +that royal city, with the cathedral for its glittering crown, only less +magnificent than the imperial dome of Rome. I have some long letters +from Mr. Clive, written during this youthful tour, every step of which, +from the departure at Baden, to the gate of Milan, he describes as +beautiful; and doubtless, the delightful scenes through which the young +man went, had their effect in soothing any private annoyances with +which his journey commenced. The aspect of nature, in that fortunate +route which he took, is so noble and cheering, that our private affairs +and troubles shrink away abashed before that serene splendour. O sweet +peaceful scene of azure lake, and snow-crowned mountain, so wonderfully +lovely is your aspect, that it seems like heaven almost, and as if +grief and care could not enter it! What young Clive’s private cares +were I knew not as yet in those days; and he kept them out of his +letters; it was only in the intimacy of future life that some of these +pains were revealed to me. + +Some three months after taking leave of Miss Ethel, our young gentleman +found himself at Rome, with his friend Ridley still for a companion. +Many of us, young or middle-aged, have felt that delightful shock which +the first sight of the great city inspires. There is one other place of +which the view strikes one with an emotion even greater than that with +which we look at Rome, where Augustus was reigning when He saw the day, +whose birthplace is separated but by a hill or two from the awful gates +of Jerusalem. Who that has beheld both can forget that first aspect of +either? At the end of years the emotion occasioned by the sight still +thrills in your memory, and it smites you as at the moment when you +first viewed it. + +The business of the present novel, however, lies neither with priest +nor pagan, but with Mr. Clive Newcome, and his affairs and his +companions at this period of his life. Nor, if the gracious reader +expects to hear of cardinals in scarlet, and noble Roman princes and +princesses, will he find such in this history. The only noble Roman +into whose mansion our friend got admission was the Prince Polonia, +whose footmen wear the liveries of the English royal family, who gives +gentlemen and even painters cash upon good letters of credit; and, once +or twice in a season, opens his transtiberine palace and treats his +customers to a ball. Our friend Clive used jocularly to say, he +believed there were no Romans. There were priests in portentous hats; +there were friars with shaven crowns; there were the sham peasantry, +who dressed themselves out in masquerade costumes, with bagpipe and +goatskin, with crossed leggings and scarlet petticoats, who let +themselves out to artists at so many pauls per sitting; but he never +passed a Roman’s door except to buy a cigar or to purchase a +handkerchief. Thither, as elsewhere, we carry our insular habits with +us. We have a little England at Paris, a little England at Munich, +Dresden, everywhere. Our friend is an Englishman, and did at Rome as +the English do. + +There was the polite English society, the society that flocks to see +the Colosseum lighted up with blue fire, that flocks to the Vatican to +behold the statues by torchlight, that hustles into the churches on +public festivals in black veils and deputy-lieutenants’ uniforms, and +stares, and talks, and uses opera-glasses while the pontiffs of the +Roman Church are performing its ancient rites, and the crowds of +faithful are kneeling round the altars; the society which gives its +balls and dinners, has its scandal and bickerings, its aristocrats, +parvenus, toadies imported from Belgravia; has its club, its hunt, and +its Hyde Park on the Pincio: and there is the other little English +world, the broad-hatted, long-bearded, velvet-jacketed, jovial colony +of the artists, who have their own feasts, haunts, and amusements by +the side of their aristocratic compatriots, with whom but few of them +have the honour to mingle. + +J. J. and Clive engaged pleasant lofty apartments in the Via +Gregoriana. Generations of painters had occupied these chambers and +gone their way. The windows of their painting-room looked into a quaint +old garden, where there were ancient statues of the Imperial time, a +babbling fountain and noble orange-trees with broad clustering leaves +and golden balls of fruit, glorious to look upon. Their walks abroad +were endlessly pleasant and delightful. In every street there were +scores of pictures of the graceful characteristic Italian life, which +our painters seem one and all to reject, preferring to depict their +quack brigands, contadini, pifferari, and the like, because Thompson +painted them before Jones, and Jones before Thompson, and so on, +backwards into time. There were the children at play, the women huddled +round the steps of the open doorways, in the kindly Roman winter; grim, +portentous old hags, such as Michael Angelo painted, draped in majestic +raggery; mothers and swarming bambins; slouching countrymen, dark of +beard and noble of countenance, posed in superb attitudes, lazy, +tattered, and majestic. There came the red troops, the black troops, +the blue troops of the army of priests; the snuffy regiments of +Capuchins, grave and grotesque; the trim French abbés; my lord the +bishop, with his footman (those wonderful footmen); my lord the +cardinal, in his ramshackle coach and his two, nay three, footmen +behind him;—flunkeys, that look as if they had been dressed by the +costumier of a British pantomime; coach with prodigious emblazonments +of hats and coats-of-arms, that seems as if it came out of the +pantomime too, and was about to turn into something else. So it is, +that what is grand to some persons’ eyes appears grotesque to others; +and for certain sceptical persons, that step, which we have heard of, +between the sublime and the ridiculous, is not visible. + +“I wish it were not so,” writes Clive, in one of the letters wherein he +used to pour his full heart out in those days. “I see these people at +their devotions, and envy them their rapture. A friend, who belongs to +the old religion, took me, last week, into a church where the Virgin +lately appeared in person to a Jewish gentleman, flashed down upon him +from heaven in light and splendour celestial, and, of course, +straightway converted him. My friend bade me look at the picture, and, +kneeling down beside me, I know prayed with all his honest heart that +the truth might shine down upon me too; but I saw no glimpse of heaven +at all. I saw but a poor picture, an altar with blinking candles, a +church hung with tawdry strips of red and white calico. The good, kind +W—— went away, humbly saying ‘that such might have happened again if +heaven so willed it.’ I could not but feel a kindness and admiration +for the good man. I know his works are made to square with his faith, +that he dines on a crust, lives as chaste as a hermit, and gives his +all to the poor. + +“Our friend J. J., very different to myself in so many respects, so +superior in all, is immensely touched by these ceremonies. They seem to +answer to some spiritual want of his nature, and he comes away +satisfied as from a feast, where I have only found vacancy. Of course +our first pilgrimage was to St. Peter’s. What a walk! Under what noble +shadows does one pass; how great and liberal the houses are, with +generous casements and courts, and great grey portals which giants +might get through and keep their turbans on. Why, the houses are twice +as tall as Lamb Court itself; and over them hangs a noble dinge, a +venerable mouldy splendour. Over the solemn portals are ancient mystic +escutcheons—vast shields of princes and cardinals, such as Ariosto’s +knights might take down; and every figure about them is a picture by +himself. At every turn there is a temple: in every court a brawling +fountain. Besides the people of the streets and houses, and the army of +priests black and brown, there’s a great silent population of marble. +There are battered gods tumbled out of Olympus and broken in the fall, +and set up under niches and over fountains; there are senators +namelessly, noselessly, noiselessly seated under archways, or lurking +in courts and gardens. And then, besides these defunct ones, of whom +these old figures may be said to be the corpses, there is the reigning +family, a countless carved hierarchy of angels, saints, confessors of +the latter dynasty which has conquered the court of Jove. I say, Pen, I +wish Warrington would write the history of the Last of the Pagans. Did +you never have a sympathy for them as the monks came rushing into their +temples, kicking down their poor altars, smashing the fair calm faces +of their gods, and sending their vestals a-flying? They are always +preaching here about the persecution of the Christians. Are not the +churches full of martyrs with choppers in their meek heads; virgins on +gridirons; riddled St. Sebastians, and the like? But have they never +persecuted in their turn? O me! You and I know better, who were bred up +near to the pens of Smithfield, where Protestants and Catholics have +taken their turn to be roasted. + +“You pass through an avenue of angels and saints on the bridge across +Tiber, all in action; their great wings seem clanking, their marble +garments clapping; St. Michael, descending upon the Fiend, has been +caught and bronzified just as he lighted on the Castle of St. Angelo: +his enemy doubtless fell crushing through the roof and so downwards. He +is as natural as blank verse—that bronze angel-set, rhythmic, +grandiose. You’ll see, some day or other, he’s a great sonnet, sir, I’m +sure of that. Milton wrote in bronze; I am sure Virgil polished off his +Georgics in marble—sweet calm shapes! exquisite harmonies of line! As +for the Aeneid; that, sir, I consider to be so many bas-reliefs, mural +ornaments which affect me not much. + +“I think I have lost sight of St. Peter’s, haven’t I? Yet it is big +enough. How it makes your heart beat when you first see it! Ours did as +we came in at night from Civita Vecchia, and saw a great ghostly +darkling dome rising solemnly up into the grey night, and keeping us +company ever so long as we drove, as if it had been an orb fallen out +of heaven with its light put out. As you look at it from the Pincio, +and the sun sets behind it, surely that aspect of earth and sky is one +of the grandest in the world. I don’t like to say that the facade of +the church is ugly and obtrusive. As long as the dome overawes, that +facade is supportable. You advance towards it—through, oh, such a noble +court! with fountains flashing up to meet the sunbeams; and right and +left of you two sweeping half-crescents of great columns; but you pass +by the courtiers and up to the steps of the throne, and the dome seems +to disappear behind it. It is as if the throne was upset, and the king +had toppled over. + +“There must be moments, in Rome especially, when every man of friendly +heart, who writes himself English and Protestant, must feel a pang at +thinking that he and his countrymen are insulated from European +Christendom. An ocean separates us. From one shore or the other one can +see the neighbour cliffs on clear days: one must wish sometimes that +there were no stormy gulf between us; and from Canterbury to Rome a +pilgrim could pass, and not drown beyond Dover. Of the beautiful parts +of the great Mother Church I believe among us many people have no idea; +we think of lazy friars, of pining cloistered virgins, of ignorant +peasants worshipping wood and stones, bought and sold indulgences, +absolutions, and the like commonplaces of Protestant satire. Lo! yonder +inscription, which blazes round the dome of the temple, so great and +glorious it looks like heaven almost, and as if the words were written +in stars, it proclaims to all the world, this is that Peter, and on +this rock the Church shall be built, against which Hell shall not +prevail. Under the bronze canopy his throne is lit with lights that +have been burning before it for ages. Round this stupendous chamber are +ranged the grandees of his court. Faith seems to be realised in their +marble figures. Some of them were alive but yesterday; others, to be as +blessed as they, walk the world even now doubtless; and the +commissioners of heaven, here holding their court a hundred years +hence, shall authoritatively announce their beatification. The signs of +their power shall not be wanting. They heal the sick, open the eyes of +the blind, cause the lame to walk to-day as they did eighteen centuries +ago. Are there not crowds ready to bear witness to their wonders? Isn’t +there a tribunal appointed to try their claims; advocates to plead for +and against; prelates and clergy and multitudes of faithful to back and +believe them? Thus you shall kiss the hand of a priest to-day, who has +given his to a friar whose bones are already beginning to work +miracles, who has been the disciple of another whom the Church has just +proclaimed a saint,—hand in hand they hold by one another till the line +is lost up in heaven. Come, friend, let us acknowledge this, and go and +kiss the toe of St. Peter. Alas! there’s the Channel always between us; +and we no more believe in the miracles of St. Thomas of Canterbury, +than that the bones of His Grace John Bird, who sits in St. Thomas’s +chair presently, will work wondrous cures in the year 2000: that his +statue will speak, or his portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence will wink. + +“So, you see, at those grand ceremonies which the Roman Church exhibits +at Christmas, I looked on as a Protestant. Holy Father on his throne or +in his palanquin, cardinals with their tails and their train-bearers, +mitred bishops and abbots, regiments of friars and clergy, relics +exposed for adoration, columns draped, altars illuminated, incense +smoking, organs pealing, and boxes of piping soprani, Swiss guards with +slashed breeches and fringed halberts;—between us and all this +splendour of old-world ceremony, there’s an ocean flowing: and yonder +old statue of Peter might have been Jupiter again, surrounded by a +procession of flamens and augurs, and Augustus as Pontifex Maximus, to +inspect the sacrifices,—and my feelings at the spectacle had been, +doubtless, pretty much the same. + +“Shall I utter any more heresies? I am an unbeliever in Raphael’s +‘Transfiguration’—the scream of that devil-possessed boy, in the lower +part of the figure of eight (a stolen boy too), jars the whole music of +the composition. On Michael Angelo’s great wall, the grotesque and +terrible are not out of place. What an awful achievement! Fancy the +state of mind of the man who worked it—as alone, day after day, he +devised and drew those dreadful figures! Suppose in the days of the +Olympian dynasty, the subdued Titan rebels had been set to ornament a +palace for Jove, they would have brought in some such tremendous work: +or suppose that Michael descended to the Shades, and brought up this +picture out of the halls of Limbo. I like a thousand and a thousand +times better to think of Raphael’s loving spirit. As he looked at women +and children, his beautiful face must have shone like sunshine: his +kind hand must have caressed the sweet figures as he formed them. If I +protest against the ‘Transfiguration,’ and refuse to worship at that +altar before which so many generations have knelt, there are hundreds +of others which I salute thankfully. It is not so much in the set +harangues (to take another metaphor), as in the daily tones and talk +that his voice is so delicious. Sweet poetry, and music, and tender +hymns drop from him: he lifts his pencil, and something gracious falls +from it on the paper. How noble his mind must have been! it seems but +to receive, and his eye seems only to rest on, what is great, and +generous, and lovely. You walk through crowded galleries, where are +pictures ever so large and pretentious; and come upon a grey paper, or +a little fresco, bearing his mark-and over all the brawl and the throng +recognise his sweet presence. ‘I would like to have been Giulio +Romano,’ J. J. says (who does not care for Giulio’s pictures), ‘because +then I would have been Raphael’s favourite pupil.’ We agreed that we +would rather have seen him and William Shakspeare, than all the men we +ever read of. Fancy poisoning a fellow out of envy—as Spagnoletto did! +There are some men whose admiration takes that bilious shape. There’s a +fellow in our mess at the Lepre, a clever enough fellow too—and not a +bad fellow to the poor. He was a Gandishite. He is a genre and portrait +painter, by the name of Haggard. He hates J. J. because Lord Fareham, +who is here, has given J. J. an order; and he hates me, because I wear +a clean shirt, and ride a cock-horse. + +“I wish you could come to our mess at the Lepre. It’s such a dinner: +such a tablecloth: such a waiter: such a company! Every man has a beard +and a sombrero: and you would fancy we were a band of brigands. We are +regaled with woodcocks, snipes, wild swans, ducks, robins, and owls and +οἰωνοῖσι τε πᾶσι for dinner; and with three pauls’ worth of wines and +victuals the hungriest has enough, even Claypole the sculptor. Did you +ever know him? He used to come to the Haunt. He looks like the +Saracen’s head with his beard now. There is a French table still more +hairy than ours, a German table, an American table. After dinner we go +and have coffee and mezzo-caldo at the Café Greco over the way. +Mezzo-caldo is not a bad drink—a little rum—a slice of fresh +citron—lots of pounded sugar, and boiling water for the rest. Here in +various parts of the cavern (it is a vaulted low place) the various +nations have their assigned quarters, and we drink our coffee and +strong waters, and abuse Guido, or Rubens, or Bernini _selon les +goûts_, and blow such a cloud of smoke as would make Warrington’s lungs +dilate with pleasure. We get very good cigars for a bajoccho and +half—that is very good for us, cheap tobaccanalians; and capital when +you have got no others. M’Collop is here: he made a great figure at a +cardinal’s reception in the tartan of the M’Collop. He is splendid at +the tomb of the Stuarts, and wanted to cleave Haggard down to the chine +with his claymore for saying that Charles Edward was often drunk. + +“Some of us have our breakfasts at the Café Greco at dawn. The birds +are very early birds here; and you’ll see the great sculptors—the old +Dons, you know, who look down on us young fellows—at their coffee here +when it is yet twilight. As I am a swell, and have a servant, J. J. and +I breakfast at our lodgings. I wish you could see Terribile our +attendant, and Ottavia our old woman! You will see both of them on the +canvas one day. When he _hasn’t_ blacked our boots and has got our +breakfast, Terribile the valet-de-chambre becomes Terribile the model. +He has figured on a hundred canvases ere this, and almost ever since he +was born. All his family were models. His mother having been a Venus, +is now a Witch of Endor. His father is in the patriarchal line: he has +himself done the cherubs, the shepherd-boys, and now is a grown man, +and ready as a warrior, a pifferaro, a capuchin, or what you will. + +“After the coffee and the Café Greco we all go to the Life Academy. +After the Life Academy, those who belong to the world dress and go out +to tea-parties just as if we were in London. Those who are not in +society have plenty of fun of their own—and better fun than the +tea-party fun too. Jack Screwby has a night once a week, sardines and +ham for supper, and a cask of Marsala in the corner. Your humble +servant entertains on Thursdays: which is Lady Fitch’s night too; and I +flatter myself some of the London dandies who are passing the winter +here, prefer the cigars and humble liquors which we dispense, to tea +and Miss Fitch’s performance on the pianoforte. + +“What is that I read in _Galignani_ about Lord K— and an affair of +honour at Baden? Is it my dear kind jolly Kew with whom some one has +quarrelled? I know those who will be even more grieved than I am, +should anything happen to the best of good fellows. A great friend of +Lord Kew’s, Jack Belsize commonly called, came with us from Baden +through Switzerland, and we left him at Milan. I see by the paper that +his elder brother is dead and so poor Jack will be a great man some +day. I wish the chance had happened sooner if it was to befall at all. +So my amiable cousin, Barnes Newcome Newcome, Esq., has married my Lady +Clara Pulleyn; I wish her joy of her bridegroom. All I have heard of +that family is from the newspaper. If you meet them, tell me anything +about them.—We had a very pleasant time altogether at Baden. I suppose +the accident to Kew will put off his marriage with Miss Newcome. They +have been engaged, you know, ever so long.—And—do, do write to me and +tell me something about London. It’s best I should—should stay here and +work this winter and the next. J. J. has done a famous picture, and if +I send a couple home, you’ll give them a notice in the _Pall Mall +Gazette_—won’t you?—for the sake of old times and yours affectionately, +Clive Newcome.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. +In which M. de Florac is promoted + + +However much Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry was disposed to admire and +praise her own conduct in the affair which ended so unfortunately for +poor Lord Kew, between whom and the Gascon her grace vowed that she had +done everything in her power to prevent a battle, the old Duke, her +lord, was, it appeared, by no means delighted with his wife’s +behaviour, nay, visited her with his very sternest displeasure. Miss +O’Grady, the Duchesse’s companion, and her little girl’s instructress, +at this time resigned her functions in the Ivry family; it is possible +that in the recriminations consequent upon the governess’s dismissal, +the Miss Irlandaise, in whom the family had put so much confidence, +divulged stories unfavourable to her patroness, and caused the +indignation of the Duke, her husband. Between Florac and the Duchesse +there was also open war and rupture. He had been one of Kew’s seconds +in the latter’s affair with the Vicomte’s countryman. He had even cried +out for fresh pistols, and proposed to engage Castillonnes, when his +gallant principal fell; and though a second duel was luckily averted as +murderous and needless, M. de Florac never hesitated afterwards, and in +all companies, to denounce with the utmost virulence the instigator and +the champion of the odious original quarrel. He vowed that the Duchesse +had shot _le petit Kiou_ as effectually as if she had herself fired the +pistol at his breast. Murderer, poisoner, Brinvilliers, a hundred more +such epithets he used against his kinswoman, regretting that the good +old times were past—that there was no Chambre Ardente to try her, and +no rack and wheel to give her her due. + +The biographer of the Newcomes has no need (although he possesses the +fullest information) to touch upon the Duchesse’s doings, further than +as they relate to that most respectable English family. When the Duke +took his wife into the country, Florac never hesitated to say that to +live with her was dangerous for the old man, and to cry out to his +friends of the Boulevards or the Jockey Club, “Ma parole d’honneur, +cette femme le tuera!” + +Do you know, O gentle and unsuspicious readers, or have you ever +reckoned as you have made your calculation of society, how many most +respectable husbands help to kill their wives—how many respectable +wives aid in sending their husbands to Hades? The wife of a +chimney-sweep or a journeyman butcher comes shuddering before a police +magistrate—her head bound up—her body scarred and bleeding with wounds, +which the drunken ruffian, her lord, has administered: a poor +shopkeeper or mechanic is driven out of his home by the furious +ill-temper of the shrill virago his wife—takes to the public-house—to +evil courses—to neglecting his business—to the gin-bottle—to _delirium +tremens_—to perdition. Bow Street, and policemen, and the newspaper +reporters, have cognisance and a certain jurisdiction over these vulgar +matrimonial crimes; but in politer company how many murderous assaults +are there by husband or wife—where the woman is not felled by the +actual fist, though she staggers and sinks under blows quite as cruel +and effectual; where, with old wounds yet unhealed, which she strives +to hide under a smiling face from the world, she has to bear up and to +be stricken down and to rise to her feet again, under fresh daily +strokes of torture; where the husband, fond and faithful, has to suffer +slights, coldness, insult, desertion, his children sneered away from +their love for him, his friends driven from his door by jealousy, his +happiness strangled, his whole life embittered, poisoned, destroyed! If +you were acquainted with the history of every family in your street, +don’t you know that in two or three of the houses there such tragedies +have been playing? Is not the young mistress of Number 20 already +pining at her husband’s desertion? The kind master of Number 30 racking +his fevered brains and toiling through sleepless nights to pay for the +jewels on his wife’s neck, and the carriage out of which she ogles +Lothario in the Park? The fate under which man or woman falls, blow of +brutal tyranny, heartless desertion, weight of domestic care too heavy +to bear—are not blows such as these constantly striking people down? In +this long parenthesis we are wandering ever so far away from M. le Duc +and Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry, and from the vivacious Florac’s +statement regarding his kinsman, that that woman will kill him. + +There is this at least to be said, that if the Duc d’Ivry did die he +was a very old gentleman, and had been a great viveur for at least +threescore years of his life. As Prince de Moncontour in his father’s +time before the Revolution, during the Emigration, even after the +Restoration, M. le Duc had vecu with an extraordinary vitality. He had +gone through good and bad fortune: extreme poverty, display and +splendour, affairs of love—affairs of honour,—and of one disease or +another a man must die at the end. After the Baden business—and he had +dragged off his wife to Champagne—the Duke became greatly broken; he +brought his little daughter to a convent at Paris, putting the child +under the special guardianship of Madame de Florac, with whom and with +whose family in these latter days the old chief of the house effected a +complete reconciliation. The Duke was now for ever coming to Madame de +Florac; he poured all his wrongs and griefs into her ear with garrulous +senile eagerness. “That little Duchesse is a monstre, a femme d’Eugene +Sue,” the Vicomte used to say; “the poor old Duke he cry—ma parole +d’honneur, he cry and I cry too when he comes to recount to my poor +mother, whose sainted heart is the _asile_ of all griefs, a real Hotel +Dieu, my word the most sacred, with beds for all the afflicted, with +sweet words, like Sisters of Charity, to minister to them:—I cry, mon +bon Pendennis, when this _vieillard_ tells his stories about his wife +and tears his white hairs to the feet of my mother.” + +When the little Antoinette was separated by her father from her mother, +the Duchesse d’Ivry, it might have been expected that that poetess +would have dashed off a few more _cris de l’âme_, shrieking according +to her wont, and baring and beating that shrivelled maternal bosom of +hers, from which her child had been just torn. The child skipped and +laughed to go away to the convent. It was only when she left Madame de +Florac that she used to cry; and when urged by that good lady to +exhibit a little decorous sentiment in writing to her mamma, Antoinette +would ask, in her artless way, “Pourquoi? Mamma used never to speak to +me except sometimes before the world, before ladies, that understands +itself. When her gentleman came, she put me to the door; then she gave +me tapes, _oh oui_, she gave me tapes! I cry no more; she has so much +made to cry M. le Duc, that it is quite enough of one in a family.” So +Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry did not weep, even in print, for the loss of +her pretty little Antoinette; besides, she was engaged, at that time, +by other sentimental occupations. A young grazier of their neighbouring +town, of an aspiring mind and remarkable poetic talents, engrossed the +Duchesse’s platonic affections at this juncture. When he had sold his +beasts at market, he would ride over and read Rousseau and Schiller +with Madame la Duchesse, who formed him. His pretty young wife was +rendered miserable by all these readings, but what could the poor +little ignorant countrywoman know of Platonism? Faugh! there is more +than one woman we see in society smiling about from house to house, +pleasant and sentimental and formosa superne enough; but I fancy a +fish’s tail is flapping under her fine flounces, and a forked fin at +the end of it! + +Finer flounces, finer bonnets, more lovely wreaths, more beautiful +lace, smarter carriages, bigger white bows, larger footmen, were not +seen, during all the season of 18—, than appeared round about St. +George’s, Hanover Square, in the beautiful month of June succeeding +that September when so many of our friends the Newcomes were assembled +at Baden. Those flaunting carriages, powdered and favoured footmen, +were in attendance upon members of the Newcome family and their +connexions, who were celebrating what is called a marriage in high life +in the temple within. Shall we set down a catalogue of the dukes, +marquises, earls, who were present; cousins of the lovely bride? Are +they not already in the _Morning Herald_ and _Court Journal_, as well +as in the _Newcome Sentinel_ and _Independent_, and the _Dorking +Intelligence_ and _Chanticlere Weekly Gazette?_ There they are, all +printed at full length sure enough; the name of the bride, Lady Clara +Pulleyn, the lovely and accomplished daughter of the Earl and Countess +of Dorking; of the beautiful bridesmaids, the Ladies Henrietta, +Belinda, Adelaide Pulleyn, Miss Newcome, Miss Alice Newcome, Miss Maude +Newcome, Miss Anna Maria (Hobson) Newcome; and all the other persons +engaged in the ceremony. It was performed by the Right Honourable +Viscount Gallowglass, Bishop of Ballyshannon, brother-in-law to the +bride, assisted by the Honourable and Reverend Hercules O’Grady, his +lordship’s chaplain, and the Reverend John Bulders, Rector of St. +Mary’s, Newcome. Then follow the names of all the nobility who were +present, and of the noble and distinguished personages who signed the +book. Then comes an account of the principal dresses, chefs-d’œuvre of +Madame Crinoline; of the bride’s coronal of brilliants, supplied by +Messrs. Morr and Stortimer;—of the veil of priceless Chantilly lace, +the gift of the Dowager Countess of Kew. Then there is a description of +the wedding-breakfast at the house of the bride’s noble parents, and of +the cake, decorated by Messrs. Gunter with the most delicious taste and +the sweetest hymeneal allusions. + +No mention was made by the fashionable chronicler of a slight +disturbance which occurred at St. George’s, and which was indeed out of +the province of such a genteel purveyor of news. Before the marriage +service began, a woman of vulgar appearance and disorderly aspect, +accompanied by two scared children who took no part in the disorder +occasioned by their mother’s proceeding, except by their tears and +outcries to augment the disquiet, made her appearance in one of the +pews of the church, was noted there by persons in the vestry, was +requested to retire by a beadle, and was finally induced to quit the +sacred precincts of the building by the very strongest persuasion of a +couple of policemen; X and Y laughed at one another, and nodded their +heads knowingly as the poor wretch with her whimpering boys was led +away. They understood very well who the personage was who had come to +disturb the matrimonial ceremony; it did not commence until Mrs. De +Lacy (as this lady chose to be called) had quitted this temple of +Hymen. She slunk through the throng of emblazoned carriages, and the +press of footmen arrayed as splendidly as Solomon in his glory. John +jeered at Thomas, William turned his powdered head, and signalled +Jeames, who answered with a corresponding grin, as the woman with sobs, +and wild imprecations, and frantic appeals, made her way through the +splendid crowd escorted by her aides-de-camp in blue. I dare say her +little history was discussed at many a dinner-table that day in the +basement story of several fashionable houses. I know that at clubs in +St. James’s the facetious little anecdote was narrated. A young fellow +came to Bays’s after the marriage breakfast and mentioned the +circumstance with funny comments; although the _Morning Post_, in +describing this affair in high life, naturally omitted all mention of +such low people as Mrs. De Lacy and her children. + +Those people who knew the noble families whose union had been +celebrated by such a profusion of grandees, fine equipages, and +footmen, brass bands, brilliant toilets, and wedding favours, asked how +it was that Lord Kew did not assist at Barnes Newcome’s marriage; other +persons in society inquired waggishly why Jack Belsize was not present +to give Lady Clara away. + +As for Jack Belsize, his clubs had not been ornamented by his presence +for a year past. It was said he had broken the bank at Hombourg last +autumn; had been heard of during the winter at Milan, Venice, and +Vienna; and when, a few months after the marriage of Barnes Newcome and +Lady Clara, Jack’s elder brother died, and he himself became the next +in succession to the title and estates of Highgate, many folks said it +was a pity little Barney’s marriage had taken place so soon. Lord Kew +was not present, because Kew was still abroad; he had had a gambling +duel with a Frenchman, and a narrow squeak for his life. He had turned +Roman Catholic, some men said; others vowed that he had joined the +Methodist persuasion. At all events Kew had given up his wild courses, +broken with the turf, and sold his stud off; he was delicate yet, and +his mother was taking care of him; between whom and the old dowager of +Kew, who had made up Barney’s marriage, as everybody knew, there was no +love lost. + +Then who was the Prince de Moncontour, who, with his princess, figured +at this noble marriage? There was a Moncontour, the Duc d’Ivry’s son, +but he died at Paris before the revolution of ’30: one or two of the +oldsters at Bays’s, Major Pendennis, General Tufto, old Cackleby—the +old fogies, in a word—remembered the Duke of Ivry when he was here +during the Emigration, and when he was called Prince de Moncontour, the +title of the eldest son of the family. Ivry was dead, having buried his +son before him, and having left only a daughter by that young woman +whom he married, and who led him such a life. Who was this present +Moncontour? + +He was a gentleman to whom the reader has already been presented, +though when we lately saw him at Baden he did not enjoy so magnificent +a title. Early in the year of Barnes Newcome’s marriage, there came to +England, and to our modest apartment in the Temple, a gentleman +bringing a letter of recommendation from our dear young Clive, who said +that the bearer, the Vicomte de Florac, was a great friend of his, and +of the Colonel’s, who had known his family from boyhood. A friend of +our Clive and our Colonel was sure of a welcome in Lamb Court; we gave +him the hand of hospitality, the best cigar in the box, the easy-chair +with only one broken leg; the dinner in chambers and at the club, the +banquet at Greenwich (where, _ma foi_, the little _whites baites_ +elicited his profound satisfaction); in a word, did our best to honour +that bill which our young Clive had drawn upon us. We considered the +young one in the light of a nephew of our own; we took a pride in him, +and were fond of him; and as for the Colonel, did we not love and +honour him; would we not do our utmost in behalf of any stranger who +came recommended to us by Thomas Newcome’s good word? So Florac was +straightway admitted to our companionship. We showed him the town, and +some of the modest pleasures thereof; we introduced him to the Haunt, +and astonished him by the company which he met there. Between Brent’s +“Deserter” and Mark Wilder’s “Garryowen,” Florac sang— + +Tiens voici ma pipe, voilà mon bri—quet; +Et quand la Tulipe fait le noir tra—jet +Que tu sois la seule dans le régi—ment +Avec la brûle-gueule de ton cher z’a—mant; + + +to the delight of Tom Sarjent, who, though he only partially +comprehended the words of the song, pronounced the singer to be a rare +gentleman, full of most excellent differences. We took our Florac to +the Derby; we presented him in Fitzroy Square, whither we still +occasionally went, for Clive’s and our dear Colonel’s sake. + +The Vicomte pronounced himself strongly in favour of the blanche misse +little Rosey Mackenzie, of whom we have lost sight for some few +chapters. Mrs. Mac he considered, my faith, to be a woman superb. He +used to kiss the tips of his own fingers, in token of his admiration +for the lovely widow; he pronounced her again more pretty than her +daughter; and paid her a thousand compliments, which she received with +exceeding good-humour. If the Vicomte gave us to understand presently +that Rosey and her mother were both in love with him, but that for all +the world he would not meddle with the happiness of his dear little +Clive, nothing unfavourable to the character or constancy of the +before-mentioned ladies must be inferred from M. de Florac’s speech; +his firm conviction being, that no woman could pass many hours in his +society without danger to her subsequent peace of mind. + +For some little time we had no reason to suspect that our French friend +was not particularly well furnished with the current coin of the realm. +Without making any show of wealth, he would, at first, cheerfully +engage in our little parties: his lodgings in the neighbourhood of +Leicester Square, though dingy, were such as many noble foreign exiles +have inhabited. It was not until he refused to join some pleasure-trip +which we of Lamb Court proposed, honestly confessing his poverty, that +we were made aware of the Vicomte’s little temporary calamity; and, as +we became more intimate with him, he acquainted us, with great +openness, with the history of all his fortunes. He described +energetically that splendid run of luck which had set in at Baden with +Clive’s loan: his winnings, at that fortunate period, had carried him +through the winter with considerable brilliancy, but bouillotte and +Mademoiselle Atala, of the Variétés (_une ogresse, mon cher!_ who +devours thirty of our young men every year in her cavern, in the Rue de +Bréda), had declared against him, and the poor Vicomte’s pockets were +almost empty when he came to London. + +He was amiably communicative regarding himself, and told us his virtues +and his faults (if indeed a passion for play and for women could be +considered as faults in a gay young fellow of two or three and forty), +with a like engaging frankness. He would weep in describing his angel +mother: he would fly off again into tirades respecting the wickedness, +the wit, the extravagance, the charms of the young lady of the +Variétés. He would then (in conversation) introduce us to Madame de +Florac, _née_ Higg, of Manchesterre. His prattle was incessant, and to +my friend Mr. Warrington especially he was an object of endless delight +and amusement and wonder. He would roll and smoke countless paper +cigars, talking unrestrainedly when we were not busy, silent when we +were engaged; he would only rarely partake of our meals, and altogether +refused all offers of pecuniary aid. He disappeared at dinner-time into +the mysterious purlieus of Leicester Square, and dark ordinaries only +frequented by Frenchmen. As we walked with him in the Regent Street +precincts, he would exchange marks of recognition with many dusky +personages, smoking bravos; and whiskered refugees of his nation. + +“That gentleman,” he would say, “who has done me the honour to salute +me, is a coiffeur of the most celebrated; he forms the _delices_ of our +table-d’hôte. ‘Bon jour, mon cher monsieur!’ We are friends, though not +of the same opinion. Monsieur is a republican of the most +distinguished; conspirator of profession, and at this time engaged in +constructing an infernal machine to the address of His Majesty, Louis +Philippe, King of the French.” “Who is my friend with the scarlet beard +and the white paletot? My good Warrington! you do not move in the +world; you make yourself a hermit, my dear! Not know monsieur!—monsieur +is secretary to Mademoiselle Caracoline, the lovely rider at the circus +of Astley; I shall be charmed to introduce you to this amiable society +some day at our table-d’hôte.” + +Warrington vowed that the company of Florac’s friends would be +infinitely more amusing than the noblest society ever chronicled in the +_Morning Post;_ but we were neither sufficiently familiar with the +French language to make conversation in that tongue as pleasant to us +as talking in our own; and so were content with Florac’s description of +his compatriots, which the Vicomte delivered in that charming +French-English of which he was a master. + +However threadbare in his garments, poor in purse, and eccentric in +morals our friend was, his manners were always perfectly gentlemanlike, +and he draped himself in his poverty with the grace of a Spanish +grandee. It must be confessed, that the grandee loved the estaminet +where he could play billiards with the first comer; that he had a +passion for the gambling-house; that he was a loose and disorderly +nobleman: but, in whatever company he found himself, a certain +kindness, simplicity, and politeness distinguished him always. He bowed +to the damsel who sold him a penny cigar, as graciously as to a +duchess; he crushed a _manant’s_ impertinence or familiarity as +haughtily as his noble ancestors ever did at the Louvre, at Marli, or +Versailles. He declined to _obtempérer_ to his landlady’s request to +pay his rent, but he refused with a dignity which struck the woman with +awe; and King Alfred, over the celebrated muffin (on which Gandish and +other painters have exercised their genius), could not have looked more +noble than Florac in a robe-de-chambre, once gorgeous, but shady now as +became its owner’s clouded fortunes; toasting his bit of bacon at his +lodgings, when the fare even of his table-d’hôte had grown too dear for +him. + +As we know from Gandish’s work, that better times were in store for the +wandering monarch, and that the officers came acquainting him that his +people demanded his presence _à grands cris_, when of course King +Alfred laid down the toast and resumed the sceptre; so in the case of +Florac, two humble gentlemen, inhabitants of Lamb Court, and members of +the Upper temple, had the good luck to be the heralds as it were, nay +indeed, the occasion, of the rising fortunes of the Prince de +Moncontour. Florac had informed us of the death of his cousin the Duc +d’Ivry, by whose demise the Vicomte’s father, the old Count de Florac, +became the representative of the house of Ivry, and possessor, through +his relative’s bequest, of an old château still more gloomy and +spacious than the count’s own house in the Faubourg St. Germain—a +château, of which the woods, domains, and appurtenances had been lopped +off by the Revolution. “Monsieur le Comte,” Florac says, “has not +wished to change his name at his age; he has shrugged his old shoulder, +and said it was not the trouble to make to engrave a new card; and for +me,” the philosophical Vicomte added, “of what good shall be a title of +prince in the position where I find myself?” It is wonderful for us who +inhabit a country where rank is worshipped with so admirable a +reverence, to think that there are many gentlemen in France who +actually have authentic titles and do not choose to bear them. + +Mr. George Warrington was hugely amused with this notion of Florac’s +ranks and dignities. The idea of the Prince purchasing penny cigars; of +the Prince mildly expostulating with his landlady regarding the rent; +of his punting for half-crowns at a neighbouring hall in Air Street, +whither the poor gentleman desperately ran when he had money in his +pocket, tickled George’s sense of humour. It was Warrington who gravely +saluted the Vicomte, and compared him to King Alfred, on that afternoon +when we happened to call upon him and found him engaged in cooking his +modest dinner. + +We were bent upon an excursion to Greenwich, and on having our friend’s +company on that voyage, and we induced the Vicomte to forgo his bacon, +and be our guest for once. George Warrington chose to indulge in a +great deal of ironical pleasantry in the course of the afternoon’s +excursion. As we went down the river, he pointed out to Florac the very +window in the Tower where the captive Duke of Orleans used to sit when +he was an inhabitant of that fortress. At Greenwich, which palace +Florac informed us was built by Queen Elizabeth, George showed the very +spot where Raleigh laid his cloak down to enable Her Majesty to step +over a puddle. In a word, he mystified M. de Florac; such was Mr. +Warrington’s reprehensible spirit. + +It happened that Mr. Barnes Newcome came to dine at Greenwich on the +same day when our little party took place. He had come down to meet +Rooster and one or two other noble friends whose names he took care to +give us, cursing them at the same time for having thrown him over. +Having missed his own company, Mr. Barnes condescended to join ours, +Warrington gravely thanking him for the great honour which he conferred +upon us by volunteering to take a place at our table. Barnes drank +freely, and was good enough to resume his acquaintance with Monsieur de +Florac, whom he perfectly well recollected at Baden, but had thought +proper to forget on the one or two occasions when they had met in +public since the Vicomte’s arrival in this country. There are few men +who can drop and resume an acquaintance with such admirable +self-possession as Barnes Newcome. When, over our dessert, by which +time all tongues were unloosed and each man talked gaily, George +Warrington feelingly thanked Barnes in a little mock speech, for his +great kindness in noticing us, presenting him at the same time to +Florac as the ornament of the City, the greatest banker of his age, the +beloved kinsman of their friend Clive, who was always writing about +him; Barnes said, with one of his accustomed curses, he did not know +whether Mr. Warrington was “chaffing” him or not, and indeed could +never make him out. Warrington replied that he never could make himself +out: and if ever Mr. Barnes could, George would thank him for +information on that subject. + +Florac, like most Frenchmen very sober in his potations, left us for a +while over ours, which were conducted after the more liberal English +manner, and retired to smoke his cigar on the terrace. Barnes then +freely uttered his sentiments regarding him, which were not more +favourable than those which the young gentleman generally emitted +respecting gentlemen whose backs were turned. He had known a little of +Florac the year before at Baden: he had been mixed up with Kew in that +confounded row in which Kew was hit; he was an adventurer, a pauper, a +blackleg, a regular Greek; he had heard Florac was of old family, that +was true; but what of that? He was only one of those d—— French counts; +everybody was a count in France confound ’em! The claret was +beastly—not fit for a gentleman to drink!—He swigged off a great bumper +as he was making the remark: for Barnes Newcome abuses the men and +things which he uses, and perhaps is better served than more grateful +persons. + +“Count!” cries Warrington, “what do you mean by talking about beggarly +counts? Florac’s family is one of the noblest and most ancient in +Europe. It is more ancient than your illustrious friend, the +barber-surgeon; it was illustrious before the house, ay, or the pagoda +of Kew was in existence.” And he went on to describe how Florac by the +demise of his kinsman, was now actually Prince de Moncontour, though he +did not choose to assume that title. Very likely the noble Gascon drink +in which George had been indulging, imparted a certain warmth and +eloquence to his descriptions of Florac’s good qualities, high birth, +and considerable patrimony; Barnes looked quite amazed and scared at +these announcements, then laughed and declared once more that +Warrington was chaffing him. + +“As sure as the Black Prince was lord of Acquitaine—as sure as the +English were masters of Bordeaux—and why did we ever lose the country?” +cries George, filling himself a bumper,—“every word I have said about +Florac is true;” and Florac coming in at this juncture havin just +finished his cigar, George turned round and made him a fine speech in +the French language, in which he lauded his constancy and good-humour +under evil fortune, paid him two or three more cordial compliments, and +finished by drinking another great bumper to his good health. + +Florac took a little wine, replied “with effusion” to the toast which +his excellent, his noble friend had just carried. We rapped our glasses +at the end of the speech. The landlord himself seemed deeply touched by +it as he stood by with a fresh bottle. “It is good wine—it is honest +wine—it is capital wine” says George, “and honni soit qui mal y pence! +What business have you, you little beggar, to abuse it? My ancestor +drank the wine and wore the motto round his leg long before a Newcome +ever showed his pale face in Lombard Street.” George Warrington never +bragged about his pedigree except under certain influences. I am +inclined to think that on this occasion he really did find the claret +very good. + +“You don’t mean to say,” says Barnes, addressing Florac in French, on +which he piqued himself, “que vous avez un tel manche à votre nom, et +que vous ne l’usez pas?” + +Florac shrugged his shoulders; he at first did not understand that +familiar figure of English speech, or what was meant by “having a +handle to your name.” “Moncontour cannot dine better than Florac,” he +said. “Florac has two louis in his pocket, and Moncontour exactly forty +shillings. Florac’s proprietor will ask Moncontour to-morrow for five +weeks’ rent; and as for Florac’s friends, my dear, they will burst out +laughing to Moncontour’s nose!” “How droll you English are!” this acute +French observer afterwards said, laughing, and recalling the incident. +Did you not see how that little Barnes, as soon as he knew my title of +Prince, changed his manner and became all respect towards me? This, +indeed, Monsieur de Florac’s two friends remarked with no little +amusement. Barnes began quite well to remember their pleasant days at +Baden, and talked of their acquaintance there: Barnes offered the +Prince the vacant seat in his brougham, and was ready to set him down +anywhere that he wished in town. + +“Bah!” says Florac; “we came by the steamer, and I prefer the +_péniboat_.” But the hospitable Barnes, nevertheless, called upon +Florac the next day. And now having partially explained how the Prince +de Moncontour was present at Mr. Barnes Newcome’s wedding, let us show +how it was that Barnes’s first-cousin, the Earl of Kew, did not attend +that ceremony. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. +Returns to Lord Kew + + +We do not propose to describe at length or with precision the +circumstances of the duel which ended so unfortunately for young Lord +Kew. The meeting was inevitable: after the public acts and insult of +the morning, the maddened Frenchman went to it convinced that his +antagonist had wilfully outraged him, eager to show his bravery upon +the body of an Englishman, and as proud as if he had been going into +actual war. That commandment, the sixth in our decalogue, which forbids +the doing of murder, and the injunction which directly follows on the +same table, have been repealed by a very great number of Frenchmen for +many years past; and to take the neighbour’s wife, and his life +subsequently, has not been an uncommon practice with the politest +people in the world. Castillonnes had no idea but that he was going to +the field of honour; stood with an undaunted scowl before his enemy’s +pistol; and discharged his own and brought down his opponent with a +grim satisfaction, and a comfortable conviction afterwards that he had +acted _en galant homme_. “It was well for this milor that he fell at +the first shot, my dear,” the exemplary young Frenchman remarked; “a +second might have been yet more fatal to him; ordinarily I am sure of +my _coup_, and you conceive that in an affair so grave it was +absolutely necessary that one or other should remain on the ground.” +Nay, should M. de Kew recover from his wound, it was M. de +Castillonnes’ intention to propose a second encounter between himself +and that nobleman. It had been Lord Kew’s determination never to fire +upon his opponent, a confession which he made not to his second, poor +scared Lord Rooster, who bore the young Earl to Kehl, but to some of +his nearest relatives, who happened fortunately to be not far from him +when he received his wound, and who came with all the eagerness of love +to watch by his bedside. + +We have said that Lord Kew’s mother, Lady Walham, and her second son +were staying at Hombourg, when the Earl’s disaster occurred. They had +proposed to come to Baden to see Kew’s new bride, and to welcome her; +but the presence of her mother-in-law deterred Lady Walham, who gave up +her heart’s wish in bitterness of spirit, knowing very well that a +meeting between the old Countess and herself could only produce the +wrath, pain, and humiliation which their coming together always +occasioned. It was Lord Kew who bade Rooster send for his mother, and +not for Lady Kew; and as soon as she received those sad tidings, you +may be sure the poor lady hastened to the bed where her wounded boy +lay. + +The fever had declared itself, and the young man had been delirious +more than once. His wan face lighted up with joy when he saw his +mother; he put his little feverish hand out of the bed to her—“I knew +you would come, dear,” he said, “and you know I never would have fired +upon the poor Frenchman.” The fond mother allowed no sign of terror or +grief to appear upon her face, so as to disturb her first-born and +darling; but no doubt she prayed by his side as such loving hearts know +how to pray, for the forgiveness of his trespass, who had forgiven +those who sinned against him. “I knew I should be hit, George,” said +Kew to his brother when they were alone; “I always expected some such +end as this. My life has been very wild and reckless; and you, George, +have always been faithful to our mother. You will make a better Lord +Kew than I have been, George. God bless you.” George flung himself down +with sobs by his brother’s bedside, and swore Frank had always been the +best fellow, the best brother, the kindest heart, the warmest friend in +the world. Love—prayer—repentance, thus met over the young man’s bed. +Anxious and humble hearts, his own the least anxious and the most +humble, awaited the dread award of life or death; and the world, and +its ambition and vanities, were shut out from the darkened chamber +where the awful issue was being tried. + +Our history has had little to do with characters resembling this lady. +It is of the world, and things pertaining to it. Things beyond it, as +the writer imagines, scarcely belong to the novelist’s province. Who is +he, that he should assume the divine’s office; or turn his desk into a +preacher’s pulpit? In that career of pleasure, of idleness, of crime we +might call it (but that the chronicler of worldly matters had best be +chary of applying hard names to acts which young men are doing in the +world every day), the gentle widowed lady, mother of Lord Kew, could +but keep aloof, deploring the course upon which her dear young prodigal +had entered; and praying with that saintly love, those pure +supplications, with which good mothers follow their children, for her +boy’s repentance and return. Very likely her mind was narrow; very +likely the precautions which she had used in the lad’s early days, the +tutors and directors she had set about him, the religious studies and +practices to which she would have subjected him, had served only to vex +and weary the young pupil, and to drive his high spirit into revolt. It +is hard to convince a woman perfectly pure in her life and intentions, +ready to die if need were for her own faith, having absolute confidence +in the instruction of her teachers, that she and they (with all their +sermons) may be doing harm. When the young catechist yawns over his +reverence’s discourse, who knows but it is the doctor’s vanity which is +enraged, and not Heaven which is offended? It may have been, in the +differences which took place between her son and her, the good Lady +Walham never could comprehend the lad’s side of the argument; or how +his Protestantism against her doctrines should exhibit itself on the +turf, the gaming-table, or the stage of the opera-house; and thus but +for the misfortune under which poor Kew now lay bleeding, these two +loving hearts might have remained through life asunder. But by the +boy’s bedside; in the paroxysms of his fever; in the wild talk of his +delirium; in the sweet patience and kindness with which he received his +dear nurse’s attentions; the gratefulness with which he thanked the +servants who waited on him; the fortitude with which he suffered the +surgeon’s dealings with his wounds;—the widowed woman had an +opportunity to admire with an exquisite thankfulness the generous +goodness of her son; and in those hours, those sacred hours passed in +her own chamber, of prayers, fears, hopes, recollections, and +passionate maternal love, wrestling with fate for her darling’s +life;—no doubt the humbled creature came to acknowledge that her own +course regarding him had been wrong; and, even more for herself than +for him, implored forgiveness. + +For some time George Barnes had to send but doubtful and melancholy +bulletins to Lady Kew and the Newcome family at Baden, who were all +greatly moved and affected by the accident which had befallen poor Kew. +Lady Kew broke out in wrath, and indignation. We may be sure the +Duchesse d’Ivry offered to condole with her upon Kew’s mishap the day +after the news arrived at Baden; and, indeed, came to visit her. The +old lady had just received other disquieting intelligence. She was just +going out, but she bade her servant to inform the Duchess that she was +never more at home to the Duchesse d’Ivry. The message was not +delivered properly, or the person for whom it was intended did not +choose to understand it, for presently, as the Countess was hobbling +across the walk on her way to her daughter’s residence, she met the +Duchesse d’Ivry, who saluted her with a demure curtsey and a +commonplace expression of condolence. The Queen of Scots was surrounded +by the chief part of her court, saving of course MM. Castillonnes and +Punter absent on service. “We were speaking of this deplorable affair,” +said Madame d’Ivry (which indeed was the truth, although she said it). +“How we pity you, madame!” Blackball and Loder, Cruchecassée and +Schlangenbad, assumed sympathetic countenances. + +Trembling on her cane, the old Countess glared out upon Madame d’Ivry. +“I pray you, madame,” she said in French, “never again to address me +the word. If I had, like you, assassins in my pay, I would have you +killed; do you hear me?” and she hobbled on her way. The household to +which she went was in terrible agitation; the kind Lady Anne frightened +beyond measure, poor Ethel full of dread, and feeling guilty almost as +if she had been the cause, as indeed she was the occasion, of Kew’s +misfortune. And the family had further cause of alarm from the shock +which the news had given to Sir Brian. It has been said that he had had +illnesses of late which caused his friends much anxiety. He had passed +two months at Aix-la-Chapelle, his physicians dreading a paralytic +attack; and Madame d’Ivry’s party still sauntering on the walk, the men +smoking their cigars, the women breathing their scandal, now beheld Dr. +Finck issuing from Lady Anne’s apartments, and wearing such a face of +anxiety, that the Duchesse asked with some emotion, “Had there been a +fresh bulletin from Kehl?” + +“No, there had been no fresh bulletin from Kehl; but two hours since +Sir Brian Newcome had had a paralytic seizure.” + +“Is he very bad?” + +“No,” says Dr. Finck, “he is not very bad.” + +“How inconsolable M. Barnes will be!” said the Duchesse, shrugging her +haggard shoulders. Whereas the fact was that Mr. Barnes retained +perfect presence of mind under both of the misfortunes which had +befallen his family. Two days afterwards the Duchesse’s husband arrived +himself, when we may presume that exemplary woman was too much engaged +with her own affairs to be able to be interested about the doings of +other people. With the Duke’s arrival the court of Mary Queen of Scots +was broken up. Her Majesty was conducted to Lochleven, where her tyrant +soon dismissed her very last lady-in-waiting, the confidential Irish +secretary, whose performance had produced such a fine effect amongst +the Newcomes. + +Had poor Sir Brian Newcome’s seizure occurred at an earlier period of +the autumn, his illness no doubt would have kept him for some months +confined at Baden; but as he was pretty nearly the last of Dr. Von +Finck’s bath patients, and that eminent physician longed to be off to +the Residenz, he was pronounced in a fit condition for easy travelling +in rather a brief period after his attack, and it was determined to +transport him to Mannheim, and thence by water to London and Newcome. + +During all this period of their father’s misfortune no sister of +charity could have been more tender, active, cheerful, and watchful +than Miss Ethel. She had to wear a kind face, and exhibit no anxiety +when occasionally the feeble invalid made inquiries regarding poor Kew +at Baden; to catch the phrases as they came from him; to acquiesce, or +not to deny, when Sir Brian talked of the marriages—both +marriages—taking place at Christmas. Sir Brian was especially eager for +his daughter’s, and repeatedly, with his broken words, and smiles, and +caresses, which were now quite senile, declared that his Ethel would +make the prettiest countess in England. There came a letter or two from +Clive, no doubt, to the young nurse in her sick-room. Manly and +generous, full of tenderness and affection, as those letters surely +were, they could give but little pleasure to the young lady—indeed, +only add to her doubts and pain. + +She had told none of her friends as yet of those last words of Kew’s, +which she interpreted as a farewell on the young nobleman’s part. Had +she told them they were likely would not have understood Kew’s meaning +as she did, and persisted in thinking that the two were reconciled. At +any rate, whilst he and her father were still lying stricken by the +blows which had prostrated them both, all questions of love and +marriage had been put aside. Did she love him? She felt such a kind +pity for his misfortune, such an admiration for his generous gallantry, +such a remorse for her own wayward conduct and cruel behaviour towards +this most honest, and kindly, and affectionate gentleman, that the sum +of regard which she could bestow upon him might surely be said to +amount to love. For such a union as that contemplated between them, +perhaps for any marriage, no greater degree of attachment was necessary +as the common cement. Warm friendship and thorough esteem and +confidence (I do not say that our young lady calculated in this +matter-of-fact way) are safe properties invested in the prudent +marriage stock, multiplying and bearing an increasing value with every +year. Many a young couple of spendthrifts get through their capital of +passion in the first twelve months, and have no love left for the daily +demands of after life. O me! for the day when the bank account is +closed, and the cupboard is empty, and the firm of Damon and Phyllis +insolvent! + +Miss Newcome, we say, without doubt, did not make her calculations in +this debtor and creditor fashion; it was only the gentlemen of that +family who went to Lombard Street. But suppose she thought that regard, +and esteem, and, affection being sufficient, she could joyfully, and +with almost all her heart bring such a portion to Lord Kew; that her +harshness towards him as contrasted with his own generosity, and above +all with his present pain, infinitely touched her; and suppose she +fancied that there was another person in the world to whom, did fates +permit, she could offer not esteem, affection, pity only, but something +ten thousand times more precious? We are not in the young lady’s +secrets, but if she has some as she sits by her father’s chair and bed, +who day or night will have no other attendant; and, as she busies +herself to interpret his wants, silently moves on his errands, +administers his potions, and watches his sleep, thinks of Clive absent +and unhappy, of Kew wounded and in danger, she must have subject enough +of thought and pain. Little wonder that her cheeks are pale and her +eyes look red; she has her cares to endure now in the world, and her +burden to bear in it, and somehow she feels she is alone, since that +day when poor Clive’s carriage drove away. + +In a mood of more than ordinary depression and weakness Lady Kew must +have found her granddaughter, upon one of the few occasions after the +double mishap when Ethel and her elder were together. Sir Brian’s +illness, as it may be imagined, affected a lady very slightly, who was +of an age when these calamities occasion but small disquiet, and who, +having survived her own father, her husband, her son, and witnessed +their lordships’ respective demises with perfect composure, could not +reasonably be called upon to feel any particular dismay at the probable +departure from this life of a Lombard Street banker, who happened to be +her daughter’s husband. In fact, not Barnes Newcome himself could await +that event more philosophically. So, finding Ethel in this melancholy +mood, Lady Kew thought a drive in the fresh air would be of service to +her, and Sir Brian happening to be asleep, carried the young girl away +in her barouche. + +They talked about Lord Kew, of whom the accounts were encouraging, and +who is mending in spite of his silly mother and her medicines, “and as +soon as he is able to move we must go and fetch him, my dear,” Lady Kew +graciously said, “before that foolish woman has made a methodist of +him. He is always led by the woman who is nearest him, and I know one +who will make of him just the best little husband in England.” Before +they had come to this delicate point the lady and her grandchild had +talked Kew’s character over, the girl, you may be sure, having spoken +feelingly and eloquently about his kindness and courage, and many +admirable qualities. She kindled when she heard the report of his +behaviour at the commencement of the fracas with M. de Castillonnes, +his great forbearance and good-nature, and his resolution and +magnanimity when the moment of collision came. + +But when Lady Kew arrived at that period of her discourse in which she +stated that Kew would make the best little husband in England, poor +Ethel’s eyes filled with tears; we must remember that her high spirit +was worn down by watching and much varied anxiety, and then she +confessed that there had been no reconciliation, as all the family +fancied, between Frank and herself—on the contrary, a parting, which +she understood to be final; and she owned that her conduct towards her +cousin had been most captious and cruel, and that she could not expect +they should ever again come together. Lady Kew, who hated sick-beds and +surgeons except for herself, who hated her daughter-in-law above all, +was greatly annoyed at the news which Ethel gave her; made light of if, +however, and was quite confident that a very few words from her would +place matters on their old footing, and determined on forthwith setting +out for Kehl. She would have carried Ethel with her, but that the poor +Baronet with cries and moans insisted on retaining his nurse, and +Ethel’s grandmother was left to undertake this mission by herself, the +girl remaining behind acquiescent, not unwilling, owning openly a great +regard and esteem for Kew, and the wrong which she had done him, +feeling secretly a sentiment which she had best smother. She had +received a letter from that other person, and answered it with her +mother’s cognisance, but about this little affair neither Lady Anne nor +her daughter happened to say a word to the manager of the whole family. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. +In which Lady Kew leaves his Lordship quite convalescent + + +Immediately after Lord Kew’s wound, and as it was necessary to apprise +the Newcome family of the accident which had occurred, the good-natured +young Kew had himself written a brief note to acquaint his relatives +with his mishap, and had even taken the precaution to antedate a couple +of billets to be despatched on future days; kindly forgeries, which +told the Newcome family and the Countess of Kew, that Lord Kew was +progressing very favourably, and that his hurt was trifling. The fever +had set in, and the young patient was lying in great danger, as most of +the laggards at Baden knew, when his friends there were set at ease by +this fallacious bulletin. On the third day after the accident, Lady +Walham arrived with her younger son, to find Lord Kew in the fever +which ensued after the wound. As the terrible anxiety during the +illness had been Lady Walham’s, so was hers the delight of the +recovery. The commander-in-chief of the family, the old lady at Baden, +showed her sympathy by sending couriers, and repeatedly issuing orders +to have news of Kew. Sick-beds scared her away invariably. When illness +befell a member of her family she hastily retreated from before the +sufferer, showing her agitation of mind, however, by excessive +ill-humour to all the others within her reach. + +A fortnight passed, a ball had been found and extracted, the fever was +over, the wound was progressing favourably, the patient advancing +towards convalescence, and the mother, with her child once more under +her wing, happier than she had been for seven years past, during which +her young prodigal had been running the thoughtless career of which he +himself was weary, and which had occasioned the fond lady such anguish. +Those doubts which perplex many a thinking man, and, when formed and +uttered, give many a fond and faithful woman pain so exquisite, had +most fortunately never crossed Kew’s mind. His early impressions were +such as his mother had left them, and he came back to her, as she would +have him, as a little child; owning his faults with a hearty humble +repentance, and with a thousand simple confessions, lamenting the +errors of his past days. We have seen him tired and ashamed of the +pleasures which he was pursuing, of the companions who surrounded him, +of the brawls and dissipations which amused him no more; in those hours +of danger and doubt, when he had lain, with death perhaps before him, +making up his account of the vain life which probably he would be +called upon to surrender, no wonder this simple, kindly, modest, and +courageous soul thought seriously of the past and of the future; and +prayed, and resolved, if a future were awarded to him, it should make +amends for the days gone by; and surely as the mother and son read +together the beloved assurance of the divine forgiveness, and of that +joy which angels feel in heaven for a sinner repentant, we may fancy in +the happy mother’s breast a feeling somewhat akin to that angelic +felicity, a gratitude and joy of all others the loftiest, the purest, +the keenest. Lady Walham might shrink with terror at the Frenchman’s +name, but her son could forgive him, with all his heart, and kiss his +mother’s hand, and thank him as the best friend of his life. + +During all the days of his illness, Kew had never once mentioned +Ethel’s name, and once or twice as his recovery progressed, when with +doubt and tremor his mother alluded to it, he turned from the subject +as one that was disagreeable and painful. Had she thought seriously on +certain things? Lady Walham asked. Kew thought not, “but those who are +bred up as you would have them, mother, are often none the better,” the +humble young fellow said. “I believe she is a very good girl. She is +very clever, she is exceedingly handsome, she is very good to her +parents and her brothers and sisters; but—” he did not finish the +sentence. Perhaps he thought, as he told Ethel afterwards, that she +would have agreed with Lady Walham even worse than with her imperious +old grandmother. + +Lady Walham then fell to deplore Sir Brian’s condition, accounts of +whose seizure of course had been despatched to the Kehl party, and to +lament that a worldly man as he was should have such an affliction, so +near the grave and so little prepared for it. Here honest Kew, however, +held out. “Every man for himself, mother,” says he. “Sir Brian was bred +up very strictly, perhaps too strictly as a young man. Don’t you know +that that good Colonel, his elder brother, who seems to me about the +most honest and good old gentleman I ever met in my life, was driven +into rebellion and all sorts of wild courses by old Mrs. Newcome’s +tyranny over him? As for Sir Brian, he goes to church every Sunday: has +prayers in the family every day: I’m sure has led a hundred times +better life than I have, poor old Sir Brian. I often have thought, +mother, that though our side was wrong, you could not be altogether +right, because I remember how my tutor, and Mr. Bonner, and Dr. Laud, +when they used to come down to us at Kewbury, used to make themselves +so unhappy about other people.” So the widow withdrew her unhappiness +about Sir Brian; she was quite glad to hope for the best regarding that +invalid. + +With some fears yet regarding her son,—for many of the books with which +the good lady travelled could not be got to interest him; at some he +would laugh outright,—with fear mixed with the maternal joy that he was +returned to her, and had quitted his old ways; with keen feminine +triumph, perhaps, that she had won him back, and happiness at his daily +mending health, all Lady Walham’s hours were passed in thankful and +delighted occupation. George Barnes kept the Newcomes acquainted with +the state of his brother’s health. The skilful surgeon from Strasbourg +reported daily better and better of him, and the little family were +living in great peace and contentment, with one subject of dread, +however, hanging over the mother of the two young men, the arrival of +Lady Kew, as she was foreboding, the fierce old mother-in-law who had +worsted Lady Walham in many a previous battle. + +It was what they call the summer of St. Martin, and the weather was +luckily very fine; Kew could presently be wheeled into the garden of +the hotel, whence he could see the broad turbid current of the swollen +Rhine: the French bank fringed with alders, the vast yellow fields +behind them, the great avenue of poplars stretching away to the +Alsatian city, and its purple minster yonder. Good Lady Walham was for +improving the shining hour by reading amusing extracts from her +favourite volumes, gentle anecdotes of Chinese and Hottentot converts, +and incidents from missionary travel. George Barnes, a wily young +diplomatist, insinuated _Galignani_, and hinted that Kew might like a +novel; and a profane work called Oliver Twist having appeared about +this time, which George read out to his family with admirable emphasis, +it is a fact that Lady Walham became so interested in the parish boy’s +progress, that she took his history into her bedroom (where it was +discovered, under Blatherwick’s Voice from Mesopotamia, by her +ladyship’s maid), and that Kew laughed so immensely at Mr. Bumble, the +Beadle, as to endanger the reopening of his wound. + +While, one day, they were so harmlessly and pleasantly occupied, a +great whacking of whips, blowing of horns, and whirring of wheels was +heard in the street without. The wheels stopped at their hotel gate; +Lady Walham started up; ran through the garden door, closing it behind +her; and divined justly who had arrived. The landlord was bowing; the +courier pushing about; waiters in attendance; one of them, coming up to +pale-faced Lady Walham; said, “Her Excellency the Frau Gräfinn von Kew +is even now absteiging.” + +“Will you be good enough to walk into our salon, Lady Kew?” said the +daughter-in-law, stepping forward and opening the door of that +apartment. The Countess, leaning on her staff, entered that darkened +chamber. She ran up towards an easy-chair, where she supposed Lord Kew +was. “My dear Frank!” cries the old lady; “my dear boy, what a pretty +fright you have given us all! They don’t keep you in this horrid noisy +room facing that——Ho—what is this?” cries the Countess, closing her +sentence abruptly. + +“It is not Frank. It is only a bolster, Lady Kew, and I don’t keep him +in a noisy room towards the street,” said Lady Walham. + +“Ho! how do you do? This is the way to him, I suppose;” and she went to +another door—it was a cupboard full of the relics of Frank’s illness, +from which Lady Walham’s mother-in-law shrunk back aghast. “Will you +please to see that I have a comfortable room, Maria; and one for my +maid, next me? I will thank you to see yourself,” the Empress of Kew +said, pointing with her stick, before which many a time the younger +lady had trembled. + +This time Lady Walham only rang the bell. “I don’t speak German; and +have never been on any floor of the house but this. Your servant had +better see to your room, Lady Kew. That next is mine; and I keep the +door, which you are trying, locked on other side.” + +“And I suppose Frank is locked up there!” cried the old lady, “with a +basin of gruel and a book of Watts’s hymns.” A servant entered at this +moment, answering Lady Walham’s summons. “Peacock, the Countess of Kew +says that she proposes to stay here this evening. Please to ask the +landlord to show her ladyship rooms,” said Lady Walham; and by this +time she had thought of a reply to Lady Kew’s last kind speech. + +“If my son were locked up in my room, madam, his mother is surely the +best nurse for him. Why did you not come to him three weeks sooner, +when there was nobody with him?” + +Lady Kew said nothing, but glared and showed her teeth—those pearls set +in gold. + +“And my company may not amuse Lord Kew—” + +“He-e-e!” grinned the elder, savagely. + +“—But at least it is better than some to which you introduced my son,” +continued Lady Kew’s daughter-in-law, gathering force and wrath as she +spoke. “Your ladyship may think lightly of me, but you can hardly think +so ill of me as of the Duchesse d’Ivry, I should suppose, to whom you +sent my boy, to form him, you said; about whom, when I remonstrated—for +though I live out of the world I hear of it sometimes—you were pleased +to tell me that I was a prude and a fool. It is you I thank for +separating my child from me—yes, you—for so many years of my life; and +for bringing me to him when he was bleeding and almost a corpse, but +that God preserved him to the widow’s prayers;—and you, you were by, +and never came near him.” + +“I—I did not come to see you—or—or—for this kind of scene, Lady +Walham,” muttered the other. Lady Kew was accustomed to triumph, by +attacking in masses, like Napoleon. Those who faced her routed her. + +“No; you did not come for me, I know very well,” the daughter went on. +“You loved me no better than you loved your son, whose life, as long as +you meddled with it, you made wretched. You came here for my boy. +Haven’t you done him evil enough? And now God has mercifully preserved +him, you want to lead him back again into ruin and crime. It shall not +be so, wicked woman! bad mother! cruel, heartless parent!—George!” +(Here her younger son entered the room, and she ran towards him with +fluttering robes and seized his hands.) “Here is your grandmother; here +is the Countess of Kew, come from Baden at last; and she wants—she +wants to take Frank from us, my dear, and to—give—him—back to +the—Frenchwoman again. No, no! Oh, my God! Never! never!” And she flung +herself into George Barnes’s arms, fainting with an hysteric burst of +tears. + +“You had best get a strait-waistcoat for your mother, George Barnes,” +Lady Kew said, scorn and hatred in her face. (If she had been Iago’s +daughter, with a strong likeness to her sire, Lord Steyne’s sister +could not have looked more diabolical.) “Have you had advice for her? +Has nursing poor Kew turned her head? I came to see _him_. Why have I +been left alone for half an hour with this madwoman? You ought not to +trust her to give Frank medicine. It is positively——” + +“Excuse me,” said George, with a bow; “I don’t think the complaint has +as yet exhibited itself in my mother’s branch of the family. (She +always hated me,” thought George; “but if she had by chance left me a +legacy, there it goes.) You would like, ma’am, to see the rooms +upstairs? Here is the landlord to conduct your ladyship. Frank will be +quite ready to receive you when you come down. I am sure I need not beg +of your kindness that nothing may be said to agitate him. It is barely +three weeks since M. de Castillonnes’s ball was extracted; and the +doctors wish he should be kept as quiet as possible.” + +Be sure that the landlord, the courier, and the persons engaged in +showing the Countess of Kew the apartments above spent an agreeable +time with Her Excellency the Frau Gräfinn von Kew. She must have had +better luck in her encounter with these than in her previous passages +with her grandson and his mother; for when she issued from her +apartment in a new dress and fresh cap, Lady Kew’s face wore an +expression of perfect serenity. Her attendant may have shook her fist +behind her, and her man’s eyes and face looked Blitz and Donnerwetter; +but their mistress’s features wore that pleased look which they assumed +when she had been satisfactorily punishing somebody. Lord Kew had by +this time got back from the garden to his own room, where he awaited +grandmamma. If the mother and her two sons had in the interval of Lady +Kew’s toilette tried to resume the history of Bumble the Beadle, I fear +they could not have found it very comical. + +“Bless me, my dear child! How well you look! Many a girl would give the +world to have such a complexion. There is nothing like a mother for a +nurse! Ah, no! Maria, you deserve to be the Mother Superior of a House +of Sisters of Charity, you do. The landlord has given me a delightful +apartment, thank you. He is an extortionate wretch; but I have no doubt +I shall be very comfortable. The Dodsburys stopped here, I see by the +travellers’ book-quite right, instead of sleeping at that odious buggy +Strasbourg. We have had a sad, sad time, my dears, at Baden. Between +anxiety about poor Sir Brian, and about you, you naughty boy, I am sure +I wonder how I have got through it all. Doctor Finck would not let me +come away to-day; would I but come.” + +“I am sure it was uncommonly kind, ma’am,” says poor Kew, with a rueful +face. + +“That horrible woman against whom I always warned but you—but young men +will not take the advice of old grandmammas—has gone away these ten +days. Monsieur le Duc fetched her; and if he locked her up at +Moncontour, and kept her on bread-and-water; for the rest of her life, +I am sure he would serve her right. When a woman once forgets religious +principles, Kew, she is sure to go wrong. The Conversation-room is shut +up. The Dorkings go on Tuesday. Clara is really a dear little artless +creature; one that you will like, Maria—and as for Ethel, I really +think she is an angel. To see her nursing her poor father is the most +beautiful sight; night after night she has sate up with him. I know +where she would like to be, the dear child. And if Frank falls ill +again, Maria, he won’t need a mother or useless old grandmother to +nurse him. I have got some pretty messages to deliver from her; but +they are for your private ears, my lord; not even mammas and brothers +may hear them.” + +“Do not go, mother! Pray stay, George!” cried the sick man (and again +Lord Steyne’s sister looked uncommonly like that lamented marquis). “My +cousin is a noble young creature,” he went on. “She has admirable good +qualities, which I appreciate with all my heart; and her beauty, you +know how I admire it. I have thought of her a great deal as I was lying +on the bed yonder” (the family look was not so visible in Lady Kew’s +face), “and—and—I wrote to her this very morning; she will have the +letter by this time, probably.” + +“Bien! Frank!” Lady Kew smiled (in her supernatural way) almost as much +as her portrait, by Harlowe, as you may see it at Kewbury to this very +day. She is represented seated before an easel, painting a miniature of +her son, Lord Walham. + +“I wrote to her on the subject of the last conversation we had +together,” Frank resumed, in rather a timid voice, “the day before my +accident. Perhaps she did not tell you, ma’am, of what passed between +us. We had had a quarrel; one of many. Some cowardly hand, which we +both of us can guess at, had written to her an account of my past life, +and she showed me the letter. Then I told her, that if she loved me she +never would have showed it me: without any other words of reproof. I +bade her farewell. It was not much, the showing that letter; but it was +enough. In twenty differences we have had together, she had been unjust +and captious, cruel towards me, and too eager, as I thought, for other +people’s admiration. Had she loved me, it seemed to me Ethel would have +shown less vanity and better temper. What was I to expect in life +afterwards from a girl who before her marriage used me so? Neither she +nor I could be happy. She could be gentle enough, and kind, and anxious +to please any man whom she loves, God bless her! As for me, I suppose, +I’m not worthy of so much talent and beauty, so we both understood that +that was a friendly farewell; and as I have been lying on my bed +yonder, thinking, perhaps, I never might leave it, or if I did, that I +should like to lead a different sort of life to that which ended in +sending me there, my resolve of last month was only confirmed. God +forbid that she and I should lead the lives of some folks we know; that +Ethel should marry without love, perhaps to fall into it afterwards; +and that I, after this awful warning I have had, should be tempted to +back into that dreary life I was leading. It was wicked, ma’am, I knew +it was; many and many a day I used to say so to myself, and longed to +get rid of it. I am a poor weak devil, I know, I am only too easily led +into temptation, and I should only make matters worse if I married a +woman who cares for the world more than for me, and would not make me +happy at home.” + +“Ethel care for the world!” gasped out Lady Kew; “a most artless, +simple, affectionate creature; my dear Frank, she——” + +He interrupted her, as a blush came rushing over his pale face. “Ah!” +said he, “if I had been the painter, and young Clive had been Lord Kew, +which of us do you think she would have chosen? And she was right. He +is a brave, handsome, honest young fellow, and is a thousand times +cleverer and better than I am.” + +“Not better, dear, thank God,” cried his mother, coming round to the +other side of his sofa, and seizing her son’s hand. + +“No, I don’t think he is better, Frank,” said the diplomatist, walking +away to the window. And as for grandmamma at the end of this little +speech and scene, her ladyship’s likeness to her brother, the late +revered Lord Steyne, was more frightful than ever. + +After a minute’s pause, she rose up on her crooked stick, and said, “I +really feel I am unworthy to keep company with so much exquisite +virtue. It will be enhanced, my lord, by the thought of the pecuniary +sacrifice which you are making, for I suppose you know that I have been +hoarding—yes, and saving, and pinching,—denying myself the necessities +of life, in order that my grandson might one day have enough to support +his rank. Go and live and starve in your dreary old house, and marry a +parson’s daughter, and sing psalms with your precious mother; and I +have no doubt you and she—she who has thwarted me all through life, and +whom I hated,—yes, I hated from the moment she took my son from me, and +brought misery into my family, will be all the happier when she thinks +that she has made a poor, fond, lonely old woman more lonely and +miserable. If you please, George Barnes, be good enough to tell my +people that I shall go back to Baden,” and waving her children away +from her, the old woman tottered out of the room on her crutch. + +So the wicked fairy drove away disappointed in the chariot with the +very dragons which had brought her away in the morning, and just had +time to get their feed of black bread. I wonder whether they were the +horses Clive and J. J. and Jack Belsize had used when they passed on +their road to Switzerland? Black Care sits behind all sorts of horses, +and gives a trinkgelt to postillions all over the map. A thrill of +triumph may be permitted to Lady Walham after her victory over her +mother-in-law. What Christian woman does not like to conquer another? +and if that other were a mother-in-law, would the victory be less +sweet? Husbands and wives both will be pleased that Lady Walham has had +the better of this bout: and you, young boys and virgins, when your +turn comes to be married, you will understand the hidden meaning of +this passage. George Barnes got Oliver Twist out, and began to read +therein. Miss Nancy and Fanny again were summoned before this little +company to frighten and delight them. I dare say even Fagin and Miss +Nancy failed with the widow, so absorbed was she with the thoughts of +the victory which she had just won. For the evening service, in which +her sons rejoiced her fond heart by joining, she lighted on a psalm +which was as a _Te Deum_ after the battle—the battle of Kehl by Rhine, +where Kew’s soul, as his mother thought, was the object of contention +between the enemies. I have said, this book is all about the world and +a respectable family dwelling in it. It is not a sermon, except where +it cannot help itself, and the speaker pursuing the destiny of his +narrative finds such a homily before him. O friend, in your life and +mine, don’t we light upon such sermons daily?—don’t we see at home as +well as amongst our neighbours that battle betwixt Evil and Good? Here +on one side is Self and Ambition and Advancement; and Right and Love on +the other. Which shall we let to triumph for ourselves—which for our +children? + +The young men were sitting smoking the vesper cigar. (Frank would do +it, and his mother actually lighted his cigar for him now, enjoining +him straightway after to go to bed.) Kew smoked and looked at a +star—shining above in the heaven. “Which is that star?” he asked: and +the accomplished young diplomatist answered it was Jupiter. + +“What a lot of things you know, George!” cries the senior, delighted; +“you ought to have been the elder, you ought, by Jupiter! But you have +lost your chance this time.” + +“Yes, thank God!” says George. + +“And I am going to be all right—and to turn over a new leaf, old +boy—and paste down the old ones, eh? I wrote to Martins this morning to +have all my horses sold; and I’ll never beg—so help me—so help me, +Jupiter. I made a vow—a promise to myself, you see, that I wouldn’t if +I recovered. And I wrote to Cousin Ethel this morning.—As I thought +over the matter yonder, I felt quite certain I was right, and that we +could never, never pull together. Now the Countess is gone, I wonder +whether I was right—to give up sixty thousand pounds, and the prettiest +girl in London?” + +“Shall I take horses and go after her? My mother’s gone to bed, she +won’t know,” asked George. “Sixty thousand is a lot of money to lose.” + +Kew laughed. “If you were to go and tell our grandmother that I could +not live the night through, and that you would be Lord Kew in the +morning, and your son Viscount Walham, I think the Countess would make +up a match between you and the sixty thousand pounds, and the prettiest +girl in England: she would, by—by Jupiter. I intend only to swear by +the heathen gods now, Georgy.—No, I am not sorry I wrote to Ethel. What +a fine girl she is!—I don’t mean her beauty merely, but such a +noble-bred one! And to think that there she is in the market to be +knocked down to—I say, I was going to call that three-year-old, +Ethelinda.—We must christen her over again for Tattersall’s, Georgy.” + +A knock is heard through an adjoining door, and a maternal voice cries, +“It is time to go to bed.” So the brothers part, and, let us hope, +sleep soundly. + +The Countess of Kew, meanwhile, has returned to Baden; where, though it +is midnight when she arrives, and the old lady has had two long +bootless journeys, you will be grieved to hear, that she does not sleep +a single wink. In the morning she hobbles over to the Newcome quarters; +and Ethel comes down to her pale and calm. How is her father? He has +had a good night: he is a little better, speaks more clearly, has a +little more the use of his limbs. + +“I wish _I_ had had a good night!” groans out the Countess. + +“I thought you were going to Lord Kew, at Kehl,” remarked her +granddaughter. + +“I did go, and returned with wretches who would not bring me more than +five miles an hour! I dismissed that brutal grinning courier; and I +have given warning to that fiend of a maid.” + +“And Frank is pretty well, grandmamma?” + +“Well! He looks as pink as a girl in her first season! I found him, and +his brother George, and their mamma. I think Maria was hearing them +their catechism,” cries the old lady. + +“N. and M. together! Very pretty,” says Ethel, gravely. “George has +always been a good boy, and it is quite time for my Lord Kew to begin.” + +The elder lady looked at her descendant, but Miss Ethel’s glance was +impenetrable. “I suppose you can fancy, my dear, why I came back?” said +Lady Kew. + +“Because you quarrelled with Lady Walham, grandmamma. I think I have +heard that there used to be differences between you.” Miss Newcome was +armed for defence and attack; in which cases we have said Lady Kew did +not care to assault her. “My grandson told me that he had written to +you,” the Countess said. + +“Yes: and had you waited but half an hour yesterday, you might have +spared me the humiliation of that journey.” + +“_You_—the humiliation—Ethel!” + +“Yes, _me_,” Ethel flashed out. “Do you suppose it is none to have me +bandied about from bidder to bidder, and offered for sale to a +gentleman who will not buy me? Why have you and all my family been so +eager to get rid of me? Why should you suppose or desire that Lord Kew +should like me? Hasn’t he the Opera; and such friends as Madame la +Duchesse d’Ivry, to whom your ladyship introduced him in early life? He +told me so: and she was good enough to inform me of the rest. What +attractions have I in comparison with such women? And to this man from +whom I am parted by good fortune; to this man who writes to remind me +that we are separated—your ladyship must absolutely go and entreat him +to give me another trial! It is too much, grandmamma. Do please to let +me stay where I am; and worry me with no more schemes for my +establishment in life. Be contented with the happiness which you have +secured for Clara Pulleyn and Barnes; and leave me to take care of my +poor father. Here I know I am doing right. Here, at least, there is no +such sorrow, and doubt, and shame, for me, as my friends have tried to +make me endure. There is my father’s bell. He likes me to be with him +at breakfast and to read his paper to him.” + +“Stay a little, Ethel,” cried the Countess, with a trembling voice. “I +am older than your father, and you owe me a little obedience—that is, +if children do owe any obedience to their parents nowadays. I don’t +know. I am an old woman—the world perhaps has changed since my time; +and it is you who ought to command, I dare say, and we to follow. +Perhaps I have been wrong all through life, and in trying to teach my +children to do as I was made to do. God knows I have had very little +comfort from them: whether they did or whether they didn’t. You and +Frank I had set my heart on; I loved you out of all my +grandchildren—was it very unnatural that I should wish to see you +together? For that boy I have been saving money these years past. He +flies back to the arms of his mother, who has been pleased to hate me +as only such virtuous people can; who took away my own son from me; and +now his son—towards whom the only fault I ever committed was to spoil +him and be too fond of him. Don’t leave me too, my child. Let me have +something that I can like at my years. And I like your pride, Ethel, +and your beauty, my dear; and I am not angry with your hard words; and +if I wish to see you in the place in life which becomes you—do I do +wrong? No. Silly girl! There—give me the little hand. How hot it is! +Mine is as cold as a stone—and shakes, doesn’t it?—Eh! it was a pretty +hand once! What did Anne—what did your mother say to Frank’s letter. + +“I did not show it to her,” Ethel answered. + +“Let me see it, my dear,” whispered Lady Kew, in a coaxing way. + +“There it is,” said Ethel pointing to the fireplace, where there lay +some torn fragments and ashes of paper. It was the same fireplace at +which Clive’s sketches had been burned. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. +Amongst the Painters + + +When Clive Newcome comes to be old, no doubt he will remember his Roman +days as amongst the happiest which fate ever awarded him. The +simplicity of the student’s life there, the greatness and friendly +splendour of the scenes surrounding him, the delightful nature of the +occupation in which he is engaged, the pleasant company of comrades, +inspired by a like pleasure over a similar calling, the labour, the +meditation, the holiday and the kindly feast afterwards, should make +the Art-students the happiest of youth, did they but know their good +fortune. Their work is for the most part delightfully easy. It does not +exercise the brain too much, but gently occupies it, and with a subject +most agreeable to the scholar. The mere poetic flame, or jet of +invention, needs to be lighted up but very seldom, namely, when the +young painter is devising his subject, or settling the composition +thereof. The posing of figures and drapery; the dexterous copying of +the line; the artful processes of cross-hatching, of stumping, of +laying on lights, and what not; the arrangement of colour, and the +pleasing operations of glazing and the like, are labours for the most +part merely manual. These, with the smoking of a proper number of +pipes, carry the student through his day’s work. If you pass his door +you will very probably hear him singing at his easel. I should like to +know what young lawyer, mathematician, or divinity scholar can sing +over his volumes, and at the same time advance with his labour? In +every city where Art is practised there are old gentlemen who never +touched a pencil in their lives, but find the occupation and company of +artists so agreeable that they are never out of the studios; follow one +generation of painters after another; sit by with perfect contentment +while Jack is drawing his pifferaro, or Tom designing his cartoon, and +years afterwards when Jack is established in Newman Street, and Tom a +Royal Academician, shall still be found in their rooms, occupied now by +fresh painters and pictures, telling the youngsters, their successors, +what glorious fellows Jack and Tom were. A poet must retire to privy +places and meditate his rhymes in secret; a painter can practise his +trade in the company of friends. Your splendid _chef d’école_, a Rubens +or a Horace Vernet, may sit with a secretary reading to him; a troop of +admiring scholars watching the master’s hand; or a company of court +ladies and gentlemen (to whom he addresses a few kind words now and +again) looking on admiringly; whilst the humblest painter, be he ever +so poor, may have a friend watching at his easel, or a gentle wife +sitting by with her work in her lap, and with fond smiles or talk or +silence cheering his labour. + +Amongst all ranks and degrees of painters assembled at Rome, Mr. Clive +found companions and friends. The cleverest man was not the best artist +very often: the ablest artist not the best critic nor the best +companion. Many a man could give no account of the faculty within him, +but achieved success because he could not help it; and did, in an hour +and without effort, that which another could not effect with half a +life’s labour. There were young sculptors who had never read a line of +Homer, who took on themselves nevertheless to interpret and continue +the heroic Greek art. There were young painters with the strongest +natural taste for low humour, comic singing, and Cyder-Cellar +jollifications, who would imitate nothing under Michael Angelo, and +whose canvases teemed with tremendous allegories of fates, furies, +genii of death and battle. There were long-haired lads who fancied the +sublime lay in the Peruginesque manner, and depicted saintly personages +with crisp draperies, crude colours, and haloes of gold-leaf. Our +friend marked all these practitioners of Art with their various +oddities and tastes, and was welcomed in the ateliers of all of them, +from the grave dons and seniors, the senators of the French and English +Academy, down to the jovial students who railed at the elders over +their cheap cups at the Lepre. What a gallant, starving, generous, +kindly life, many of them led! What fun in their grotesque airs, what +friendship and gentleness in their poverty! How splendidly Carlo talked +of the marquis his cousin, and the duke his intimate friend! How great +Federigo was on the subject of his wrongs, from the Academy at home, a +pack of tradesmen who could not understand high art, and who had never +seen a good picture! With what haughtiness Augusto swaggered about at +Sir John’s soirées, though he was known to have borrowed Fernando’s +coat, and Luigi’s dress-boots! If one or the other was ill, how nobly +and generously his companions flocked to comfort him, took turns to +nurse the sick man through nights of fever, contributed out of their +slender means to help him through his difficulty. Max, who loves fine +dresses and the carnival so, gave up a costume and a carriage so as to +help Paul, when he sold his picture (through the agency of Pietro, with +whom he had quarrelled, and who recommended him to a patron), gave a +third of the money back to Max, and took another third portion to +Lazaro, with his poor wife and children, who had not got a single order +all that winter—and so the story went on. I have heard Clive tell of +two noble young Americans who came to Europe to study their art; of +whom the one fell sick, whilst the other supported his penniless +comrade, and out of sixpence a day absolutely kept but a penny for +himself, giving the rest to his sick companion. “I should like to have +known that good Samaritan, Sir,” our Colonel said, twirling his +mustachios, when we saw him again, and his son told him that story. + +J. J., in his steady silent way, worked on every day, and for many +hours every day. When Clive entered their studio of a morning, he found +J. J. there, and there he left him. When the Life Academy was over, at +night, and Clive went out to his soirées, J. J. lighted his lamp and +continued his happy labour. He did not care for the brawling +supper-parties of his comrades; liked better to stay at home than to go +into the world, and was seldom abroad of a night except during the +illness of Luigi before mentioned, when J. J. spent constant evenings +at the other’s bedside. J. J. was fortunate as well as skilful: people +in the world took a liking to the modest young man, and he had more +than one order for pictures. The Artists’ Club, at the Lepre, set him +down as close with his money; but a year after he left Rome, Lazaro and +his wife, who still remained there, told a different tale. Clive +Newcome, when he heard of their distress, gave them something—as much +as he could spare; but J. J. gave more, and Clive was as eager in +acknowledging and admiring his friend’s generosity as he was in +speaking of his genius. His was a fortunate organisation indeed. Study +was his chief amusement. Self-denial came easily to him. Pleasure, or +what is generally called so, had little charm for him. His ordinary +companions were pure and sweet thoughts; his out-door enjoyment the +contemplation of natural beauty; for recreation, the hundred pleasant +dexterities and manipulations of his craft were ceaselessly interesting +to him: he would draw every knot in an oak panel, or every leaf in an +orange-tree, smiling, and taking a gay delight over the simple feats of +skill: whenever you found him he seemed watchful and serene, his modest +virgin-lamp always lighted and trim. No gusts of passion extinguished +it; no hopeless wandering in the darkness afterwards led him astray. +Wayfarers through the world, we meet now and again with such purity; +and salute it, and hush whilst it passes on. + +We have it under Clive Newcome’s own signature, that he intended to +pass a couple of years in Italy, devoting himself exclusively to the +study of his profession. Other besides professional reasons were +working secretly in the young man’s mind, causing him to think that +absence from England was the best cure for a malady under which he +secretly laboured. But change of air may cure some sick people more +speedily than the sufferers ever hoped; and also it is on record, that +young men with the very best intentions respecting study, do not fulfil +them, and are led away from their scheme by accident, or pleasure, or +necessity, or some good cause. Young Clive worked sedulously two or +three months at his vocation at Rome, secretly devouring, no doubt, the +pangs of sentimental disappointment under which he laboured; and he +drew from his models, and he sketched round about everything that +suited his pencil on both sides of Tiber; and he laboured at the Life +Academy of nights—a model himself to other young students. The symptoms +of his sentimental malady began to abate. He took an interest in the +affairs of Jack, and Tom, and Harry round about him: Art exercised its +great healing influence on his wounded spirit, which to be sure had +never given in. The meeting of the painters at the Café Greco, and at +their private houses, was very jovial, pleasant, and lively. Clive +smoked his pipe, drank his glass of Marsala, sang his song, and took +part in the general chorus as gaily as the jolliest of the boys. He was +the cock of the whole painting school, the favourite of all; and to be +liked by the people, you may be pretty sure that we for our parts must +like them. + +Then, besides the painters, he had, as he has informed us, the other +society of Rome. Every winter there is a gay and pleasant English +colony in that capital, of course more or less remarkable for rank, +fashion, and agreeability with every varying year. In Clive’s year some +very pleasant folks set up their winter quarters in the usual +foreigners’ resort round about the Piazza di Spagna. I was amused to +find, lately, looking over the travels of the respectable M. de +Poellnitz, that, a hundred and twenty years ago, the same quarter, the +same streets and palaces, scarce changed from those days, were even +then polite foreigners’ resort. Of one or two of the gentlemen Clive +had made the acquaintance in the hunting-field; others he had met +during his brief appearance in the London world. Being a youth of great +personal agility, fitted thereby to the graceful performance of polkas, +etc.; having good manners, and good looks, and good credit with Prince +Poloni, or some other banker, Mr. Newcome was thus made very welcome to +the Anglo-Roman society; and as kindly received in genteel houses, +where they drank tea and danced the galop, as in those dusky taverns +and retired lodgings where his bearded comrades, the painters held +their meetings. + +Thrown together every day, and night after night; flocking to the same +picture-galleries, statue-galleries, Pincian drives, and church +functions, the English colonists at Rome perforce became intimate, and +in many cases friendly. They have an English library where the various +meets for the week are placarded: on such a day the Vatican galleries +are open: the next is the feast of Saint So-and-so: on Wednesday there +will be music and vespers at the Sistine Chapel—on Thursday, the Pope +will bless the animals—sheep, horses, and what-not: and flocks of +English accordingly rush to witness the benediction of droves of +donkeys. In a word, the ancient city of the Cæsars, the august fanes of +the Popes, with their splendour and ceremony, are all mapped out and +arranged for English diversion; and we run in a crowd to high mass at +St. Peter’s, or to the illumination on Easter Day, as we run when the +bell rings to the Bosjesmen at Cremorne, or the fireworks at Vauxhall. + +Running to see fireworks alone, rushing off to examine Bosjesmen by +one’s self, is a dreary work: I should think very few men would have +the courage to do it unattended, and personally would not prefer a pipe +in their own rooms. Hence if Clive went to see all these sights, as he +did, it is to be concluded that he went in company; and if he went in +company and sought it, we may suppose that little affair which annoyed +him at Baden no longer tended to hurt his peace of mind very seriously. +The truth is, our countrymen are pleasanter abroad than at home; most +hospitable, kindly, and eager to be pleased and to please. You see a +family half a dozen times in a week in the little Roman circle, whom +you shall not meet twice in a season afterwards in the enormous London +round. When Easter is over and everybody is going away at Rome, you and +your neighbour shake hands, sincerely sorry to part: in London we are +obliged to dilute our kindness so that there is hardly any smack of the +original milk. As one by one the pleasant families dropped off with +whom Clive had spent his happy winter; as Admiral Freeman’s carriage +drove away, whose pretty girls he had caught at St. Peter’s kissing St. +Peter’s toe; as Dick Denby’s family ark appeared with all Denby’s sweet +young children kissing farewells to him out of the window; as those +three charming Miss Baliols with whom he had that glorious day in the +Catacombs; as friend after friend quitted the great city with kind +greetings, warm pressures of the hand, and hopes of meeting in a yet +greater city on the banks of the Thames, young Clive felt a depression +of spirit. Rome was Rome, but it was pleasanter to see it in company; +our painters are smoking still at the Oafs Greco, but a society all +smoke and all painters did not suit him. If Mr. Clive is not a Michael +Angelo or a Beethoven, if his genius is not gloomy, solitary, gigantic, +shining alone, like a lighthouse, a storm round about him, and breakers +dashing at his feet, I cannot help myself: he is as Heaven made him, +brave, honest, gay, and friendly, and persons of a gloomy turn must not +look to him as a hero. + +So Clive and his companion worked away with all their hearts from +November until far into April when Easter came, and the glorious gala +with which the Roman Church celebrates that holy season. By this time +Clive’s books were full of sketches. Ruins, imperial and mediæval; +peasants and bagpipemen; Passionists with shaven polls; Capuchins and +the equally hairy frequenters of the Café Greco; painters of all +nations who resort there; Cardinals and their queer equipages and +attendants; the Holy Father himself (it was Gregory sixteenth of the +name); the dandified English on the Pincio and the wonderful Roman +members of the hunt—were not all these designed by the young man and +admired by his friends in after-days? J. J.’s sketches were few, but he +had painted two beautiful little pictures, and sold them for so good a +price that Prince Polonia’s people were quite civil to him. He had +orders for yet more pictures, and having worked very hard, thought +himself authorised to accompany Mr. Clive upon a pleasure-trip to +Naples, which the latter deemed necessary after his own tremendous +labours. He for his part had painted no pictures, though he had +commenced a dozen and turned them to the wall; but he had sketched, and +dined, and smoked, and danced, as we have seen. So the little britzska +was put behind horses again, and our two friends set out on their tour, +having quite a crowd of brother-artists to cheer them, who had +assembled and had a breakfast for the purpose at that comfortable +osteria near the Lateran Gate. How the fellows flung their hats up, and +shouted, “Lebe wohl,” and “Adieu,” and “God bless you, old boy,” in +many languages! Clive was the young swell of the artists of that year, +and adored by the whole of the jolly company. His sketches were +pronounced on all hands to be admirable: it was agreed that if he chose +he might do anything. + +So with promises of a speedy return they left behind them the noble +city, which all love who once have seen it, and of which we think +afterwards ever with the kindness and the regard of home. They dashed +across the Campagna and over the beautiful hills of Albano, and sped +through the solemn Pontine Marshes, and stopped to roost at Terracing +(which was not at all like Fra Diavolo’s Terracing at Covent Garden, as +J. J. was distressed to remark), and so, galloping onwards through a +hundred ancient cities that crumble on the shores of the beautiful +Mediterranean, behold, on the second day as they ascended a hill about +noon. Vesuvius came in view, its great shape shimmering blue in the +distant haze, its banner of smoke in the cloudless sky. And about five +o’clock in the evening (as everybody will who starts from Terracing +early and pays the postboy well), the travellers came to an ancient +city walled and fortified, with drawbridges over the shining moats. + +“Here is CAPUA,” says J. J., and Clive burst out laughing: thinking of +_his_ Capua which he had left—how many months—years it seemed ago! From +Capua to Naples is a fine straight road, and our travellers were landed +at the latter place at suppertime; where, if they had quarters at the +Vittoria Hotel, they were as comfortable as any gentlemen painters need +wish to be in this world. + +The aspect of the place was so charming and delightful to Clive:—the +beautiful sea stretched before his eyes when waking, Capri a fairy +island in the distance, in the amethyst rocks of which Sirens might be +playing—that fair line of cities skirting the shore glittering white +along the purple water—over the whole brilliant scene Vesuvius rising +with cloudlets playing round its summit, and the country bursting out +into that glorious vegetation with which sumptuous nature decorates +every spring—this city and scene of Naples were so much to Clive’s +liking that I have a letter from him dated a couple of days after the +young man’s arrival, in which he announces his intention of staying +there for ever, and gives me an invitation to some fine lodgings in a +certain palazzo, on which he has cast his eye. He is so enraptured with +the place, that he says to die and be buried there even would be quite +a treat, so charming is the cemetery where the Neapolitan dead repose. + +The Fates did not, however, ordain that Clive Newcome should pass all +his life at Naples. His Roman banker presently forwarded a few letters +to his address; some which had arrived after his departure, others +which had been lying at the Poste Restante, with his name written in +perfectly legible characters, but which the authorities of the post, +according to their custom, would not see when Clive sent for them. + +It was one of these letters which Clive clutched the most eagerly. It +had been lying since October, actually, at the Roman post, though Clive +had asked for letters there a hundred times. It was that little letter +from Ethel, in reply to his own, whereof we have made mention in a +previous chapter. There was not much in the little letter. Nothing, of +course, that Virtue or Grandmamma might not read over the young +writer’s shoulder. It was affectionate, simple, rather melancholy; +described in a few words Sir Brian’s seizure and present condition; +spoke of Lord Kew, who was mending rapidly, as if Clive, of course, was +aware of his accident; of the children, of Clive’s father, and ended +with a hearty “God bless you,” to Clive, from his sincere Ethel. + +“You boast of its being over. You see it is not over,” says Clive’s +monitor and companion. “Else, why should you have dashed at that letter +before all the others, Clive?” J. J. had been watching, not without +interest, Clive’s blank face as he read the young lady’s note. + +“How do you know who wrote the letter?” asks Clive. + +“I can read the signature in your face,” says the other; “and I could +almost tell the contents of the note. Why have you such a tell-tale +face, Clive?” + +“It is over; but when a man has once, you know, gone through an affair +like that,” says Clive, looking very grave, “he—he’s anxious to hear of +Alice Grey, and how she’s getting on, you see, my good friend.” And he +began to shout out as of old— + +“Her heart it is another’s, she—never—can—be—mine;” + + +and to laugh at the end of the song. “Well, well,” says he; “it is a +very kind note, a very proper little note; the expression elegant, J. +J., the sentiment is most correct. All the little t’s most properly +crossed, and all the little i’s have dots over their little heads. It’s +a sort of a prize note, don’t you see; and one such, as in the old +spelling-book story, the good boy received a plum-cake for writing. +Perhaps you weren’t educated on the old spelling-book, J. J.? My good +old father taught me to read out of his—I say, I think it was a shame +to keep the old boy waiting whilst I have been giving an audience to +this young lady. Dear old father!” and he apostrophised the letter. “I +beg your pardon, sir; Miss Newcome requested five minutes’ +conversation, and I was obliged, from politeness, you know, to receive. +There’s nothing between us; nothing but what’s most correct, upon my +honour and conscience.” And he kissed his father’s letter, and calling +out again, “Dear old father!” proceeded to read as follows:— + +“‘Your letters, my dearest Clive, have been the greatest comfort to me. +I seem to hear you as I read them. I can’t but think that this, the +_modern and natural style_, is a great progress upon the +_old-fashioned_ manner of my day, when we used to begin to our fathers, +‘Honoured Father,’ or even ‘Honoured Sir’ some _precisians_ used to +write still from Mr. Lord’s Academy, at Tooting, where I went before +Grey Friars—though I suspect parents were no more _honoured_ in those +days than nowadays. I know one who had rather be trusted than honoured; +and you may call me what you please, so as you do that. + +“‘It is not only to me your letters give pleasure. Last week I took +yours from Baden Baden, No. 3, September 15, into Calcutta, and could +not help showing it at Government House, where I dined. Your sketch of +the old Russian Princess and her little boy, gambling, was _capital_. +Colonel Buckmaster, Lord Bagwig’s private secretary, knew her, and says +it is to a _T_. And I read out to some of my young fellows what you +said about play, and how you had given it over. I very much fear some +of the young rogues are at dice and brandy-pawnee before tiffin. What +you say of young Ridley, I take _cum grano_. His sketches I thought +very agreeable; but to compare them to _a certain gentleman’s_——Never +mind, I shall not try to make him think too well of himself. I kissed +dear Ethel’s hand in your letter. I write her a long letter by this +mail. + +“‘If Paul de Florac in any way resembles his mother, between you and +him there ought to be a very warm regard. I knew her when I was a boy, +long before you were born or thought of; and in wandering forty years +through the world since, I have seen no woman in my eyes so good or so +beautiful. Your cousin Ethel reminded me of her; as handsome, but not +so _lovely_. Yes, it was that pale lady you saw at Paris, with eyes +full of care, and hair streaked with grey. So it will be the turn of +you young folks, come eight more _lustres_, and your heads will be bald +like mine, or grey like Madame de Florac’s, and bending over the ground +where we are lying in quiet. I understand from you that young Paul is +not in very flourishing circumstances. If he still is in need, mind and +be his banker, and _I will be yours_. Any child of hers must never want +when I have a spare guinea. I do not mind telling you, sir, that I +cared for her more than millions of guineas once; and half broke my +heart about her when I went to India, as a young chap. So, if any such +misfortunes happen to _you_, consider, my boy, you are not the _only_ +one. + +“‘Binnie writes me word that he has been ailing. I hope you are a good +correspondent with him. What made me turn to him just after speaking of +unlucky love affairs? Could I be thinking about little Rosie Mackenzie? +She is a sweet little lass, and James will leave her a pretty piece of +money. _Verbum sap_. I should like you to marry; but God forbid you +should marry for a million of gold mohurs. + +“‘And gold mohurs bring me to another subject. Do you know I narrowly +missed losing half a lakh of rupees which I had at an agent’s here? And +who do you think warned me about him? Our friend Rummun Loll, who has +lately been in England, and with whom I made the voyage from +Southampton. He is a man of wonderful tact and observation. I used to +think meanly of the honesty of natives and treat them haughtily, as I +recollect doing this very gentleman at your Uncle Newcome’s in +Bryanstone Square. He heaped coals of fire on my head by saving my +money for me; and I have placed it with interest in his house. If I +would but listen to him, my capital might be trebled in a year, he +says, and the interest immensely increased. He enjoys the greatest +esteem among the moneyed men here; keeps a splendid establishment and +house here in Barrackpore; is princely in his benefactions. He talks to +me about the establishment of a bank, of which the profits are so +enormous and the scheme so (seemingly) clear, that I don’t know whether +I mayn’t be tempted to take a few shares. _Nous verrons_. Several of my +friends are longing to have a finger in it; but be sure this, I shall +do nothing rashly and without the very _best advice_. + +“‘I have not been frightened yet by your draughts upon me. Draw as many +of these as you please. You know I don’t half like the other kind of +drawing, except as a _délassement:_ but if you chose to be a weaver, +like my grandfather, I should not say you nay. Don’t stint yourself of +money or of honest pleasure. Of what good is money, unless we can make +those we love happy with it? There would be no need for me to save, if +you were to save too. So, and as you know as well as I what our means +are, in every honest way use them. I should like you not to pass the +whole of next year in Italy, but to come home and pay a visit to honest +James Binnie. I wonder how the old barrack in Fitzroy Square looks +without me? Try and go round by Paris on your way home, and pay your +visit, and carry your father’s fond remembrances to Madame la Comtesse +de Florac. I don’t say remember me to my brother, as I write Brian by +this mail. Adieu, mon fils! je t’embrasse!—and am always my Clive’s +affectionate father, T. N.’” + +“Isn’t he a noble old trump?” That point had been settled by the young +men any time these three years. And now Mr. J. J. remarked that when +Clive had read his father’s letter once, then he read Ethel’s over +again, and put it in his breast-pocket, and was very disturbed in mind +that day, pishing and pshawing at the statue-gallery which they went to +see at the Museo. + +“After all,” says Clive, “what rubbish these second-rate statues are! +what a great hulking abortion is this brute of a Farnese Hercules! +There’s only one bit in the whole gallery that is worth a +twopenny-piece.” + +It was the beautiful fragment called Psyche. J. J. smiled as his +comrade spoke in admiration of this statue—in the slim shape, in the +delicate formation of the neck, in the haughty virginal expression, the +Psyche is not unlike the Diana of the Louvre—and the Diana of the +Louvre we have said was like a certain young lady. + +“After all,” continues Clive, looking up at the great knotted legs of +that clumsy caricatured porter which Glykon the Athenian sculptured in +bad times of art surely,—“she could not write otherwise than she +did—don’t you see? Her letter is quite kind and affectionate. You see +she says she shall always hear of me with pleasure: hopes I’ll come +back soon, and bring some good pictures with me, since pictures I will +do. She thinks small beer of painters, J. J.—well, we don’t think small +beer of ourselves, my noble friend. I—I suppose it must be over by this +time, and I may write to her as the Countess of Kew.” The custode of +the apartment had seen admiration and wonder expressed by hundreds of +visitors to his marble Giant: but he had never known Hercules occasion +emotion before, as in the case of the young stranger; who, after +staring a while at the statue, dashed his hand across his forehead with +a groan, and walked away from before the graven image of the huge +Strongman, who had himself been made such a fool by women. + +“My father wants me to go and see James and Madame de Florac,” says +Clive, as they stride down the street to the Toledo. + +J. J. puts his arm through his companion’s, which is deep the pocket of +his velvet paletot. “You must not go home till you hear it is over, +Clive,” whispers J. J. + +“Of course not, old boy,” says the other, blowing tobacco out of his +shaking head. + +Not very long after their arrival, we may be sure they went to Pompeii, +of which place, as this is not an Italian tour, but a history of Clive +Newcome, Esquire, and his most respectable family, we shall offer to +give no description. The young man had read Sir Bulwer Lytton’s +delightful story, which has become the history of Pompeii, before they +came thither, and Pliny’s description, _apud_ the Guide-Book. Admiring +the wonderful ingenuity with which the English writer had illustrated +the place by his text, as if the houses were so many pictures to which +he had appended a story, Clive, the wag, who was always indulging his +vein for caricature, was proposing that that they should take the same +place, names, people, and make a burlesque story: “What would be a +better figure,” says he, “than Pliny’s mother, whom the historian +describes as exceedingly corpulent, and walking away from the +catastrophe with slaves holding cushions behind her, to shield her +plump person from the cinders! Yes, old Mrs. Pliny shall be my heroine!” +says Clive. A picture of her on a dark grey paper and touched up with +red at the extremities, exists in Clive’s album to the present day. + +As they were laughing, rattling, wondering, mimicking, the cicerone +attending them with his nasal twaddle, anon pausing and silent, +yielding to the melancholy pity and wonder which the aspect of that +strange and smiling place inspires,—behold they come upon another party +of English, two young men accompanying a lady. + +“What, Clive!” cries one. + +“My dear, dear Lord Kew!” shouts the other; and as the young man rushes +up and grasps the two hands of the other, they begin to blush—— + +Lord Kew and his family resided in a neighbouring hotel on the Chiafa +at Naples; and that very evening on returning from the Pompeian +excursion, the two painters were invited to take tea by those friendly +persons. J. J. excused himself, and sate at home drawing all night. +Clive went, and passed a pleasant evening; in which all sorts of future +tours and pleasure-parties were projected by the young men. They were +to visit Pæstum, Capri, Sicily; why not Malta and the East? asked Lord +Kew. + +Lady Walham was alarmed. Had not Kew been in the East already? Clive +was surprised and agitated too. Could Kew think of going to the East, +and making long journeys when he had—he had other engagements that +would necessitate his return home? No, he must not go to the East, Lord +Kew’s mother avowed; Kew had promised to stay with her during the +summer at Castellammare, and Mr. Newcome must come and paint their +portraits there—all their portraits. She would like to have an entire +picture-gallery of Kews, if her son would remain at home during the +sittings. + +At an early hour Lady Walham retired to rest, exacting Clive’s promise +to come to Castellammare; and George Barnes disappeared to array +himself in an evening costume, and to pay his round of visits as became +a young diplomatist. This part of diplomatic duty does not commence +until after the opera at Naples; and society begins when the rest of +the world has gone to bed. + +Kew and Clive sate till one o’clock in the morning, when the latter +returned to his hotel. Not one of those fine parties at Pæstum, Sicily, +etc. was carried out. Clive did not go to the East at all, and it was +J. J, who painted Lord Kew’s portrait that summer at Castellammare. The +next day Clive went for his passport to the embassy; and a steamer +departing direct for Marseilles on that very afternoon, behold Mr. +Newcome was on board of her; Lord Kew and his brother and J. J. waving +their hats to him as the vessel left the shore. + +Away went the ship cleaving swiftly through the azure waters; but not +swiftly enough for Clive. J. J. went back with a sigh to his sketchbook +and easels. I suppose the other young disciple of Art had heard +something which caused him to forsake his sublime mistress for one who +was much more capricious and earthly. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. +Returns from Rome to Pall Mall + + +One morning in the month of July, when there was actually sunshine in +Lamb Court, and the two gentlemen who occupied the third-floor chambers +there in partnership, were engaged, as their custom was, over their +pipes, and their manuscripts, and their _Times_ newspaper, behold a +fresh sunshine burst into their room in the person of a young Clive, +with a bronzed face, and a yellow beard and mustachios, and those +bright cheerful eyes, the sight of which was always so welcome to both +of us. “What, Clive! What, the young one! What, Benjamin!” shout +Pendennis and Warrington. Clive had obtained a very high place indeed +in the latter’s affections, so much so, that if I could have found it +in my heart to be jealous of such a generous brave fellow, I might have +grudged him his share of Warrington’s regard. He blushed up with +pleasure to see us again. Pidgeon, our boy, introduced him with a +jubilant countenance; and Flanagan, the laundress, came smirking out of +the bedroom, eager to get a nod of recognition from him, and bestow a +smile of welcome upon everybody’s favourite, Clive. + +In two minutes an arm-chair full of magazines, slips of copy, and books +for review, was emptied over the neighbouring coal-scuttle, and Clive +was in the seat, a cigar in his mouth, as comfortable as if he had +never been away. When did he come? Last night. He was back in Charlotte +Street, at his old lodgings: he had been to breakfast in Fitzroy Square +that morning; James Binnie chirped for joy at seeing him. His father +had written to him desiring him to come back and see James Binnie; +pretty Miss Rosey was very well, thank you: and Mrs. Mack? Wasn’t Mrs. +Mackenzie delighted to behold him? “Come, sir, on your honour and +conscience, didn’t the widow give you a kiss on your return?” Clive +sends an uncut number of the _Pall Mall Gazette_ flying across the room +at the head of the inquirer; but blushes as sweetly, that I have very +little doubt some such pretty meeting had taken place. + +What a pity it is he had not been here a short while since for a +marriage in high life, to give away his dear Barnes, and sign the book, +along with the other dignitaries! We described that ceremony to him, +and announced the promotion of his friend, Florac, now our friend also, +Director of the Great Anglo-Gallic Railway, the Prince de Moncontour. +Then Clive told us of his deeds during the winter; of the good fun he +had had at Rome, and the jolly fellows he had met there. Was he going +to astonish the world by some grand pictures? He was not. The more he +worked, the more discontented he was with his performances somehow: but +J. J. was coming out very strong, J. J. was going to be a stunner. We +turned with pride and satisfaction to that very number of the _Pall +Mall Gazette_ which the youth had flung at us, and showed him a fine +article by F. Bayham, Esq., in which the picture sent home by J. J. was +enthusiastically lauded by the great critic. + +So he was back amongst us, and it seemed but yesterday he had quitted +us. To Londoners everything seems to have happened but yesterday; +nobody has time to miss his neighbour who goes away. People go to the +Cape, or on a campaign, or on a tour round the world, or to India, and +return with a wife and two or three children, and we fancy it was only +the other day they left us, so engaged is every man in his individual +speculations, studies, struggles; so selfish does our life make +us:—selfish but not ill-natured. We are glad to see an old friend, +though we do not weep when he leaves us. We humbly acknowledge, if fate +calls us away likewise, that we are no more missed than any other atom. + +After talking for a while, Mr. Clive must needs go into the City, +whither I accompanied him. His interview with Messrs. Jolly and Baines, +at the house in Fog Court, must have been very satisfactory; Clive came +out of the parlour with a radiant countenance. “Do you want any money, +old boy?” says he; “the dear old governor has placed a jolly sum to my +account, and Mr. Baines has told me how delighted Mrs. Baines and the +girls will be to see me at dinner. He says my father has made a lucky +escape out of one house in India, and a famous investment in another. +Nothing could be more civil; how uncommonly kind and friendly everybody +is in London! Everybody!” Then bestowing ourselves in a hansom cab, +which had probably just deposited some other capitalist in the City, we +made for the West End of the town, where Mr. Clive had some important +business to transact with his tailors. He discharged his outstanding +little account with easy liberality, blushing as he pulled out of his +pocket a new chequebook, page 1 of which he bestowed on the delighted +artist. From Mr. B.’s shop to Mr. Truefitt’s, is but a step. Our young +friend was induced to enter the hairdresser’s, and leave behind him a +great portion of the flowing locks and the yellow beard, which he had +brought with him from Rome. With his mustachios he could not be induced +to part; painters and cavalry officers having a right to those +decorations. And why should not this young fellow wear smart clothes, +and a smart moustache, and look handsome, and take his pleasure, and +bask in his sun when it shone? Time enough for flannel and a fire when +the winter comes; and for grey hair and cork-soled boots in the natural +decline of years. + +Then we went to pay a visit at a hotel in Jermyn Street to our friend +Florac who was now magnificently lodged there. A powdered giant lolling +in the hall, his buttons emblazoned with prodigious coronets, took our +cards up to the Prince. As the door of an apartment on the first floor +opened, we heard a cry as of joy; and that nobleman in a magnificent +Persian dressing-gown, rushing from the room, plunged down the stairs, +and began kissing Clive, to the respectful astonishment of the Titan in +livery. + +“Come that I present you, my friends,” our good little Frenchman +exclaimed “to Madame la—to my wife!” We entered the drawing-room; a +demure little little lady, of near sixty years of age, was seated +there, and we were presented in form to Madame Princesse de Moncontour, +nee Higg, of Manchester. She made us a stiff little curtsey, but looked +not ill-natured; indeed, few women could look at Clive Newcome’s +gallant figure and brave smiling countenance and keep a frown on their +own very long. + +“I have ’eard of you from somebodys else besides the Prince,” said the +lady, with rather a blush “Your uncle has spoke to me hoften about you, +Mr. Clive, and about your good father.” + +“C’est son Directeur,” whispers Florac to me. I wondered which of the +firm of Newcome had taken that office upon him. + +“Now you are come to England,” the lady continued (whose Lancashire +pronunciation being once indicated, we shall henceforth, out of respect +to the Princess’s rank generally pretermit),—“now you are come to +England we hope to see you often. Not here in this noisy hotel, which I +can’t bear, but in the country. Our house is only three miles from +Newcome—not such a grand place as your uncle’s; but I hope we shall see +you there a great deal, and your friend Mr. Pendennis, if he is passing +that way.” The invitation to Mr. Pendennis, I am bound to say, was +given in terms by no means so warm as those in which the Princess’s +hospitality to Clive were professed. + +“Shall we meet you at your Huncle ’Obson’s?” the lady continued to +Clive; “his wife is a most charming, well-informed woman, has been most +kind and civil and we dine there to-day. Barnes and his wife is gone to +spend the honeymoon at Newcome. Lady Clara is a sweet dear thing, and +her pa and ma most affable, I am sure. What a pity Sir Brian couldn’t +attend the marriage! There was everybody there in London, a’most. Sir +Harvey Diggs says he is mending very slowly. In life we are in death, +Mr. Newcome! Isn’t it sad to think of him, in the midst of all his +splendour and prosperity, and he so infirm and unable to enjoy them! +But let us hope for the best, and that his health will soon come +round!” + +With these and similar remarks, in which poor Florac took but a very +small share (for he seemed dumb and melancholy in the company of the +Princess, his elderly spouse), the visit sped on. Mr. Pendennis, to +whom very little was said, having leisure to make his silent +observations upon the person to whom he had been just presented. + +As there lay on the table two neat little packages, addressed “The +Princess de Moncontour”—an envelope to the same address, with “The +Prescription, No. 9396,” further inscribed on the paper, and a sheet of +notepaper, bearing cabalistic characters, and the signature of that +most fashionable physician, Sir Harvey Diggs, I was led to believe that +the lady of Moncontour was, or fancied herself, in a delicate state of +health. By the side of the physic for the body was medicine for the +soul—a number of pretty little books in middle-age bindings, in antique +type many of theist, adorned with pictures of the German school, +representing demure ecclesiastics, with their heads on one side, +children in long starched nightgowns, virgins bearing lilies, and so +forth, from which it was to be concluded that the owner of the volumes +was not so hostile to Rome as she had been at an earlier period of her +religious life; and that she had migrated (in spirit) from Clapham to +Knightsbridge—so many wealthy mercantile families have likewise done in +the body. A long strip of embroidery, of the Gothic pattern, +furthermore betrayed her present inclinations; and the person observing +these things, whilst nobody was taking any notice of him, was amused +when the accuracy of his conjectures was confirmed by the reappearance +of the gigantic footman, calling out “’Oneyman,” in a loud voice, and +preceding that divine into the room. + +“C’est le Directeur. Venez fumer dans ma chambre, Pen,” growled Florac +as Honeyman came sliding over the carpet, his elegant smile changing to +a blush when he beheld Clive, his nephew, seated by the Princess’s +side. This, then, was the uncle who had spoken about Clive and his +father to Madame de Florac. Charles seemed in the best condition. He +held out two bran-new lavender-coloured kid gloves to shake hands with +his dear Clive; Florac and Mr. Pendennis vanished out of the room as he +appeared, so that no precise account can be given of this affecting +interview. + +When I quitted the hotel, a brown brougham, with a pair of beautiful +horses, the harness and panels emblazoned with the neatest little ducal +coronets you ever saw, and a cypher under each crown as easy to read as +the arrow-headed inscriptions on one of Mr. Layard’s Assyrian chariots, +was in waiting, and I presumed that Madame la Princesse was about to +take an airing. + +Clive had passed the avuncular banking-house in the City, without +caring to face his relatives there. Mr. Newcome was now in sole +command, Mr. Barnes being absent at Newcome, the Baronet little likely +ever to enter bank-parlour again. But his bounden duty was to wait on +the ladies; and of course, only from duty’s sake, he went the very +first day and called in Park Lane. + +“The family was habsent ever since the marriage simminery last week,” +the footman, who had accompanied the party to Baden, informed Clive +when he opened the door, and recognised that gentleman. “Sir Brian +pretty well, thank you, sir. The family was at Brighting. That is Miss +Newcome is in London staying with her grandmamma in Queen Street, +Mayfear, sir.” The varnished doors closed upon Jeames within; the +brazen knockers grinned their familiar grin at Clive, and he went down +the blank steps discomfited. Must it be owned that he went to a Club, +and looked in the Directory for the number of Lady Kew’s house in Queen +Street? Her ladyship had a furnished house for the season. No such +noble name to be found among the inhabitants of Queen Street. + +Mr. Hobson was from home; that is, Thomas had orders not to admit +strangers on certain days, or before certain hours; so that Aunt Hobson +saw Clive without being seen by the young man. I cannot say how much he +regretted that mischance. His visits of propriety were thus all paid; +and he went off to dine dutifully with James Binnie, after which meal +he came to a certain rendezvous given to him by some bachelors friends +for the evening. + +James Binnie’s eyes lightened up with pleasure on beholding his young +Clive; the youth, obedient to his father’s injunction, had hastened to +Fitzroy Square immediately after taking possession of his old +lodgings—his, during the time of his absence. The old properties and +carved cabinets, the picture of his father looking melancholy out of +the canvas, greeted Clive strangely on the afternoon of his arrival. No +wonder he was glad to get away from a solitude peopled with a number of +dismal recollections, to the near hospitality of Fitzroy Square and his +guardian and friend there. + +James had not improved in health during Clive’s ten months’ absence. He +had never been able to walk well, or take his accustomed exercise, +after his fall. He was no more used to riding than the late Mr. Gibbon, +whose person James’s somewhat resembled, and of whose philosophy our +Scottish friend was an admiring scholar. The Colonel gone, James would +have arguments with Mr. Honeyman over their claret, bring down the +famous XVth and XVIth chapters of the Decline and Fall upon him, and +quite get the better of the clergyman. James, like many other sceptics, +was very obstinate, and for his part believed that almost all parsons +had as much belief as the Roman augurs in their ceremonies. Certainly, +poor Honeyman, in their controversies, gave up one article after +another, flying from James’s assault; but the battle over, Charles +Honeyman would pick up these accoutrements which he had flung away in +his retreat, wipe them dry, and put them on again. + +Lamed by his fall, and obliged to remain much within doors, where +certain society did not always amuse him, James Binnie sought +excitement in the pleasures of the table, partaking of them the more +freely now that his health could afford them the less. Clive, the sly +rogue, observed a great improvement in the commissariat since his good +father’s time, ate his dinner with thankfulness, and made no remarks. +Nor did he confide to us for a while his opinion that Mrs. Mack bored +the good gentleman most severely; that he pined away under her +kindnesses; sneaked off to his study-chair and his nap; was only too +glad when some of the widow’s friends came, or she went out; seeming to +breathe more freely when she was gone, and drink his wine more cheerily +when rid of the intolerable weight of her presence. + +I protest the great ills of life are nothing—the loss of your fortune +is a mere flea-bite; the loss of your wife—how many men have supported +it and married comfortably afterwards? It is not what you lose, but +what you have daily to bear that is hard. I can fancy nothing more +cruel, after a long easy life of bachelorhood, than to have to sit day +after day with a dull, handsome woman opposite; to have to answer her +speeches about the weather, housekeeping and what not; to smile +appropriately when she is disposed to be lively (that laughing at the +jokes is the hardest part), and to model your conversation so as to +suit her intelligence, knowing that a word used out of its downright +signification will not be understood by your fair breakfast-maker. +Women go through this simpering and smiling life, and bear it quite +easily. Theirs is a life of hypocrisy. What good woman does not laugh +at her husband’s or father’s jokes and stories time after time, and +would not laugh at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, if he told them? +Flattery is their nature—to coax, flatter and sweetly befool some one +is every woman’s business. She is none if she declines this office. But +men are not provided with such powers of humbug or endurance—they +perish and pine away miserably when bored—or they shrink off to the +club or public-house for comfort. I want to say as delicately as I can, +and never liking to use rough terms regarding a handsome woman, that +Mrs. Mackenzie, herself being in the highest spirits and the best +humour, extinguished her half-brother, James Binnie, Esq.; that she was +as a malaria to him, poisoning his atmosphere, numbing his limbs, +destroying his sleep—that day after day as he sate down at breakfast, +and she levelled commonplaces at her dearest James, her dearest James +became more wretched under her. And no one could see what his complaint +was. He called in the old physicians at the Club. He dosed himself with +poppy, and mandragora and blue pill—lower and lower went poor James’s +mercury. If he wanted to move to Brighton or Cheltenham, well and good. +Whatever were her engagements, or whatever pleasures darling Rosey +might have in store, dear thing!—at her age, my dear Mrs. Newcome, +would not one do all to make a young creature happy?—under no +circumstances could I _think_ of leaving my poor brother. + +Mrs. Mackenzie thought herself a most highly principled woman, Mrs. +Newcome had also a great opinion of her. These two ladies had formed a +considerable friendship in the past months, the captain’s widow having +an unaffected reverence for the banker’s lady and thinking her one of +the best informed and most superior women in the world. When she had a +high opinion of a person Mrs. Mack always wisely told it. Mrs. Newcome +in her turn thought Mrs. Mackenzie a very clever, agreeable, ladylike +woman,—not accomplished, but one could not have everything. “No, no, my +dear,” says simple Hobson, “never would do to have every woman as +clever as you are, Maria. Women would have it all their own way then.” + +Maria, as her custom was, thanked God for being so virtuous and clever, +and graciously admitted Mrs. and Miss Mackenzie into the circle of +adorers of that supreme virtue and talent. Mr. Newcome took little +Rosey and her mother to some parties. When any took place in Bryanstone +Square, they were generally allowed to come to tea. + +When on the second day of his arrival the dutiful Clive went to dine +with Mr. James, the ladies, in spite of their raptures at his return +and delight at seeing him, were going in the evening to his aunt. Their +talk was about the Princess all dinner-time. The Prince and Princess +were to dine in Bryanstone Square. The Princess had ordered such and +such things at the jeweller’s—the Princess would take rank over an +English Earl’s daughter—over Lady Anne Newcome, for instance. “Oh, +dear! I wish the Prince and Princess were smothered in the Tower,” +growled James Binnie; “since you have got acquainted with ’em I have +never heard of anything else.” + +Clive, like a wise man, kept his counsel about the Prince and Princess, +with whom we have seen that he had had the honour of an interview that +very day. But after dinner Rosey came round and whispered to her mamma, +and after Rosey’s whisper mamma flung her arms round Rosey’s neck and +kissed her, and called her a thoughtful darling. “What do you think +this creature says, Clive?” says Mrs. Mack, still holding her darling’s +little hand. “I wonder I had not thought of it myself.” + +“What is it, Mrs. Mackenzie?” asks Clive, laughing. + +“She says why should not you come to your aunt’s with us? We are sure +Mrs. Newcome would be most happy to see you.” + +Rosey, with a little hand put to mamma’s mouth, said, “Why did you +tell?—you naughty mamma! Isn’t she a naughty mamma, Uncle James?” More +kisses follow after this sally, of which Uncle James receives one with +perfect complacency: mamma crying out as Rosey retires to dress, “That +darling child is always thinking of others—always!” + +Clive says, “he will sit and smoke a cheroot with Mr. Binnie, if they +please.” James’s countenance falls. “We have left off _that_ sort of +thing here, my dear Clive, a long time,” cries Mrs. Mackenzie, +departing from the dining-room. + +“But we have improved the claret, Clive, my boy!” whispers Uncle James. +“Let us have another bottle, and we will drink to the dear Colonel’s +good health and speedy return—God bless him! I say, Clive, Tom seems to +have had a most fortunate escape out of Winter’s house—thanks to our +friend Rummun Loll, and to have got into a capital good thing with this +Bundelcund bank. They speak famously of it at Hanover Square, and I see +the _Hurkara_ quotes the shares at a premium already.” + +Clive did not know anything about the Bundelcund bank, except a few +words found in a letter from his father, which he had in the City this +morning, “and an uncommonly liberal remittance the governor has sent me +home, sir.” Upon which they fill another bumper to the Colonel’s +health. + +Mamma and Rosey come and show their pretty pink dresses before going to +Mrs. Newcome’s, and Clive lights a cigar in the hall—and isn’t there a +jubilation at the Haunt when the young fellow’s face appears above the +smoke-clouds there? + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. +An Old Story + + +Many of Clive’s Roman friends were by this time come to London, and the +young man renewed his acquaintance with them, and had speedily a +considerable circle of his own. He thought fit to allow himself a good +horse or two, and appeared in the Park among other young dandies. He +and Monsieur de Moncontour were sworn allies. Lord Fareham, who had +purchased J. J.’s picture, was Clive’s very good friend: Major +Pendennis himself pronounced him to be a young fellow of agreeable +manners, and very favourably vu (as the Major happened to know) in some +very good quarters. + +Ere many days Clive had been to Brighton to see Lady Anne and Sir +Brian, and good Aunt Honeyman, in whose house the Baronet was lodged: +and I suppose he found out, by some means or other, where Lady Kew +lived in Mayfair. + +But her ladyship was not at home, nor was she at home on the second +day, nor did there come any note from Ethel to her cousin. She did not +ride in the Park as of old. Clive, _bien vu_ as he was, did not belong +to that great world as yet, in which he would be pretty sure to meet +her every night at one of those parties where everybody goes. He read +her name in the paper morning after morning, as having been present at +Lady This’s entertainment and Lady That’s ministerial _réunion_. At +first he was too shy to tell what the state of the case was, and took +nobody into his confidence regarding his little _tendre_. + +There he was riding through Queen Street, Mayfair, attired in splendid +raiment: never missing the Park; actually going to places of worship in +the neighbourhood; and frequenting the opera—a waste of time which one +would never have expected in a youth of his nurture. At length a +certain observer of human nature remarking his state, rightly +conjectured that he must be in love, and taxed him with the soft +impeachment—on which the young man, no doubt anxious to open his heart +to some one, poured out all that story which has before been narrated; +and told how he thought his passion cured, and how it was cured; but +when he heard from Kew at Naples that the engagement was over between +him and Miss Newcome, Clive found his own flame kindle again with new +ardour. He was wild to see her. He dashed off from Naples instantly on +receiving the news that she was free. He had been ten days in London +without getting a glimpse of her. “That Mrs. Mackenzie bothers me so I +hardly know where to turn,” said poor Clive, “and poor little Rosey is +made to write me a note about something twice a day. She’s a good dear +little thing—little Rosey—and I really had thought once of—of—oh, never +mind that! Oh, Pen! I’m up another tree now! and a poor miserable young +beggar I am!” In fact, Mr. Pendennis was installed as confidant, _vice_ +J. J.—absent on leave. + +This is a part, which, especially for a few days, the present +biographer has always liked well enough. For a while, at least, I think +almost every man or woman is interesting when in love. If you know of +two or three such affairs going on in any soirée to which you may be +invited—is not the party straightway amusing? Yonder goes Augustus +Tomkins, working his way through the rooms to that far corner where +demure Miss Hopkins is seated, to whom the stupid grinning Bumpkins +thinks he is making himself agreeable. Yonder sits Miss Fanny +_distraite_, and yet trying to smile as the captain is talking his +folly, the parson his glib compliments. And see, her face lights up all +of a sudden: her eyes beam with delight at the captain’s stories, and +at that delightful young clergyman likewise. It is because Augustus has +appeared; their eyes only meet for one semi-second, but that is enough +for Miss Fanny. Go on, captain, with your twaddle!—Proceed, my reverend +friend, with your smirking commonplaces! In the last two minutes the +world has changed for Miss Fanny. That moment has come for which she +has been fidgeting and longing and scheming all day! How different an +interest, I say, has a meeting of people for a philosopher who knows of +a few such little secrets, to that which your vulgar looker-on feels +who comes but to eat the ices, and stare at the ladies’ dresses and +beauty! There are two frames of mind under which London society is +bearable to a man—to be an actor in one of those sentimental +performances above hinted at; or to be a spectator and watch it. But as +for the mere _dessus de cartes_—would not an arm-chair and the dullest +of books be better than that dull game? + +So I not only became Clive’s confidant in this affair, but took a +pleasure in extracting the young fellow’s secrets from him, or rather +in encouraging him to pour them forth. Thus was the great part of the +previous tale revealed to me: thus Jack Belsize’s misadventures, of the +first part of which we had only heard in London (and whither he +returned presently to be reconciled to his father, after his elder +brother’s death). Thus my Lord Kew’s secret history came into my +possession; let us hope for the public’s future delectation, and the +chronicler’s private advantage. And many a night until daylight did +appear has poor Clive stamped his chamber or my own, pouring his story +out to me, his griefs and raptures; recalling, in his wild young way, +recollections of Ethel’s sayings and doings; uttering descriptions of +her beauty, and raging against the cruelty which she exhibited towards +him. + +As soon as the new confidant heard the name of the young lover’s +charmer, to do Mr. Pendennis justice, he endeavoured to fling as much +cold water upon Clive’s flame as a small private engine could be +brought to pour on such a conflagration. “Miss Newcome! my dear Clive,” +says the confidant, “do you know what you are aspiring to? For the last +three months Miss Newcome has been the greatest lioness in London: the +reigning beauty winning the horse: the first favourite out of the whole +Belgravian harem. No young woman of this year has come near her: those +of past seasons she has distanced and utterly put to shame. Miss +Blackcap, Lady Blanch Blackcap’s daughter, was (as perhaps you are not +aware) considered by her mamma the great beauty of last season; and it +was considered rather shabby of the young Marquis of Farintosh to leave +town without offering to change Miss Blackcap’s name. Heaven bless you! +this year Farintosh will not look at Miss Blackcap! _He_ finds people +at home when (ha! I see you wince, my suffering innocent!)—when he +calls in Queen Street; yes, and Lady Kew, who is one of the cleverest +women in England, will listen for hours to Lord Farintosh’s +conversation; than whom the Rotten Row of Hyde Park cannot show a +greater booby. Miss Blackcap may retire, like Jephthah’s daughter, for +all Farintosh will relieve her. Then, my dear fellow, there were, as +possibly you do not know, Lady Hermengilde and Lady Yseult, Lady +Rackstraw’s lovely twins, whose appearance created such a sensation at +Lady Hautbois’ first—was it her first or was it her second?—yes, it was +her second—breakfast. Whom weren’t they going to marry? Crackthorpe was +mad, they said, about both.—Bustington, Sir John Fobsby, the young +Baronet with the immense Northern property—the Bishop of Windsor was +actually said to be smitten with one of them, but did not like to +offer, as her present M—y, like Qu—n El-z-b-th of gracious memory, is +said to object to bishops, as bishops, marrying. Where is Bustington? +Where is Crackthorpe? Where is Fobsby, the young Baronet of the North? +My dear fellow, when those two girls come into a room now, they make no +more sensation than you or I. Miss Newcome has carried their admirers +away from them: Fobsby has actually, it is said, proposed for her: and +the real reason of that affair between Lord Bustington and Captain +Crackthorpe of the Royal Horse Guards Green, was a speech of +Bustington’s, hinting that Miss Newcome had not behaved well in +throwing Lord Kew over. Don’t you know what old Lady Kew will do with +this girl, Clive? She will marry Miss Newcome to the best man. If a +richer and better _parti_ than Lord Farintosh presents himself—then it +will be Farintosh’s turn to find that Lady Kew is not at home. Is there +any young man in the Peerage unmarried and richer than Farintosh? I +forget. Why does not some one publish a list of the young male nobility +and baronetage, their names, weights, and probable fortunes? I don’t +mean for the matrons of Mayfair—they have the list by heart and study +it in secret—but for young men in the world; so that they may know what +their chances are, and who naturally has the pull over them. Let me +see—there is young Lord Gaunt, who will have a great fortune, and is +desirable because you know his father is locked up—but he is only ten +years old—no—they can scarcely bring him forward as Farintosh’s rival. + +“You look astonished, my poor boy? You think it is wicked in me to talk +in this brutal way about bargain and sale; and say that your heart’s +darling is, at this minute, being paced up and down the Mayfair market +to be taken away by the best bidder. Can you count purses with Sultan +Farintosh? Can you compete even with Sir John Fobsby of the North? What +I say is wicked and worldly, is it? So it is; but it is true, as true +as Tattersall’s—as true as Circassia or Virginia. Don’t you know that +the Circassian girls are proud of their bringing up, and take rank +according to the prices which they fetch? And you go and buy yourself +some new clothes, and a fifty-pound horse, and put a penny rose in your +button-hole, and ride past her window, and think to win this prize? Oh, +you idiot! A penny rosebud! Put money in your purse. A fifty-pound hack +when a butcher rides as good a one!—Put money in your purse. A brave +young heart, all courage and love and honour! Put money in thy +purse—t’other coin don’t pass in the market—at least, where old Lady +Kew has the stall.” + +By these remonstrances, playful though serious, Clive’s adviser sought +to teach him wisdom about his love affair; and the advice was received +as advice upon those occasions usually is. + +After calling thrice and writing to Miss Newcome, there came a little +note from that young lady, saying, “Dear Clive,—We were so sorry we +were out when you called. We shall be at home to-morrow at lunch, when +Lady Kew hopes you will come, and see yours ever, E. N.” + +Clive went—poor Clive! He had the satisfaction of shaking Ethel’s hand +and a finger of Lady Kew; of eating a mutton-chop in Ethel’s presence; +of conversing about the state of art at Rome with Lady Kew, and +describing the last works of Gibson and Macdonald. The visit lasted but +for half an hour. Not for one minute was Clive allowed to see Ethel +alone. At three o’clock Lady Kew’s carriage was announced, and our +young gentleman rose to take his leave, and had the pleasure of seeing +the most noble Peer, Marquis of Farintosh and Earl of Rossmont, descend +from his lordship’s brougham and enter at Lady Kew’s door, followed by +a domestic bearing a small stack of flowers from Covent Garden. + +It befell that the good-natured Lady Fareham had a ball in these days; +and meeting Clive in the Park, her lord invited him to the +entertainment. Mr. Pendennis had also the honour of a card. Accordingly +Clive took me up at Bays’s, and we proceeded to the ball together. + +The lady of the house, smiling upon all her guests, welcomed with +particular kindness her young friend from Rome. “Are you related to +_the_ Miss Newcome, Lady Anne Newcome’s daughter? Her cousin? She will +be here to-night.” Very likely Lady Fareham did not see Clive wince and +blush at this announcement, her ladyship having to occupy herself with +a thousand other people. Clive found a dozen of his Roman friends in +the room, ladies young and middle-aged, plain and handsome, all glad to +see his kind face. The house was splendid; the ladies magnificently +dressed; the ball beautiful, though it appeared a little dull until +that event took place whereof we treated two pages back (in the +allegory of Mr. Tomkins and Miss Hopkins), and Lady Kew and her +granddaughter made their appearance. + +That old woman, who began to look more and more like the wicked fairy +of the stories, who is not invited to the Princess’s Christening Feast, +had this advantage over her likeness, that she was invited everywhere; +though how she, at her age, could fly about to so many parties, unless +she was a fairy, no one could say. Behind the fairy, up the marble +stairs, came the most noble Farintosh, with that vacuous leer which +distinguishes his lordship. Ethel seemed to be carrying the stack of +flowers which the Marquis had sent to her. The noble Bustington +(Viscount Bustington, I need scarcely tell the reader, is the heir of +the house of Podbury), the Baronet of the North, the gallant +Crackthorpe, the first men in town, in a word, gathered round the young +beauty, forming her court; and little Dick Hitchin, who goes +everywhere, you may be sure was near her with a compliment and a smile. +Ere this arrival, the twins had been giving themselves great airs in +the room—the poor twins! when Ethel appeared they sank into shuddering +insignificance, and had to put up with the conversation and attentions +of second-rate men, belonging to second-rate clubs in heavy dragoon +regiments. One of them actually walked with a dancing barrister; but he +was related to a duke, and it was expected the Lord Chancellor would +give him something very good. + +Before he saw Ethel, Clive vowed he was aware of her. Indeed, had not +Lady Fareham told him Miss Newcome was coming? Ethel, on the contrary, +not expecting him, or not having the prescience of love, exhibited +signs of surprise when she beheld him, her eyebrows arching, her eyes +darting looks of pleasure. When grandmamma happened to be in another +room, she beckoned Clive to her, dismissing Crackthorpe and Fobsby, +Farintosh and Bustington, the amorous youth who around her bowed, and +summoning Mr. Clive to an audience with the air of a young princess. + +And so she was a princess; and this the region of her special dominion. +The wittiest and handsomest, she deserved to reign in such a place, by +right of merit and by general election. Clive felt her superiority, and +his own shortcomings: he came up to her as to a superior person. +Perhaps she was not sorry to let him see how she ordered away grandees +and splendid Bustingtons, informing them, with a superb manner, that +she wished to speak to her cousin—that handsome young man with the +light moustache yonder. + +“Do you know many people? This is your first appearance in society? +Shall I introduce you to some nice girls to dance with?” What very +pretty buttons!” + +“Is that what you wanted to say?” asked Clive, rather bewildered. + +“What does one say at a ball? One talks conversation suited to the +place. If I were to say to Captain Crackthorpe, ‘What pretty buttons!’ +he would be delighted. But you—you have a soul above buttons, I +suppose.” + +“Being, as you say, a stranger in this sort of society, you see I am +not accustomed to—to the exceeding brilliancy of its conversation,” +said Clive. + +“What! you want to go away, and we haven’t seen each other for near a +year!” cries Ethel, in quite a natural voice. “Sir John Fobsby, I’m +very sorry—but do let me off this dance. I have just met my cousin, +whom I have not seen for a whole year, and I want to talk to him.” + +“It was not my fault that you did not see me sooner. I wrote to you +that I only got your letter a month ago. You never answered the second +I wrote you from Rome. Your letter lay there at the post ever so long, +and was forwarded to me at Naples.” + +“_Where?_” asked Ethel. + +“I saw Lord Kew there.” Ethel was smiling with all her might, and +kissing her hand to the twins, who passed at that moment with their +mamma. “Oh, indeed, you saw—how do you do?—Lord Kew.” + +“And, having seen him, I came over to England,” said Clive. + +Ethel looked at him, gravely. “What am I to understand by that, +Clive?—You came over because it was very hot at Naples, and because you +wanted to see your friends here, n’est-ce pas? How glad mamma was to +see you! You know she loves you as if you were her own son.” + +“What, as much as that angel, Barnes!” cries Clive, bitterly; +“impossible.” + +Ethel looked once more. Her present mood and desire was to treat Clive +as a chit, as a young fellow without consequence—a thirteenth younger +brother. But in his looks and behaviour there was that which seemed to +say not too many liberties were to be taken with him. + +“Why weren’t you here a month sooner, and you might have seen the +marriage? It was a very pretty thing. Everybody was there. Clara, and +so did Barnes really, looked quite handsome.” + +“It must have been beautiful,” continued Clive; “quite a touching +sight, I am sure. Poor Charles Belsize could not be present because his +brother was dead; and——” + +“And what else, pray, Mr. Newcome!” cries Miss, in great wrath, her +pink nostrils beginning to quiver. “I did not think, really, that when +we met after so many months, I was to be insulted; yes, insulted, by +the mention of that name.” + +“I most humbly ask pardon,” said Clive, with a grave bow. “Heaven +forbid that I should wound your sensibility, Ethel! It is, as you say, +my first appearance in society. I talk about things or persons that I +should not mention. I should talk about buttons, should I? which you +were good enough to tell me was the proper subject of conversation. +Mayn’t I even speak of connexions of the family? Mr. Belsize, through +this marriage, has the honour of being connected with you; and even I, +in a remote degree, may boast of a sort of an ever—so—distant +cousinship with him. What an honour for me!” + +“Pray, what is the meaning of all this?” cries Miss Ethel, surprised, +and perhaps alarmed. Indeed, Clive scarcely knew. He had been chafing +all the while he talked with her; smothering anger as he saw the young +men round about her; revolting against himself for the very humility of +his obedience, and angry at the eagerness and delight with which he had +come at her call. + +“The meaning is, Ethel”—he broke out, seizing the opportunity—“that +when a man comes a thousand miles to see you, and shake your hand, you +should give it him a little more cordially than you choose to do to me; +that when a kinsman knocks at your door, time after time, you should +try and admit him; and that when you meet him you should treat him like +an old friend: not as you treated me when my Lady Kew vouchsafed to give +me admittance; not as you treat these fools that are fribbling round +about you,” cries Mr. Clive, in a great rage, folding his arms, and +glaring round on a number of the most innocent young swells; and he +continued looking as if he would like to knock a dozen of their heads +together. “Am I keeping Miss Newcome’s admirers from her?” + +“That is not for me to say,” she said, quite gently. He was; but to see +him angry did not displease Miss Newcome. + +“That young man who came for you just now,” Clive went on—“that Sir +John——” + +“Are you angry with me because I sent him away?” said Ethel, putting +out a hand. “Hark! there is the music. Take me in and waltz with me. +Don’t you know it is not _my_ door at which you knocked?” she said, +looking up into his face as simply and kindly as of old. She whirled +round the dancing-room with him in triumph, the other beauties +dwindling before her: she looked more and more beautiful with each +rapid move of the waltz, her colour heightening and her eyes seeming to +brighten. Not till the music stopped did she sink down on a seat, +panting, and smiling radiant—as many many hundred years ago I remember +to have seen Taglioni after a conquering _pas seul_. She nodded a +“thank you” to Clive. It seemed that there was a perfect +reconciliation. Lady Kew came in just at the end of the dance, scowling +when she beheld Ethel’s partner; but in reply to her remonstrances, +Ethel shrugged her fair shoulders, with a look which seemed to say _je +le veux_, gave an arm to her grandmother, an walked off, saucily +protecting her. + +Clive’s friend had been looking on observingly and curiously as the +scene between them had taken place, and at the dance with which the +reconciliation had been celebrated. I must tell you that this arch +young creature had formed the object of my observation for some months +past, and that I watched her as I have watched a beautiful panther at +the Zoological Gardens, so bright of eye, so sleek of coat, so slim in +form, so sweet and agile in her spring. + +A more brilliant young coquette than Miss Newcome, in her second +season, these eyes never looked upon, that is the truth. In her first +year, being engaged to Lord Kew, she was perhaps a little more reserved +and quiet. Besides, her mother went out with her that first season, to +whom Miss Newcome except for a little occasional flightiness, was +invariably obedient and ready to come to call. But when Lady Kew +appeared as her duenna, the girl’s delight seemed to be to plague the +old lady, and she would dance with the very youngest sons merey to put +grandmamma in a passion. In this way poor young Cubley (who has two +hundred a year of allowance, besides eighty, and an annual rise of five +in the Treasury) actually thought that Ethel was in love with him, and +consulted with the young men in his room in Downing Street, whether two +hundred and eighty a year, with five pound more next year, would be +enough for them to keep house on? Young Tandy of the Temple, Lord +Skibbereen’s younger son, who sate in the House for some time on the +Irish Catholic side, was also deeply smitten, and many a night in our +walks home from the parties at the other end of the town, would +entertain me with his admiration and passion for her. + +“If you have such a passion for her, why not propose?” it was asked of +Mr. Tandy. + +“Propose! propose to a Russian Archduchess,” cries young Tandy. “She’s +beautiful, she’s delightful, she’s witty. I have never seen anything +like her eyes; they send me wild—wild,” says Tandy—(slapping his +waistcoat under Temple Bar)—“but a more audacious little flirt never +existed since the days of Cleopatra.” + +With this opinion likewise in my mind, I had been looking on during +Clive’s proceedings with Miss Ethel—not, I say, without admiration of +the young lady who was leading him such a dance. The waltz over, I +congratulated him on his own performance. His Continental practice had +greatly improved him. “And as for your partner, it is delightful to see +her,” I went on. “I always like to be by when Miss Newcome dances. I +had sooner see her than anybody since Taglioni. Look at her now, with +her neck up, and her little foot out, just as she is preparing to +start! Happy Lord Bustington!” + +“You are angry with her because she cut you,” growls Clive. “You know +you said she cut you, or forgot you; and your vanity’s wounded, that is +why you are so satirical.” + +“How can Miss Newcome remember all the men who are presented to her?” +says the other. “Last year she talked to me because she wanted to know +about you. This year she doesn’t talk: because I suppose she doesn’t +want to know about you any more.” + +“Hang it. Do—on’t, Pen,” cries Clive, as a schoolboy cries out to +another not to hit him. + +“She does not pretend to observe: and is in full conversation with the +amiable Bustington. Delicious interchange of noble thoughts! But she is +observing us talking, and knows that we are talking about her. If ever +you marry her, Clive, which is absurd, I shall lose you for a friend. +You will infallibly tell her what I think of her: and she will order +you to give me up.” Clive had gone off in a brown study, as his +interlocutor continued. “Yes, she is a flirt. She can’t help her +nature. She tries to vanquish every one who comes near her. She is a +little out of breath from waltzing, and so she pretends to be listening +to poor Bustington, who is out of breath too, but puffs out his best in +order to make himself agreeable, with what a pretty air she appears to +listen! Her eyes actually seem to brighten.” + +“_What?_” says Clive, with a start. + +I could not comprehend the meaning of the start: nor did I care much to +know: supposing that the young man was waking up from some lover’s +reverie: and the evening sped away, Clive not quitting the ball until +Miss Newcome and the Countess of Kew had departed. No further +communication appeared to take place between the cousins that evening. +I think it was Captain Crackthorpe who gave the young lady an arm into +her carriage; Sir John Fobsby having the happiness to conduct the old +Countess, and carrying the pink bag for the shawls, wrappers, etc., on +which her ladyship’s coronet and initials are emblazoned. Clive may +have made a movement as if to step forward, but a single finger from +Miss Newcome warned him back. + +Clive and his two friends in Lamb Court had made an engagement for the +next Saturday to dine at Greenwich; but on the morning of that day +there came a note from him to say that he thought of going down to see +his aunt, Miss Honeyman, and begged to recall his promise to us. +Saturday is a holiday with gentlemen of our profession. We had invited +F. Bayham, Esquire, and promised ourselves a merry evening, and were +unwilling to baulk ourselves of the pleasure on account of the absence +of our young Roman. So we three went to London Bridge Station at an +early hour, proposing to breathe the fresh air of Greenwich Park before +dinner. And, at London Bridge, by the most singular coincidence, Lady +Kew’s carriage drove up to the Brighton entrance, and Miss Ethel and +her maid stepped out of the brougham. + +When Miss Newcome and her maid entered the Brighton station, did Mr. +Clive, by another singular coincidence, happen also to be there? What +more natural and dutiful than that he should go and see his aunt, Miss +Honeyman? What more proper than that Miss Ethel should pass the +Saturday and Sunday with her sick father; and take a couple of +wholesome nights’ rest after those five weary past evenings, for each +of which we may reckon a couple of soirées and a ball? And that +relations should travel together, the young lady being protected by her +_femme-de-chambre;_ that surely, as every one must allow, was perfectly +right and proper. + +That a biographer should profess to know everything which passes, even +in a confidential talk in a first-class carriage between two lovers, +seems perfectly absurd; not that grave historians do not pretend to the +same wonderful degree of knowledge—reporting meetings of the most +occult of conspirators; private interviews between monarchs and their +ministers, even the secret thoughts and motives of those personages, +which possibly the persons themselves did not know;—all for which the +present writer will pledge his known character for veracity is, that on +a certain day certain parties had a conversation, of which the upshot +was so-and-so. He guesses, of course, at a great deal of what took +place; knowing the characters, and being informed at some time of their +meeting. You do not suppose that I bribed the _femme-de-chambre_, or +that those two City gents, who sate in the same carriage with our young +friends, and could not hear a word they said, reported their talk to +me? If Clive and Ethel had had a coupe to themselves, I would yet +boldly tell what took place, but the coupe was taken by other three +young City gents who smoked the whole way. + +“Well, then,” the bonnet begins close up to the hat, “tell me, sir, is +it true that you were so very much _épris_ of the Miss Freemans at +Rome; and that afterwards you were so wonderfully attentive to the +third Miss Baliol? Did you draw her portrait? You know you drew her +portrait. You painters always pretend to admire girls with auburn hair, +because Titian and Raphael painted it. Has the Fornarina red hair? Why, +we are at Croydon, I declare!” + +“The Fornarina”—the hat replies to the bonnet, “if that picture at the +Borghese Palace be an original, or a likeness of her—is not a handsome +woman, with vulgar eyes and mouth, and altogether a most +mahogany-coloured person. She is so plain, in fact, I think that very +likely it is the real woman; for it is with their own fancies that men +fall in love,—or rather every woman is handsome to the lover. You know +how old Helen must have been.” + +“I don’t know any such thing, or anything about her. Who was Helen?” +asks the bonnet; and indeed she did not know. + +“It’s a long story, and such an old scandal now, that there is no use +in repeating it,” says Clive. + +“You only talk about Helen because you wish to turn away the +conversation from Miss Freeman,” cries the young lady—“from Miss +Baliol, I mean.” + +“We will talk about whichever you please. Which shall we begin to pull +to pieces?” says Clive. You see, to be in this carriage—to be actually +with _her_—to be looking into those wonderful lucid eyes—to see her +sweet mouth dimpling, and hear her sweet voice ringing with its +delicious laughter—to have that hour and a half his own, in spite of +all the world-dragons, grandmothers, _convenances_, the future—made the +young fellow so happy, filled his whole frame and spirit with a delight +so keen, that no wonder he was gay, and brisk, and lively. + +“And so you knew of my goings-on?” he asked. O me! they were at Reigate +by this time; there was Gatton Park flying before them on the wings of +the wind. + +“I know of a number of things,” says the bonnet, nodding with ambrosial +curls. + +“And you would not answer the second letter I wrote to you? + +“We were in great perplexity. One cannot be always answering young +gentlemen’s letters. I had considerable doubt about answering a note I +got from Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square,” says the lady’s chapeau. +“No, Clive, we must not write to one another,” she continued more +gravely, “or only very, very seldom. Nay, my meeting you here to-day is +by the merest chance, I am sure; for when I mentioned at Lady Fareham’s +the other evening that I was going to see papa at Brighton to-day, I +never for one moment thought of seeing you in the train. But as you are +here, it can’t be helped; and I may as well tell you that there are +obstacles.” + +“What, _other_ obstacles?” Clive gasped out. + +“Nonsense—you silly boy! No other obstacles but those which always have +existed, and must. When we parted—that is, when you left us at Baden, +you knew it was for the best. You had your profession to follow, and +could not go on idling about—about a family of sick people and +children. Every man has his profession, and you yours, as you would +have it. We are so nearly allied that we may—we may like each other +like brother and sister almost. I don’t know what Barnes would say if +he heard me! Wherever you and your father are, how can I ever think of +you but—but you know how? I always shall, always. There are certain +feelings we have which I hope never can change; though, if you please, +about them I intend never to speak any more. Neither you nor I can +alter our conditions, but must make the best of them. You shall be a +fine clever painter; and I,—who knows what will happen to me? I know +what is going to happen to-day; I am going to see papa and mamma, and +be as happy as I can till Monday morning.” + +“I know what I wish would happen now,” said Clive,—they were going +screaming through a tunnel. + +“What?” said the bonnet in the darkness: and the engine was roaring so +loudly, that he was obliged to put his head quite close to say— + +“I wish the tunnel would fall in and close upon us, or that we might +travel on for ever and ever.” + +Here there was a great jar of the carriage, and the lady’s-maid, and I +think Miss Ethel, gave a shriek. The lamp above was so dim that the +carriage was almost totally dark. No wonder the lady’s-maid was +frightened! but the daylight came streaming in, and all poor Clive’s +wishes of rolling and rolling on for ever were put an end to by the +implacable sun in a minute. + +Ah, why was it the quick train? Suppose it had been the parliamentary +train?—even that too would have come to an end. They came and said, +“Tickets, please,” and Clive held out the three of their party—his, and +Ethel’s, and her maid’s. I think for such a ride as that he was right +to give up Greenwich. Mr. Kuhn was in waiting with a carriage for Miss +Ethel. She shook hands with Clive, returning his pressure. + +“I may come and see you?” he said. + +“You may come and see mamma—yes.” + +“And where are you staying?” + +“Bless my soul—they were staying at Miss Honeyman’s!” Clive burst into +a laugh. Why, he was going there too! Of course Aunt Honeyman had no +room for him, her house being quite full with the other Newcomes. + +It was a most curious coincidence their meeting; but altogether Lady +Anne thought it was best to say nothing about the circumstance to +grandmamma. I myself am puzzled to say which would have been the better +course to pursue under the circumstances; there were so many courses +open. As they had gone so far, should they go on farther together? +Suppose they were going to the same house at Brighton, oughtn’t they to +have gone in the same carriage, with Kuhn and the maid of course? +Suppose they met by chance at the station, ought they to have travelled +in separate carriages? I ask any gentleman and father of a family, when +he was immensely smitten with his present wife, Mrs. Brown, if he had +met her travelling with her maid, in the mail, when there was a vacant +place, what would he himself have done? + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. +Injured Innocence + + +From Clive Newcome, Esq., to Lieut.-Col. Newcome, C.B. + +“Brighton, June 12, 18—. + +“My Dearest Father,—As the weather was growing very hot at Naples, and +you wished I should come to England to see Mr. Binnie, I came +accordingly, and have been here three weeks, and write to you from Aunt +Honeyman’s parlour at Brighton, where you ate your last dinner before +embarking for India. I found your splendid remittance calling in Fog +Court, and have invested a part of the sum in a good horse to ride, +upon which I take my diversion with other young dandies in the Park. +Florac is in England, but he has no need of your kindness. Only think! +he is Prince de Moncontour now, the second title of the Duc d’Ivry’s +family; and M. le Comte de Florac is Duc d’Ivry in consequence of the +demise of t’other old gentleman. I believe the late duke’s wife +shortened his life. Oh, what a woman! She caused a duel between Lord +Kew and a Frenchman, which has in its turn occasioned all sorts of evil +and division in families, as you shall hear. + +“In the first place, in consequence of the duel and of incompatibility +of temper, the match between Kew and E. N. has been broken off. I met +Lord Kew at Naples with his mother and brother, nice quiet people as +you would like them. Kew’s wound and subsequent illness have altered +him a good deal. He has become much _more serious_ than he used to be; +not ludicrously so at all, but he says he thinks his past life has been +useless and even criminal, and he wishes to change it. He has sold his +horses, and sown his wild oats. He has turned quite a sober quiet +gentleman. + +“At our meeting he told me of what had happened between him and Ethel, +of whom he spoke _most kindly and generously_, but avowing his opinion +that they never could have been happy in married life. And now I think +my dear old father will see that there may be another reason besides my +desire to see Mr. Binnie, which has brought me tumbling back to England +again. If need be to speak, I never shall have, I hope, any secrets +from you. I have not said much about one which has given me the deuce’s +disquiet for ten months past, because there was no good in talking +about it, or vexing you needlessly with reports of my griefs and woes. + +“Well, when we were at Baden in September last, and E. and I wrote +those letters in common to you, I dare say you can fancy what my +feelings might have been towards such a beautiful young creature, who +has a hundred faults, for which I love her just as much as for the good +that is in her. I became dreadfully smitten indeed, and knowing that +she was engaged to Lord Kew, I did as you told me you did once when the +enemy was too strong for you—_I ran away_. I had a bad time of it for +two or three months. At Rome, however, I began to take matters more +easily, my naturally fine appetite returned, and at the end of the +season I found myself uncommonly happy in the society of the Miss +Baliols and the Miss Freemans; but when Kew told me at Naples of what +had happened, there was straightway a _fresh eruption_ in my heart, and +I was fool enough to come almost without sleep to London in order to +catch a glimpse of the bright eyes of E. N. + +“She is now in this very house upstairs with one aunt, whilst the other +lets lodgings to her. I have seen her but very seldom indeed since I +came to London, where Sir Brian and Lady Anne do not pass the season, +and Ethel goes about to a dozen parties every week with old Lady Kew, +who neither loves you nor me. Hearing E. say she was coming down to her +parents at Brighton, I made so bold as to waylay her at the train +(though I didn’t tell her that I passed three hours in the +waiting-room); and we made the journey together, and she was very kind +and beautiful; and though I suppose I might just as well ask the Royal +Princess to have me, I can’t help hoping and longing and hankering +after her. And Aunt Honeyman must have found out that I am fond of her, +for the old lady has received me with a scolding. Uncle Charles seems +to be in very good condition again. I saw him in full clerical +feather—at Madame de Moncontour’s, a good-natured body who drops her +_h_’s, though Florac is not aware of their absence. Pendennis and +Warrington, I know, would send you their regards. Pen is conceited, but +much kinder in reality than he has the air of being. Fred Bayham is +doing well, and prospering in his mysterious way. + +“Mr. Binnie is not looking at all well: and Mrs. Mack—well, as I know +you never attack a lady behind her lovely back, I won’t say a word of +Mrs. Mack—but she has taken possession of Uncle James, and seems to me +to weigh upon him somehow. Rosey is as pretty and good-natured as ever, +and has learned two new songs; but you see, with my sentiments in +another quarter, I feel as it were guilty and awkward in company of +Rosey and her mamma. They have become the very greatest friends with +Bryanstone Square, and Mrs. Mack is always citing Aunt Hobson as the +most superior of women, in which opinion, I daresay, Aunt Hobson +concurs. + +“Good-bye, my dearest father; my sheet is full; I wish I could put my +arm in yours and pace up and down the pier with you, and tell you more +and more. But you know enough now, and that I am your affectionate son +always, C. N.” + +In fact, when Mr. Clive appeared at Steyne Gardens stepping out of the +fly, and handing Miss Ethel thence, Miss Honeyman of course was very +glad to see her nephew, and saluted him with a little embrace to show +her sense of pleasure at his visit. But the next day, being Sunday, +when Clive, with a most engaging smile on his countenance, walked over +to breakfast from his hotel, Miss Honeyman would scarcely speak to him +during the meal, looked out at him very haughtily from under her Sunday +cap, and received his stories about Italy with “Oh! ah! indeed!” in a +very unkind manner. And when breakfast was over, and she had done +washing her china, she fluttered up to Clive with such an agitation +of plumage, redness of craw, and anger of manner, as a maternal hen +shows if she has reason to think you menace her chickens. She fluttered +up to Clive, I say, and cried out, “Not in _this_ house, Clive,—not in +this house, I beg you to understand _that!_” + +Clive, looking amazed, said, “Certainly not, ma’am; I never did do it +in the house, as I know you don’t like it. I was going into the +Square.” The young man meaning that he was about to smoke, and +conjecturing that his aunt’s anger applied to that practice. + +“_You_ know very well what I mean, sir! Don’t try to turn _me_ off in +that highty-tighty way. My dinner to-day is at half-past one. You can +dine or not as you like,” and the old lady flounced out of the room. + +Poor Clive stood rolling his cigar in sad perplexity of spirit, until +Mrs. Honeyman’s servant Hannah entered, who, for her part, grinned and +looked particularly sly. “In the name of goodness, Hannah, what is the +row about?” cries Mr. Clive. “What is my aunt scolding at? What are you +grinning at, you old Cheshire cat?” + +“Git long, Master Clive,” says Hannah, patting the cloth. + +“Get along! why get along, and where am I to get along to?” + +“Did ’ee do ut really now, Master Clive?” cries Mrs. Honeyman’s +attendant, grinning with the utmost good-humour. “Well, she be as +pretty a young lady as ever I saw; and as I told my missis, ‘Miss +Martha,’ says I, ‘there’s a pair on ’em.’ Though missis was mortal +angry to be sure. She never could bear it.” + +“Bear _what?_ you old goose!” cries Clive, who by these playful names +had been wont to designate Hannah these twenty years past. + +“A young gentleman and a young lady a kissing of each other in the +railway coach,” says Hannah, jerking up with her finger to the ceiling, +as much as to say, “There she is! Lar, she be a pretty young creature, +that she be! and so I told Miss Martha.” Thus differently had the news +which had come to them on the previous night affected the old lady and +her maid. + +The news was, that Miss Newcome’s maid (a giddy thing from the county, +who had not even learned as yet to hold her tongue) had announced with +giggling delight to Lady Anne’s maid, who was taking tea with Mrs. +Hicks, that Mr. Clive had given Miss Ethel a kiss in the tunnel, and +she supposed it was a match. This intelligence Hannah Hicks took to her +mistress, of whose angry behaviour to Clive the next morning you may +now understand the cause. + +Clive did not know whether to laugh or to be in a rage. He swore that +he was as innocent of all intention of kissing Miss Ethel as of +embracing Queen Elizabeth. He was shocked to think of his cousin, +walking above, fancy-free in maiden meditation, whilst this +conversation regarding her was carried on below. How could he face her, +or her mother, or even her maid, now he had cognisance of this naughty +calumny? “Of course Hannah had contradicted it?” “Of course I have a +done no such indeed,” replied Master Clive’s old friend; “of course I +have set ’em down a bit; for when little Trimmer said it, and she +supposed it was all settled between you, seeing how it had been a going +on in foreign parts last year, Mrs. Pincott says, ‘Hold your silly +tongue, Trimmer,’ she says; ‘Miss Ethel marry a painter, indeed, +Trimmer!’ says she, ‘while she has refused to be a Countess,’ she says; +‘and can be a Marchioness any day, and will be a Marchioness. Marry a +painter, indeed!’ Mrs. Pincott says; ‘Trimmer, I’m surprised at your +impidence.’ So, my dear, I got angry at that,” Clive’s champion +continued, “and says I, if my young master ain’t good enough for any +young lady in this world, says I, I’d like you to show her to me: and +if his dear father, the Colonel, says I, ain’t as good as your old +gentleman upstairs, says I, who has gruel and dines upon doctor’s +stuff, the Mrs. Pincott, says I, my name isn’t what it is, says I. +Those were my very words, Master Clive, my dear; and then Mrs. Pincott +says, Mrs. Hicks, she says, you don’t understand society, she says; you +don’t understand society, he! he!” and the country lady, with +considerable humour, gave an imitation of the town lady’s manner. + +At this juncture Miss Honeyman re-entered the parlour, arrayed in her +Sunday bonnet, her stiff and spotless collar, her Cashmere shawl, and +Agra brooch, and carrying her Bible and Prayer-Book each stitched in +its neat cover of brown silk. “Don’t stay chattering here, you idle +woman,” she cried to her attendant with extreme asperity. “And you, +sir, if you wish to smoke your cigar, you had best walk down to the +cliff where the Cockneys are!” she added, glowering at Clive. + +“Now I understand it all,” Clive said, trying to deprecate her anger. +“My dear good aunt, it’s a most absurd mistake; upon my honour, Miss +Ethel is as innocent as you are.” + +“Innocent or not, this house is not intended for assignations, Clive! +As long as Sir Brian Newcome lodges here, you will be pleased to keep +away from it, sir; and though I don’t approve of Sunday travelling, I +think the very best thing you can do is to put yourself in the train +and go back to London.” + +And now, young people, who read my moral pages, you will see how highly +imprudent it is to sit with your cousins in railway carriages; and how, +though you may not mean the slightest harm in the world, a great deal +may be attributed to you; and how, when you think you are managing your +little absurd love-affairs ever so quietly, Jeames and Betsy in the +servants’-hall are very likely talking about them, and you are putting +yourself in the power of those menials. If the perusal of these lines +has rendered one single young couple uncomfortable, surely my amiable +end is answered, and I have written not altogether in vain. + +Clive was going away, innocent though he was, yet quivering under his +aunt’s reproof, and so put out of countenance that he had not even +thought of lighting the great cigar which he stuck into his foolish +mouth; when a shout of “Clive! Clive!” from half a dozen little voices +roused him, and presently as many little Newcomes came toddling down +the stairs, and this one clung round his knees, and that at the skirts +of his coat, and another took his hand and said, he must come and walk +with them on the beach. + +So away went Clive to walk with his cousins, and then to see his old +friend Miss Cann, with whom and the elder children he walked to church, +and issuing thence greeted Lady Anne and Ethel (who had also attended +the service) in the most natural way in the world. + +While engaged in talking with these, Miss Honeyman came out of the +sacred edifice, crisp and stately in the famous Agra brooch and +Cashmere shawls. The good-natured Lady Anne had a smile and a kind word +for her as for everybody. Clive went up to his maternal aunt to offer +his arm. “You must give him up to us for dinner, Miss Honeyman, if you +please to be so very kind. He was so good-natured in escorting Ethel +down,” Lady Anne said. + +“Hm! my lady,” says Miss Honeyman, perking her head up in her collar. +Clive did not know whether to laugh or not, but a fine blush +illuminated his countenance. As for Ethel, she was and looked perfectly +unconscious. So, rustling in her stiff black silk, Martha Honeyman +walked with her nephew silent by the shore of the much-sounding sea. +The idea of courtship, of osculatory processes, of marrying and giving +in marriage, made this elderly virgin chafe and fume, she never having, +at any period of her life, indulged in any such ideas or practices, and +being angry against them, as childless wives will sometimes be angry +and testy against matrons with their prattle about their nurseries. +Now, Miss Cann was a different sort of spinster, and loved a bit of +sentiment with all her heart, from which I am led to conclude—but, pray, +is this the history of Miss Cann or of the Newcomes? + +All these Newcomes then entered into Miss Honeyman’s house, where a +number of little knives and forks were laid for them. Ethel was cold +and thoughtful; Lady Anne was perfectly good-natured as her wont was. +Sir Brian came in on the arm of his valet presently, wearing that look +of extra neatness which invalids have, who have just been shaved and +combed, and made ready by their attendants to receive company. He was +voluble: though there was a perceptible change in his voice: he talked +chiefly of matters which had occurred forty years ago, and especially +of Clive’s own father, when he was a boy, in a manner which interested +the young man and Ethel. “He threw me down in a chaise—sad chap—always +reading Orme’s History of India—wanted marry Frenchwoman. He wondered +Mrs. Newcome didn’t leave Tom anything—’pon my word, quite s’prise.” +The events of to-day, the House of Commons, the City, had little +interest for him. All the children went up and shook him by the hand, +with awe in their looks, and he patted their yellow heads vacantly and +kindly. He asked Clive (several times) where he had been? and said he +himself had had a slight ’tack—vay slight—was getting well ev’y +day—strong as a horse—go back to Parliament d’rectly. And then he +became a little peevish with Parker, his man, about his broth. The man +retired, and came back presently, with profound bows and gravity, to +tell Sir Brian dinner was ready, and he went away quite briskly at this +news, giving a couple of fingers to Clive before he disappeared into +the upper apartments. Good-natured Lady Anne was as easy about this as +about the other events of this world. In later days, with what a +strange feeling we remember that last sight we have of the old friend; +that nod of farewell, and shake of the hand, that last look of the face +and figure as the door closes on him, or the coach drives away! So the +roast mutton was ready, and all the children dined very heartily. + +The infantile meal had not been long concluded, when servants announced +“the Marquis of Farintosh;” and that nobleman made his appearance to +pay his respects to Miss Newcome and Lady Anne. He brought the very +last news of the very last party in London, where “Really, upon my +honour, now, it was quite a stupid party, because Miss Newcome wasn’t +there. It was now, really.” + +Miss Newcome remarked, “If he said so upon his honour, of course she +was satisfied.” + +“As you weren’t there,” the young nobleman continued, “the Miss +Rackstraws came out quite strong; really they did now, upon my honour. +It was quite a quiet thing. Lady Merriborough hadn’t even got a new +gown on. Lady Anne, you shirk London society this year, and we miss +you: we expected you to give us two or three things this season; we did +now, really. I said to Tufthunt, only yesterday, Why has not Lady Anne +Newcome given anything? You know Tufthunt? They say he’s a clever +fellow, and that—but he’s a low little beast, and I hate him.” + +Lady Anne said, “Sir Brian’s bad state of health prevented her from +going out this season, or receiving at home.” + +“It don’t prevent your mother from going out, though,” continued my +lord. “Upon my honour, I think unless she got two or three things every +night, I think she’d die. Lady Kew’s like one of those horses, you +know, that unless they go they drop.” + +“Thank you for my mother,” said Lady Anne. + +“She is, upon my honour. Last night I know she was at ever so many +places. She dined at the Bloxams’, for I was there. Then she said she +was going to sit with old Mrs. Crackthorpe, who has broke her +collar-bone (that Crackthorpe in the Life Guards, her grandson, is a +brute, and I hope she won’t leave him a shillin’); and then she came on +to Lady Hawkstone’s, where I heard her say she had been at the—at the +Flowerdales’, too. People begin to go to those Flowerdales’. Hanged—if +I know where they won’t go next. Cotton-spinner, wasn’t he?” + +“So were we, my lord,” says Miss Newcome. + +“Oh, yes, I forgot! But you’re of an old family—very old family.” + +“We can’t help it,” said Miss Ethel, archly. Indeed, she thought she +was. + +“Do you believe in the barber-surgeon?” asked Clive. And my lord looked +at him with a noble curiosity, as much as to say, “Who the deuce was +the barber-surgeon? and who the devil are you?” + +“Why should we disown our family?” Miss Ethel said, simply. “In those +early days I suppose people did—did all sorts of things, and it was not +considered at all out of the way to be surgeon to William the +Conqueror.” + +“Edward the Confessor,” interposed Clive. “And it must be true, because +I have seen a picture of the barber-surgeon, a friend of mine, +M’Collop, did the picture, and I dare say it is for sale still” + +Lady Anne said “she should be delighted to see it.” Lord Farintosh +remembered that the M’Collop had the moor next to his in Argyleshire, +but did not choose to commit himself with the stranger, and preferred +looking at his own handsome face and admiring it in the glass until the +last speaker had concluded his remarks. + +As Clive did not offer any further conversation, but went back to a +table, where he began to draw the barber-surgeon, Lord Farintosh +resumed the delightful talk. “What infernal bad glasses these are in +these Brighton lodging-houses! They make a man look quite green, really +they do—and there’s nothing green in me, is there, Lady Anne?” + +“But you look very unwell, Lord Farintosh; indeed you do,” Miss Newcome +said, gravely. “I think late hours, and smoking, and going to that +horrid Platt’s, where I dare say you go——” + +“Go? Don’t I? But don’t call it horrid; really, now, don’t call it +horrid!” cried the noble Marquis. + +“Well—something has made you look far from well. You know how very well +Lord Farintosh used to look, mamma—and to see him now, in only his +second season—oh, it is melancholy!” + +“God bless my soul, Miss Newcome! what do you mean? I think I look +pretty well,” and the noble youth passed his hand through his hair. “It +is a hard life, I know; that tearin’ about night after night, and +sittin’ up till ever so much o’clock; and then all these races, you +know, comin’ one after another—it’s enough to knock up any fellow. I’ll +tell you what I’ll do, Miss Newcome. I’ll go down to Codlington, to my +mother; I will, upon my honour, and lie quiet all July, and then I’ll +go to Scotland—and you shall see whether I don’t look better next +season.” + +“Do, Lord Farintosh!” said Ethel, greatly amused, as much, perhaps, at +the young Marquis as at her cousin Clive, who sat whilst the other was +speaking, fuming with rage, at his table. + +“What are you doing, Clive?” she asks. + +“I was trying to draw; Lord knows who—Lord Newcome, who was killed at +the battle of Bosworth,” said the artist, and the girl ran to look at +the picture. + +“Why, you have made him like Punch!” cries the young lady. + +“It’s a shame caricaturing one’s own flesh and blood, isn’t it?” asked +Clive, gravely. + +“What a droll, funny picture!” exclaims Lady Anne. “Isn’t it capital, +Lord Farintosh?” + +“I dare say—I confess I don’t understand that sort of thing,” says his +lordship. “Don’t, upon my honour. There’s Odo Carton, always making +those caricatures—_I_ don’t understand ’em. You’ll come up to town +to-morrow, won’t you? And you’re goin’ to Lady Hm’s, and to Hm and +Hm’s, ain’t you?” (The names of these aristocratic places of resort +were quite inaudible.) “You mustn’t let Miss Blackcap have it all her +own way, you know, that you mustn’t.” + +“She won’t have it all her own way,” says Miss Ethel. “Lord Farintosh, +will you do me a favour? Lady Innishowan is your aunt?” + +“Of course she is my aunt.” + +“Will you be so very good as to get a card for her party on Tuesday, +for my cousin, Mr. Clive Newcome? Clive, please be introduced to the +Marquis of Farintosh.” + +The young Marquis perfectly well recollected those mustachios and their +wearer on a former night, though he had not thought fit to make any +sign of recognition. “Anything you wish, Miss Newcome,” he said; +“delighted, I’m sure;” and turning to Clive—In the army, I suppose?” + +“I am an artist,” says Clive, turning very red. + +“Oh, really, I didn’t know!” cries the nobleman; and my lord bursting +out laughing presently as he was engaged in conversation with Miss +Ethel on the balcony, Clive thought, very likely with justice, “He is +making fun of my mustachios. Confound him! I should like to pitch him +over into the street.” But this was only a kind wish on Mr. Newcome’s +part; not followed out by any immediate fulfilment. + +As the Marquis of Farintosh seemed inclined to prolong his visit, and +his company was exceedingly disagreeable to Clive, the latter took his +departure for an afternoon walk, consoled to think that he should have +Ethel to himself at the evening’s dinner, when Lady Anne would be +occupied about Sir Brian, and would be sure to be putting the children +to bed, and, in a word, would give him a quarter of an hour of +delightful _tête-à-tête_ with the beautiful Ethel. + +Clive’s disgust was considerable when he came to dinner at length, and +found Lord Farintosh, likewise invited, and sprawling in the +drawing-room. His hopes of a _tête-à-tête_ were over. Ethel and Lady +Anne and my lord talked, as all people will, about their mutual +acquaintance: what parties were coming off, who was going to marry +whom, and so forth. And as the persons about whom they conversed were +in their own station of life, and belonged to the fashionable world, of +which Clive had but a slight knowledge, he chose to fancy that his +cousin was giving herself airs, and to feel sulky and uneasy during +their dialogue. + +Miss Newcome had faults of her own, and was worldly enough as perhaps +the reader has begun to perceive; but in this instance no harm, sure, +was to be attributed to her. If two gossips in Aunt Honeyman’s parlour +had talked over the affairs of Mr. Jones and Mr. Brown, Clive would not +have been angry; but a young man of spirit not unfrequently mistakes +his vanity for independence: and it is certain that nothing is more +offensive to us of the middle class than to hear the names of great +folks constantly introduced into conversation. + +So Clive was silent and ate no dinner, to the alarm of Martha, who had +put him to bed many a time, and always had a maternal eye over him. +When he actually refused currant and raspberry tart, and custard, the +_chef d’œuvre_ of Miss Honeyman, for which she had seen him absolutely +cry in his childhood, the good Martha was alarmed. + +“Law, Master Clive!” she said, “do ’ee eat some. Missis made it, you +know she did;” and she insisted on bringing back the tart to him. + +Lady Anne and Ethel laughed at this eagerness on the worthy old woman’s +part. “Do ’ee eat some, Clive,” says Ethel, imitating honest Mrs. +Hicks, who had left the room. + +“It’s doosid good,” remarked Lord Farintosh. + +“Then do ’ee eat some more,” said Miss Newcome: on which the young +nobleman, holding out his plate, observed with much affability, that +the cook of the lodgings was really a stunner for tarts. + +“The cook! dear me, it’s not the _cook!_” cries Miss Ethel. “Don’t you +remember the princess in the Arabian Nights, who was such a stunner for +tarts, Lord Farintosh?” + +Lord Farintosh couldn’t say that he did. + +“Well, I thought not; but there was a princess in Arabia or China, or +somewhere, who made such delicious tarts and custards that nobody’s +could compare with them; and there is an old lady in Brighton who has +the same wonderful talent. She is the mistress of this house.” + +“And she is my aunt, at your lordship’s service,” said Mr. Clive, with +great dignity. + +“Upon my honour! _did_ you make ’em, Lady Anne?” asked my lord. + +“The Queen of Hearts made tarts!” cried out Miss Newcome, rather +eagerly, and blushing somewhat. + +“My good old aunt, Miss Honeyman, made this one,” Clive would go on to +say. + +“Mr. Honeyman’s sister, the preacher, you know, where we go on Sunday,” +Miss Ethel interposed. + +“The Honeyman pedigree is not a matter of very great importance,” Lady +Anne remarked gently. “Kuhn, will you have the goodness to take away +these things? When did you hear of Colonel Newcome, Clive?” + +An air of deep bewilderment and perplexity had spread over Lord +Farintosh’s fine countenance whilst this talk about pastry had been +going on. The Arabian Princess, the Queen of Hearts making tarts, Miss +Honeyman? Who the deuce were all these? Such may have been his +lordship’s doubts and queries. Whatever his cogitations were he did not +give utterance to them, but remained in silence for some time, as did +the rest of the little party. Clive tried to think he had asserted his +independence by showing that he was not ashamed of his old aunt; but +the doubt may be whether there was any necessity for presenting her in +this company, and whether Mr. Clive had not much better have left the +tart question alone. + +Ethel evidently thought so: for she talked and rattled in the most +lively manner with Lord Farintosh for the rest of the evening, and +scarcely chose to say a word to her cousin. Lady Anne was absent with +Sir Brian and her children for the most part of the time: and thus +Clive had the pleasure of listening to Miss Newcome uttering all sorts +of odd little paradoxes, firing the while sly shots at Mr. Clive, and, +indeed, making fun of his friends, exhibiting herself in not the most +agreeable light. Her talk only served the more to bewilder Lord +Farintosh, who did not understand a tithe of her allusions: for Heaven, +which had endowed the young Marquis with personal charms, a large +estate, an ancient title and the pride belonging to it, had not +supplied his lordship with a great quantity of brains, or a very +feeling heart. + +Lady Anne came back from the upper regions presently, with rather a +grave face, and saying that Sir Brian was not so well this evening, +upon which the young men rose to depart. My lord said he had “a most +delightful dinner and a most delightful tart, ’pon his honour,” and was +the only one of the little company who laughed at his own remark. Miss +Ethel’s eyes flashed scorn at Mr. Clive when that unfortunate subject +was introduced again. + +My lord was going back to London to-morrow. Was Miss Newcome going +back? Wouldn’t he like to go back in the train with her!—another +unlucky observation. Lady Anne said, “it would depend on the state of +Sir Brian’s health the next morning whether Ethel would return; and +both of you gentlemen are too young to be her escort,” added the kind +lady. Then she shook hands with Clive, as thinking she had said +something too severe for him. + +Farintosh in the meantime was taking leave of Miss Newcome. “Pray, +pray,” said his lordship, “don’t throw me over at Lady Innishowan’s. +You know I hate balls and never go to ’em, except when you go. I hate +dancing, I do, ’pon my honour.” + +“Thank you,” said Miss Newcome, with a curtsey. + +“Except with one person—only one person, upon my honour. I’ll remember +and get the invitation for your friend. And if you would but try that +mare, I give you my honour I bred her at Codlington. She’s a beauty to +look at, and as quiet as a lamb.” + +“I don’t want a horse like a lamb,” replied the young lady. + +“Well—she’ll go like blazes now: and over timber she’s splendid now. +She is, upon my honour.” + +“When I come to London perhaps you may trot her out,” said Miss Ethel, +giving him her hand and a fine smile. + +Clive came up biting his lips. “I suppose you don’t condescend to ride +Bhurtpore any more now?” he said. + +“Poor old Bhurtpore! The children ride him now,” said Miss Ethel—giving +Clive at the same time a dangerous look of her eyes, as though to see +if her shot had hit. Then she added, “No—he has not been brought up to +town this year: he is at Newcome, and I like him very much.” Perhaps +she thought the shot had struck too deep. + +But if Clive was hurt he did not show his wound. “You have had him +these four years—yes, it’s four years since my father broke him for +you. And you still continue to like him? What a miracle of constancy! +You use him sometimes in the country—when you have no better horse—what +a compliment to Bhurtpore!” + +“Nonsense!” Miss Ethel here made Clive a sign in her most imperious +manner to stay a moment when Lord Farintosh had departed. + +But he did not choose to obey this order. “Good night,” he said. +“Before I go I must shake hands with my aunt downstairs.” And he was +gone, following close upon Lord Farintosh, who I dare say thought, “Why +the deuce can’t he shake hands with his aunt up here?” and when Clive +entered Miss Honeyman’s back-parlour, making a bow to the young +nobleman, my lord went away more perplexed than ever: and the next day +told friends at White’s what uncommonly queer people those Newcomes +were. “I give you my honour there was a fellow at Lady Anne’s whom they +call Clive, who is a painter by trade—his uncle is a preacher—his +father is a horse-dealer, and his aunt lets lodgings and cooks the +dinner.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. +Returns to some Old Friends + + +The haggard youth burst into my chambers, in the Temple, on the very +next morning, and confided to me the story which has been just here +narrated. When he had concluded it, with many ejaculations regarding +the heroine of the tale, “I saw her, sir,” he added, “walking with the +children and Miss Cann as I drove round in the fly to the station—and +didn’t even bow to her.” + +“Why did you go round by the cliff?” asked Clive’s friend. + +“That is not the way from the Steyne Arms to the railroad.” + +“Hang it,” says Clive, turning very red, “I wanted to pass just under +her windows, and if I saw her, not to see her: and that’s what I did.” + +“Why did she walk on the cliff?” mused Clive’s friend, “at that early +hour? Not to meet Lord Farintosh, I should think, he never gets up +before twelve. It must have been to see you. Didn’t you tell her you +were going away in the morning?” + +“I tell you what she does with me,” continues Mr. Clive. “Sometimes she +seems to like me, and then she leaves me. Sometimes she is quite +kind—kind she always is—I mean, you know, Pen—_you_ know what I mean; +and then up comes the old Countess, or a young Marquis, or some fellow +with a handle to his name, and she whistles me off till the next +convenient opportunity.” + +“Women are like that, my ingenuous youth,” says Clive’s counsellor. + +“_I_ won’t stand it. _I_ won’t be made a fool of!” he continues. “She +seems to expect everybody to bow to her, and moves through the world +with her imperious airs. Oh, how confoundedly handsome she is with +them! I tell you what. I feel inclined to tumble down and feel one of +her pretty little feet on my neck and say, There! Trample my life out. +Make a slave of me. Let me get a silver collar and mark ‘Ethel’ on it, +and go through the world with my badge.” + +“And a blue ribbon for a footman to hold you by; and a muzzle to wear +in the dog-days. Bow! wow!” says Mr. Pendennis. + +(At this noise Mr. Warrington puts his head in from the neighbouring +bedchamber, and shows a beard just lathered for shaving. “We are +talking sentiment! Go back till you are wanted!” says Mr. Pendennis. +Exit he of the soap-suds.) + +“Don’t make fun of a fellow,” Clive continues, laughing ruefully. “You +see I must talk about it to somebody. I shall die if I don’t. +Sometimes, sir, I rise up in my might and I defy her lightning. The +sarcastic dodge is the best: I have borrowed that from you Pen, old +boy. That puzzles her: that would beat her if I could but go on with +it. But there comes a tone of her sweet voice, a look out of those +killing grey eyes, and all my frame is in a thrill and a tremble. When +she was engaged to Lord Kew I did battle with the confounded +passion—and I ran away from it like an honest man, and the gods +rewarded me with ease of mind after a while. But now the thing rages +worse than ever. Last night, I give you my honour, I heard every one of +the confounded hours toll, except the last, when I was dreaming of my +father, and the chambermaid woke me with a hot water jug.” + +“Did she scald you? What a cruel chambermaid! I see you have shaven the +mustachios off.” + +“Farintosh asked me whether I was going in the army,” said Clive, “and +she laughed. I thought I had best dock them. Oh, I would like to cut my +head off as well as my hair!” + +“Have you ever asked her to marry you?” asked Clive’s friend. + +“I have seen her but five times since my return from abroad,” the lad +went on; “there has been always somebody by. Who am I? a painter with +five hundred a year for an allowance. Isn’t she used to walk up on +velvet and dine upon silver; and hasn’t she got marquises and barons, +and all sorts of swells, in her train? I daren’t ask her——” + +Here his friend hummed Montrose’s lines—“He either fears his fate too +much, or his desert is small, who dares not put it to the touch, and +win or lose it all.” + +“I own I dare not ask her. If she were to refuse me, I know I should +never ask again. This isn’t the moment, when all Swelldom is at her +feet, for me to come forward and say, ‘Maiden, I have watched thee +daily, and I think thou lovest me well.’ I read that ballad to her at +Baden, sir. I drew a picture of the Lord of Burleigh wooing the maiden, +and asked what she would have done?” + +“Oh, you _did?_ I thought, when we were at Baden, we were so modest +that we did not even whisper our condition?” + +“A fellow can’t help letting it be seen and hinting it,” says Clive, +with another blush. “They can read it in our looks fast enough; and +what is going on in our minds, hang them! I recollect she said, in her +grave, cool way, that after all the Lord and Lady of Burleigh did not +seem to have made a very good marriage, and that the lady would have +been much happier in marrying one of her own degree.” + +“That was a very prudent saying for a young lady of eighteen,” remarks +Clive’s friend. + +“Yes; but it was not an unkind one. Say Ethel thought—thought what was +the case; and being engaged herself, and knowing how friends of mine +had provided a very pretty little partner for me—she is a dear, good +little girl, little Rosey; and twice as good, Pen, when her mother is +away—knowing this and that, I say, suppose Ethel wanted to give me a +hint to keep quiet, was she not right in the counsel she gave me? She +is not fit to be a poor man’s wife. Fancy Ethel Newcome going into the +kitchen and making pies like Aunt Honeyman!” + +“The Circassian beauties don’t sell under so many thousand purses,” +remarked Mr. Pendennis. “If there’s a beauty in a well-regulated +Georgian family, they fatten her; they feed her with the best _Racahout +des Arabes_. They give her silk robes, and perfumed baths; have her +taught to play on the dulcimer and dance and sing; and when she is +quite perfect, send her down to Constantinople for the Sultan’s +inspection. The rest of the family think never of grumbling, but eat +coarse meat, bathe in the river, wear old clothes, and praise Allah for +their sister’s elevation. Bah! Do you suppose the Turkish system +doesn’t obtain all over the world? My poor Clive, this article in the +Mayfair Market is beyond your worship’s price. Some things in this +world are made for our betters, young man. Let Dives say grace for his +dinner, and the dogs and Lazarus be thankful for the crumbs. Here comes +Warrington, shaven and smart as if he was going out a-courting.” + +Thus it will be seen, that in his communication with certain friends +who approached nearer to his own time of life, Clive was much more +eloquent and rhapsodical than in the letter which he wrote to his +father, regarding his passion for Miss Ethel. He celebrated her with +pencil and pen. He was for ever drawing the outline of her head, the +solemn eyebrow, the nose (that wondrous little nose), descending from +the straight forehead, the short upper lip, and chin sweeping in a full +curve to the neck, etc. etc. A frequenter of his studio might see a +whole gallery of Ethels there represented: when Mrs. Mackenzie visited +that place, and remarked one face and figure repeated on a hundred +canvases and papers, grey, white, and brown, I believe she was told +that the original was a famous Roman model, from whom Clive had studied +a great deal during his residence in Italy; on which Mrs. Mack gave it +as her opinion that Clive was a sad wicked young fellow. The widow +thought rather the better of him for being a sad wicked young fellow; +and as for Miss Rosey, she, was of course of mamma’s way of thinking. +Rosey went through the world constantly smiling at whatever occurred. +She was good-humoured through the dreariest long evenings at the most +stupid parties; sate good-humouredly for hours at Shoolbred’s whilst +mamma was making purchases; heard good-humouredly those old old stories +of her mother’s day after day; bore an hour’s joking or an hour’s +scolding with equal good-humour; and whatever had been the occurrences +of her simple day, whether there was sunshine or cloudy weather, or +flashes of lightning and bursts of rain, I fancy Miss Mackenzie slept +after them quite undisturbedly, and was sure to greet the morrow’s dawn +with a smile. + +Had Clive become more knowing in his travels, had Love or Experience +opened his eyes, that they looked so differently now upon objects which +before used well enough to please them? It is a fact that, until he +went abroad, he thought widow Mackenzie a dashing, lively, agreeable +woman: he used to receive her stories about Cheltenham, the colonies, +the balls at Government House, the observations which the bishop made, +and the peculiar attention of the Chief Justice to Mrs. Major M’Shane, +with the Major’s uneasy behaviour—all these to hear at one time did +Clive not ungraciously incline. “Our friend, Mrs. Mack,” the good old +Colonel used to say, “is a clever woman of the world, and has seen a +great deal of company.” That story of Sir Thomas Sadman dropping a +pocket-handkerchief in his court at Colombo, which the Queen’s Advocate +O’Goggarty picked up, and on which Laura MacS. was embroidered, whilst +the Major was absolutely in the witness-box giving evidence against a +native servant who had stolen one of his cocked-hats—that story always +made good Thomas Newcome laugh, and Clive used to enjoy it too, and the +widow’s mischievous fun in narrating it; and now, behold, one day when +Mrs. Mackenzie recounted the anecdote in her best manner to Messrs. +Pendennis and Warrington, and Frederick Bayham, who had been invited to +meet Mr. Clive in Fitzroy Square—when Mr. Binnie chuckled, when Rosey, +as in duty bound, looked discomposed and said, “Law, mamma!”—not one +sign of good-humour, not one ghost of a smile, made its apparition on +Clive’s dreary face. He painted imaginary portraits with a strawberry +stalk; he looked into his water-glass as though he would plunge and +drown there; and Bayham had to remind him that the claret jug was +anxious to have another embrace from its constant friend, F. B. When +Mrs. Mack went away distributing smiles, Clive groaned out, “Good +heavens! how that story does bore me!” and lapsed into his former +moodiness, not giving so much as a glance to Rosey, whose sweet face +looked at him kindly for a moment, as she followed in the wake of her +mamma. + +“The mother’s the woman for my money,” I heard F. B. whisper to +Warrington. “Splendid figure-head, sir—magnificent build, sir, from +bows to stern—I like ’em of that sort. Thank you, Mr. Binnie, I _will_ +take a back-hander, as Clive don’t seem to drink. The youth, sir, has +grown melancholy with his travels; I’m inclined to think some noble +Roman has stolen the young man’s heart. Why did you not send us over a +picture of the charmer, Clive? Young Ridley, Mr. Binnie, you will be +happy to hear, is bidding fair to take a distinguished place in the +world of arts. His picture has been greatly admired; and my good friend +Mrs. Ridley tells me that Lord Todmorden has sent him over an order to +paint him a couple of pictures at a hundred guineas apiece.” + +“I should think so. J. J.’s pictures will be worth five times a hundred +guineas ere five years are over,” says Clive. + +“In that case it wouldn’t be a bad speculation for our friend +Sherrick,” remarked F. B., “to purchase a few of the young man’s works. +I would, only I haven’t the capital to spare. Mine has been vested in +an Odessa venture, sir, in a large amount of wild oats, which up to the +present moment make me no return. But it will always be a consolation +to me to think that I have been the means—the humble means—of +furthering that deserving young man’s prospects in life.” + +“You, F. B.! and how?” we asked. + +“By certain humble contributions of mine to the press,” answered +Bayham, majestically. “Mr. Warrington, the claret happens to stand with +you; and exercise does it good, sir. Yes, the articles, trifling as +they may appear, have attracted notice,” continued F. B., sipping his +wine with great gusto. “They are noticed, Pendennis, give me leave to +say, by parties who don’t value so much the literary or even the +political part of the _Pall Mall Gazette_, though both, I am told by +those who read them, are conducted with considerable—consummate +ability. John Ridley sent a hundred pounds over to his father, the +other day, who funded it in his son’s name. And Ridley told the story +to Lord Todmorden, when the venerable nobleman congratulated him on +having such a child. I wish F. B. had one of the same sort, sir.” In +which sweet prayer we all of us joined with a laugh. + +One of us had told Mrs. Mackenzie (let the criminal blush to own that +quizzing his fellow-creatures used at one time to form part of his +youthful amusement) that F. B. was the son of a gentleman of most +ancient family and vast landed possessions, and as Bayham was +particularly attentive to the widow, and grandiloquent in his remarks, +she was greatly pleased by his politeness, and pronounced him a most +_distingué_ man—reminding her, indeed, of General Hopkirk, who +commanded in Canada. And she bade Rosey sing for Mr. Bayham, who was in +a rapture at the young lady’s performances, and said no wonder such an +accomplished daughter came from such a mother, though how such a mother +could have a daughter of such an age he, F. B., was at a loss to +understand. Oh, sir! Mrs. Mackenzie was charmed and overcome at this +novel compliment. Meanwhile the little artless Rosey warbled on her +pretty ditties. + +“It _is_ a wonder,” growled out Mr. Warrington, “that that sweet girl +can belong to such a woman. I don’t understand much about women, but +that one appears to me to be—hum!” + +“What, George?” asked Warrington’s friend. + +“Well, an ogling, leering, scheming, artful old campaigner,” grumbled +the misogynist. “As for the little girl, I should like to have her to +sing to me all night long. Depend upon it she would make a much better +wife for Clive than that fashionable cousin of his he is hankering +after. I heard him bellowing about her the other day in chambers, as I +was dressing. What the deuce does the boy want with a wife at all?” And +Rosey’s song being by this time finished, Warrington went up with a +blushing face and absolutely paid a compliment to Miss Mackenzie—an +almost unheard-of effort on George’s part. + +“I wonder whether it is every young fellow’s lot,” quoth George, as we +trudged home together, “to pawn his heart away to some girl that’s not +worth the winning? Psha! it’s all mad rubbish this sentiment. The women +ought not to be allowed to interfere with us: married if a man must be, +a suitable wife should be portioned out to him, and there an end of it. +Why doesn’t the young man marry this girl, and get back to his business +and paint his pictures? Because his father wishes it—and the old Nabob +yonder, who seems a kindly-disposed, easy-going, old heathen +philosopher. Here’s a pretty little girl: money I suppose in +sufficiency—everything satisfactory, except, I grant you, the +campaigner. The lad might daub his canvases, christen a child a year, +and be as happy as any young donkey that browses on this common of +ours—but he must go and heehaw after a zebra forsooth! a _lusus naturæ_ +is she! I never spoke to a woman of fashion, thank my stars—I don’t +know the nature of the beast; and since I went to our race-balls, as a +boy, scarcely ever saw one; as I don’t frequent operas and parties in +London like you young flunkeys of the aristocracy. I heard you talking +about this one; I couldn’t help it, as my door was open and the young +one was shouting like a madman. What! does he choose to hang on on +sufferance and hope to be taken, provided Miss can get no better? Do +you mean to say that is the genteel custom, and that women in your +confounded society do such things every day? Rather than have such a +creature I would take a savage woman, who should nurse my dusky brood; +and rather than have a daughter brought up to the trade I would bring +her down from the woods and sell her in Virginia.” With which burst of +indignation our friend’s anger ended for that night. + +Though Mr. Clive had the felicity to meet his cousin Ethel at a party +or two in the ensuing weeks of the season, every time he perused the +features of Lady Kew’s brass knocker in Queen Street, no result came of +the visit. At one of their meetings in the world Ethel fairly told him +that her grandmother would not receive him. “You know, Clive, I can’t +help myself: nor would it be proper to make you signs out of the +window. But you must call for all that: grandmamma may become more +good-humoured: or if you don’t come she may suspect I told you not to +come: and to battle with her day after day is no pleasure, sir, I +assure you. Here is Lord Farintosh coming to take me to dance. You must +not speak to me all the evening, mind that, sir,” and away goes the +young lady in a waltz with the Marquis. + +On the same evening—as he was biting his nails, or cursing his fate, or +wishing to invite Lord Farintosh into the neighbouring garden of +Berkeley Square, whence the policeman might carry to the station-house +the corpse of the survivor,—Lady Kew would bow to him with perfect +graciousness; on other nights her ladyship would pass and no more +recognise him than the servant who opened the door. + +If she was not to see him at her grandmother’s house, and was not +particularly unhappy at his exclusion, why did Miss Newcome encourage +Mr. Clive so that he should try and see _her?_ If Clive could not get +into the little house in Queen Street, why was Lord Farintosh’s +enormous cab-horse looking daily into the first-floor windows of that +street? Why were little quiet dinners made for him, before the opera, +before going to the play, upon a half-dozen occasions, when some of the +old old Kew port was brought out of the cellar, where cobwebs had +gathered round it ere Farintosh was born? The dining-room was so tiny +that not more than five people could sit at the little round table: +that is, not more than Lady Kew and her granddaughter, Miss Crochet, +the late vicar’s daughter, at Kewbury, one of the Miss Toadins, and +Captain Walleye, or Tommy Henchman, Farintosh’s kinsman, and admirer, +who were of no consequence, or old Fred Tiddler, whose wife was an +invalid, and who was always ready at a moment’s notice? Crackthorpe +once went to one of these dinners, but that young soldier being a frank +and high-spirited youth, abused the entertainment and declined more of +them. “I tell you what I was wanted for,” the Captain told his mess and +Clive at the Regent’s Park barracks afterwards, “I was expected to go +as Farintosh’s Groom of the Stole, don’t you know, to stand, or if I +could sit, in the back seat of the box, whilst his Royal Highness made +talk with the Beauty; to go out and fetch the carriage, and walk +downstairs with that d—— crooked old dowager, that looks as if she +usually rode on a broomstick, by Jove, or else with that bony old +painted sheep-faced companion, who’s raddled like an old bell-wether. I +think, Newcome, you seem rather hit by the Belle Cousine—so was I last +season; so were ever so many of the fellows. By Jove, sir! there’s +nothing I know more comfortable or inspiritin’ than a younger son’s +position, when a marquis cuts in with fifteen thousand a year! We fancy +we’ve been making running, and suddenly we find ourselves nowhere. Miss +Mary, or Miss Lucy, or Miss Ethel, saving your presence, will no more +look at us, than my dog will look at a bit of bread, when I offer her +this cutlet. Will you—old woman! no, you old slut, that you won’t!” (to +Mag, an Isle of Skye terrier, who, in fact, prefers the cutlet, having +snuffed disdainfully at the bread)—“that you won’t, no more than any of +your sex. Why, do you suppose, if Jack’s eldest brother had been +dead—Barebones Belsize they used to call him (I don’t believe he was a +bad fellow, though he was fond of psalm-singing)—do you suppose that +Lady Clara would have looked at that cock-tail Barney Newcome? Beg your +pardon, if he’s your cousin—but a more odious little snob I never saw.” + +“I give you up Barnes,” said Clive, laughing; “anybody may shy at him +and I shan’t interfere.” + +“I understand, but at nobody else of the family. Well, what I mean is, +that that old woman is enough to spoil any young girl she takes in +hand. She dries ’em up, and poisons ’em, sir; and I was never more glad +than when I heard that Kew had got out of her old clutches. Frank is a +fellow that will always be led by some woman or another; and I’m only +glad it should be a good one. They say his mother’s serious, and that; +but why shouldn’t she bet?” continues honest Crackthorpe, puffing his +cigar with great energy. “They say the old dowager doesn’t believe in +God nor devil: but that she’s in such a funk to be left in the dark +that she howls, and raises the doose’s own delight if her candle goes +out. Toppleton slept next room to her at Groningham, and heard her; +didn’t you, Top?” + +“Heard her howling like an old cat on the tiles,” says +Toppleton,—“thought she was at first. My man told me that she used to +fling all sorts of things—boot-jacks and things, give you my honour—at +her maid, and that the woman was all over black and blue.” + +“Capital head that is Newcome has done of Jack Belsize!” says +Crackthorpe, from out of his cigar. + +“And Kew’s too—famous likeness! I say, Newcome, if you have ’em printed +the whole brigade’ll subscribe. Make your fortune, see if you won’t,” +cries Toppleton. + +“He’s such a heavy swell, he don’t want to make his fortune,” +ejaculates Butts. + +“Butts, old boy, he’ll paint you for nothing, and send you to the +Exhibition, where some widow will fall in love with you, and you shall +be put as frontispiece for the ‘Book of Beauty,’ by Jove,” cries +another military satirist—to whom Butts: + +“You hold your tongue, you old Saracen’s Head; they’re going to have +you done on the bear’s-grease pots. I say, I suppose Jack’s all right +now. When did he write to you last, Cracky?” + +“He wrote from Palermo—a most jolly letter from him and Kew. He hasn’t +touched a card for nine months; is going to give up play. So is Frank, +too, grown quite a good boy. So will you, too, Butts, you old +miscreant, repent of your sins, pay your debts, and do something +handsome for that poor deluded milliner in Albany Street. Jack says +Kew’s mother has written over to Lord Highgate a beautiful letter—and +the old boy’s relenting, and they’ll come together again—Jack’s eldest +son now, you know. Bore for Lady Susan only having girls.” + +“Not a bore for Jack, though,” cries another. And what a good fellow +Jack was; and what a trump Kew is; how famously he stuck by him: went +to see him in prison and paid him out! and what good fellows we all +are, in general, became the subject of the conversation, the latter +part of which took place in the smoking-room of the Regent’s Park +Barracks, then occupied by that regiment of Life Guards of which Lord +Kew and Mr. Belsize had been members. Both were still fondly remembered +by their companions; and it was because Belsize had spoken very warmly +of Clive’s friendliness to him that Jack’s friend the gallant +Crackthorpe had been interested in our hero, and found an opportunity +of making his acquaintance. + +With these frank and pleasant young men Clive soon formed a +considerable intimacy: and if any of his older and peaceful friends +chanced to take their afternoon airing in the Park, and survey the +horsemen there, we might have the pleasure of beholding Mr. Newcome in +Rotten Row, riding side by side with other dandies who had mustachios +blonde or jet, who wore flowers in their buttons (themselves being +flowers of spring), who rode magnificent thoroughbred horses, scarcely +touching their stirrups with the tips of their varnished boots, and who +kissed the most beautiful primrose-coloured kid gloves to lovely ladies +passing them in the Ride. Clive drew portraits of half the officers of +the Life Guards Green; and was appointed painter in ordinary to that +distinguished corps. His likeness of the Colonel would make you die +with laughing: his picture of the Surgeon was voted a masterpiece. He +drew the men in the saddle, in the stable, in their flannel dresses, +sweeping their flashing swords about, receiving lancers, repelling +infantry,—nay, cutting—a sheep in two, as some of the warriors are +known to be able to do at one stroke. Detachments of Life Guardsmen +made their appearance in Charlotte Street, which was not very distant +from their barracks; the most splendid cabs were seen prancing before +his door; and curly-whiskered youths, of aristocratic appearance, +smoking cigars out of his painting-room window. How many times did +Clive’s next-door neighbour, little Mr. Finch, the miniature-painter, +run to peep through his parlour blinds, hoping that a sitter was +coming, and “a carriage-party” driving up! What wrath Mr. Scowler, +A.R.A., was in, because a young hop-o’-my-thumb dandy, who wore gold +chains and his collars turned down, should spoil the trade and draw +portraits for nothing! Why did none of the young men come to Scowler? +Scowler was obliged to own that Mr. Newcome had considerable talent, +and a good knack at catching a likeness. He could not paint a bit, to +be sure, but his heads in black-and-white were really tolerable; his +sketches of horses very vigorous and lifelike. Mr. Gandish said if +Clive would come for three or four years into his academy he could make +something of him. Mr. Smee shook his head, and said he was afraid, that +kind of loose, desultory study, that keeping of aristocratic company, +was anything but favourable to a young artist—Smee, who would walk five +miles to attend an evening party of ever so little a great man! + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. +In which Mr. Charles Honeyman appears in an Amiable Light + + +Mr. Frederick Bayham waited at Fitzroy Square while Clive was yet +talking with his friends there, and favoured that gentleman with his +company home to the usual smoky refreshment. Clive always rejoiced in +F. B.’s society, whether he was in a sportive mood, or, as now, in a +solemn and didactic vein. F. B. had been more than ordinarily majestic +all the evening. “I dare say you find me a good deal altered, Clive,” +he remarked; “I am a good deal altered. Since that good Samaritan, your +kind father, had compassion on a poor fellow fallen among thieves +(though I don’t say, mind you, he was much better than his company), F. +B. has mended some of his ways. I am trying a course of industry, sir. +Powers, perhaps naturally great, have been neglected over the wine-cup +and the die. I am beginning to feel my way; and my chiefs yonder, who +have just walked home with their cigars in their mouths, and without as +much as saying, F. B., my boy, shall we go to the Haunt and have a cool +lobster and a glass of table-beer,—which they certainly do not consider +themselves to be,—I say, sir, the Politician and the Literary Critic” +(there was a most sarcastic emphasis laid on these phrases, +characterising Messrs. Warrington and Pendennis) “may find that there +is a humble contributor to the _Pall Mall Gazette_, whose name, may be, +the amateur shall one day reckon even higher than their own. Mr. +Warrington I do not say so much—he is an able man, sir, an able +man;—but there is that about your exceedin self-satisfied friend, Mr. +Arthur Pendennis, which—well, well—let time show. You did not—get +the—hem—paper at Rome and Naples, I suppose?” + +“Forbidden by the Inquisition,” says Clive, delighted; “and at Naples +the king furious against it.” + +“I _don’t wonder_ they don’t like it at Rome, sir. There’s serious +matter in it which may set the prelates of a certain Church rather in a +tremor. You haven’t read—the—ahem—the Pulpit Pencillings in the _P. M. +G.?_ Slight sketches, mental and corporeal, of our chief divines now in +London—and signed Latimer?” + +“I don’t do much in that way,” said Clive. + +“So much the worse for you, my young friend. Not that I mean to judge +any other fellow harshly—I mean any other fellow sinner harshly—or that +I mean that those Pulpit Pencillings would be likely to do you any +great good. But, such as they are, they have been productive of +benefit.—Thank you, Mary, and my dear, the tap is uncommonly good, and +I drink to your future husband’s good health.—A glass of good sound +beer refreshes after all that claret. Well, sir, to return to the +Pencillings, pardon my vanity in saying, that though Mr. Pendennis +laughs at them, they have been of essential service to the paper. They +give it a character, they rally round it the respectable classes. They +create correspondence. I have received many interesting letters, +chiefly from females, about the Pencillings. Some complain that their +favourite preachers are slighted; others applaud because the clergymen +they sit under are supported by F. B. _I_ am Laud Latimer, sir,—though +I have heard the letters attributed to the Rev. Mr. Bunker, and to a +Member of Parliament eminent in the religious world.” + +“So you are the famous Laud Latimer?” cries Clive, who had, in fact, +seen letters signed by those right reverend names in our paper. + +“Famous is hardly the word. One who scoffs at everything—I need not say +I allude to Mr. Arthur Pendennis—would have had the letters signed—the +Beadle, of the Parish. He calls me the Venerable Beadle sometimes—it +being, I grieve to say, his way to deride grave subjects. You wouldn’t +suppose now, my young Clive, that the same hand which pens the Art +criticisms, occasionally, when His Highness Pendennis is lazy, takes a +minor theatre, or turns the sportive epigram, or the ephemeral +paragraph, should adopt a grave theme on a Sunday, and chronicle the +sermons of British divines? For eighteen consecutive Sunday evenings, +Clive, in Mrs. Ridley’s front parlour, which I now occupy, vice Miss +Cann promoted, I have written the Pencillings—scarcely allowing a drop +of refreshment, except under extreme exhaustion, to pass my lips. +Pendennis laughs at the Pencillings. He wants to stop them; and says +they bore the public.—I don’t want to _think_ a man is jealous, who was +himself the cause of my engagement at the _P. M. G._,—perhaps my powers +were not developed then.” + +“Pen thinks he writes better now than when he began,” remarked Clive; +“I have heard him say so.” + +“His opinion of his own writings is high, whatever their date. Mine, +sir, are only just coming into notice. They begin to know F. B., sir, +in the sacred edifices of his metropolitan city. I saw the Bishop of +London looking at me last Sunday week, and am sure his chaplain +whispered him, ‘It’s Mr. Bayham, my lord, nephew of your lordship’s +right reverend brother, the Lord Bishop of Bullocksmithy.’ And last +Sunday being at church—at Saint Mungo the Martyr’s, Rev. Sawders—by +Wednesday I got in a female hand—Mrs. Sawders’s, no doubt—the biography +of the Incumbent of St. Mungo; an account of his early virtues; a copy +of his poems; and a hint that he was the gentleman destined for the +vacant Deanery. + +“Ridley is not the only man I have helped in this world,” F. B. +continued. “Perhaps I should blush to own it—I _do_ blush: but I feel +the ties of early acquaintance, and I own that I have puffed your +uncle, Charles Honeyman, most tremendously. It was partly for the sake +of the Ridleys and the tick he owes ’em: partly for old times’ sake. +Sir, are you aware that things are greatly changed with Charles +Honeyman, and that the poor F. B. has very likely made his fortune?” + +“I am delighted to hear it,” cried Clive; “and how, F. B., have you +wrought this miracle?” + +“By common sense and enterprise, lad—by a knowledge of the world and a +benevolent disposition. You’ll see Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel bears a +very different aspect now. That miscreant Sherrick owns that he owes me +a turn, and has sent me a few dozen of wine—without any stamped paper +on my part in return—as an acknowledgment of my service. It chanced, +sir, soon after your departure for Italy, that going to his private +residence respecting a little bill to which a heedless friend had put +his hand, Sherrick invited me to partake of tea in the bosom of his +family. I was thirsty—having walked in from Jack Straw’s Castle at +Hampstead, where poor Kitely and I had been taking a chop—and accepted +the proffered entertainment. The ladies of the family gave us music +after the domestic muffin—and then, sir, a great idea occurred to me. +You know how magnificently Miss Sherrick and the mother sing? Thy sang +Mozart, sir. Why, I asked of Sherrick, should those ladies who sing +Mozart to a piano, not sing Handel to an organ? + +“‘Dash it, you don’t mean a hurdy-gurdy?’” + +“‘Sherrick,’ says I, ‘you are no better than a heathen ignoramus. I +mean why shouldn’t they sing Handel’s Church Music, and Church Music in +general in Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel? Behind the screen up in the +organ-loft what’s to prevent ’em? By Jingo! Your singing-boys have gone +to the Cave of Harmony; you and your choir have split—why should not +these ladies lead it?’ He caught at the idea. You never heard the +chants more finely given—and they would be better still if the +congregation would but hold their confounded tongues. It was an +excellent though a harmless dodge, sir: and drew immensely, to speak +profanely. They dress the part, sir, to admiration—a sort of nunlike +costume they come in: Mrs. Sherrick has the soul of an artist still—by +Jove, sir, when they have once smelt the lamps, the love of the trade +never leaves ’em. The ladies actually practised by moonlight in the +Chapel, and came over to Honeyman’s to an oyster afterwards. The thing +took, sir. People began to take box-seats, I mean, again:—and Charles +Honeyman, easy in his mind through your noble father’s generosity, +perhaps inspirited by returning good fortune, has been preaching more +eloquently than ever. He took some lessons of Husler, of the Haymarket, +sir. His sermons are old, I believe; but so to speak, he has got them +up with new scenery, dresses, and effects, sir. They have flowers, sir, +about the buildin’—pious ladies are supposed to provide ’em, but, +_entre nous_, Sherrick contracts for them with Nathan, or some one in +Covent Garden. And—don’t tell this now, upon your honour!” + +“Tell what, F. B.?” asks Clive. + +“I got up a persecution against your uncle for Popish practices: +summoned a meetin’ at the Running Footman, in Bolingbroke Street. +Billings the butterman; Sharwood, the turner and blacking-maker; and +the Honourable Phelin O’Curragh, Lord Scullabogue’s son, made speeches. +Two or three respectable families (your aunt, Mrs. What-d’-you-call-’em +Newcome, amongst the number) quitted the Chapel in disgust—I wrote an +article of controversial biography in the _P. M. G.;_ set the business +going in the daily press; and the thing was done, sir. That property is +a paying one to the Incumbent, and to Sherrick over him. Charles’s +affairs are getting all right, sir. He never had the pluck to owe much, +and if it be a sin to have wiped his slate clean, satisfied his +creditors, and made Charles easy—upon my conscience, I must confess +that F. B. has done it. I hope I may never do anything worse in this +life, Clive. It ain’t bad to see him doing the martyr, sir: Sebastian +riddled with paper pellets; Bartholomew on a cold gridiron. Here comes +the lobster. Upon my word, Mary, a finer fish I’ve seldom seen.” + +Now surely this account of his uncle’s affairs and prosperity was +enough to send Clive to Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel, and it was not +because Miss Ethel had said that she and Lady Kew went there that Clive +was induced to go there too? He attended punctually on the next Sunday, +and in the incumbent’s pew, whither the pew-woman conducted him, sate +Mr. Sherrick in great gravity, with large gold pins, who handed him, at +the anthem, a large, new, gilt hymn-book. + +An odour of millefleurs rustled by them as Charles Honeyman accompanied +by his ecclesiastical valet, passed the pew from the vestry, and took +his place at the desk. Formerly he used to wear a flaunting scarf over +his surplice, which was very wide and full; and Clive remembered when +as a boy he entered the sacred robing-room, how his uncle used to pat +and puff out the scarf and the sleeves of his vestment, and to arrange +the natty curl on his forehead and take his place, a fine example of +florid church decoration. Now the scarf was trimmed down to be as +narrow as your neckcloth, and hung loose and straight over the back; +the ephod was cut straight and as close and short as might be,—I +believe there was a little trimming of lace to the narrow sleeves, and +a slight arabesque of tape, or other substance, round the edge of the +surplice. As for the curl on the forehead, it was no more visible than +the Maypole in the Strand, or the Cross at Charing. Honeyman’s hair was +parted down the middle, short in front, and curling delicately round +his ears and the back of his head. He read the service in a swift +manner, and with a gentle twang. When the music began, he stood with +head on one side, and two slim fingers on the book, as composed as a +statue in a mediæval niche. It was fine to hear Sherrick, who had an +uncommonly good voice, join in the musical parts of the service. The +produce of the market-gardener decorated the church here and there; and +the impresario of the establishment, having picked up a Flemish painted +window from old Moss in Wardour Street, had placed it in his chapel. +Labels of faint green and gold, with long Gothic letters painted +thereon, meandered over the organ-loft and galleries, and strove to +give as mediæval a look to Lady Whittlesea’s as the place was capable +of assuming. + +In the sermon Charles dropped the twang with the surplice, and the +priest gave way to the preacher. He preached short stirring discourses +on the subjects of the day. It happened that a noble young prince, the +hope of a nation, and heir of a royal house, had just then died by a +sudden accident. Absalom, the son of David, furnished Honeyman with a +parallel. He drew a picture of the two deaths, of the grief of kings, +of the fate that is superior to them. It was, indeed, a stirring +discourse, and caused thrills through the crowd to whom Charles +imparted it. “Famous, ain’t it?” says Sherrick, giving Clive a hand +when the rite was over. “How he’s come out, hasn’t he? Didn’t think he +had it in him.” Sherrick seemed to have become of late impressed with +the splendour of Charles’s talents, and spoke of him—was it not +disrespectful?—as a manager would of a successful tragedian. Let us +pardon Sherrick: he had been in the theatrical way. “That Irishman was +no go at all,” he whispered to Mr. Newcome, “got rid of him,—let’s see, +at Michaelmas.” + +On account of Clive’s tender years, and natural levity, a little +inattention may be allowed to the youth, who certainly looked about him +very eagerly during the service. The house was filled by the ornamental +classes, the bonnets of the newest Parisian fashion. Away in a darkling +corner, under the organ, sate a squad of footmen. Surely that powdered +one in livery wore Lady Kew’s colours? So Clive looked under all the +bonnets, and presently spied old Lady Kew’s face, as grim and yellow as +her brass knocker, and by it Ethel’s beauteous countenance. He dashed +out of church when the congregation rose to depart. “Stop and see +Honeyman, won’t you?” asked Sherrick, surprised. + +“Yes, yes; come back again,” said Clive, and was gone. + +He kept his word, and returned presently. The young Marquis and an +elderly lady were in Lady Kew’s company. Clive had passed close under +Lady Kew’s venerable Roman nose without causing that organ to bow in +ever so slight a degree towards the ground. Ethel had recognised him +with a smile and a nod. My lord was whispering one of his noble +pleasantries in her ear. She laughed at the speech or the speaker. The +steps of a fine belozenged carriage were let down with a bang. The +Yellow One had jumped up behind it, by the side of his brother Giant +Canary. Lady Kew’s equipage had disappeared, and Mrs. Canterton’s was +stopping the way. + +Clive returned to the chapel by the little door near to the Vestiarium. +All the congregation had poured out by this time. Only two ladies were +standing near the pulpit; and Sherrick, with his hands rattling his +money in his pockets, was pacing up and down the aisle. + +“Capital house, Mr. Newcome, wasn’t it? I counted no less than fourteen +nobs. The Princess of Moncontour and her husband, I suppose, that chap +with the beard, who yawns so during the sermon. I’m blessed, if I +didn’t think he’d have yawned his head off. Countess of Kew, and her +daughter; Countess of Canterton, and the Honourable Miss Fetlock—no, +Lady Fetlock. A Countess’s daughter is a lady, I’m dashed if she ain’t. +Lady Glenlivat and her sons; the most noble the Marquis of Farintosh, +and Lord Enry Roy; that makes seven—no, nine—with the Prince and +Princess.—Julia, my dear, you came out like a good un to-day. Never +heard you in finer voice. Remember Mr. Clive Newcome?” + +Mr. Clive made bows to the ladies, who acknowledged him by graceful +curtsies. Miss Sherrick was always looking to the vestry-door. + +“How’s the old Colonel? The best feller—excuse my calling him a +feller—but he is, and a good one too. I went to see Mr. Binnie, my +other tenant. He looks a little yellow about the gills, Mr. Binnie. +Very proud woman that is who lives with him—uncommon haughty. When will +you come down and take your mutton in the Regent’s Park, Mr. Clive? +There’s some tolerable good wine down there. Our reverend gent drops in +and takes a glass, don’t he, missis?” + +“We shall be most ’appy to see Mr. Newcome, I’m sure,” says the +handsome and good-natured Mrs. Sherrick. “Won’t we, Julia?” + +“Oh, certainly,” says Julia, who seems rather absent. And behold, at +this moment the reverend gent enters from the vestry. Both the ladies +run towards him, holding forth their hands. + +“Oh, Mr. Honeyman! What a sermon! Me and Julia cried so up in the +organ-loft; we thought you would have heard us. Didn’t we, Julia?” + +“Oh, yes,” says Julia, whose hand the pastor is now pressing. + +“When you described the young man, I thought of my poor boy, didn’t I, +Julia?” cries the mother, with tears streaming down her face. + +“We had a loss more than ten years ago,” whispers Sherrick to Clive +gravely. “And she’s always thinking of it. Women are so.” + +Clive was touched and pleased by this exhibition of kind feeling. + +“You know his mother was an Absalom,” the good wife continues, pointing +to her husband. “Most respectable diamond merchants in——” + +“Hold your tongue, Betsy, and leave my poor old mother alone; do now,” +says Mr. Sherrick darkly. Clive is in his uncle’s fond embrace by this +time, who rebukes him for not having called in Walpole Street. + +“Now, when will you two gents come up to my shop to ’ave a family +dinner?” asks Sherrick. + +“Ah, Mr. Newcome, do come,” says Julia in her deep rich voice, looking +up to him with her great black eyes. And if Clive had been a vain +fellow like some folks, who knows but he might have thought he had made +an impression on the handsome Julia? + +“Thursday, now make it Thursday, if Mr. H. is disengaged. Come along, +girls, for the flies bites the ponies when they’re a-standing still and +makes ’em mad this weather. Anything you like for dinner? Cut of salmon +and cucumber? No, pickled salmon’s best this weather.” + +“Whatever you give me, you know I’m thankful!” says Honeyman, in a +sweet sad voice, to the two ladies, who were standing looking at him, +the mother’s hand clasped in the daughter’s. + +“Should you like that Mendelssohn for the Sunday after next? Julia +sings it splendid!” + +“No, I don’t, ma.” + +“You do, dear! She’s a good, good _dear_, Mr. H., that’s what she is.” + +“You must not call—a—him, in that way. _Don’t_ say Mr. H., ma,” says +Julia. + +“Call me what you please!” says Charles, with the most heart-rending +simplicity; and Mrs. Sherrick straightway kisses her daughter. Sherrick +meanwhile has been pointing out the improvement of the chapel to Clive +(which now has indeed a look of the Gothic Hall at Rosherville), and +has confided to him the sum for which he screwed the painted window out +of old Moss. “When he come to see it up in this place, sir, the old man +was mad, I give you my word! His son ain’t no good: says he knows you. +He’s such a screw, that chap, that he’ll overreach himself, mark my +words. At least, he’ll never die rich. Did you ever hear of _me_ +screwing? No, I spend my money like a man. How those girls are a-goin’ +on about their music with Honeyman! I don’t let ’em sing in the +evening, or him do duty more than once a day; and you can calc’late how +the music draws, because in the evenin’ there ain’t half the number of +people here. Rev. Mr. Journyman does the duty now—quiet Hogford +man—ill, I suppose, this morning. H. sits in his pew, where we was; and +coughs; that’s to say, I told him to cough. The women like a +consumptive parson, sir. Come, gals!” + +Clive went to his uncle’s lodgings, and was received by Mr. and Mrs. +Ridley with great glee and kindness. Both of those good people had made +it a point to pay their duty to Mr. Clive immediately on his return to +England, and thank him over and over again for his kindness to John +James. Never, never would they forget his goodness, and the Colonel’s, +they were sure. A cake, a heap of biscuits, a pyramid of jams, six +frizzling mutton-chops, and four kinds of hot wine, came bustling up to +Mr. Honeyman’s room twenty minutes after Clive had entered it,—as a +token of the Ridleys’ affection for him. + +Clive remarked, with a smile, the _Pall Mall Gazette_ upon a +side-table, and in the chimney-glass almost as many cards as in the +time of Honeyman’s early prosperity. That he and his uncle should be +very intimate together, was impossible, from the nature of the two men; +Clive being frank, clear-sighted, and imperious; Charles, timid, vain, +and double-faced, conscious that he was a humbug, and that most people +found him out, so that he would quiver and turn away, and be more +afraid of young Clive and his direct straightforward way, than of many +older men. Then there was the sense of the money transactions between +him and the Colonel, which made Charles Honeyman doubly uneasy. In +fine, they did not like each other; but, as he is a connection of the +most respectable Newcome family, surely he is entitled to a page or two +in these their memoirs. + +Thursday came, and with it Mr. Sherrick’s entertainment, to which also +Mr. Binnie and his party had been invited to meet Colonel Newcome’s +son. Uncle James and Rosey brought Clive in their carriage; Mrs. +Mackenzie sent a headache as an apology. She chose to treat Uncle +James’s landlord with a great deal of hauteur, and to be angry with her +brother for visiting such a person. “In fact, you see how fond I must +be of dear little Rosey, Clive, that I put up with all mamma’s tantrums +for her sake,” remarks Mr. Binnie. + +“Oh, uncle!” says little Rosey, and the old gentleman stopped her +remonstrances with a kiss. + +“Yes,” says he, “your mother _does_ have tantrums, miss; and though you +never complain, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t. You will not tell on +me” (it was “Oh, uncle!” again); “and Clive won’t, I am sure.—This +little thing, sir,” James went on, holding Rosey’s pretty little hand +and looking fondly in her pretty little face, “is her old uncle’s only +comfort in life. I wish I had had her out to India to me, and never +come back to this great dreary town of yours. But I was tempted home by +Tom Newcome; and I’m too old to go back, sir. Where the stick falls let +it lie. Rosey would have been whisked out of my house, in India, in a +month after I had her there. Some young fellow would have taken her +away from me; and now she has promised never to leave her old Uncle +James, hasn’t she?” + +“No, never, uncle,” said Rosey. + +“_We_ don’t want to fall in love, do we, child? We don’t want to be +breaking our hearts like some young folks, and dancing attendance at +balls night after night, and capering about in the Park to see if we +can get a glimpse of the beloved object, eh, Rosey?” + +Rosey blushed. It was evident that she and Uncle James both knew of +Clive’s love affair. In fact, the front seat and back seat of the +carriage both blushed. And as for the secret, why Mrs. Mackenzie and +Mrs. Hobson had talked it a hundred times over. + +“This little Rosey, sir, has promised to take care of me on this side +of Styx,” continued Uncle James; “and if she could but be left alone +and to do it without mamma—there, I won’t say a word more against +her—we should get on none the worse.” + +“Uncle James, I must make a picture of you, for Rosey,” said Clive, +good-humouredly. And Rosey said, “Oh, thank you, Clive,” and held out +that pretty little hand, and looked so sweet and kind and happy, that +Clive could not but be charmed at the sight of so much innocence and +candour. + +“Quasty peecoly Rosiny,” says James, in a fine Scotch Italian, “e la +piu bella, la piu cara, ragazza ma la mawdry e il diav——” + +“Don’t, uncle!” cried Rosey, again; and Clive laughed at Uncle James’s +wonderful outbreak in a foreign tongue. + +“Eh! I thought ye didn’t know a word of the sweet language, Rosey! It’s +just the Lenguy Toscawny in Bocky Romawny that I thought to try in +compliment to this young monkey who has seen the world.” And by this +time Saint John’s Wood was reached, and Mr. Sherrick’s handsome villa, +at the door of which the three beheld the Rev. Charles Honeyman +stepping out of a neat brougham. + +The drawing-room contained several pictures of Mrs. Sherrick when she +was in the theatrical line; Smee’s portrait of her, which was never +half handsome enough—for my Betsy, Sherrick said indignantly; the print +of her in Artaxerxes, with her signature as Elizabeth Folthorpe (not in +truth a fine specimen of calligraphy) the testimonial presented to her +on the conclusion of the triumphal season of 18—, at Drury Lane, by her +ever grateful friend Adolphus Smacker, Lessee, who, of course, went to +law with her next year; and other Thespian emblems. But Clive remarked, +with not a little amusement, that the drawing-room tables were now +covered with a number of those books which he had seen at Madame de +Moncontour’s, and many French and German ecclesiastical gimcracks, such +as are familiar to numberless readers of mine. These were the Lives of +St. Botibol of Islington and St. Willibald of Bareacres, with pictures +of those confessors. Then there was the Legend of Margery Dawe, Virgin +and Martyr, with a sweet double frontispiece, representing (1) the +sainted woman selling her feather-bed for the benefit of the poor; and +(2) reclining upon straw, the leanest of invalids. There was Old Daddy +Longlegs, and how he was brought to say his Prayers; a Tale for +Children, by a Lady, with a preface dated St. Chad’s Eve, and signed +“C. H.” The Rev. Charles Honeyman’s Sermons, delivered at Lady +Whittlesea’s Chapel. Poems of Early Days, by Charles Honeyman, A.M. The +Life of good Dame Whittlesea, by do, do. Yes, Charles had come out in +the literary line; and there in a basket was a strip of Berlin work, of +the very same Gothic pattern which Madame de Moncontour was weaving; +and which you afterwards saw round the pulpit of Charles’s chapel. +Rosey was welcomed most kindly by the kind ladies; and as the gentlemen +sat over their wine after dinner in the summer evening, Clive beheld +Rosey and Julia pacing up and down the lawn, Miss Julia’s arm around +her little friend’s waist: he thought they would make a pretty little +picture. + +“My girl ain’t a bad one to look at, is she?” said the pleased father. +“A fellow might look far enough, and see not prettier than them two.” + +Charles sighed out that there was a German print, the “Two Leonoras,” +which put him in mind of their various styles of beauty. + +“I wish I could paint them,” said Clive. + +“And why not, sir?” asks his host. “Let me give you your first +commission now, Mr. Clive; I wouldn’t mind paying a good bit for a +picture of my Julia. I forget how much old Smee got for Betsy’s, the +old humbug!” + +Clive said it was not the will, but the power that was deficient. He +succeeded with men, but the ladies were too much for him as yet. + +“Those you’ve done up at Albany Street Barracks are famous: I’ve seen +’em,” said Mr. Sherrick; and remarking that his guest looked rather +surprised at the idea of his being in such company, Sherrick said, +“What, you think they are too great swells for me? Law bless you, I +often go there. I’ve business with several of ’em; had with Captain +Belsize, with the Earl of Kew, who’s every inch the gentleman—one of +nature’s aristocracy, and paid up like a man. The Earl and me has had +many dealings together:” + +Honeyman smiled faintly, and nobody complying with Mr. Sherrick’s +boisterous entreaties to drink more, the gentlemen quitted the +dinner-table, which had been served in a style of prodigious splendour, +and went to the drawing-room for a little music. + +This was all of the gravest and best kind; so grave indeed, that James +Binnie might be heard in a corner giving an accompaniment of little +snores to the singers and the piano. But Rosey was delighted with the +performance, and Sherrick remarked to Clive, “That’s a good gal, that +is; I like that gal; she ain’t jealous of Julia cutting her out in the +music, but listens as pleased as any one. She’s a sweet little pipe of +her own, too. Miss Mackenzie, if ever you like to go to the opera, send +a word either to my West End or my City office. I’ve boxes every week, +and you’re welcome to anything I can give you.” + +So all agreed that the evening had been a very pleasant one; and they +of Fitzroy Square returned home talking in a most comfortable friendly +way—that is, two of them, for Uncle James fell asleep again, taking +possession of the back seat; and Clive and Rosey prattled together. He +had offered to try and take all the young ladies’ likenesses. “You know +what a failure the last was, Rosey?”—he had very nearly said “dear +Rosey.” + +“Yes, but Miss Sherrick is so handsome, that you will succeed better +with her than with my round face, Mr. Newcome.” + +“Mr. _What?_” cries Clive. + +“Well, Clive, then,” says Rosey, in a little voice. + +He sought for a little hand which was not very far away. “You know we +are like brother and sister, dear Rosey?” he said this time. + +“Yes,” said she, and gave a little pressure of the hand. And then Uncle +James woke up; and it seemed as if the whole drive didn’t occupy a +minute, and they shook hands very very kindly at the door of Fitzroy +Square. + +Clive made a famous likeness of Miss Sherrick, with which Mr. Sherrick +was delighted, and so was Mr. Honeyman, who happened to call upon his +nephew once or twice when the ladies happened to be sitting. Then Clive +proposed to the Rev. Charles Honeyman to take _his_ head off; and made +an excellent likeness in chalk of his uncle—that one, in fact, from +which the print was taken which you may see any day at Hogarth’s, in +the Haymarket, along with a whole regiment of British divines. Charles +became so friendly, that he was constantly coming to Charlotte Street, +once or twice a week. + +Mr. and Mrs. Sherrick came to look at the drawing, were charmed with +it; and when Rosey was sitting, they came to see her portrait, which +again was not quite so successful. One Monday, the Sherricks and +Honeyman too happened to call to see the picture of Rosey, who trotted +over with her uncle to Clive’s studio, and they all had a great laugh +at a paragraph in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, evidently from F. B.’s hand, +to the following effect:— + +“Conversion In High Life.—A foreign nobleman of princely rank, who has +married an English lady, and has resided among us for some time, is +likely, we hear and trust, to join the English Church. The Prince de +M-nc-nt-r has been a constant attendant at Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel, of +which the Rev. C. Honeyman is the eloquent incumbent; and it is said +this sound and talented divine has been the means of awakening the +prince to a sense of the erroneous doctrines in which he has been bred. +His ancestors were Protestant, and fought by the side of Henry IV. at +_Ivry_. In Louis XIV.’s time, they adopted the religion of that +persecuting monarch. We sincerely trust that the present heir of the +house of Ivry will see fit to return to the creed which his forefathers +so unfortunately abjured.” + +The ladies received this news with perfect gravity; and Charles uttered +a meek wish that it might prove true. As they went away, they offered +more hospitalities to Clive and Mr. Binnie and his niece. They liked +the music: would they not come and hear it again? + +When they had departed with Mr. Honeyman, Clive could not help saying +to Uncle James, “Why are those people always coming here; praising me; +and asking me to dinner? Do you know, I can’t help thinking that they +rather want me as a pretender for Miss Sherrick?” + +Binnie burst into a loud guffaw, and cried out, “O vanitas vanitawtum!” +Rosa laughed too. + +“I don’t think it any joke at all,” said Clive. + +“Why, you stupid lad, don’t you see it is Charles Honeyman the girl’s +in love with?” cried Uncle James. “Rosey saw it in the very first +instant we entered their drawing-room three weeks ago.” + +“Indeed, and how?” asked Clive. + +“By—by the way she looked at him,” said little Rosey. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. +A Stag of Ten + + +The London season was very nearly come to an end, and Lord Farintosh +had danced I don’t know how many times with Miss Newcome, had drunk +several bottles of the old Kew port, had been seen at numerous +breakfasts, operas, races, and public places by the young lady’s side, +and had not as yet made any such proposal as Lady Kew expected for her +granddaughter. Clive going to see his military friends in the Regent’s +Park once, and finish Captain Butts’s portrait in barracks, heard two +or three young men talking, and one say to another, “I bet you three to +two Farintosh don’t marry her, and I bet you even that he don’t ask +her.” Then as he entered Mr. Butts’s room, where these gentlemen were +conversing, there was a silence and an awkwardness. The young fellows +were making an “event” out of Ethel’s marriage, and sporting their +money freely on it. + +To have an old countess hunting a young marquis so resolutely that all +the world should be able to look on and speculate whether her game +would be run down by that staunch toothless old pursuer—that is an +amusing sport, isn’t it? and affords plenty of fun and satisfaction to +those who follow the hunt. But for a heroine of a story, be she ever so +clever, handsome, and sarcastic, I don’t think for my part, at this +present stage of the tale, Miss Ethel Newcome occupies a very dignified +position. To break her heart in silence for Tomkins who is in love with +another; to suffer no end of poverty, starvation, capture by ruffians, +ill-treatment by a bullying husband, loss of beauty by the small-pox, +death even at the end of the volume; all these mishaps a young heroine +must endure (and has endured in romances over and over again), without +losing the least dignity, or suffering any diminution of the +sentimental reader’s esteem. But a girl of great beauty, high temper, +and strong natural intellect, who submits to be dragged hither and +thither in an old grandmother’s leash, and in pursuit of a husband who +will run away from the couple, such a person, I say, is in a very +awkward position as a heroine; and I declare if I had another ready to +my hand (and unless there were extenuating circumstances) Ethel should +be deposed at this very sentence. + +But a novelist must go on with his heroine, as a man with his wife, for +better or worse, and to the end. For how many years have the Spaniards +borne with their gracious queen, not because she was faultless, but +because she was there? So Chambers and grandees cried, God save her. +Alabarderos turned out: drums beat, cannons fired, and people saluted +Isabella Segunda, who was no better than the humblest washerwoman of +her subjects. Are we much better than our neighbours? Do we never yield +to our peculiar temptation, our pride, or our avarice or our vanity, or +what not? Ethel is very wrong certainly. But recollect, she is very +young. She is in other people’s hands. She has been bred up and +governed by a very worldly family, and taught their traditions. We +would hardly, for instance, the staunchest Protestant in England would +hardly be angry with poor Isabella Segunda for being a Catholic. So if +Ethel worships at a certain image which a great number of good folks in +England bow to, let us not be too angry with her idolatry, and bear +with our queen a little before we make our pronunciamiento. + +No, Miss Newcome, yours is not a dignified position in life, however +you may argue that hundreds of people in the world are doing like you. +O me! what a confession it is, in the very outset of life and blushing +brightness of youth’s morning, to own that the aim with which a young +girl sets out, and the object of her existence, is to marry a rich man; +that she was endowed with beauty so that she might buy wealth, and a +title with it; that as sure as she has a soul to be saved, her business +here on earth is to try and get a rich husband. That is the career for +which many a woman is bred and trained. A young man begins the world +with some aspirations at least; he will try to be good and follow the +truth; he will strive to win honours for himself, and never do a base +action; he will pass nights over his books, and forgo ease and pleasure +so that he may achieve a name. Many a poor wretch who is worn-out now +and old, and bankrupt of fame and money too, has commenced life at any +rate with noble views and generous schemes, from which weakness, +idleness, passion, or overpowering hostile fortune have turned him +away. But a girl of the world, _bon Dieu!_ the doctrine with which she +begins is that she is to have a wealthy husband: the article of faith +in her catechism is, “I believe in elder sons, and a house in town, and +a house in the country!” They are mercenary as they step fresh and +blooming into the world out of the nursery. They have been schooled +there to keep their bright eyes to look only on the prince and the +duke, Croesus and Dives. By long cramping and careful process, their +little natural hearts have been squeezed up, like the feet of their +fashionable little sisters in China. As you see a pauper’s child, with +an awful premature knowledge of the pawnshop, able to haggle at market +with her wretched halfpence, and battle bargains at hucksters’ stalls, +you shall find a young beauty, who was a child in the schoolroom a year +since, as wise and knowing as the old practitioners on that exchange; +as economical of her smiles, as dexterous in keeping back or producing +her beautiful wares; as skilful in setting one bidder against another; +as keen as the smartest merchant in Vanity Fair. + +If the young gentlemen of the Life Guards Green who were talking about +Miss Newcome and her suitors, were silent when Clive appeared amongst +them, it was because they were aware not only of his relationship to +the young lady, but his unhappy condition regarding her. Certain men +there are who never tell their love, but let concealment, like a worm +in the bud, feed on their damask cheeks; others again must be not +always thinking, but talking, about the darling object. So it was not +very long before Captain Crackthorpe was taken into Clive’s confidence, +and through Crackthorpe very likely the whole mess became acquainted +with his passion. These young fellows, who had been early introduced +into the world, gave Clive small hopes of success, putting to him, in +their downright phraseology, the point of which he was already aware, +that Miss Newcome was intended for his superiors, and that he had best +not make his mind uneasy by sighing for those beautiful grapes which +were beyond his reach. + +But the good-natured Crackthorpe, who had a pity for the young +painter’s condition, helped him so far (and gained Clive’s warmest +thanks for his good offices), by asking admission for Clive to +entertain evening parties of the _beau-monde_, where he had the +gratification of meeting his charmer. Ethel was surprised and pleased, +and Lady Kew surprised and angry, at meeting Clive Newcome at these +fashionable houses; the girl herself was touched very likely at his +pertinacity in following her. As there was no actual feud between them, +she could not refuse now and again to dance with her cousin; and thus +he picked up such small crumbs of consolation as a youth in his state +can get; lived upon six words vouchsafed to him in a quadrille, or +brought home a glance of the eyes which she had presented to him in a +waltz, or the remembrance of a squeeze of the hand on parting or +meeting. How eager he was to get a card to this party or that! how +attentive to the givers of such entertainments! Some friends of his +accused him of being a tuft-hunter and flatterer of the aristocracy, on +account of his politeness to certain people; the truth was, he wanted +to go wherever Miss Ethel was; and the ball was blank to him which she +did not attend. + +This business occupied not only one season, but two. By the time of the +second season, Mr. Newcome had made so many acquaintances that he +needed few more introductions into society. He was very well known as a +good-natured handsome young man, and a very good waltzer, the only son +of an Indian officer of large wealth, who chose to devote himself to +painting, and who was supposed to entertain an unhappy fondness for his +cousin the beautiful Miss Newcome. Kind folks who heard of this little +_tendre_, and were sufficiently interested in Mr. Clive, asked him to +their houses in consequence. I dare say those people who were good to +him may have been themselves at one time unlucky in their own +love-affairs. + +When the first season ended without a declaration from my lord, Lady +Kew carried off her young lady to Scotland, where it also so happened +that Lord Farintosh was going to shoot, and people made what surmises +they chose upon this coincidence. Surmises, why not? You who know the +world, know very well that if you see Mrs. So-and-so’s name in the list +of people at an entertainment, on looking down the list you will +presently be sure to come on Mr. What-d’-you-call-’em’s. If Lord and +Lady of Suchandsuch Castle, received a distinguished circle (including +Lady Dash), for Christmas or Easter, without reading farther the names +of the guests, you may venture on any wager that Captain Asterisk is +one of the company. These coincidences happen every day; and some +people are so anxious to meet other people, and so irresistible is the +magnetic sympathy, I suppose, that they will travel hundreds of miles +in the worst of weather to see their friends, and break your door open +almost, provided the friend is inside it. + +I am obliged to own the fact, that for many months Lady Kew hunted +after Lord Farintosh. This rheumatic old woman went to Scotland, where, +as he was pursuing the deer, she stalked his lordship: from Scotland +she went to Paris, where he was taking lessons in dancing at the +Chaumière; from Paris to an English country-house, for Christmas, where +he was expected, but didn’t come—not being, his professor said, quite +complete in the polka, and so on. If Ethel were privy to these +manœuvres, or anything more than an unwittingly consenting party, I say +we would depose her from her place of heroine at once. But she was +acting under her grandmother’s orders, a most imperious, irresistible, +managing old woman, who exacted everybody’s obedience, and managed +everybody’s business in her family. Lady Anne Newcome being in +attendance on her sick husband, Ethel was consigned to the Countess of +Kew, her grandmother, who hinted that she should leave Ethel her +property when dead, and whilst alive expected the girl should go about +with her. She had and wrote as many letters as a Secretary of State +almost. She was accustomed to set off without taking anybody’s advice, +or announcing her departure until within an hour or two of the event. +In her train moved Ethel, against her own will, which would have led +her to stay at home with her father, but at the special wish and order +of her parents. Was such a sum as that of which Lady Kew had the +disposal (Hobson Brothers knew the amount of it quite well) to be left +out of the family? Forbid it, all ye powers! Barnes—who would have +liked the money himself, and said truly that he would live with his +grandmother anywhere she liked if he could get it,—Barnes joined most +energetically with Sir Brian and Lady Anne in ordering Ethel’s +obedience to Lady Kew. You know how difficult it is for one young woman +not to acquiesce when the family council strongly orders. In fine, I +hope there was a good excuse for the queen of this history, and that it +was her wicked domineering old prime minister who led her wrong. +Otherwise I say, we would have another dynasty. Oh, to think of a +generous nature, and the world, and nothing but the world, to occupy +it!—of a brave intellect, and the milliner’s bandboxes, and the scandal +of the coteries, and the fiddle-faddle etiquette of the Court for its +sole exercise! of the rush and hurry from entertainment to +entertainment; of the constant smiles and cares of representation; of +the prayerless rest at night, and the awaking to a godless morrow! This +was the course of life to which Fate, and not her own fault altogether, +had for awhile handed over Ethel Newcome. Let those pity her who can +feel their own weakness and misgoing; let those punish her who are +without fault themselves. + +Clive did not offer to follow her to Scotland, he knew quite well that +the encouragement he had had was only of the smallest; that as a +relation she received him frankly and kindly enough; but checked him +when he would have adopted another character. But it chanced that they +met in Paris, whither he went in the Easter of the ensuing year, having +worked to some good purpose through the winter, and despatched as on a +former occasion his three or four pictures, to take their chance at the +Exhibition. + +Of these it is our pleasing duty to be able to corroborate to some +extent, Mr. F. Bayham’s favourable report. Fancy sketches and +historical pieces our young man had eschewed; having convinced himself +either that he had not an epic genius, or that to draw portraits of his +friends, was a much easier task than that which he had set himself +formerly. Whilst all the world was crowding round a pair of J. J,.’s +little pictures, a couple of chalk heads were admitted into the +Exhibition (his great picture of Captain Crackthorpe on horseback, in +full uniform, I must admit was ignominiously rejected), and the friends +of the parties had the pleasure of recognising in the miniature room, +No. 1246, “Picture of an Officer,”—viz., Augustus Butts, Esq., of the +Life Guards Green; and “Portrait of the Rev. Charles Honeyman,” No. +1272. Miss Sherrick the hangers refused; Mr. Binnie, Clive had spoiled, +as usual, in the painting; the heads, however, before-named, were voted +to be faithful likenesses, and executed in a very agreeable and +spirited manner. F. Bayham’s criticism on these performances, it need +not be said, was tremendous. “Since the days of Michael Angelo you +would have thought there never had been such drawings.” In fact, F. B., +as some other critics do, clapped his friends so boisterously on the +back, and trumpeted their merits with such prodigious energy, as to +make his friends themselves sometimes uneasy. + +Mr. Clive, whose good father was writing home more and more wonderful +accounts of the Bundelcund Bank, in which he had engaged, and who was +always pressing his son to draw for more money, treated himself to +comfortable rooms at Paris, in the very same hotel where the young +Marquis of Farintosh occupied lodgings much more splendid, and where he +lived, no doubt, so as to be near the professor, who was still teaching +his lordship the polka. Indeed, it must be said that Lord Farintosh +made great progress under this artist, and that he danced very much +better in his third season than in the first and second years after he +had come upon the town. From the same instructor the Marquis learned +the latest novelties in French conversation, the choicest oaths and +phrases (for which he was famous), so that although his French grammar +was naturally defective, he was enabled to order a dinner at +Philippe’s, and to bully a waiter, or curse a hackney-coachman with +extreme volubility. A young nobleman of his rank was received with the +distinction which was his due, by the French sovereign of that period; +and at the Tuileries, and the houses of the French nobility, which he +visited, Monsieur le Marquis de Farintosh excited considerable remark, +by the use of some of the phrases which his young professor had taught +to him. People even went so far as to say that the Marquis was an +awkward and dull young man, of the very worst manners. + +Whereas the young Clive Newcome—and it comforted the poor fellow’s +heart somewhat, and be sure pleased Ethel, who was looking on at his +triumphs—was voted the most charming young Englishman who had been seen +for a long time in our salons. Madame de Florac, who loved him as a son +of her own, actually went once or twice into the world in order to see +his _début_. Madame de Moncontour inhabited a part of the Hotel de +Florac, and received society there. The French people did not +understand what bad English she talked, though they comprehended Lord +Farintosh’s French blunders. “Monsieur Newcome is an artist! What a +noble career!” cries a great French lady, the wife of a Marshal to the +astonished Miss Newcome. “This young man is the cousin, of the charming +mees? You must be proud to possess such a nephew, madame!” says another +French lady to the Countess of Kew (who, you may be sure, is delighted +to have such a relative). And the French lady invites Clive to her +receptions expressly in order to make herself agreeable to the old +Comtesse. Before the cousins have been three minutes together in Madame +de Florac’s salon, she sees that Clive is in love with Ethel Newcome. +She takes the boy’s hand and says, “_J’ai votre secret, mon ami;_” and +her eyes regard him for a moment as fondly, as tenderly, as ever they +looked at his father. Oh, what tears have they shed, gentle eyes! Oh, +what faith has it kept, tender heart! If love lives through all life; +and survives through all sorrow; and remains steadfast with us through +all changes; and in all darkness of spirit burns brightly; and, if we +die, deplores us for ever, and loves still equally; and exists with the +very last gasp and throb of the faithful bosom—whence it passes with +the pure soul, beyond death; surely it shall be immortal? Though we who +remain are separated from it, is it not ours in Heaven? If we love +still those we lose, can we altogether lose those we love? Forty years +have passed away. Youth and dearest memories revisit her, and Hope +almost wakes up again out of its grave, as the constant lady holds the +young man’s hand, and looks at the son of Thomas Newcome. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. +The Hotel de Florac + + +Since the death of the Duc d’Ivry, the husband of Mary Queen of Scots, +the Comte de Florac, who is now the legitimate owner of the ducal +title, does not choose to bear it, but continues to be known in the +world by his old name. The old Count’s world is very small. His doctor, +and his director, who comes daily to play his game of piquet; his +daughter’s children, who amuse him by their laughter, and play round +his chair in the garden of his hotel; his faithful wife, and one or two +friends as old as himself, form his society. His son the Abbé is with +them but seldom. The austerity of his manners frightens his old father, +who can little comprehend the religionism of the new school. After +going to hear his son preach through Lent at Notre-Dame, where the Abbé +de Florac gathered a great congregation, the old Count came away quite +puzzled at his son’s declamations. “I do not understand your new +priests,” he says; “I knew my son had become a Cordélier; I went to +hear him, and found he was a Jacobin. Let me make my salut in quiet, my +good Léonore. My director answers for me, and plays a game at trictrac +into the bargain with me.” Our history has but little to do with this +venerable nobleman. He has his chamber looking out into the garden of +his hotel; his faithful old domestic to wait upon him; his House of +Peers to attend when he is well enough, his few acquaintances to help +him to pass the evening. The rest of the hotel he gives up to his son, +the Vicomte de Florac, and Madame la Princesse de Moncontour, his +daughter-in-law. + +When Florac has told his friends of the Club why it is he has assumed a +new title—as a means of reconciliation (a reconciliation all +philosophical, my friends) with his wife nee Higg of Manchester, who +adores titles like all Anglaises, and has recently made a great +succession, everybody allows that the measure was dictated by prudence, +and there is no more laughter at his change of name. The Princess takes +the first floor of the hotel at the price paid for it by the American +General, who has returned to his original pigs at Cincinnati. Had not +Cincinnatus himself pigs on his farm, and was he not a general and +member of Congress too? The honest Princess has a bedchamber, which, to +her terror, she is obliged to open of reception-evenings, when +gentlemen and ladies play cards there. It is fitted up in the style of +Louis XVI. In her bed is an immense looking-glass, surmounted by stucco +cupids: it is an alcove which some powdered Venus, before the +Revolution, might have reposed in. Opposite that looking-glass, between +the tall windows, at some forty feet distance, is another huge mirror, +so that when the poor Princess is in bed, in her prim old curl-papers, +she sees a vista of elderly princesses twinkling away into the dark +perspective; and is so frightened that she and Betsy, her Lancashire +maid, pin up the jonquil silk curtains over the bed-mirror after the +first night; though the Princess never can get it out of her head that +her image is still there, behind the jonquil hangings, turning as she +turns, waking as she wakes, etc. The chamber is so vast and lonely that +she has a bed made for Betsy in the room. It is, of course, whisked +away into a closet on reception-evenings. A boudoir, rose-tendre, with +more cupids and nymphs by Boucher, sporting over door-panels—nymphs who +may well shock old Betsy and her old mistress—is the Pricess’s +morning-room. “Ah, mum, what would Mr. Humper at Manchester, Mr. Jowls +of Newcome” (the minister whom, in early days, Miss Higg used to sit +under) “say if they was browt into this room?” But there is no question +of Jowls and Mr. Humper, excellent dissenting divines, who preached to +Miss Higg, being brought into the Princesse de Moncontour’s boudoir. + +That paragraph, respecting a conversion in high life, which F. B. in +his enthusiasm inserted in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, caused no small +excitement in the Florac family. The Florac family read the _Pall Mall +Gazette_, knowing that Clive’s friends were engaged in that periodical. +When Madame de Florac, who did not often read newspapers, happened to +cast her eye upon that poetic paragraph of F. B.’s, you may fancy, with +what a panic it filled the good and pious lady. Her son become a +Protestant! After all the grief and trouble his wildness had occasioned +to her, Paul forsake his religion! But that her husband was so ill and +aged as not to be able to bear her absence, she would have hastened to +London to rescue her son out of that perdition. She sent for her +younger son, who undertook the embassy; and the Prince and Princesse de +Moncontour, in their hotel at London, were one day surprised by the +visit of the Abbé de Florac. + +As Paul was quite innocent of any intention of abandoning his religion, +the mother’s kind heart was very speedily set at rest by her envoy. Far +from Paul’s conversion to Protestantism, the Abbé wrote home the most +encouraging accounts of his sister-in-law’s precious dispositions. He +had communications with Madame de Moncontour’s Anglican director, a man +of not powerful mind, wrote M. l’Abbé, though of considerable repute +for eloquence in his Sect. The good dispositions of his sister-in-law +were improved by the French clergyman, who could be most captivating +and agreeable when a work of conversion was in hand. The visit +reconciled the family to their English relative, in whom good-nature +and many other good qualities were to be seen now that there were hopes +of reclaiming her. It was agreed that Madame de Moncontour should come +and inhabit the Hôtel de Florac at Paris: perhaps the Abbé tempted the +worthy lady by pictures of the many pleasures and advantages she would +enjoy in that capital. She was presented at her own court by the French +ambassadress of that day: and was received at the Tuileries with a +cordiality which flattered and pleased her. + +Having been presented herself, Madame la Princesse in turn presented to +her august sovereign Mrs. T. Higg and Miss Higg, of Manchester, Mrs. +Samuel Higg, of Newcome; the husbands of those ladies (the Princess’s +brothers) also sporting a court-dress for the first time. Sam Higg’s +neighbour, the member for Newcome; Sir Brian Newcome, Bart., was too +ill to act as Higg’s sponsor before majesty; but Barnes Newcome was +uncommonly civil to the two Lancashire gentlemen; though their politics +were different to his, and Sam had voted against Sir Brian at his last +election. Barnes took them to dine at a club—recommended his tailor—and +sent Lady Clara Pulleyn to call on Mrs. Higg—who pronounced her to be a +pretty young woman and most haffable. The Countess of Dorking would +have been delighted to present these ladies had the Princess not +luckily been in London to do that office. The Hobson Newcomes were very +civil to the Lancashire party, and entertained them splendidly at +dinner. I believe Mrs. and Mr. Hobson themselves went to court this +year, the latter in a deputy-lieutenant’s uniform. + +If Barnes Newcome was so very civil to the Higg family we may suppose +he had good reason. The Higgs were very strong in Newcome, and it was +advisable to conciliate them. They were very rich, and their account +would not be disagreeable at the bank. Madame de Moncontour’s—a large +easy private account—would be more pleasant still. And, Hobson Brothers +having entered largely into the Anglo-Continental Railway, whereof +mention has been made, it was a bright thought of Barnes to place the +Prince of Moncontour, etc. etc., on the French Direction of the +Railway; and to take the princely prodigal down to Newcome with his new +title, and reconcile him to his wife and the Higg family. Barnes we may +say invented the principality: rescued the Vicomte de Florac out of his +dirty lodgings in Leicester Square, and sent the Prince of Moncontour +back to his worthy middle-aged wife again. The disagreeable dissenting +days were over. A brilliant young curate of Doctor Bulders, who also +wore long hair, straight waistcoats, and no shirt-collars, had already +reconciled the Vicomtesse de Florac to the persuasion, whereof the +ministers are clad in that queer uniform. The landlord of their hotel +at St. James’s got his wine from Sherrick, and sent his families to +Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel. The Rev. Charles Honeyman’s eloquence and +amiability were appreciated by his new disciple—thus the historian has +traced here step by step how all these people became acquainted. + +Sam Higg, whose name was very good on ’Change in Manchester and London, +joined the direction of the Anglo-Continental. A brother had died +lately, leaving his money amongst them, and his wealth had added +considerably to Madame de Florac’s means; his sister invested a portion +of her capital in the railway in her husband’s name. The shares were at +a premium, and gave a good dividend. The Prince de Moncontour took his +place with great gravity at the Paris board, whither Barnes made +frequent flying visits. The sense of capitalism sobered and dignified +Paul de Florac: at the age of five-and-forty he was actually giving up +being a young man, and was not ill pleased at having to enlarge his +waistcoats, and to show a little grey in his moustache. His errors were +forgotten: he was bien vu by the Government. He might have had the +Embassy Extraordinary to Queen Pomaré; but the health of Madame la +Princesse was delicate. He paid his wife visits every morning: appeared +at her parties and her opera box, and was seen constantly with her in +public. He gave quiet little dinners still, at which Clive was present +sometimes: and had a private door and key to his apartments, which were +separated by all the dreary length of the reception-rooms from the +mirrored chamber and jonquil couch where the Princess and Betsy +reposed. When some of his London friends visited Paris he showed us +these rooms and introduced us duly to Madame la Princesse. He was as +simple and as much at home in the midst of these splendours, as in the +dirty little lodgings in Leicester Square, where he painted his own +boots, and cooked his herring over the tongs. As for Clive, he was the +infant of the house: Madame la Princesse could not resist his kind +face; and Paul was as fond of him in his way as Paul’s mother in hers. +Would he live at the Hôtel de Florac? There was an excellent atélier in +the pavilion, with a chamber for his servant. “No! you will be most at +ease in apartments of your own. You will have here but the society of +women. I do not rise till late: and my affairs, my board, call me away +for the greater part of the day. Thou wilt but be annuyé to play +trictrac with my old father. My mother waits on him. My sister au +second is given up entirely to her children, who always have the +_pituite_. Madame la Princesse is not amusing for a young man. Come and +go when thou wilt, Clive, my garçon, my son: thy cover is laid. Wilt +thou take the portraits of all the family? Hast thou want of money? I +had at thy age and almost ever since, _mon ami;_ but now we swim in +gold, and when there is a louis in my purse, there are ten francs for +thee.” To show his mother that he did not think of the Reformed +Religion, Paul did not miss going to mass with her on Sunday. Sometimes +Madame Paul went too, between whom and her mother-in-law there could +not be any liking, but there was now great civility. They saw each +other once a day: Madame Paul always paid her visit to the Comte de +Florac: and Betsy, her maid, made the old gentleman laugh by her +briskness and talk. She brought back to her mistress the most wonderful +stories which the old man told her about his doings during the +emigration—before he married Madame la Comtesse—when he gave lessons in +dancing, parbleu! There was his fiddle still, a trophy of those old +times. He chirped, and coughed, and sang, in his cracked old voice, as +he talked about them. “Lor! bless you, mum,” says Betsy, “he must have +been a terrible old man!” He remembered the times well enough, but the +stories he sometimes told over twice or thrice in an hour. I am afraid +he had not repented sufficiently of those wicked old times: else why +did he laugh and giggle so when he recalled them? He would laugh and +giggle till he was choked with his old cough: and old S. Jean, his man, +came and beat M. le Comte on the back, and made M. le Comte take a +spoonful of his syrup. + +Between two such women as Madame de Florac and Lady Kew, of course +there could be little liking or sympathy. Religion, love, duty, the +family, were the French lady’s constant occupation,—duty and the +family, perhaps, Lady Kew’s aim too,—only the notions of duty were +different in either person. Lady Kew’s idea of duty to her relatives +being to push them on in the world: Madame de Florac’s to soothe, to +pray, to attend them with constant watchfulness, to strive to mend them +with pious counsel. I don’t know that one lady was happier than the +other. Madame de Florac’s eldest son was a kindly prodigal: her second +had given his whole heart to the Church: her daughter had centred hers +on her own children, and was jealous if their grandmother laid a finger +on them. So Léonore de Florac was quite alone. It seemed as if Heaven +had turned away all her children’s hearts from her. Her daily business +in life was to nurse a selfish old man, into whose service she had been +forced in early youth, by a paternal decree which she never questioned; +giving him obedience, striving to give him respect,—everything but her +heart, which had gone out of her keeping. Many a good woman’s life is +no more cheerful; a spring of beauty, a little warmth and sunshine of +love, a bitter disappointment, followed by pangs and frantic tears, +then a long monotonous story of submission. “Not here, my daughter, is +to be your happiness,” says the priest; “whom Heaven loves it +afflicts.” And he points out to her the agonies of suffering saints of +her sex; assures her of their present beatitudes and glories; exhorts +her to bear her pains with a faith like theirs; and is empowered to +promise her a like reward. + +The other matron is not less alone. Her husband and son are dead, +without a tear for either,—to weep was not in Lady Kew’s nature. Her +grandson, whom she had loved perhaps more than any human being, is +rebellious and estranged from her; her children, separated from her, +save one whose sickness and bodily infirmity the mother resents as +disgraces to herself. Her darling schemes fail somehow. She moves from +town to town, and ball to ball, and hall to castle, for ever uneasy and +always alone. She sees people scared at her coming; is received by +sufferance and fear rather than by welcome; likes perhaps the terror +which she inspires, and to enter over the breach rather than through +the hospitable gate. She will try and command wherever she goes; and +trample over dependants and society, with a grim consciousness that it +dislikes her, a rage at its cowardice, and an unbending will to +domineer. To be old, proud, lonely, and not have a friend in the +world—that is her lot in it. As the French lady may be said to resemble +the bird which the fables say feeds her young with her blood; this one, +if she has a little natural liking for her brood, goes hunting hither +and thither and robs meat for them; And so, I suppose, to make the +simile good, we must compare the Marquis of Farintosh to a lamb for the +nonce, and Miss Ethel Newcome to a young eaglet. Is it not a rare +provision of nature (or fiction of poets, who have their own natural +history) that the strong-winged bird can soar to the sun and gaze at +it, and then come down from heaven and pounce on a piece of carrion? + +After she became acquainted with certain circumstances, Madame de +Florac was very interested about Ethel Newcome, and strove in her +modest way to become intimate with her. Miss Newcome and Lady Kew +attended Madame de Moncontour’s Wednesday evenings. “It is as well, my +dear, for the interests of the family that we should be particularly +civil to these people,” Lady Kew said; and accordingly she came to the +Hôtel de Florac, and was perfectly insolent to Madame la Princesse +every Thursday evening. Towards Madame de Florac, even Lady Kew could +not be rude. She was so gentle as to give no excuse for assault: Lady +Kew vouchsafed to pronounce that Madame de Florac was “très grande +dame;”—“of the sort which is almost impossible to find nowadays,” Lady +Kew said, who thought she possessed this dignity in her own person. +When Madame de Florac, blushing, asked Ethel to come and see her, +Ethel’s grandmother consented with the utmost willingness. “She is very +_dévote_, I have heard, and will try and convert you. Of course you +will hold your own about that sort of thing; and have the good sense to +keep off theology. There is no Roman Catholic _parti_ in England or +Scotland that is to be thought for a moment. You will see they will +marry young Lord Derwenwater to an Italian princess; but he is only +seventeen, and his directors never lose sight of him. Sir Bartholomew +Bawkes will have a fine property when Lord Campion dies, unless Lord +Campion leaves the money to the convent where his daughter is—and, of +the other families, who is there? I made every inquiry purposely—that +is, of course, one is anxious to know about the Catholics as about +one’s own people: and little Mr. Rood, who was one of my poor brother +Steyne’s lawyers, told me there is not one young man of that party at +this moment who can be called a desirable person. Be very civil to +Madame de Florac; she sees some of the old legitimists, and you know I +am _brouillée_ with that party of late years.” + +“There is the Marquis de Montluc, who has a large fortune for France,” +said Ethel, gravely; “he has a humpback, but he is very spiritual. +Monsieur de Cadillan paid me some compliments the other night, and even +asked George Barnes what my dot was, He is a widower, and has a wig and +two daughters. Which do you think would be the greatest encumbrance, +grandmamma,—a humpback, or a wig and two daughters? I like Madame de +Florac; for the sake of the borough, I must try and like poor Madame de +Moncontour, and I will go and see them whenever you please.” + +So Ethel went to see Madame de Florac. She was very kind to Madame de +Préville’s children, Madame de Florac’s grandchildren; she was gay and +gracious with Madame de Moncontour. She went again and again to the +Hotel de Florac, not caring for Lady Kew’s own circle of statesmen and +diplomatists, Russian, and Spanish, and French, whose talk about the +courts of Europe,—who was in favour at St. Petersburg, and who was in +disgrace at Schoenbrunn,—naturally did not amuse the lively young +person. The goodness of Madame de Florac’s life, the tranquil grace and +melancholy kindness with which the French lady received her, soothed +and pleased Miss Ethel. She came and reposed in Madame de Florac’s +quiet chamber, or sate in the shade in the sober old garden of her +hotel; away from all the trouble and chatter of the salons, the gossip +of the embassies, the fluttering ceremonial of the Parisian ladies’ +visits in their fine toilettes, the _fadaises_ of the dancing dandies, +and the pompous mysteries of the old statesmen who frequented her +grandmother’s apartment. The world began for her at night; when she +went in the train of the old Countess from hotel to hotel, and danced +waltz after waltz with Prussian and Neapolitan secretaries, with +princes’ officers of ordonnance,—with personages even more lofty very +likely,—for the court of the Citizen King was then in its splendour; +and there must surely have been a number of nimble young royal +highnesses who would like to dance with such a beauty as Miss Newcome. +The Marquis of Farintosh had a share in these polite amusements. His +English conversation was not brilliant as yet, although his French was +eccentric; but at the court balls, whether he appeared in his uniform +of the Scotch Archers, or in his native Glenlivat tartar there +certainly was not in his own or the public estimation a handsomer young +nobleman in Paris that season. It has been said that he was greatly +improved in dancing; and, for a young man of his age, his whiskers were +really extraordinarily large and curly. + +Miss Newcome, out of consideration for her grandmother’s strange +antipathy to him, did not inform Lady Kew that a young gentleman by the +name of Clive occasionally came to visit the Hôtel de Florac. At first, +with her French education, Madame de Florac never would have thought of +allowing the cousins to meet in her house; but with the English it was +different. Paul assured her that in the English châteaux, _les Meess_ +walked for entire hours with the young men, made parties of the fish, +mounted to horse with them, the whole with the permission of the +mothers. “When I was at Newcome, Miss Ethel rode with me several +times,” Paul said; “_à preuve_ that we went to visit an old relation of +the family, who adores Clive and his father.” When Madame de Florac +questioned her son about the young Marquis to whom it was said Ethel +was engaged, Florac flouted the idea. “Engaged! This young Marquis is +engaged to the Théâtre des Variétés, my mother. He laughs at the notion +of an engagement.” When one charged him with it of late at the club; +and asked how Mademoiselle Louqsor—she is so tall, that they call her +the Louqsor—she is an _Odalisque Obélisque_, ma mère; when one asked +how the Louqsor would pardon his pursuit of Miss Newcome, my Ecossois +permitted himself to say in full club, that it was Miss Newcome pursued +him,—that nymph, that Diane, that charming and peerless young creature! +On which, as the others laughed, and his friend Monsieur Walleye +applauded, I dared to say in my turn, “Monsieur le Marquis, as a young +man, not familiar with our language, you have said what is not true, +milor, and therefore luckily not mischievous. I have the honour to +count of my friends the parents of the young lady of whom you have +spoken. You never could have intended to say that a young miss who +lives under the guardianship of her parents, and is obedient to them, +whom you meet in society all the nights, and at whose door your +carriage is to be seen every day, is capable of that with which you +charge her so gaily. These things say themselves, monsieur, in the +_coulisses_ of the theatre, of women from whom you learn our language; +not of young persons pure and chaste, Monsieur de Farintosh! Learn to +respect your compatriots; to honour youth and innocence everywhere, +monsieur! and when you forget yourself, permit one who might be your +father to point where you are wrong.” + +“And what did he answer?” asked the Countess. + +“I attended myself to a _soufflet_,” replied Florac; “but his reply was +much more agreeable. The young insulary, with many blushes and a _gros +juron_, as his polite way is, said he had not wished to say a word +against that person. ‘Of whom the name,’ cried I, ‘ought never to be +spoken in these places.’ Herewith our little dispute ended.” + +So, occasionally, Mr. Clive had the good luck to meet with his cousin +at the Hôtel de Florac, where, I dare say, all the inhabitants wished +he should have his desire regarding this young lady. The Colonel had +talked early to Madame de Florac about this wish of his life, +impossible then to gratify, because Ethel was engaged to Lord Kew. +Clive, in the fulness of his heart, imparted his passion to Florac, and +in answer to Paul’s offer to himself, had shown the Frenchman that kind +letter in which his father bade him carry aid to “Léonore de Florac’s +son,” in case he should need it. The case was all clear to the lively +Paul. “Between my mother and your good Colonel there must have been an +affair of the heart in the early days during the emigration.” Clive +owned his father had told him as much, at least that he himself had +been attached to Mademoiselle de Blois. “It is for that that her heart +yearns towards thee, that I have felt myself _entrained_ toward thee +since I saw thee”—Clive momentarily expected to be kissed again. “Tell +thy father that I feel—am touched by his goodness with an eternal +gratitude, and love every one that loves my mother.” As far as wishes +went, these two were eager promoters of Clive’s little love-affair; and +Madame la Princesse became equally not less willing. Clive’s good looks +and good-nature had had their effects upon that good-natured woman, and +he was as great a favourite with her as with her husband. And thus it +happened that when Miss Ethel came to pay her visit, and sate with +Madame de Florac and her grandchildren in the garden, Mr. Newcome would +sometimes walk up the avenue there, and salute the ladies. + +If Ethel had not wanted to see him, would she have come? Yes; she used +to say she was going to Madame de Préville’s, not Madame de Florac’s, +and would insist, I have no doubt, that it was Madame de Préville whom +she went to see (whose husband was a member of the Chamber of Deputies, +a Conseiller d’etat; or other French bigwig), and that she had no idea +of going to meet Clive, or that he was more than a casual acquaintance +at the Hôtel de Florac. There was no part of her conduct in all her +life, which this lady, when it was impugned, would defend more strongly +than this intimacy at the Hôtel de Florac. It is not with this I +quarrel especially. My fair young readers, who have seen a half-dozen +of seasons, can you call to mind the time when you had such a +friendship for Emma Tomkins, that you were always at the Tomkins’s, and +notes were constantly passing between your house and hers? When her +brother, Paget Tomkins, returned to India, did not your intimacy with +Emma fall off? If your younger sister is not in the room, I know you +will own as much to me. I think you are always deceiving yourselves and +other people. I think the motive you put forward is very often not the +real one; though you will confess, neither to yourself, nor to any +human being, what the real motive is. I think that what you desire you +pursue, and are as selfish in your way as your bearded fellow-creatures +are. And as for the truth being in you, of all the women in a great +acquaintance, I protest there are but—never mind. A perfectly honest +woman, a woman who never flatters, who never manages, who never +cajoles, who never conceals, who never uses her eyes, who never +speculates on the effect which she produces, who never is conscious of +unspoken admiration, what a monster, I say, would such a female be! +Miss Hopkins, you have been a coquette since you were a year old; you +worked on your papa’s friends in the nurse’s arms by the fascination of +your lace frock and pretty new sash and shoes; when you could just +toddle, you practised your arts upon other children in the square, poor +little lambkins sporting among the daisies; and _nunc in ovilia, mox in +reluctantes dracones_, proceeding from the lambs to reluctant dragoons, +you tried your arts upon Captain Paget Tomkins, who behaved so ill, and +went to India without—without making those proposals which of course +you never expected. Your intimacy was with Emma. It has cooled. Your +sets are different. The Tomkins’s are not _quite_ etc. etc. You believe +Captain Tomkins married a Miss O’Grady, etc. etc. Ah, my pretty, my +sprightly Miss Hopkins, be gentle in your judgment of your neighbours! + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. +Contains two or three Acts of a Little Comedy + + +All this story is told by one, who, if he was not actually present at +the circumstances here narrated, yet had information concerning them, +and could supply such a narrative of facts and conversations as is, +indeed, not less authentic than the details we have of other histories. +How can I tell the feelings in a young lady’s mind; the thoughts in a +young gentleman’s bosom?—As Professor Owen or Professor Agassiz takes a +fragment of a bone, and builds an enormous forgotten monster out of it, +wallowing in primeval quagmires, tearing down leaves and branches of +plants that flourished thousands of years ago, and perhaps may be coal +by this time—so the novelist puts this and that together: from the +footprint finds the foot; from the foot, the brute who trod on it; from +the brute, the plant he browsed on, the marsh in which he swam—and thus +in his humble way a physiologist too, depicts the habits, size, +appearance of the beings whereof he has to treat;—traces this slimy +reptile through the mud, and describes his habits filthy and rapacious; +prods down this butterfly with a pin, and depicts his beautiful coat +and embroidered waistcoat; points out the singular structure of yonder +more important animal, the megatherium of his history. + +Suppose then, in the quaint old garden of the Hôtel de Florac, two +young people are walking up and down in an avenue of lime-trees, which +are still permitted to grow in that ancient place. In the centre of +that avenue is a fountain, surmounted by a Triton so grey and +moss-eaten, that though he holds his conch to his swelling lips, +curling his tail in the arid basin, his instrument has had a sinecure +for at least fifty years; and did not think fit even to play when the +Bourbons, in whose time he was erected, came back from their exile. At +the end of the lime-tree avenue is a broken-nosed damp Faun, with a +marble panpipe, who pipes to the spirit ditties which I believe never +had any tune. The _perron_ of the hotel is at the other end of the +avenue; a couple of Cæsars on either side of the door-window, from +which the inhabitants of the hotel issue into the garden—Caracalla +frowning over his mouldy shoulder at Nerva, on to whose clipped hair +the roofs of the grey château have been dribbling for ever so many long +years. There are more statues gracing this noble place. There is Cupid, +who has been at the point of kissing Psyche this half-century at least, +though the delicious event has never come off, through all those +blazing summers and dreary winters: there is Venus and her Boy under +the damp little dome of a cracked old temple. Through the alley of this +old garden, in which their ancestors have disported in hoops and +powder, Monsieur de Florac’s chair is wheeled by St. Jean, his +attendant; Madame de Préville’s children trot about, and skip, and play +at cache-cache. The R. P. de Florac (when at home) paces up and down +and meditates his sermons; Madame de Florac sadly walks sometimes to +look at her roses; and Clive and Ethel Newcome are marching up and +down; the children, and their bonne of course being there, jumping to +and fro; and Madame de Florac, having just been called away to Monsieur +le Comte, whose physician has come to see him. + +Ethel says, “How charming and odd this solitude is: and how pleasant to +hear the voices of the children playing in the neighbouring Convent +garden,” of which they can see the new chapel rising over the trees. + +Clive remarks that “the neighbouring hotel has curiously changed its +destination. One of the members of the Directory had it; and, no doubt, +in the groves of its garden, Madame Tallien, and Madame Recamier, and +Madame Beauharnais have danced under the lamps. Then a Marshal of the +Empire inhabited it. Then it was restored to its legitimate owner, +Monsieur le Marquis de Bricquabracque, whose descendants, having a +lawsuit about the Bricquabracque succession, sold the hotel to the +Convent.” + +After some talk about nuns, Ethel says, “There were convents in +England. She often thinks she would like to retire to one;” and she +sighs as if her heart were in that scheme. + +Clive, with a laugh, says, “Yes. If you could retire after the season, +when you were very weary of the balls, a convent would be very nice. At +Rome he had seen San Pietro in Montorio and Sant Onofrio, that +delightful old place where Tasso died: people go and make a retreat +there. In the ladies’ convents, the ladies do the same thing—and he +doubts whether they are much more or less wicked after their retreat, +than gentlemen and ladies in England or France.” + +_Ethel_. Why do you sneer at all faith? Why should not a retreat do +people good? Do you suppose the world is so satisfactory, that those +who are in it never wish for a while to leave it’d (_She heaves a sigh +and looks down towards a beautiful new dress of many flounces, which +Madame de Flouncival, the great milliner, has sent her home that very +day._) + +_Clive_. I do not know what the world is, except from afar off. I am +like the Peri who looks into Paradise and sees angels within it. I live +in Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square: which is not within the gates of +Paradise. I take the gate to be somewhere in Davies Street, leading out +of Oxford Street into Grosvenor Square. There’s another gate in Hay +Hill: and another in Bruton Street, Bond—— + +_Ethel_. Don’t be a goose. + +_Clive_. Why not? It is as good to be a goose, as to be a lady—no, a +gentleman of fashion. Suppose I were a Viscount, an Earl, a Marquis, a +Duke, would you say Goose? No, you would say Swan. + +_Ethel_. Unkind and unjust!—ungenerous to make taunts which common +people make: and to repeat to me those silly sarcasms which your low +_Radical literary_ friends are always putting in their books! Have I +ever made any difference to you? Would I not sooner see you than the +fine people? Would I talk with you, or with the young dandies most +willingly? Are we not of the same blood, Clive; and of all the grandees +I see about, can there be a grander gentleman than your dear old +father? You need not squeeze my hand so.—Those little imps are +look—that has nothing to do with the question. Viens, Léonore! Tu +connois bien, monsieur, n’est-ce pas? qui te fait de si jolis dessins? + +_Léonore_. Ah, oui! Vous m’en ferez toujours, n’est-ce pas Monsieur +Clive? des chevaux, et puis des petites filles avec leurs gouvernantes, +et puis des maisons—et puis—et puis des maisons encore—où est bonne +maman? + +[_Exit little_ LÉONORE _down an alley._ + + +_Ethel_. Do you remember when we were children, and you used to make +drawings for us? I have some now that you did—in my geography book, +which I used to read and read with Miss Quigley. + +_Clive_. I remember all about our youth, Ethel. + +_Ethel_. Tell me what you remember? + +_Clive_. I remember one of the days, when I first saw you, I had been +reading the Arabian Nights at school—and you came in in a bright dress +of shot silk, amber, and blue—and I thought you were like that +fairy-princess who came out of the crystal box—because—— + +_Ethel_. Because why? + +_Clive_. Because I always thought that fairy somehow must be the most +beautiful creature in all the world—that is “why and because.” Do not +make me Mayfair curtsies. You know whether you are good-looking or not: +and how long I have thought you so. I remember when I thought I would +like to be Ethel’s knight, and that if there was anything she would +have me do, I would try and achieve it in order to please her. I +remember when I was so ignorant I did not know there was any difference +in rank between us. + +_Ethel_. Ah, Clive! + +_Clive_. Now it is altered. Now I know the difference between a poor +painter and a young lady of the world. Why haven’t I a title and a +great fortune? Why did I ever see you, Ethel; or, knowing the distance +which it seems fate has placed between us, why have I seen you again? + +_Ethel_ (_innocently_). Have I ever made any difference between us? +Whenever I may see you, am I not too glad? Don’t I see you sometimes +when I should not—no—I do not say when I should not; but when others, +whom I am bound to obey, forbid me? What harm is there in my +remembering old days? Why should I be ashamed of our relationship?—no, +not ashamed—shy should I forget it? Don’t do that, sir; we have shaken +hands twice already. Léonore! Xavier! + +_Clive_. At one moment you like me: and at the next you seem to repent +it. One day you seem happy when I come; and another day you are ashamed +of me. Last Tuesday, when you came with those fine ladies to the +Louvre, you seemed to blush when you saw me copying at my picture; and +that stupid young lord looked quite alarmed because you spoke to me. My +lot in life is not very brilliant; but I would not change it against +that young man’s—no, not with all his chances. + +_Ethel_. What do you mean with all his chances? + +_Clive_. You know very well. I mean I would not be as selfish or as +dull, or as ill educated—I won’t say worse of him—not to be as +handsome, or as wealthy, or as noble as he is. I swear I would not now +change my place against his, or give up being Clive Newcome to be my +Lord Marquis of Farintosh, with all his acres and titles of nobility. + +_Ethel_. Why are you for ever harping about Lord Farintosh and his +titles? I thought it was only women who were jealous—you gentlemen say +so.—(_Hurriedly_.) I am going to-night with grandmamma to the Minister +of the Interior, and then to the Russian ball; and to-morrow to the +Tuileries. We dine at the Embassy first; and on Sunday, I suppose, we +shall go to the Rue d’Aguesseau. I can hardly come here before Mon—. +Madam de Florac! Little Léonore is very like you—resembles you very +much. My cousin says he longs to make a drawing of her. + +_Madame de Florac_. My husband always likes that I should be present at +his dinner. Pardon me, young people, that I have been away from you for +a moment. + +[_Exeunt_ CLIVE, ETHEL, _and_ Madame DE F. _into the house_. + + +CONVERSATION II.—_Scene_ I. + + +_Miss Newcome arrives in Lady Kew’s carriage, which enters the court of +the Hôtel de Florac._ + + +_Saint Jean_. Mademoiselle—Madame la Comtesse is gone out but madame +has charged me to say, that she will be at home to the dinner of M. le +Comte, as to the ordinary. + +_Miss Newcome_. Madame de Préville is at home? + +_Saint Jean_. Pardon me, madame is gone out with M. le Baron, and M. +Xavier, and Mademoiselle de Préville. They are gone, miss, I believe, +to visit the parents of Monsieur le Baron; of whom it is probably +to-day the fête: for Mademoiselle Léonore carried a bouquet—no doubt +for her grandpapa. Will it please mademoiselle to enter? I think +Monsieur the Count sounds me. (_Bell rings_.) + +_Miss Newcome_. Madame la Prince—Madame la Vicomtesse is at home, +Monsieur St. Jean? + +_Saint Jean_. I go to call the people of Madame la Vicomtesse. + +[_Exit Old_ SAINT JEAN _to the carriage: a Lackey comes presently in a +gorgeous livery, with buttons like little cheese plates_. + + +_The Lackey_. The Princess is at home, miss, and will be most appy to +see you, miss. (_Miss trips up the great stair: a gentleman out of +livery has come forth to the landing, and introduces her to the +apartments of_ Madame la Princesse.) + +_The Lackey to the Servants on the box_. Good morning, Thomas. How dy’ +do, old Backystopper? + +_Backystopper_. How de do, Jim? I say, you couldn’t give a feller a +drink of beer, could yer, Muncontour? It was precious wet last night, I +can tell you. ’Ad to stop for three hours at the Napolitum Embassy, +when we was a dancing. Me and some chaps went into Bob Parsom’s and had +a drain. Old Cat came out and couldn’t find her carriage, not by no +means, could she, Tommy? Blest if I didn’t nearly drive her into a +wegetable-cart. I was so uncommon scruey! Who’s this a-hentering at +your pot-coshare? Billy, my fine feller! + +_Clive Newcome_ (_by the most singular coincidence_). Madame la +Princesse? + +_Lackey_. We, Munseer. (_He rings a bell: the gentleman in black +appears as before on the landing-place up the stair_.) + +[_Exit_ CLIVE. + + +_Backystopper_. I say, Bill: is that young chap often a-coming about +here? They’d run pretty in a curricle, wouldn’t they? Miss N. and +Master N. Quiet, old woman! Jest look to that mare’s ead, will you, +Billy? He’s a fine young feller, that is. He gave me a covering the +other night. Whenever I sor him in the Park, he was always riding an +ansum hanimal. What is he? They said in our ’all he was a hartis. I can +’ardly think that. Why, there used to be a hartis come to our club, and +painted two or three of my ’osses, and my old woman too. + +_Lackey_. There’s hartises and hartises, Backystopper. Why, there’s +some on ’em comes here with more stars on their coats than Dukes has +got. Have you never ’eard of Mossyer Verny, or Mossyer Gudang? + +_Backystopper_. They say this young gent is sweet on Miss N.; which, I +guess, I wish he may git it. + +_Tommy_. He! he! he! + +_Backystopper_. Brayvo, Tommy. Tom ain’t much of a man for +conversation, but he’s a precious one to drink. _Do_ you think the +young gent is sweet on her, Tommy? I sor him often prowling about our +’ouse in Queen Street, when we was in London. + +_Tommy_. I guess he wasn’t let in in Queen Street. I guess hour little +Buttons was very near turned away for saying we was at home to him—I +guess a footman’s place is to keep his mouth hopen—no, his heyes +hopen—and his mouth shut. (_He lapses into silence_.) + +_Lackey_. I think Thomis is in love, Thomis is. Who was that young +woman I saw you a-dancing of at the Showmier, Thomis? How the young +Marquis was a-cuttin’ of it about there! The pleace was obliged to come +up and stop him dancing. His man told old Buzfuz upstairs, that the +Marquis’s goings on is hawful. Up till four or five every morning; +blind hookey, shampaign, the dooce’s own delight. That party have had I +don’t know how much in diamonds—and they quarrel and swear at each +other, and fling plates: it’s tremendous. + +_Tommy_. Why doesn’t the Marquis man mind his own affairs? He’s a +supersellious beast: and will no more speak to a man, except he’s +out-a-livery, than he would to a chimbly-swip. He! Cuss him, I’d fight +’im for ’alf-a-crown. + +_Lackey_. And we’d back you, Tommy. Buzfuz upstairs ain’t +supersellious; nor is the Prince’s walet nether. That old Sangjang’s a +rum old guvnor. He was in England with the Count, fifty years ago—in +the hemigration—in Queen Hann’s time, you know. He used to support the +old Count. He says he remembers a young Musseer Newcome then, that used +to take lessons from the Shevallier, the Countess’ father—there’s my +bell. + +[_Exit Lackey_. + + +_Backystopper_. Not a bad chap that. Sports his money very free—sings +an uncommon good song. + +_Thomas_. Pretty voice, but no cultiwation. + +_Lackey_ (_who re-enters_). Be here at two o’clock for Miss N. Take +anything? Come round the corner.—There’s a capital shop round the +corner. + +[_Exeunt Servants_. + + +SCENE II. + + +_Ethel_. I can’t think where Madame de Moncontour has gone. How very +odd it was that you should come here—that we should both come here +to-day! How surprised I was to see you at the Minister’s! Grandmamma +was so angry! “That boy pursues us wherever we go,” she said. I am sure +I don’t know why we shouldn’t meet, Clive. It seems to be wrong even my +seeing you by chance here. Do you know, sir, what a scolding I had +about—about going to Brighton with you? My grandmother did not hear of +it till we were in Scotland, when that foolish maid of mine talked of +it to her maid; and, there was oh, such a tempest! If there were a +Bastile here, she would like to lock you into it. She says that you are +always upon our way—I don’t know how, I am sure. She says, but for you +I should have been—you know what I should have been: but I am thankful +that I wasn’t, and Kew has got a much nicer wife in Henrietta Pulleyn, +than I could ever have been to him. She will be happier than Clara, +Clive. Kew is one of the kindest creatures in the world—not very wise; +not very strong: but he is just such a kind, easy, generous little man, +as will make a girl like Henrietta quite happy. + +_Clive_. But not you, Ethel? + +_Ethel_. No, nor I him. My temper is difficult, Clive, and I fear few +men would bear with me. I feel, somehow, always very lonely. How old am +I? Twenty—I feel sometimes as if I was a hundred; and in the midst of +all these admirations and fêtes and flatteries, so tired, oh, so tired! +And yet if I don’t have them, I miss them. How I wish I was religious +like Madame de Florac: there is no day that she does not go to church. +She is for ever busy with charities, clergymen, conversions; I think +the Princess will be brought over ere long—that dear old Madame de +Florac! and yet she is no happier than the rest of us. Hortense is an +empty little thing, who thinks of her prosy fat Camille with +spectacles, and of her two children, and of nothing else in the world +besides. Who is happy? Clive! + +_Clive_. You say Barnes’s wife is not. + +_Ethel_. We are like brother and sister, so I may talk to you. Barnes +is very cruel to her. At Newcome, last winter, poor Clara used to come +into my room with tears in her eyes morning after morning. He calls her +a fool; and seems to take a pride in humiliating her before company. My +poor father has luckily taken a great liking to her: and before him, +for he has grown very very hot-tempered since his illness, Barnes +leaves poor Clara alone. We were in hopes that the baby might make +matters better, but as it is a little girl, Barnes chooses to be very +much disappointed. He wants papa to give up his seat in Parliament, but +he clings to that more than anything. Oh, dear me! who is happy in the +world? What a pity Lord Highgate’s father had not died sooner! He and +Barnes have been reconciled. I wonder my brother’s spirit did not +revolt against it. The old lord used to keep a great sum of money at +the bank, I believe: and the present one does so still: he has paid all +his debts off: and Barnes is actually friends with him. He is always +abusing the Dorkings, who want to borrow money from the bank, he says. +This eagerness for money is horrible. If I had been Barnes I would +never have been reconciled with Mr. Belsize, never, never! And yet they +say he was quite right: and grandmamma is even pleased that Lord +Highgate should be asked to dine in Park Lane. Poor papa is there: come +to attend his parliamentary duties as he thinks. He went to a division +the other night; and was actually lifted out of his carriage and +wheeled into the lobby in a chair. The ministers thanked him for +coming. I believe he thinks he will have his peerage yet. Oh, what a +life of vanity ours is! + +_Enter Madame de Moncontour_. What are you young folks a-talkin’ +about—balls and operas? When first I was took to the opera I did not +like it—and fell asleep. But now, oh, it’s ’eavenly to hear Grisi sing! + +_The Clock_. Ting, ting! + +_Ethel_. Two o’clock already! I must run back to grandmamma. Good-bye, +Madame de Moncontour; I am so sorry I have not been able to see dear +Madame de Florac. I will try and come to her on Thursday—please tell +her. Shall we meet you at the American minister’s to-night, or at +Madame de Brie’s to-morrow? Friday is your own night—I hope grandmamma +will bring me. How charming your last music was! Good-bye, mon cousin! +You shall not come downstairs with me, I insist upon it, sir: and had +much best remain here, and finish your drawing of Madame de Moncontour. + +_Princess_. I’ve put on the velvet, you see, Clive—though it’s very ’ot +in May. Good-bye, my dear. + +[_Exit_ ETHEL. + + +As far as we can judge from the above conversation, which we need not +prolong—as the talk between Madame de Moncontour and Monsieur Clive, +after a few complimentary remarks about Ethel, had nothing to do with +the history of the Newcomes—as far as we can judge, the above little +colloquy took place on Monday: and about Wednesday, Madame la Comtesse +de Florac received a little note from Clive, in which he said, that one +day when she came to the Louvre, where he was copying, she had admired +a picture of a Virgin and Child, by Sasso Ferrato, since when he had +been occupied in making a water-colour drawing after the picture, and +hoped she would be pleased to accept the copy from her affectionate and +grateful servant, Clive Newcome. The drawing would be done the next +day, when he would call with it in his hand. Of course Madame de Florac +received this announcement very kindly; and sent back by Clive’s +servant a note of thanks to that young gentleman. + +Now on Thursday morning, about one o’clock, by one of those singular +coincidences which, etc. etc., who should come to the Hotel de Florac +but Miss Ethel Newcome? Madame la Comtesse was at home, waiting to +receive Clive and his picture: but Miss Ethel’s appearance frightened +the good lady, so much so that she felt quite guilty at seeing the +girl, whose parents might think—I don’t know what they might not +think—that Madame de Florac was trying to make a match between the +young people. Hence arose the words uttered by the Countess, after a +while, in— + +CONVERSATION III. + + +_Madame de Florac_ (_at work_). And so you like to quit the world and +to come to our _triste_ old hotel. After to-day you will find it still +more melancholy, my poor child. + +_Ethel_. And why? + +_Madame de F_. Some one who has been here to _égayer_ our little +meetings will come no more. + +_Ethel_. Is the Abbé de Florac going to quit Paris, madam? + +_Madame de F_. It is not of him that I speak, thou knowest it very +well, my daughter. Thou hast seen my poor Clive twice here. He will +come once again, and then no more. My conscience reproaches me that I +have admitted him at all. But he is like a son to me, and was so +confided to me by his father. Five years ago, when we met, after an +absence—of how many years!—Colonel Newcome told me what hopes he had +cherished for his boy. You know well, my daughter, with whom those +hopes were connected. Then he wrote me that family arrangements +rendered his plans impossible—that the hand of Miss Newcome was +promised elsewhere. When I heard from my son Paul how these +negotiations were broken, my heart rejoiced, Ethel, for my friend’s +sake. I am an old woman now, who have seen the world, and all sorts of +men. Men more brilliant no doubt I have known, but such a heart as his, +such a faith as his, such a generosity and simplicity as Thomas +Newcome’s—never! + +_Ethel_ (_smiling_). Indeed, dear lady, I think with you. + +_Madame de F_. I understand thy smile, my daughter. I can say to thee, +that when we were children almost, I knew thy good uncle. My poor +father took the pride of his family into exile with him. Our poverty +only made his pride the greater. Even before the emigration a contract +had been passed between our family and the Count de Florac. I could not +be wanting to the word given by my father. For how many long years have +I kept it? But when I see a young girl who may be made the victim—the +subject of a marriage of convenience, as I was—my heart pities her. And +if I love her, as I love you, I tell her my thoughts. Better poverty, +Ethel: better a cell in a convent: than a union without love. Is it +written eternally that men are to make slaves of us? Here in France, +above all, our fathers sell us every day. And what a society ours is! +Thou wilt know this when thou art married. There are some laws so cruel +that nature revolts against theme, and breaks them—or we die in keeping +them. You smile. I have been nearly fifty years dying—_n’est-ce +pas?_—and am here an old woman, complaining to a young girl. It is +because our recollections of youth are always young: and because I have +suffered so, that I would spare those I love a like grief. Do you know +that the children of those who do not love in marriage seem to bear an +hereditary coldness, and do not love their parents as other children +do? They witness our differences and our indifferences, hear our +recriminations, take one side or the other in our disputes, and are +partisans for father or mother. We force ourselves to be hypocrites, +and hide our wrongs from them; we speak of a bad father with false +praises; we wear feint smiles over our tears, and deceive our +children—deceive them, do we? Even from the exercise of that pious +deceit there is no woman but suffers in the estimation of her sons. +They may shield her as champions against their father’s selfishness or +cruelty. In this case, what a war! What a home, where the son sees a +tyrant in the father, and in the mother but a trembling victim! I speak +not for myself—whatever may have been the course of our long wedded +life, I have not to complain of these ignoble storms. But when the +family chief neglects his wife, or prefers another to her, the children +too, courtiers as we are, will desert her. You look incredulous about +domestic love. Tenez, my child, if I may so surmise, I think you cannot +have seen it. + +_Ethel_ (_blushing, and thinking, perhaps, how she esteems her father, +how her mother, and how much they esteem each other_). My father and +mother have been most kind to all their children, madame; and no one +can say that their marriage has been otherwise than happy. My mother is +the kindest and most affectionate mother, and—(_Here a vision of Sir +Brian alone in his room, and nobody really caring for him so much as +his valet, who loves him to the extent of fifty pounds a year and +perquisites; or, perhaps, Miss Cann, who reads to him, and plays a good +deal of evenings, much to Sir Brian’s liking—here this vision, we say, +comes, and stops Miss Ethel’s sentence_.) + +_Madame de F_. Your father, in his infirmity—and yet he is five years +younger than Colonel Newcome—is happy to have such a wife and such +children. They comfort his age; they cheer his sickness; they confide +their griefs and pleasures to him—is it not so? His closing days are +soothed by their affection. + +_Ethel_. Oh, no, no! And yet it is not his fault or ours that he is a +stranger to us. He used to be all day at the bank, or at night in the +House of Commons, or he and mamma went to parties, and we young ones +remained with the governess. Mamma is very kind. I have never, almost, +known her angry; never with us; about us, sometimes, with the servants. +As children, we used to see papa and mamma at breakfast; and then when +she was dressing to go out. Since he has been ill, she has given up all +parties. I wanted to do so too. I feel ashamed in the world, sometimes, +when I think of my poor father at home, alone. I wanted to stay, but my +mother and my grandmother forbade me. Grandmamma has a fortune, which +she says I am to have: since then they have insisted on my being with +her. She is very clever you know: she is kind too in her way; but she +cannot live out of society. And I, who pretend to revolt, I like it +too; and I, who rail and scorn flatterers—oh, I like admiration! I am +pleased when the women hate me, and the young men leave them for me. +Though I despise many of these, yet I can’t help drawing them towards +me. One or two of them I have seen unhappy about me, and I like it; and +if they are indifferent I am angry, and never tire till they come back. +I love beautiful dresses; I love jewels; I love a great name and a fine +house—oh, I despise myself, when I think of these things! When I lie in +bed and say I have been heartless and a coquette, I cry with +humiliation; and then rebel and say, Why not?—and to-night—yes, +to-night—after leaving you, I shall be wicked, I know I shall. + +_Madame de F_. (_sadly_). One will pray for thee, my child. + +_Ethel_ (_sadly_). I thought I might be good once. I used to say my own +prayers then. Now I speak them but by rote, and feel ashamed—yes, +ashamed to speak them. Is it not horrid to say them, and next morning +to be no better than you were last night? Often I revolt at these as at +other things, and am dumb. The Vicar comes to see us at Newcome, and +eats so much dinner, and pays us such court, and “Sir Brians” papa, and +“Your Ladyship’s” mamma. With grandmamma I go to hear a fashionable +preacher—Clive’s uncle, whose sister lets lodgings at Brighton; such a +queer, bustling, pompous, honest old lady. Do you know that Clive’s +aunt lets lodgings at Brighton? + +_Madame de F_. My father was an usher in a school. Monsieur de Florac +gave lessons in the emigration. Do you know in what? + +_Ethel_. Oh, the old nobility! that is different, you know. That Mr. +Honeyman is so affected that I have no patience with him! + +_Madame de F_. (_with a sigh_). I wish you could attend the services of +a better church. And when was it you thought you might be good, Ethel? + +_Ethel_. When I was a girl. Before I came out. When I used to take long +rides with my dear Uncle Newcome; and he used to talk to me in his +sweet simple way; and he said I reminded him of some one he once knew. + +_Madame de F_. Who—who was that, Ethel? + +_Ethel_ (_looking up at Gerard’s picture of the Countess de Florac_). +What odd dresses you wore in the time of the Empire, Madame de Florac! +How could you ever have such high waists, and such wonderful _fraises!_ +(MADAME DE FLORAC _kisses_ ETHEL. _Tableau_.) + +_Enter_ SAINT JEAN, _preceding a gentleman with a drawing-board under +his arm_. + +_Saint Jean_. Monsieur Claive! [_Exit_ SAINT JEAN. + +_Clive_. How do you do, Madame la Comtesse? Mademoiselle, j’ai +l’honneur de vous souhaiter le bon jour. + +_Madame de F_. Do you come from the Louvre? Have you finished that +beautiful copy, mon ami? + +_Clive_. I have brought it for you. It is not very good. There are +always so many _petites demoiselles_ copying that Sasso Ferrato; and +they chatter about it so, and hop from one easel to another; and the +young artists are always coming to give them advice—so that there is no +getting a good look at the picture. But I have brought you the sketch; +and am so pleased that you asked for it. + +_Madame de F_. (_surveying the sketch_). It is charming—charming! What +shall we give to our painter for his chef-d’œuvre? + +_Clive_ (_kisses her hand_). There is my pay! And you will be glad to +hear that two of my portraits have been received at the Exhibition. My +uncle, the clergyman, and Mr. Butts, of the Life Guards. + +_Ethel_. Mr. Butts—quel nom! Je ne connois aucun M. Butts! + +_Clive_. He has a famous head to draw. They refused Crackthorpe and—and +one or two other heads I sent in. + +_Ethel_ (_tossing up hers_). Miss Mackenzie’s, I suppose! + +_Clive_. Yes, Miss Mackenzie’s. It is a sweet little face; too delicate +for my hand, though. + +_Ethel_. So is a wax-doll’s a pretty face. Pink cheeks; china-blue +eyes; and hair the colour of old Madame Hempenfeld’s—not her last +hair—her last but one. (_She goes to a window that looks into the +court_.) + +_Clive_ (_to the Countess_). Miss Mackenzie speaks more respectfully of +other people’s eyes and hair. She thinks there is nobody in the world +to compare to Miss Newcome. + +_Madame de F_. (_aside_). And you, mon ami? This is the last time, +entendez-vous? You must never come here again. If M. le Comte knew it +he never would pardon me. Encore? (_He kisses her ladyship’s hand +again_.) + +_Clive_. A good action gains to be repeated. Miss Newcome, does the +view of the courtyard please you? The old trees and the garden are +better. That dear old Faun without a nose! I must have a sketch of him: +the creepers round the base are beautiful. + +_Miss N_. I was looking to see if the carriage had come for me. It is +time that I return home. + +_Clive_. That is my brougham. May I carry you anywhere? I hire him by +the hour: and I will carry you to the end of the world. + +_Miss N_. Where are you going, Madame de Florac?—to show that sketch to +M. le Comte? Dear me! I don’t fancy that M. de Florac can care for such +things! I am sure I have seen many as pretty on the quays for +twenty-five sous. I wonder the carriage is not come for me. + +_Clive_. You can take mine without my company, as that seems not to +please you. + +_Miss N_. Your company is sometimes very pleasant—when you please. +Sometimes, as last night, for instance, when you particularly lively. + +_Clive_. Last night, after moving heaven and earth to get an invitation +to Madame de Brie—I say, heaven and earth, that is a French phrase—I +arrive there; I find Miss Newcome engaged for almost every dance, +waltzing with M. de Klingenspohr, galloping with Count de Capri, +galloping and waltzing with the most noble the Marquis of Farintosh. +She will scarce speak to me during the evening; and when I wait till +midnight, her grandmamma whisks her home, and I am left alone for my +pains. Lady Kew is in one of her high moods, and the only words she +condescends to say to me are, “Oh, I thought you had returned to +London,” with which she turns her venerable back upon me. + +_Miss N_. A fortnight ago you said you were going to London. You said +the copies you were about here would not take you another week, and +that was three weeks since. + +_Clive_. It were best I had gone. + +_Miss N_. If you think so, I cannot but think so. + +_Clive_. Why do I stay and hover about you, and follow you know—I +follow you? Can I live on a smile vouchsafed twice a week, and no +brighter than you give to all the world? What I do I get, but to hear +your beauty praised, and to see you, night after night, happy and +smiling and triumphant, the partner of other men? Does it add zest to +your triumph, to think that I behold it? I believe you would like a +crowd of us to pursue you. + +_Miss N_. To pursue me; and if they find me alone, by chance to +compliment me with such speeches as you make? That would be pleasure +indeed! Answer me here in return, Clive. Have I ever disguised from any +of my friends the regard I have for you? Why should I? Have not I taken +your part when you were maligned? In former days, when—when Lord Kew +asked me, as he had a right to do then—I said it was as a brother I +held you; and always would. If I have been wrong, it has been for two +or three times in seeing you at all—or seeing you thus; in letting you +speak to me as you do—injure me as you do. Do you think I have not hard +enough words said to me about you, but that you must attack me too in +turn? Last night only, because you were at the ball,—it was very, very +wrong of me to tell you I was going there,—as we went home, Lady +Kew—Go, sir. I never thought you would have seen in me this +humiliation. + +_Clive_. Is it possible that I should have made Ethel Newcome shed +tears? Oh, dry them, dry them. Forgive me, Ethel, forgive me! I have no +right to jealousy, or to reproach you—I know that. If others admire +you, surely I ought to know that they—they do but as I do: I should be +proud, not angry, that they admire my Ethel—my sister, if you can be no +more. + +_Ethel_. I will be that always, whatever harsh things you think or say +of me. There, sir, I am not going to be so foolish as to cry again. +Have you been studying very hard? Are your pictures good at the +Exhibition? I like you with your mustachios best, and order you not to +cut them off again. The young men here wear them. I hardly knew Charles +Beardmore when he arrived from Berlin the other day, like a sapper and +miner. His little sisters cried out, and were quite frightened by his +apparition. Why are you not in diplomacy? That day, at Brighton, when +Lord Farintosh asked whether you were in the army, I thought to myself, +why is he not? + +_Clive_. A man in the army may pretend to anything, _n’est-ce pas?_ He +wears a lovely uniform. He may be a General, a K.C.B., a Viscount, an +Earl. He may be valiant in arms, and wanting a leg, like the lover in +the song. It is peace-time, you say? so much the worse career for a +soldier. My father would not have me, he said, for ever dangling in +barracks, or smoking in country billiard-rooms. I have no taste for +law: and as for diplomacy, I have no relations in the Cabinet, and no +uncles in the House of Peers. Could my uncle, who is in Parliament, +help me much, do you think? or would he, if he could?—or Barnes, his +noble son and heir, after him? + +_Ethel_ (_musing_). Barnes would not, perhaps, but papa might even +still, and you have friends who are fond of you. + +_Clive_. No—no one can help me: and my art, Ethel, is not only my +choice and my love, but my honour too. I shall never distinguish myself +in it: I may take smart likenesses, but that is all. I am not fit to +grind my friend Ridley’s colours for him. Nor would my father, who +loves his own profession so, make a good general probably. He always +says so. I thought better of myself when I began as a boy; and was a +conceited youngster, expecting to carry it all before me. But as I +walked the Vatican, and looked at Raphael, and at the great Michael—I +knew I was but a poor little creature; and in contemplating his genius, +shrunk up till I felt myself as small as a man looks under the dome of +St. Peter’s. Why should I wish to have a great genius?—Yes, there is +one reason why I should like to have it. + +_Ethel_. And that is? + +_Clive_. To give it you, if it pleased you, Ethel. But I might wish for +the roc’s egg: there is no way of robbing the bird. I must take a +humble place, and you want a brilliant one. A brilliant one! Oh, Ethel, +what a standard we folks measure fame by! To have your name in the +_Morning Post_, and to go to three balls every night. To have your +dress described at the Drawing-Room; and your arrival, from a round of +visits in the country, at your town-house; and the entertainment of the +Marchioness of Farin—— + +_Ethel_. Sir, if you please, no calling names. + +_Clive_. I wonder at it. For you are in the world, and you love the +world, whatever you may say. And I wonder that one of your strength of +mind should so care for it. I think my simple old father is much finer +than all your grandees: his single-mindedness more lofty than all their +bowing, and haughtiness, and scheming. What are you thinking of, as +you stand in that pretty attitude—like Mnemosyne—with your finger on +your chin? + +_Ethel_. Mnemosyne! who was she? I think I like you best when you are +quiet and gentle, and not when you are flaming out and sarcastic, sir. +And so you think you will never be a famous painter? They are quite in +society here. I was so pleased, because two of them dined at the +Tuileries when grandmamma was there; and she mistook one, who was +covered all over with crosses, for an ambassador, I believe, till the +Queen call him Monsieur Delaroche. She says there is no knowing people +in this country. And do you think you will never be able to paint as +well as M. Delaroche? + +_Clive_. No—never. + +_Ethel_. And—and—you will never give up painting? + +_Clive_. No—never. That would be like leaving your friend who was poor; +or deserting your mistress because you were disappointed about her +money. They do those things in the great world, Ethel. + +_Ethel_ (_with a sigh_). Yes. + +_Clive_. If it is so false, and base, and hollow, this great world—if +its aims are so mean, its successes so paltry, the sacrifices it asks +of you so degrading, the pleasures it gives you so wearisome, shameful +even, why does Ethel Newcome cling to it? Will you be fairer, dear, +with any other name than your own? Will you be happier, after a month, +at bearing a great title, with a man whom you can’t esteem, tied for +ever to you, to be the father of Ethel’s children, and the lord and +master of her life and actions? The proudest woman in the world +consents to bend herself to this ignominy, and own that a coronet is a +bribe sufficient for her honour! What is the end of a Christian life, +Ethel; a girl’s pure nurture?—it can’t be this! Last week, as we walked +in the garden here, and heard the nuns singing in their chapel, you +said how hard it was that poor women should be imprisoned so, and were +thankful that in England we had abolished that slavery. Then you cast +your eyes to the ground, and mused as you paced the walk; and thought, +I know, that perhaps their lot was better than some others. + +_Ethel_. Yes, I did. I was thinking that almost all women are made +slaves one way or other, and that these poor nuns perhaps were better +off than we are. + +_Clive_. I never will quarrel with nun or matron for following her +vocation. But for our women, who are free, why should they rebel +against Nature, shut their hearts up, sell their lives for rank and +money, and forgo the most precious right of their liberty? Look, Ethel, +dear. I love you so, that if I thought another had your heart, an +honest man, a loyal gentleman, like—like him of last year even, I think +I could go back with a God bless you, and take to my pictures again, +and work on in my own humble way. You seem like a queen to me, somehow; +and I am but a poor, humble fellow, who might be happy, I think, if you +were. In those balls, where I have seen you surrounded by those +brilliant young men, noble and wealthy, admirers like me, I have often +thought, “How could I aspire to such a creature, and ask her to forgo a +palace to share the crust of a poor painter?” + +_Ethel_. You spoke quite scornfully of palaces just now, Clive. I won’t +say a word about the—the regard which you express for me. I think you +have it. Indeed, I do. But it were best not said, Clive; best for me, +perhaps, not to own that I know it. In your speeches, my poor boy—and +you will please not to make any more, or I never can see you or speak +to you again, never—you forgot one part of a girl’s duty: obedience to +her parents. They would never agree to my marrying any one below—any +one whose union would not be advantageous in a worldly point of view. I +never would give such pain to the poor father, or to the kind soul who +never said a harsh word to me since I was born. My grandmamma is kind, +too, in her way. I came to her of my own free will. When she said she +would leave me her fortune, do you think it was for myself alone that I +was glad? My father’s passion was to make an estate, and all my +brothers and sisters will be but slenderly portioned. Lady Kew said she +would help them if I came to her—and—it is the welfare of those little +people that depends upon me, Clive. Now, do you see, _brother_, why you +must speak to me so no more? There is the carriage. God bless you, dear +Clive. + +(Clive sees the carriage drive away after Miss Newcome has entered it +without once looking up to the window where he stands. When it is gone +he goes to the opposite windows of the salon, which are open, towards +the garden. The chapel music begins to play from the Convent, next +door. As he hears it he sinks down, his head in his hands.) + +_Enter Madame de Florac_ (_She goes to him with anxious looks_.) What +hast thou, my child? Hast thou spoken? + +_Clive_ (_very steadily_). Yes. + +_Madame de F_. And she loves thee? I know she loves thee. + +_Clive_. You hear the organ of the convent? + +_Madame de F_. Qu’as tu? + +_Clive_. I might as well hope to marry one of the sisters of yonder +convent, dear lady. (_He sinks down again, and she kisses him_.) + +_Clive_. I never had a mother; but you seem like one. + +_Madame de F_. Mon fils! Oh, mon fils! + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. +In which Benedick is a Married Man + + +We have all heard of the dying French Duchess, who viewed her coming +dissolution and subsequent fate so easily, because she said she was +sure that Heaven must deal politely with a person of her quality;—I +suppose Lady Kew had some such notions regarding people of rank: her +long-suffering towards them was extreme; in fact, there were vices +which the old lady thought pardonable, and even natural, in a young +nobleman of high station, which she never would have excused in persons +of vulgar condition. + +Her ladyship’s little knot of associates and scandal-bearers—elderly +roues and ladies of the world, whose business it was to know all sorts +of noble intrigues and exalted tittle-tattle; what was happening among +the devotees of the exiled court at Frobsdorf; what among the citizen +princes of the Tuileries; who was the reigning favourite of the Queen +Mother at Aranjuez; who was smitten with whom at Vienna or Naples; and +the last particulars of the _chroniques scandaleuses_ of Paris and +London;—Lady Kew, I say, must have been perfectly aware of my Lord +Farintosh’s amusements, associates, and manner of life, and yet she +never, for one moment, exhibited any anger or dislike towards that +nobleman. Her amiable heart was so full of kindness and forgiveness +towards the young prodigal that, even without any repentance on his +part, she was ready to take him to her old arms, and give him her +venerable benediction. Pathetic sweetness of nature! Charming +tenderness of disposition! With all his faults and wickednesses, his +follies and his selfishness, there was no moment when Lady Kew would +not have received the young lord, and endowed him with the hand of her +darling Ethel. + +But the hopes which this fond forgiving creature had nurtured for one +season, and carried on so resolutely to the next, were destined to be +disappointed yet a second time, by a most provoking event, which +occurred in the Newcome family. Ethel was called away suddenly from +Paris by her father’s third and last paralytic seizure. When she +reached her home, Sir Brian could not recognise her. A few hours after +her arrival, all the vanities of the world were over for him: and Sir +Barnes Newcome, Baronet, reigned in his stead. The day after Sir Brian +was laid in his vault at Newcome—a letter appeared in the local papers +addressed to the Independent Electors of that Borough, in which his +orphan son, feelingly alluding to the virtue, the services, and the +political principles of the deceased, offered himself as a candidate +for the seat in Parliament now vacant. Sir Barnes announced that he +should speedily pay his respects in person to the friends and +supporters of his lamented father. That he was a staunch friend of our +admirable constitution need not be said. That he was a firm, but +conscientious upholder of our Protestant religion, all who knew Barnes +Newcome must be aware. That he would do his utmost to advance the +interests of this great agricultural, this great manufacturing county +and borough, we may be sure he avowed; as that he would be (if returned +to represent Newcome in Parliament) the advocate of every rational +reform, the unhesitating opponent of every reckless innovation. In +fine, Barnes Newcome’s manifesto to the Electors of Newcome was as +authentic a document and gave him credit for as many public virtues, as +that slab over poor Sir Brian’s bones in the chancel of Newcome church, +which commemorated the good qualities of the defunct, and the grief of +his heir. + +In spite of the virtues, personal and inherited, of Barnes, his seat +for Newcome was not got without a contest. The dissenting interest and +the respectable Liberals of the borough wished to set up Samuel Higg, +Esq.; against Sir Barnes Newcome: and now it was that Barnes’s +civilities of the previous year, aided by Madame de Moncontour’s +influence over her brother, bore their fruit. Mr. Higg declined to +stand against Sir Barnes Newcome, although Higg’s political principles +were by no means those of the honourable Baronet; and the candidate +from London, whom the Newcome extreme Radicals set up against Barnes, +was nowhere on the poll when the day of election came. So Barnes had +the desire of his heart; and, within two months after his father’s +demise, he sate in Parliament as Member for Newcome. + +The bulk of the late Baronet’s property descended, of course, to his +eldest son: who grumbled, nevertheless, at the provision made for his +brothers and sisters, and that the town-house should have been left to +Lady Anne, who was too poor to inhabit it. But Park Lane is the best +situation in London, and Lady Anne’s means were greatly improved by the +annual produce of the house in Park Lane, which, as we all know, was +occupied by a foreign minister for several subsequent seasons. Strange +mutations of fortune: old places; new faces; what Londoner does not see +and speculate upon them every day? Cœlia’s boudoir, who is dead with +the daisies over her at Kensal Green, is now the chamber where Delia is +consulting Dr. Locock, or Julia’s children are romping: Florio’s +dining-tables have now Pollio’s wine upon them: Calista, being a widow, +and (to the surprise of everybody who knew Trimalchio, and enjoyed his +famous dinners) left but very poorly off, lets the house, and the rich, +chaste, and appropriate planned furniture, by Dowbiggin, and the +proceeds go to keep her little boys at Eton. The next year, as Mr. +Clive Newcome rode by the once familiar mansion (whence the hatchment +had been removed, announcing that there was _in Cœlo Quies_ for the +late Sir Brian Newcome, Bart.), alien faces looked from over the +flowers in the balconies. He got a card for an entertainment from the +occupant of the mansion, H.E. the Bulgarian minister; and there was the +same crowd in the reception-room and on the stairs, the same grave men +from Gunter’s distributing the refreshments in the dining-room, the +same old Smee, R. A. (always in the room where the edibles were), +cringing and flattering to the new occupants; and the same effigy of +poor Sir Brian, in his deputy-lieutenant’s uniform, looking blankly +down from over the sideboard, at the feast which his successors were +giving. A dreamy old ghost of a picture. Have you ever looked at those +round George IV.’s banqueting-hall at Windsor? Their frames still hold +them, but they smile ghostly smiles, and swagger in robes and velvets +which are quite faint and faded: their crimson coats have a twilight +tinge: the lustre of their stars has twinkled out: they look as if they +were about to flicker off the wall and retire to join their originals +in limbo. + +Nearly three years had elapsed since the good Colonel’s departure for +India, and during this time certain changes had occurred in the lives +of the principal actors and the writer of this history. As regards the +latter, it must be stated that the dear old firm of Lamb Court had been +dissolved, the junior member having contracted another partnership. The +chronicler of these memoirs was a bachelor no longer. My wife and I had +spent the winter at Rome (favourite resort of young married couples); +and had heard from the artists there Clive’s name affectionately +repeated; and many accounts of his sayings and doings, his merry +supper-parties, and the talents of young Ridley, his friend. When we +came to London in the spring, almost our first visit was to Clive’s +apartments in Charlotte Street, whither my wife delightedly went to +give her hand to the young painter. + +But Clive no longer inhabited that quiet region. On driving to the +house we found a bright brass plate, with the name of Mr. J. J. Ridley +on the door, and it was J. J.’s hand which I shook (his other being +engaged with a great palette, and a sheaf of painting-brushes) when we +entered the well-known quarters. Clive’s picture hung over the +mantelpiece, where his father’s head used to hang in our time—a careful +and beautifully executed portrait of the lad in a velvet coat and a +Roman hat, with that golden beard which was sacrificed to the +exigencies of London fashion. I showed Laura the likeness until she +could become acquainted with the original. On her expressing her +delight at the picture, the painter was pleased to say, in his modest +blushing way, that he would be glad to execute my wife’s portrait too, +nor, as I think, could any artist find a subject more pleasing. + +After admiring others of Mr. Ridley’s works, our talk naturally +reverted to his predecessor. Clive had migrated to much more splendid +quarters. Had we not heard? he had become a rich man, a man of fashion. +“I fear he is very lazy about the arts,” said J. J., with regret on his +countenance; “though I begged and prayed him to be faithful to his +profession. He would have done very well in it, in portrait-painting +especially. Look here, and here, and here!” said Ridley, producing fine +vigorous sketches of Clive’s. “He had the art of seizing the likeness, +and of making all his people look like gentlemen, too. He was improving +every day, when this abominable bank came in the way, and stopped him.” + +What bank? I did not know the new Indian bank of which the Colonel was +a director. Then, of course, I was aware that the mercantile affair in +question was the Bundelcund Bank, about which the Colonel had written +to me from India more than a year since, announcing that fortunes were +to be made by it, and that he had reserved shares for me in the +company. Laura admired all Clive’s sketches, which his affectionate +brother-artist showed to her with the exception of one representing the +reader’s humble servant; which, Mrs. Pendennis considered, by no means +did justice to the original. + +Bidding adieu to the kind J. J., and leaving him to pursue his art, in +that silent serious way in which he daily laboured at it, we drove to +Fitzroy Square hard by, where I was not displeased to show the good old +hospitable James Binnie the young lady who bore my name. But here, too, +we were disappointed. Placards wafered in the windows announced that +the old house was to let. The woman who kept it brought a card in Mrs. +Mackenzie’s frank handwriting, announcing Mr. James Binnie’s address +was “Poste-restante, Pau, in the Pyrenees,” and that his London agents +were Messrs. So-and-so. The woman said she believed the gentleman had +been unwell. The house, too, looked very pale, dismal, and disordered. +We drove away from the door, grieving to think that ill-health, or any +other misfortunes, had befallen good old James. + +Mrs. Pendennis drove back to our lodgings, Brixham’s, in Jermyn Street, +while I sped to the City, having business in that quarter. It has been +said that I kept a small account with Hobson Brothers, to whose bank I +went, and entered the parlour with that trepidation which most poor men +feel on presenting themselves before City magnates and capitalists. Mr. +Hobson Newcome shook hands most jovially and good-naturedly, +congratulated me on my marriage, and so forth, and presently Sir Barnes +Newcome made his appearance, still wearing his mourning for his +deceased father. + +Nothing could be more kind, pleasant, and cordial than Sir Barnes’s +manner. He seemed to know well about my affairs; complimented me on +every kind of good fortune; had heard that I had canvassed the borough +in which I lived; hoped sincerely to see me in Parliament and on the +right side; was most anxious to become acquainted with Mrs. Pendennis, +of whom Lady Rockminster said all sorts of kind things; and asked for +our address, in order that Lady Clara Newcome might have the pleasure +of calling on my wife. This ceremony was performed soon afterwards; and +an invitation to dinner from Sir Barnes and Lady Clara Newcome speedily +followed it. + +Sir Barnes Newcome, Bart., M.P., I need not say, no longer inhabited +the small house which he had occupied immediately after his marriage: +but dwelt in a much more spacious mansion in Belgravia, where he +entertained his friends. Now that he had come into his kingdom, I must +say that Barnes was by no means so insufferable as in the days of his +bachelorhood. He had sown his wild oats, and spoke with regret and +reserve of that season of his moral culture. He was grave, sarcastic, +statesmanlike; did not try to conceal his baldness (as he used before +his father’s death, by bringing lean wisps of hair over his forehead +from the back of his head); talked a great deal about the House; was +assiduous in his attendance there and in the City; and conciliating +with all the world. It seemed as if we were all his constituents, and +though his efforts to make himself agreeable were rather apparent, the +effect succeeded pretty well. We met Mr. and Mrs. Hobson Newcome, and +Clive, and Miss Ethel looking beautiful in her black robes. It was a +family party, Sir Barnes said, giving us to understand, with a decorous +solemnity in face and voice, that no _large_ parties as yet could be +received in that house of mourning. + +To this party was added, rather to my surprise, my Lord Highgate, who +under the sobriquet of Jack Belsize has been presented to the reader of +this history. Lord Highgate gave Lady Clara his arm to dinner, but went +and took a place next Miss Newcome, on the other side of her; that +immediately by Lady Clara being reserved for a guest who had not as yet +made his appearance. + +Lord Highgate’s attentions to his neighbour, his laughing and talking, +were incessant; so much so that Clive, from his end of the table, +scowled in wrath at Jack Belsize’s assiduities: it was evident that the +youth, though hopeless, was still jealous and in love with his charming +cousin. + +Barnes Newcome was most kind to all his guests: from Aunt Hobson to +your humble servant, there was not one but the of master the house had +an agreeable word for him. Even for his cousin Samuel Newcome, a gawky +youth with an eruptive countenance, Barnes had appropriate words of +conversation, and talked about King’s College, of which the lad was an +ornament, with the utmost affability. He complimented that institution +and young Samuel, and by that shot knocked not only over Sam but his +mamma too. He talked to Uncle Hobson about his crops; to Clive about +his pictures; to me about the great effect which a certain article in +the _Pall Mall Gazette_ had produced in the House, where the Chancellor +of the Exchequer was perfectly livid with fury, and Lord John bursting +out laughing at the attack: in fact, nothing could be more amiable than +our host on this day. Lady Clara was very pretty—grown a little stouter +since her marriage; the change only became her. She was a little +silent, but then she had Uncle Hobson on her left-hand side, between +whom and her ladyship there could not be much in common, and the place +at the right hand was still vacant. The person with whom she talked +most freely was Clive, who had made a beautiful drawing of her and her +little girl, for which the mother and the father too, as it appeared, +were very grateful. + +What had caused this change in Barnes’s behaviour? Our particular +merits or his own private reform? In the two years over which this +narrative has had to run in the course of as many chapters, the writer +had inherited a property so small that it could not occasion a banker’s +civility; and I put down Sir Barnes Newcome’s politeness to a sheer +desire to be well with me. But with Lord Highgate and Clive the case +was different, as you must now hear. + +Lord Highgate, having succeeded to his father’s title and fortune, had +paid every shilling of his debts, and had sowed his wild oats to the +very last corn. His lordship’s account at Hobson Brothers was very +large. Painful events of three years’ date, let us hope, were +forgotten—gentlemen cannot go on being in love and despairing, and +quarrelling for ever. When he came into his funds, Highgate behaved +with uncommon kindness to Rooster, who was always straitened for money: +and when the late Lord Dorking died and Rooster succeeded to him, there +was a meeting at Chanticlere between Highgate and Barnes Newcome and +his wife, which went off very comfortably. At Chanticlere the Dowager +Lady Kew and Miss Newcome were also staying, when Lord Highgate +announced his prodigious admiration for the young lady; and, it was +said, corrected Farintosh, as a low-minded, foul-tongued young cub, for +daring to speak disrespectfully of her. Nevertheless, vous concevez, +when a man of the Marquis’s rank was supposed to look with the eyes of +admiration upon a young lady, Lord Highgate would not think of spoiling +sport, and he left Chanticlere declaring that he was always destined to +be unlucky in love. When old Lady Kew was obliged to go to Vichy for +her lumbago, Highgate said to Barnes, “Do ask your charming sister to +come to you in London; she will bore herself to death with the old +woman at Vichy, or with her mother at Rugby” (whither Lady Anne had +gone to get her boys educated), and accordingly Miss Newcome came on a +visit to her brother and sister, at whose house we have just had the +honour of seeing her. + +When Rooster took his seat in the House of Lords, he was introduced by +Highgate and Kew, as Highgate had been introduced by Kew previously. +Thus these three gentlemen all rode in gold coaches; had all got +coronets on their heads; as you will, my respected young friend, if you +are the eldest son of a peer who dies before you. And now they were +rich, they were all going to be very good boys, let us hope. Kew, we +know, married one of the Dorking family, that second Lady Henrietta +Pulleyn, whom we described as frisking about at Baden, and not in the +least afraid of him. How little the reader knew, to whom we introduced +the girl in that chatty offhand way, that one day the young creature +would be a countess! But we knew it all the while—and, when she was +walking about with the governess, or romping with her sisters; and when +she had dinner at one o’clock; and when she wore a pinafore very +likely—we secretly respected her as the future Countess of Kew, and +mother of the Viscount Walham. + +Lord Kew was very happy with his bride, and very good to her. He took +Lady Kew to Paris, for a marriage trip; but they lived almost +altogether at Kewbury afterwards, where his lordship sowed tame oats +now after his wild ones, and became one of the most active farmers of +his county. He and the Newcomes were not very intimate friends; for +Lord Kew was heard to say that he disliked Barnes more after his +marriage than before. And the two sisters, Lady Clara and Lady Kew, had +a quarrel on one occasion, when the latter visited London just before +the dinner at which we have just assisted—nay, at which we are just +assisting, took place,—a quarrel about Highgate’s attentions to Ethel, +very likely. Kew was dragged into it, and hot words passed between him +and Jack Belsize; and Jack did not go down to Kewbury afterwards, +though Kew’s little boy was christened after him. All these interesting +details about people of the very highest rank, we are supposed to +whisper in the reader’s ear as we are sitting at a Belgravian +dinner-table. My dear Barmecide friend, isn’t it pleasant to be in such +fine company? + +And now we must tell how it is that Clive Newcome, Esq., whose eyes are +flashing fire across the flowers of the table at Lord Highgate, who is +making himself so agreeable to Miss Ethel—now we must tell how it is +that Clive and his cousin Barnes have grown to be friends again. + +The Bundelcund Bank, which had been established for four years, had now +grown to be one of the most flourishing commercial institutions in +Bengal. Founded, as the prospectus announced, at a time when all +private credit was shaken by the failure of the great Agency Houses, of +which the downfall had carried dismay and ruin throughout the +Presidency, the B. B. had been established on the _only_ sound +principle of commercial prosperity—that is association. The native +capitalists, headed by the great firm of Rummun Loll and Co., of +Calcutta, had largely embarked in the B. B., and the officers of the +two services and the European mercantile body of Calcutta had been +invited to take shares in an institution which, to merchants, native +and English, civilian and military men, was alike advantageous and +indispensable. How many young men of the latter services had been +crippled for life by the ruinous cost of agencies, of which the profits +to the agents themselves were so enormous! The shareholders of the B. +B. were their own agents; and the greatest capitalist in India as well +as the youngest ensign in the service might invest at the largest and +safest premium, and borrow at the smallest interest, by becoming +according to his means, a shareholder in the B. B. Their correspondents +were established in each presidency and in every chief city of India, +as well as at Sydney, Singapore, Canton, and, of course. London. With +China they did, an immense opium-trade, of which the profits were so +great, that it was only in private sittings of the B. B. managing +committee that the details and accounts of these operations could be +brought forward. Otherwise the books of the bank were open to every +shareholder; and the ensign or the young civil servant was at liberty +at any time to inspect his own private account as well as the common +ledger. With New South Wales they carried on a vast trade in wool, +supplying that great colony with goods, which their London agents +enabled them to purchase in such a way as to give them the command of +the market. As if to add to their prosperity, coppermines were +discovered on lands in the occupation of the B. Banking Company, which +gave the most astonishing returns. And throughout the vast territories +of British India, through the great native firm of Rummun Loll and Co., +the Bundelcund Banking Company had possession of the native markets. +The order from Birmingham for idols alone (made with their copper and +paid in their wool) was enough to make the Low Church party in England +cry out; and a debate upon this subject actually took place in the +House of Commons, of which the effect was to send up the shares of the +Bundelcund Banking Company very considerably upon the London Exchange. + +The fifth half-yearly dividend was announced at twelve and a quarter +per cent of the paid-up capital: the accounts from the copper-mine sent +the dividend up to a still greater height, and carried the shares to an +extraordinary premium. In the third year of the concern, the house of +Hobson Brothers, of London, became the agents of the Bundelcund Banking +Company of India and amongst our friends, James Binnie, who had +prudently held out for some time and Clive Newcome, Esq., became +shareholders, Clive’s good father having paid the first instalments of +the lad’s shares up in Calcutta, and invested every rupee he could +himself command in this enterprise. When Hobson Brothers joined it, no +wonder James Binnie was convinced; Clive’s friend, the Frenchman, and +through that connexion the house of Higg, of Newcome and Manchester, +entered into the affair; and amongst the minor contributors in England +we may mention Miss Cann, who took a little fifty-pound-note share and +dear old Miss Honeyman; and J. J., and his father, Ridley, who brought +a small bag of saving—all knowing that their Colonel, who was eager +that his friends should participate in his good fortune, would never +lead them wrong. To Clive’s surprise Mrs. Mackenzie, between whom and +himself there was a considerable coolness, came to his chambers, and +with a solemn injunction that the matter between them should be quite +private, requested him to purchase 1500 pounds worth of Bundelcund +shares for her and her darling girls, which he did, astonished to find +the thrifty widow in possession of so much money. Had Mr. Pendennis’s +mind not been bent at this moment on quite other subjects, he might +have increased his own fortune by the Bundelcund Bank speculation; but +in these two years I was engaged in matrimonial affairs (having Clive +Newcome, Esq., as my groomsman on a certain interesting occasion). When +we returned from our tour abroad the India Bank shares were so very +high that I did not care to purchase, though I found an affectionate +letter from our good Colonel (enjoining me to make my fortune) awaiting +me at the agent’s, and my wife received a pair of beautiful Cashmere +shawls from the same kind friend. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. +Contains at least six more Courses and two Desserts + + +The banker’s dinner-party over, we returned to our apartments, having +dropped Major Pendennis at his lodgings, and there, as the custom is +amongst most friendly married couples, talked over the company and the +dinner. I thought my wife would naturally have liked Sir Barnes +Newcome, who was very attentive to her, took her to dinner as the +bride, and talked ceaselessly to her during the whole entertainment. + +Laura said No—she did not know why—could there be any better reason? +There was a tone about Sir Barnes Newcome she did not like—especially +in his manner to women. + +I remarked that he spoke sharply and in a sneering manner to his wife, +and treated one or two remarks which she made as if she was an idiot. + +Mrs. Pendennis flung up her head as much as to say, “and so she is.” + +_Mr. Pendennis_. What, the wife too, my dear Laura! I should have +thought such a pretty, simple, innocent young woman, with just enough +good looks to make her pass muster, who is very well bred and not +brilliant at all,—I should have thought such a one might have secured a +sister’s approbation. + +_Mrs. Pendennis_. You fancy we are all jealous of one another. No +protests of ours can take that notion out of your heads. My dear Pen, I +do not intend to try. We are not jealous of mediocrity: we are not +patient of it. I dare say we are angry because we see men admire it so. +You gentlemen, who pretend to be our betters, give yourselves such airs +of protection, and profess such a lofty superiority over us, prove it +by quitting the cleverest woman in the room for the first pair of +bright eyes and dimpled cheeks that enter. It was those charms which +attracted you in Lady Clara, sir. + +_Pendennis_. I think she is very pretty, and very innocent, and +artless. + +_Mrs. P_. Not very pretty, and perhaps not so very artless. + +_Pendennis_. How can you tell, you wicked woman? Are you such a +profound deceiver yourself, that you can instantly detect artifice in +others? O Laura! + +_Mrs. P_. We can detect all sorts of things. The inferior animals have +instincts, you know. (I must say my wife is always very satirical upon +this point of the relative rank of the sexes.) One thing I am sure of +is, that she is not happy; and oh, Pen! that she does not care much for +her little girl. + +_Pendennis_. How do you know that, my dear? + +_Mrs. P_. We went upstairs to see the child after dinner. It was at my +wish. The mother did not offer to go. The child was awake and crying. +Lady Clara did not offer to take it. Ethel—Miss Newcome took it, rather +to my surprise, for she seems very haughty; and the nurse, who I +suppose was at supper, came running up at the noise, and then the poor +little thing was quiet. + +_Pendennis_. I remember we heard the music as the dining-room door was +open; and Newcome said, “That is what you will have to expect, +Pendennis.” + +_Mrs. P_. Hush, sir! If my baby cries, I think you must expect me to +run out of the room. I liked Miss Newcome after seeing her with the +poor little thing. She looked so handsome as she walked with it! I +longed to have it myself. + +_Pendennis. Tout vient à fin, à qui sait_—— + +_Mrs. P_. Don’t be silly. What a dreadful dreadful place this great +world of yours is, Arthur; where husbands do not seem to care for their +wives; where mothers do not love their children; where children love +their nurses best; where men talk what they call gallantry! + +_Pendennis_. What? + +_Mrs. P_. Yes, such as that dreary, languid, pale, bald, cadaverous, +leering man whispered to me. Oh, how I dislike him! I am sure he is +unkind to his wife. I am sure he has a bad temper; and if there is any +excuse for—— + +_Pendennis_. For what? + +_Mrs. P_. For nothing. But you heard yourself that he had a bad temper, +and spoke sneeringly to his wife. What could make her marry him? + +_Pendennis_. Money, and the desire of papa and mamma. For the same +reason Clive’s flame, poor Miss Newcome, was brought out to-day; that +vacant seat at her side was for Lord Farintosh, who did not come. And +the Marquis not being present, the Baron took his innings. Did you not +see how tender he was to her, and how fierce poor Clive looked? + +_Mrs. P_. Lord Highgate was very attentive to Miss Newcome, was he? + +_Pendennis_. And some years ago, Lord Highgate was breaking his heart +about whom do you think? about Lady Clara Pulleyn, our hostess of last +night. He was Jack Belsize then, a younger son, plunged over head and +ears in debt; and of course there could be no marriage. Clive was +present at Baden when a terrible scene took place, and carried off poor +Jack to Switzerland and Italy, where he remained till his father died, +and he came into the title in which he rejoices. And now he is off with +the old love, Laura, and on with the new. Why do you look at me so? Are +you thinking that other people have been in love two or three times +too? + +_Mrs. P_. I am thinking that I should not like to live in London, +Arthur. + +And this was all that Mrs. Laura could be brought to say. When this +young woman chooses to be silent, there is no power that can extract a +word from her. It is true that she is generally in the right; but that +is only the more aggravating. Indeed, what can be more provoking, after +a dispute with your wife, than to find it is you, and not she, who has +been in the wrong? + +Sir Barnes Newcome politely caused us to understand that the +entertainment of which we had just partaken was given in honour of the +bride. Clive must needs not be outdone in hospitality; and invited us +and others to a fine feast at the Star and Garter at Richmond, where +Mrs. Pendennis was placed at his right hand. I smile as I think how +much dining has been already commemorated in these veracious pages; but +the story is an everyday record; and does not dining form a certain +part of the pleasure and business of every day? It is at that pleasant +hour that our set has the privilege of meeting the other. The morning +man and woman alike devote to business; or pass mainly in the company +of their own kind. John has his office; Jane her household, her +nursery, her milliner, her daughters and their masters. In the country +he has his hunting, his fishing, his farming, his letters; she her +schools, her poor, her garden, or what not. Parted through the shining +hours, and improving them, let us trust, we come together towards +sunset only, we make merry and amuse ourselves. We chat with our pretty +neighbour, or survey the young ones sporting; we make love and are +jealous; we dance, or obsequiously turn over the leaves of Cecilia’s +music-book; we play whist, or go to sleep in the arm-chair, according +to our ages and conditions. Snooze gently in thy arm-chair, thou easy +bald-head! play your whist, or read your novel, or talk scandal over +your work, ye worthy dowagers and fogies! Meanwhile the young ones +frisk about, or dance, or sing, or laugh; or whisper behind curtains in +moonlit windows; or shirk away into the garden, and come back smelling +of cigars; nature having made them so to do. + +Nature at this time irresistibly impelled Clive Newcome towards +love-making. It was pairing-season with him. Mr. Clive was now some +three-and-twenty years old: enough has been said about his good looks, +which were in truth sufficient to make him a match for the young lady +on whom he had set his heart, and from whom, during this entertainment +which he gave to my wife, he could never keep his eyes away for three +minutes. Laura’s did not need to be so keen as they were in order to +see what poor Clive’s condition was. She did not in the least grudge +the young fellow’s inattention to herself; or feel hurt that he did not +seem to listen when she spoke; she conversed with J. J., her neighbour, +who was very modest and agreeable; while her husband, not so well +pleased, had Mrs. Hobson Newcome for his partner during the chief part +of the entertainment. Mrs. Hobson and Lady Clara were the matrons who +gave the sanction of their presence to this bachelor-party. Neither of +their husbands could come to Clive’s little fête; had they not the City +and the House of Commons to attend? My uncle, Major Pendennis, was +another of the guests; who for his part found the party was what you +young fellows call very slow. Dreading Mrs. Hobson and her powers of +conversation, the old gentleman nimbly skipped out of her +neighbourhood, and fell by the side of Lord Highgate, to whom the Major +was inclined to make himself very pleasant. But Lord Highgate’s broad +back was turned upon his neighbour, who was forced to tell stories to +Captain Crackthorpe, which had amused dukes and marquises in former +days, and were surely quite good enough for any baron in this realm. +“Lord Highgate sweet upon _la belle_ Newcome, is he?” said the testy +Major afterwards. “He seemed to me to talk to Lady Clara the whole +time. When I awoke in the garden after dinner, as Mrs. Hobson was +telling one of her confounded long stories, I found her audience was +diminished to one. Crackthorpe, Lord Highgate, and Lady Clara, we had +all been sitting there when the bankeress cut in (in the mid of a very +good story I was telling them, which entertained them very much), and +never ceased talking till I fell off into a doze. When I roused myself, +begad, she was still going on. Crackthorpe was off, smoking a cigar on +the terrace: my Lord and Lady Clara were nowhere; and you four, with +the little painter, were chatting cosily in another arbour. Behaved +himself very well, the little painter. Doosid good dinner Ellis gave +us. But as for Highgate being _aux soins_ with _la belle Banquière_, +trust me, my boy, he is—upon my word, my dear, it seemed to me his +thoughts went quite another way. To be sure, Lady Clara is a _belle +Banquière_ too now. He, he, he! How could he say he had no carriage to +go home in? He came down in Crackthorpe’s cab, who passed us just now, +driving back young What-dye-call the painter.” + +Thus did the Major discourse, as we returned towards the City. I could +see in the open carriage which followed us (Lady Clara Newcome’s) Lord +Highgate’s white hat, by Clive’s on the back seat. + +Laura looked at her husband. The same thought may have crossed their +minds, though neither uttered it; but although Sir Barnes and Lady +Clara Newcome offered us other civilities during our stay in London, no +inducements could induce Laura to accept the proffered friendship of +that lady. When Lady Clara called, my wife was not at home; when she +invited us, Laura pleaded engagements. At first she bestowed on Miss +Newcome, too, a share of this haughty dislike, and rejected the +advances which that young lady, who professed to like my wife very +much, made towards an intimacy. When I appealed to her (for Newcome’s +house was after all a very pleasant one, and you met the best people +there), my wife looked at me with an expression of something like +scorn, and said: “Why don’t I like Miss Newcome? Of course because I am +jealous of her—all women, you know, Arthur, are jealous of such +beauties.” I could get for a long while no better explanation than +these sneers, for my wife’s antipathy towards this branch of the +Newcome family; but an event presently came which silenced my +remonstrances, and showed to me, that Laura had judged Barnes and his +wife only too well. + +Poor Mrs. Hobson Newcome had reason to be sulky at the neglect which +all the Richmond party showed her, for nobody, not even Major +Pendennis, as we have seen, would listen to her intellectual +conversation; nobody, not even Lord Highgate, would drive back to town +in her carriage, though the vehicle was large and empty, and Lady +Clara’s barouche, in which his lordship chose to take a place, had +already three occupants within it:—but in spite of these rebuffs and +disappointments the virtuous lady of Bryanstone Square was bent upon +being good-natured and hospitable; and I have to record, in the present +chapter, yet one more feast of which Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis partook at +the expense of the most respectable Newcome family. + +Although Mrs. Laura here also appeared, and had the place of honour in +her character of bride, I am bound to own my opinion that Mrs. Hobson +only made us the pretext of her party, and that in reality it was given +to persons of a much more exalted rank. We were the first to arrive, +our good old Major, the most punctual of men, bearing us company. Our +hostess was arrayed in unusual state and splendour; her fat neck was +ornamented with jewels, rich bracelets decorated her arms, and this +Bryanstone Square Cornelia had likewise her family jewels distributed +round her, priceless male and female Newcome gems, from the King’s +College youth, with whom we have made a brief acquaintance, and his +elder sister, now entering into the world, down to the last little +ornament of the nursery, in a prodigious new sash, with ringlets hot +and crisp from the tongs of a Marylebone hairdresser, We had seen the +cherub faces of some of these darlings pressed against the drawing-room +windows as our carriage drove up to the door; when, after a few +minutes’ conversation, another vehicle arrived, away they dashed to the +windows again, the innocent little dears crying out, “Here’s the +Marquis;” and in sadder tones, “No, it isn’t the Marquis,” by which +artless expressions they showed how eager they were to behold an +expected guest of a rank only inferior to Dukes in this great empire. + +Putting two and two together, as the saying is, it was not difficult +for me to guess who the expected Marquis was—and, indeed, the King’s +College youth set that question at once to rest, by wagging his head at +me, and winking his eye, and saying, “We expect Farintosh.” + +“Why, my dearest children,” Matronly Virtue exclaimed, “this anxiety to +behold the young Marquis of Farintosh, whom we expect at our modest +table, Mrs. Pendennis, to-day? Twice you have been at the window in +your eagerness to look for him. Louisa, you silly child, do you imagine +that his lordship will appear in his robes and coronet? Rodolf, you +absurd boy, do you think that a Marquis is other than a man? I have +never admired aught but intellect, Mrs. Pendennis; _that_, let us be +thankful, is the only true title to distinction in our country +nowadays.” + +“Begad, sir,” whispers the old Major to me, “intellect may be a doosid +fine thing, but in my opinion, a Marquisate and eighteen or twenty +thousand a year—I should say the Farintosh property, with the Glenlivat +estate and the Roy property in England, must be worth nineteen thousand +a year at the very lowest figure and I remember when this young man’s +father was only Tom Roy, of the 42nd, with no hope of succeeding to the +title, and doosidly out at elbows too—I say what does the bankeress +mean by chattering about intellect? Hang me, a Marquis is a Marquis; +and Mrs. Newcome knows it as well as I do.” My good Major was growing +old, and was not unnaturally a little testy at the manner in which his +hostess received him. Truth to tell, she hardly took any notice of him +and cut down a couple of the old gentleman’s stories before he had been +five minutes in the room. + +To our party presently comes the host in a flurried countenance, with a +white waistcoat, holding in his hand an open letter, towards which his +wife looks with some alarm. “How dy’ doo, Lady Clara, how dy’ doo, +Ethel?” he says, saluting those ladies, whom the second carriage had +brought to us. “Sir Barnes is not coming, that’s one place vacant; +that, Lady Clara, you won’t mind, you see him at home: but here’s a +disappointment for you, Miss Newcome, Lord Farintosh can’t come.” + +At this, two of the children cry out “Oh! oh!” with such a melancholy +accent that Miss Newcome and Lady Clara burst out laughing. + +“Got a dreadful toothache,” said Mr. Hobson; “here’s his letter.” + +“Hang it, what a bore!” cries artless young King’s College. + +“Why a bore, Samuel? A bore, as you call it, for Lord Farintosh, I +grant; but do you suppose that the high in station are exempt from the +ills of mortality? I know nothing more painful than a toothache,” +exclaims a virtuous matron, using the words of philosophy, but showing +the countenance of anger. + +“Hang it, why didn’t he have it out?” says Samuel. + +Miss Ethel laughed. “Lord Farintosh would not have that tooth out for +the world, Samuel,” she cried, gaily. “He keeps it in on purpose, and +it always aches when he does not want to go out to dinner.” + +“I know _one_ humble family who will never ask him again,” Mrs. Hobson +exclaims, rustling in all her silks, and tapping her fan and her foot. +The eclipse, however, passes off her countenance and light is restored; +when at this moment, a cab having driven up during the period of +darkness, the door is flung open, and Lord Highgate is announced by a +loud-voiced butler. + +My wife, being still the bride on this occasion, had the honour of +being led to the dinner-table by our banker and host. Lord Highgate was +reserved for Mrs. Hobson, who, in an engaging manner, requested poor +Clive to conduct his cousin Maria to dinner, handing over Miss Ethel to +another guest. Our Major gave his arm to Lady Clara, and I perceived +that my wife looked very grave as he passed the place where she sat, +and seated Lady Clara in the next chair to that which Lord Highgate +chanced to occupy. Feeling himself _en vein_, and the company being +otherwise rather mum and silent, my uncle told a number of delightful +anecdotes about the beau-monde of his time, about the Peninsular war, +the Regent, Brummell, Lord Steyne, Pea Green Payne, and so forth. He +said the evening was very pleasant, though some others of the party, as +it appeared to me, scarcely seemed to think so. Clive had not a word +for his cousin Maria, but looked across the table at Ethel all +dinner-time. What could Ethel have to say to her partner, old Colonel +Sir Donald M’Craw, who gobbled and drank, as his wont is, and if he had +a remark to make, imparted it to Mrs. Hobson, at whose right hand he +was sitting, and to whom, during the whole course, or courses, of the +dinner, my Lord Highgate scarcely uttered one single word? + +His lordship was whispering all the while into the ringlets of Lady +Clara; they were talking a jargon which their hostess scarcely +understood, of people only known to her by her study of the Peerage. +When we joined the ladies after dinner, Lord Highgate again made way +towards Lady Clara, and at an order from her, as I thought, left her +ladyship, and strove hard to engage in a conversation with Mrs. +Newcome. I hope he succeeded in smoothing the frowns in that round +little face. Mrs. Laura, I own, was as grave as a judge all the +evening; very grave even and reserved with my uncle, when the hour for +parting came, and we took him home. + +“He, he!” said the old man, coughing, and nodding his old head and +laughing in his senile manner, when I saw him on the next day; “that +was a pleasant evening we had yesterday; doosid pleasant, and I think +my two neighbours seemed to be uncommonly pleased with each other; not +an amusing fellow, that young painter of yours, though he is +good-looking enough, but there’s no conversation in him. Do you think +of giving a little dinner, Arthur, in return for these hospitalities? +Greenwich, hey, or something of that sort? I’ll go you halves, sir, and +we’ll ask the young banker and bankeress—not yesterday’s Amphitryon nor +his wife; no, no, hang it! but Barnes Newcome is a devilish clever, +rising man, and moves in about as good society as any in London. We’ll +ask him and Lady Clara and Highgate, and one or two more, and have a +pleasant party.” + +But to this proposal, when the old man communicated it to her, in a +very quiet, simple, artful way, Laura, with a flushing face said No +quite abruptly, and quitted the room, rustling in her silks, and +showing at once dignity and indignation. + +Not many more feasts was Arthur Pendennis, senior, to have in this +world. Not many more great men was he to flatter, nor schemes to wink +at, nor earthly pleasures to enjoy. His long days were well-nigh ended: +on his last couch, which Laura tended so affectionately, with his last +breath almost, he faltered out to me. “I had other views for you, my +boy, and once hoped to see you in a higher position in life; but I +begin to think now, Arthur, that I was wrong; and as for that girl, +sir, I am sure she is an angel.” + +May I not inscribe the words with a grateful heart? Blessed he—blessed +though maybe undeserving—who has the love of a good woman. + + + + +CHAPTER L. +Clive in New Quarters + + +My wife was much better pleased with Clive than with some of his +relatives to whom I had presented her. His face carried a +recommendation with it that few honest people could resist. He was +always a welcome friend in our lodgings, and even our uncle the Major +signified his approval of the lad as a young fellow of very good +manners and feelings, who, if he chose to throw himself away and be a +painter, _ma foi_, was rich enough no doubt to follow his own caprices. +Clive executed a capital head of Major Pendennis, which now hangs in +our drawing-room at Fairoaks, and reminds me of that friend of my +youth. Clive occupied ancient lofty chambers in Hanover Square now. He +had furnished them in an antique manner, with hangings, cabinets, +carved work, Venice glasses, fine prints, and water-colour sketches of +good pictures by his own and other hands. He had horses to ride, and a +liberal purse full of paternal money. Many fine equipages drew up +opposite to his chambers: few artists had such luck as young Mr. Clive. +And above his own chambers were other three which the young gentleman +had hired, and where, says he, “I hope ere very long my dear old father +will be lodging with me. In another year he says he thinks he will be +able to come home; when the affairs of the Bank are quite settled. You +shake your head! why? The shares are worth four times what we gave for +them. We are men of fortune, Pen, I give you my word. You should see +how much they make of me at Baynes and Jolly’s, and how civil they are +to me at Hobson Brothers’! I go into the City now and then, and see our +manager, Mr. Blackmore. He tells me such stories about indigo, and +wool, and copper, and sicca rupees, and Company’s rupees. I don’t know +anything about the business, but my father likes me to go and see Mr. +Blackmore. Dear cousin Barnes is for ever asking me to dinner; I might +call Lady Clara Clara if I liked, as Sam Newcome does in Bryanstone +Square. You can’t think how kind they are to me there. My aunt +reproaches me tenderly for not going there oftener—it’s not very good +fun dining in Bryanstone Square, is it? And she praises my cousin Maria +to me—you should hear my aunt praise her! I have to take Maria down to +dinner; to sit by the piano and listen to her songs in all languages. +Do you know Maria can sing Hungarian and Polish, besides your common +German, Spanish, and Italian? Those I have at our _other_ agents’, +Baynes and Jolly’s—Baynes’s that is in the Regent’s Park, where the +girls are prettier and just as civil to me as at Aunt Hobson’s.” And +here Clive would amuse us by the accounts which he gave us of the +snares which the Misses Baynes, those young sirens of Regent’s Park, +set for him; of the songs which they sang to enchant him, the albums in +which they besought him to draw—the thousand winning ways which they +employed to bring him into their cave in York Terrace. But neither +Circe’s smiles nor Calypso’s blandishments had any effect on him; his +ears were stopped to their music, and his eyes rendered dull to their +charms by those of the flighty young enchantress with whom my wife had +of late made acquaintance. + +Capitalist though he was, our young fellow was still very affable. He +forgot no old friends in his prosperity; and the lofty antique chambers +would not unfrequently be lighted up at nights to receive F. B. and +some of the old cronies of the Haunt, and some of the Gandishites, who, +if Clive had been of a nature that was to be spoiled by flattery, had +certainly done mischief to the young man. Gandish himself, when Clive +paid a visit to that illustrious artist’s Academy, received his former +pupil as if the young fellow had been a sovereign prince almost, +accompanied him to his horse; and would have held his stirrup as he +mounted; whilst the beautiful daughters of the house waved adieus to +him from the parlour-window. To the young men assembled in his studio, +Gandish was never tired of talking about Clive. The Professor would +take occasion to inform them that he had been to visit his +distinguished young friend, Mr. Newcome, son of Colonel Newcome; that +last evening he had been present at an elegant entertainment at Mr. +Newcome’s new apartments. Clive’s drawings were hung up in Gandish’s +gallery, and pointed out to visitors by the worthy Professor. On one or +two occasions, I was allowed to become a bachelor again, and +participate in these jovial meetings. How guilty my coat was on my +return home; how haughty the looks of the mistress of my house, as she +bade Martha carry away the obnoxious garment! How grand F. B. used to +be as president of Clive’s smoking-party, where he laid down the law, +talked the most talk, sang the jolliest song, and consumed the most +drink of all the jolly talkers and drinkers! Clive’s popularity rose +prodigiously; not only youngsters, but old practitioners of the fine +arts, lauded his talents. What a shame that his pictures were all +refused this year at the Academy! Alfred Smee, Esq., R.A., was +indignant at their rejection, but J. J. confessed with a sigh, and +Clive owned good-naturedly, that he had been neglecting his business, +and that his pictures were not so good as those of two years before. I +am afraid Mr. Clive went to too many balls and parties, to clubs and +jovial entertainments, besides losing yet more time in that other +pursuit we wot of. Meanwhile J. J. went steadily on with his work, no +day passed without a line: and Fame was not very far off, though this +he heeded but little; and Art, his sole mistress, rewarded him for his +steady and fond pursuit of her. + +“Look at him,” Clive would say with a sigh. “Isn’t he the mortal of all +others the most to be envied! He is so fond of his art that in all the +world there is no attraction like it for him. He runs to his easel at +sunrise, and sits before it caressing his picture all day till +nightfall. He takes leave of it sadly when dark comes, spends the night +in a Life Academy, and begins next morning _da capo_. Of all the pieces +of good fortune which can befall a man, is not this the greatest: to +have your desire, and then never tire of it? I have been in such a rage +with my own shortcomings that I have dashed my foot through the +canvases, and vowed I would smash my palette and easel. Sometimes I +succeed a little better in my work, and then it will happen for half an +hour that I am pleased, but pleased at what? pleased at drawing Mr. +Muggins’s head rather like Mr. Muggins. Why, a thousand fellows can do +better, and when one day I reach my very best, yet thousands will be +able to do better still. Ours is a trade for which nowadays there is no +excuse unless one can be great in it: and I feel I have not the stuff +for that. No. 666. ‘Portrait of Joseph Muggins, Esq., Newcome, Great +George Street.’ No. 979. ‘Portrait of Mrs. Muggins, on her grey pony, +Newcome.’ No. 579. ‘Portrait of Joseph Muggins Esq.’s dog Toby, +Newcome’—this is—what I’m fit for. These are the victories I have set +myself on achieving. Oh, Mrs. Pendennis, isn’t it humiliating? Why +isn’t there a war? Why can’t I go and distinguish myself somewhere and +be a general? Why haven’t I a genius? I say, Pen, sir, why haven’t I a +genius? There is a painter who lives hard by, and who sends sometimes, +to beg me to come and look at his work. He is in the Muggins line too. +He gets his canvases with a good light upon them: excludes the +contemplation of all other objects, stands beside his pictures in an +attitude himself, and thinks that he and they are masterpieces. +Masterpieces! Oh me, what drivelling wretches we are! Fame!—except that +of just the one or two—what’s the use of it? I say, Pen, would you feel +particularly proud now if you had written Hayley’s poems? And as for a +second place in painting, who would care to be Caravaggio or Caracci? I +wouldn’t give a straw to be Caracci or Caravaggio. I would just as soon +be yonder artist who is painting up Foker’s Entire over the +public-house at the corner. He will have his payment afterwards, five +shillings a day, and a pot of beer. Your head a little more to the +light, Mrs. Pendennis, if you please. I am tiring you, I dare say, but +then, oh, I am doing it so badly!” + +I, for my part, thought Clive was making a very pretty drawing of my +wife, and having affairs of my own to attend to, would often leave her +at his chambers as a sitter, or find him at our lodgings visiting her. +They became the very greatest friends. I knew the young fellow could +have no better friend than Laura; and not being ignorant of the malady +under which he was labouring, concluded naturally and justly that Clive +grew so fond of my wife, not for her sake entirely, but for his own, +because he could pour his heart out to her, and her sweet kindness and +compassion would soothe him in his unhappy condition. + +Miss Ethel, I have said, also professed a great fondness for Mrs. +Pendennis; and there was that charm in the young lady’s manner which +speedily could overcome even female jealousy. Perhaps Laura determined +magnanimously to conquer it; perhaps she hid it so as to vex me and +prove the injustice of my suspicions: perhaps, honestly, she was +conquered by the young beauty, and gave her a regard and admiration +which the other knew she could inspire whenever she had the will. My +wife was fairly captivated by her at length. The untameable young +creature was docile and gentle in Laura’s presence; modest, natural, +amiable, full of laughter and spirits, delightful to see and to hear; +her presence cheered our quiet little household; her charm fascinated +my wife as it had subjugated poor Clive. Even the reluctant Farintosh +was compelled to own her power, and confidentially told his male +friends, that, hang it, she was so handsome, and so clever, and so +confoundedly pleasant and fascinating, and that—that he had been on the +point of popping the fatal question ever so many times, by Jove. “And +hang it, you know,” his lordship would say, “I don’t want to marry +until I have had my fling, you know.” As for Clive, Ethel treated him +like a boy, like a big brother. She was jocular, kind, pert, pleasant +with him, ordered him on her errands, accepted his bouquets and +compliments, admired his drawings, liked to hear him praised, and took +his part in all companies; laughed at his sighs, and frankly owned to +Laura her liking for him and her pleasure in seeing him. “Why,” said +she, “should not I be happy as long as the sunshine lasts? To-morrow, I +know, will be glum and dreary enough. When grandmamma comes back I +shall scarcely be able to come and see you. When I am settled in +life—eh! I shall be settled in life! Do not grudge me my holiday, +Laura. Oh, if you knew how stupid it is to be in the world, and how +much pleasanter to come and talk, and laugh, and sing, and be happy +with you, than to sit in that dreary Eaton Place with poor Clara!” + +“Why do you stay in Eaton Place?” asks Laura. + +“Why? because I must go out with somebody. What an unsophisticated +little country creature you are! Grandmamma is away, and I cannot go +about to parties by myself.” + +“But why should you go to parties, and why not go back to your mother?” +says Mrs. Pendennis, gently. + +“To the nursery, and my little sisters, and Miss Cann? I like being in +London best, thank you. You look grave? You think a girl should like to +be with her mother and sisters best? My dear mamma wishes me to be +here, and I stay with Barnes and Clara by grandmamma’s orders. Don’t +you know that I have been made over to Lady Kew, who has adopted me? Do +you think a young lady of my pretensions can stop at home in a damp +house in Warwickshire and cut bread-and-butter for little schoolboys? +Don’t look so very grave and shake your head so, Mrs. Pendennis! If you +had been bred as I have, you would be as I am. I know what you are +thinking, madam.” + +“I am thinking,” said Laura, blushing and bowing her head—“I am +thinking, if it pleases God to give me children, I should like to live +at home at Fairoaks.” My wife’s thoughts, though she did not utter +them, and a certain modesty and habitual awe kept her silent upon +subjects so very sacred, went deeper yet. She had been bred to measure +her actions by a standard which the world may nominally admit, but +which it leaves for the most part unheeded. Worship, love, duty, as +taught her by the devout study of the Sacred Law which interprets and +defines it—if these formed the outward practice of her life, they were +also its constant and secret endeavours and occupation. She spoke but +very seldom of her religion, though it filled her heart and influenced +all her behaviour. Whenever she came to that sacred subject, her +demeanour appeared to her husband so awful that he scarcely dared to +approach it in her company, and stood without as this pure creature +entered into the Holy of Holies. What must the world appear to such a +person? Its ambitious rewards, disappointments, pleasures, worth how +much? Compared to the possession of that priceless treasure and +happiness unspeakable, a perfect faith, what has Life to offer? I see +before me now her sweet grave face, as she looks out from the balcony +of the little Richmond villa we occupied during the first happy year +after our marriage, following Ethel Newcome, who rides away, with a +staid groom behind her, to her brother’s summer residence, not far +distant. Clive had been with us in the morning, and had brought us +stirring news. The good Colonel was by this time on his way home. “If +Clive could tear himself away from London,” the good man wrote (and we +thus saw he was acquainted with the state of the young man’s mind), +“why should not Clive go and meet his father at Malta?” He was feverish +and eager to go; and his two friends strongly counselled him to take +the journey. In the midst of our talk Miss Ethel came among us. She +arrived flushed and in high spirits; she rallied Clive upon his gloomy +looks; she turned rather pale, as it seemed to us, when she heard the +news. Then she coldly told him she thought the voyage must be a +pleasant one, and would do him good: it was pleasanter than that +journey she was going to take herself with her dreary grandmother, to +those German springs which the old Countess frequented year after year. +Mr. Pendennis having business, retired to his study, whither presently +Mrs. Laura followed, having to look for her scissors, or a book she +wanted, or upon some pretext or other. She sate down in the conjugal +study; not one word did either of us say for a while about the young +people left alone in the drawing-room yonder. Laura talked about our +own home at Fairoaks, which our tenants were about to vacate. She vowed +and declared that we must live at Fairoaks; that Clavering, with all +its tittle-tattle and stupid inhabitants, was better than this wicked +London. Besides, there were some new and very pleasant families settled +in the neighbourhood. Clavering Park was taken by some delightful +people—“and you know, Pen, you were always very fond of fly-fishing, +and may fish the Brawl, as you used in old days, when—” The lips of the +pretty satirist who alluded to these unpleasant bygones were silenced +as they deserved to be by Mr. Pendennis. “Do you think, sir, I did not +know,” says the sweetest voice in the world, “when you went out on your +fishing excursions with Miss Amory?” Again the flow of words is checked +by the styptic previously applied. + +“I wonder,” says Mr. Pendennis, archly, bending over his wife’s fair +hand—“I wonder whether this kind of thing is taking place in the +drawing-room?” + +“Nonsense, Arthur. It is time to go back to them. Why, I declare, I +have been three-quarters of an hour away!” + +“I don’t think they will much miss you, my dear,” says the gentleman. + +“She is certainly very fond of him. She is always coming here. I am +sure it is not to hear you read Shakspeare, Arthur; or your new novel, +though it is very pretty. I wish Lady Kew and her sixty thousand pounds +were at the bottom of the sea.” + +“But she says she is going to portion her younger brothers with a part +of it; she told Clive so,” remarks Mr. Pendennis. + +“For shame! Why does not Barnes Newcome portion his younger brothers? I +have no patience with that——Why! Goodness! There is Clive going away, +actually! Clive! Mr. Newcome!” But though my wife ran to the +study-window and beckoned our friend, he only shook his head, jumped on +his horse, and rode away gloomily. + +“Ethel had been crying when I went into the room,” Laura afterwards +told me. “I knew she had; but she looked up from some flowers over +which she was bending, began to laugh and rattle, would talk about +nothing but Lady Hautboi’s great breakfast the day before, and the most +insufferable Mayfair jargon; and then declared it was time to go home +and dress for Mrs. Booth’s _déjeûner_, which was to take place that +afternoon.” + +And so Miss Newcome rode away—back amongst the roses and the +rouges—back amongst the fiddling, flirting, flattery, falseness—and +Laura’s sweet serene face looked after her departing. Mrs. Booth’s was +a very grand _déjeûner_. We read in the newspapers a list of the +greatest names there. A Royal Duke and Duchess; a German Highness, a +Hindoo Nabob, etc.; and, amongst the Marquises, Farintosh; and, amongst +the Lords, Highgate; and Lady Clara Newcome, and Miss Newcome, who +looked killing, our acquaintance Captain Crackthorpe informs us, and +who was in perfectly stunning spirits. “His Imperial Highness the Grand +Duke of Farintosh is wild about her,” the Captain said, “and our poor +young friend Clive may just go and hang himself. Dine with us at the +Gar and Starter? Jolly party. Oh! I forgot! married man now!” So +saying, the Captain entered the hostelry near which I met him, leaving +this present chronicler to return to his own home. + + + + +CHAPTER LI. +An Old Friend + + +I might open the present chapter as a contemporary writer of Romance is +occasionally in the habit of commencing his tales of Chivalry, by a +description of a November afternoon falling leaves, tawny forests, +gathering storms, and other autumnal phenomena; and two horsemen +winding up the romantic road which leads from—from Richmond Bridge to +the Star and Garter. The one rider is youthful, and has a blonde +moustache. The cheek of the other has been browned by foreign suns; it +is easy to see by the manner in which he bestrides his powerful charger +that he has followed the profession of arms. He looks as if he had +faced his country’s enemies on many a field of Eastern battle. The +cavaliers alight before the gate of a cottage on Richmond Hill, where a +gentleman receives them with eager welcome. Their steeds are +accommodated at a neighbouring hostelry,—I pause in the midst of the +description, for the reader has made the acquaintance of our two +horsemen long since. It is Clive returned from Malta, from Gibraltar, +from Seville, from Cadiz, and with him our dear old friend the Colonel. +His campaigns are over, his sword is hung up, he leaves Eastern suns +and battles to warm younger blood. Welcome back to England, dear +Colonel and kind friend! How quickly the years have passed since he has +been gone! There is a streak or two more silver in his hair. The +wrinkles about his honest eyes are somewhat deeper, but their look is +as steadfast and kind as in the early, almost boyish days when first we +knew them. + +We talk a while about the Colonel’s voyage home, the pleasures of the +Spanish journey, the handsome new quarters in which Clive has installed +his father and himself, my own altered condition in life, and what not. +During the conversation a little querulous voice makes itself audible +above-stairs, at which noise Mr. Clive begins to laugh, and the Colonel +to smile. It is for the first time in his life Mr. Clive listens to the +little voice; indeed, it is only since about six weeks that that small +organ has been heard in the world at all. Laura Pendennis believes its +tunes to be the sweetest, the most interesting, the most +mirth-inspiring, the most pitiful and pathetic, that ever baby uttered; +which opinions, of course, are backed by Mrs. Hokey, the confidential +nurse. Laura’s husband is not so rapturous; but, let us trust, behaves +in a way becoming a man and a father. We forgo the description of his +feelings as not pertaining to the history at present under +consideration. A little while before the dinner is served, the lady of +the cottage comes down to greet her husband’s old friends. + +And here I am sorely tempted to a third description, which has nothing +to do with the story, to be sure, but which, if properly hit off, might +fill half a page very prettily. For is not a young mother one of the +sweetest sights which life shows us? If she has been beautiful before, +does not her present pure joy give a character of refinement and +sacredness almost to her beauty, touch her sweet cheeks with fairer +blushes, and impart I know not what serene brightness to her eyes? I +give warning to the artist who designs the pictures for this veracious +story, to make no attempt at this subject. I never would be satisfied +with it were his drawing ever so good. + +When Sir Charles Grandison stepped up and made his very beautifullest +bow to Miss Byron, I am sure his gracious dignity never exceeded that +of Colonel Newcome’s first greeting to Mrs. Pendennis. Of course from +the very moment they beheld one another they became friends. Are not +most of our likings thus instantaneous? Before she came down to see +him, Laura had put on one of the Colonel’s shawls—the crimson one, with +the red palm-leaves and the border of many colours. As for the white +one, the priceless, the gossamer, the fairy web, which might pass +through a ring, _that_, every lady must be aware, was already +appropriated to cover the cradle, or what I believe is called the +bassinet, of Master Pendennis. + +So we all became the very best of friends; and during the winter months +whilst we still resided at Richmond, the Colonel was my wife’s constant +visitor. He often came without Clive. He did not care for the world +which the young gentleman frequented, and was more pleased and at home +by my wife’s fireside than at more noisy and splendid entertainments. +And, Laura being a sentimental person interested in pathetic novels and +all unhappy attachments, of course she and the Colonel talked a great +deal about Mr. Clive’s little affair, over which they would have such +deep confabulations that even when the master of the house appeared, +Pater Familias, the man whom, in the presence of the Rev. Dr. Portman, +Mrs. Laura had sworn to love and honour these two guilty ones would be +silent, or change the subject of conversation, not caring to admit such +an unsympathising person as myself into their conspiracy. + +From many a talk which they have had together since the Colonel and his +son embraced at Malta, Clive’s father had been led to see how strongly +the passion which our friend had once fought and mastered, had now +taken possession of the young man. The unsatisfied longing left him +indifferent to all other objects of previous desire or ambition. The +misfortune darkened the sunshine of his spirit, and clouded the world +before his eyes. He passed hours in his painting-room, though he tore +up what he did there. He forsook his usual haunts, or appeared amongst +his old comrades moody and silent. From cigar-smoking, which I own to +be a reprehensible practice, he plunged into still deeper and darker +dissipation; for I am sorry to say, he took to pipes and the strongest +tobacco, for which there is _no_ excuse. Our young man was changed. +During the last fifteen or twenty months, the malady had been +increasing on him, of which we have not chosen to describe at length +the stages; knowing very well that the reader (the male reader at +least) does not care a fig about other people’s sentimental +perplexities, and is not wrapped up heart and soul in Clive’s affairs +like his father, whose rest was disturbed if the boy had a headache, or +who would have stripped the coat off his back to keep his darling’s +feet warm. + +The object of this hopeless passion had, meantime, returned to the +custody of the dark old duenna, from which she had been liberated for a +while. Lady Kew had got her health again, by means of the prescriptions +of some doctors, or by the efficacy of some baths; and was again on +foot and in the world, tramping about in her grim pursuit of pleasure. +Lady Julia, we are led to believe, had retired upon half-pay, and into +an inglorious exile at Brussels, with her sister, the outlaw’s wife, by +whose bankrupt fireside she was perfectly happy. Miss Newcome was now +her grandmother’s companion, and they had been on a tour of visits in +Scotland, and were journeying from country-house to country-house about +the time when our good Colonel returned to his native shores. + +The Colonel loved his nephew Barnes no better than before, perhaps, +though we must say that since his return from India the young Baronet’s +conduct had been particularly friendly. “No doubt marriage had improved +him; Lady Clara seemed a good-natured young woman enough; besides,” +says the Colonel, wagging his good old head knowingly, “Tom Newcome, of +the Bundelcund Bank, is a personage to be conciliated; whereas Tom +Newcome, of the Bengal Cavalry, was not worth Master Barnes’s +attention. He has been very good and kind on the whole; so have his +friends been uncommonly civil. There was Clive’s acquaintance, Mr. +Belsize that was, Lord Highgate who is now, entertained our whole +family sumptuously last week—wants us and Barnes and his wife to go to +his country-house at Christmas—is as hospitable, my dear Mrs. +Pendennis, as man can be. He met you at Barnes’s, and as soon as we are +alone,” says the Colonel, turning round to Laura’s husband, “I will +tell you in what terms Lady Clara speaks of your wife. Yes. She is a +good-natured, kind little woman, that Lady Clara.” Here Laura’s face +assumed that gravity and severeness, which it always wore when Lady +Clara’s name was mentioned, and the conversation took another turn. + +Returning home from London one afternoon, I met the Colonel, who hailed +me on the omnibus, and rode on his way towards the City, I knew, of +course, that he had been colloquying with my wife; and taxed that young +woman with these continued flirtations. “Two or three times a week, +Mrs. Laura, you dare to receive a Colonel of Dragoons. You sit for +hours closeted with the young fellow of sixty; you change the +conversation when your own injured husband enters the room, and pretend +to talk about the weather, or the baby. You little arch hypocrite, you +know you do. Don’t try to humbug me, miss; what will Richmond, what +will society, what will Mrs. Grundy in general say to such atrocious +behaviour?” + +“Oh! Pen,” says my wife, closing my mouth in a way which I do not +choose further to particularise; “that man is the best, the dearest, +the kindest creature. I never knew such a good man; you ought to put +him into a book. Do you know, sir, that I felt the very greatest desire +to give him a kiss when he went away; and that one which you had just +now, was intended for him. + +“Take back thy gift, false girl!” says Mr. Pendennis; and then, finally, +we come to the particular circumstance which had occasioned so much +enthusiasm on Mrs. Laura’s part. + +Colonel Newcome had summoned heart of grace, and in Clive’s behalf had +regularly proposed him to Barnes, as a suitor to Ethel, taking an +artful advantage of his nephew Barnes Newcome, and inviting that Barnes +to a private meeting, where they were to talk about the affairs of the +Bundelcund Banking Company. + +Now this Bundelcund Banking Company, in the Colonel’s eyes, was in +reality his son Clive. But for Clive there might have been a hundred +banking companies established, yielding a hundred per cent, in as many +districts of India, and Thomas Newcome, who had plenty of money for his +own wants, would never have thought of speculation. His desire was to +see his boy endowed with all the possible gifts of fortune. Had he +built a palace for Clive, and been informed that a roc’s egg was +required to complete the decoration of the edifice, Tom Newcome would +have travelled to the world’s end in search of the wanting article. To +see Prince Clive ride in a gold coach with a princess beside him, was +the kind old Colonel’s ambition; that done, he would be content to +retire to a garret in the prince’s castle, and smoke his cheroot there +in peace. So the world is made. The strong and eager covet honour and +enjoyment for themselves; the gentle and disappointed (once, they may +have been strong and eager, too) desire these gifts for their children. +I think Clive’s father never liked or understood the lad’s choice of a +profession. He acquiesced in it as he would in any of his son’s wishes. +But, not being a poet himself, he could not see the nobility of that +calling; and felt secretly that his son was demeaning himself by +pursuing the art of painting. “Had he been a soldier, now,” thought +Thomas Newcome, “(though I prevented that) had he been richer than he +is, he might have married Ethel, instead of being unhappy as he now is, +God help him! I remember my own time of grief well enough: and what +years it took before my wound was scarred over.” + +So with these things occupying his brain Thomas Newcome artfully +invited Barnes, his nephew, to dinner under pretence of talking of the +affairs of the great B. B. C. With the first glass of wine at dessert, +and according to the Colonel’s good old-fashioned custom of proposing +toasts, they drank the health of the B. B. C. Barnes drank the toast +with all his generous heart. The B. B. C. sent to Hobson Brothers and +Newcome a great deal of business, was in a most prosperous condition, +kept a great balance at the bank, a balance that would not be +overdrawn, as Sir Barnes Newcome very well knew. Barnes was for having +more of these bills, provided there were remittances to meet the same. +Barnes was ready to do any amount of business with the Indian bank, or +with any bank, or with any individual, Christian or heathen, white or +black, who could do good to the firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcome. He +spoke upon this subject with great archness and candour: of course as a +City man he would be glad to do a profitable business anywhere, and the +B. B. C.’s business was profitable. But the interested motive which he +admitted frankly as a man of the world, did not prevent other +sentiments more agreeable. “My dear Colonel,” says Barnes, “I am happy, +most happy, to think that our house and our name should have been +useful, as I know they have been, in the establishment of a concern in +which one of our family is interested; one whom we all so sincerely +respect and regard.” And he touched his glass with his lips and blushed +a little, as he bowed towards his uncle. He found himself making a +little speech, indeed; and to do so before one single person seems +rather odd. Had there been a large company present Barnes would not +have blushed at all, but have tossed off his glass, struck his +waistcoat possibly, and looked straight in the face of his uncle as the +chairman; well, he _did_ very likely believe that he respected and +regarded the Colonel. + +The Colonel said—“Thank you, Barnes, with all my heart. It is always +good for men to be friends, much more for blood relations, as we are.” + +“A relationship which honours me, I’m sure!” says Barnes, with a tone +of infinite affability. You see, he believed that Heaven had made him +the Colonel’s superior. + +“And I am very glad,” the elder went on, “that you and my boy are good +friends.” + +“Friends! of course. It would be unnatural if such near relatives were +otherwise than good friends.” + +“You have been hospitable to him, and Lady Clara very kind, and he +wrote to me telling me of your kindness. Ahem! this is tolerable +claret. I wonder where Clive gets it?” + +“You were speaking about that indigo, Colonel!” here Barnes interposes. +“Our house has done very little in that way, to be sure but I suppose +that our credit is _about_ as good as Baines and Jolly’s, and if——” but +the Colonel is in a brown study. + +“Clive will have a good bit of money when I die,” resumes Clive’s +father. + +“Why, you are a hale man—upon my word, quite a young man, and may marry +again, Colonel,” replies the nephew fascinatingly. + +“I shall never do that,” replies the other. “Ere many years are gone, I +shall be seventy years old, Barnes.” + +“Nothing in this country, my dear sir! positively nothing. Why, there +was Titus, my neighbour in the country—when will you come down to +Newcome?—who married a devilish pretty girl, of very good family, too, +Miss Burgeon, one of the Devonshire Burgeons. He looks, I am sure, +twenty years older than you do. Why should not you do likewise?” + +“Because I like to remain single, and want to leave Clive a rich man. +Look here, Barnes, you know the value of our bank shares, now?” + +“Indeed I do; rather speculative; but of course I know what some sold +for last week,” says Barnes. + +“Suppose I realise now. I think I am worth six lakhs. I had nearly two +from my poor father. I saved some before and since I invested in this +affair; and could sell out to-morrow with sixty thousand pounds.” + +“A very pretty sum of money, Colonel,” says Barnes. + +“I have a pension of a thousand a year.” + +“My dear Colonel, you are a capitalist! we know it very well,” remarks +Sir Barnes. + +“And two hundred a year is as much as I want for myself,” continues the +capitalist, looking into the fire, and jingling his money in his +pockets. “A hundred a year for a horse; a hundred a year for +pocket-money, for I calculate, you know, that Clive will give me a +bedroom and my dinner.” + +“He! he! If your son won’t, your nephew will, my dear Colonel!” says +the affable Barnes, smiling sweetly. + +“I can give the boy a handsome allowance, you see,” resumes Thomas +Newcome. + +“You can make him a handsome allowance now, and leave him a good +fortune when you die!” says the nephew, in a noble and courageous +manner,—and as if he said Twelve times twelve are a hundred and +forty-four and you have Sir Barnes Newcome’s authority—Sir Barnes +Newcome’s, mind you—to say so. + +“Not when I die, Barnes,” the uncle goes on. “I will give him every +shilling I am worth to-morrow morning, if he marries as I wish him.” + +“Tant mieux pour lui!” cries the nephew; and thought to himself, “Lady +Clara must ask Clive to dinner instantly. Confound the fellow. I hate +him—always have; but what luck he has!” + +“A man with that property may pretend to a good wife, as the French +say; hey Barnes?” asks the Colonel, rather eagerly looking up in his +nephew’s face. + +That countenance was lighted up with a generous enthusiasm. “To any +woman, in any rank—to a nobleman’s daughter, my dear sir!” exclaims Sir +Barnes. + +“I want your sister; I want dear Ethel for him, Barnes,” cries Thomas +Newcome, with a trembling voice, and a twinkle in his eyes. “That was +the hope I always had till my talk with your poor father stopped it. +Your sister was engaged to my Lord Kew then; and my wishes of course +were impossible. The poor boy is very much cut up, and his whole heart +is bent upon possessing her. She is not, she can’t be, indifferent to +him. I am sure she would not be, if her family in the least encouraged +him. Can either of these young folks have a better chance of happiness +again offered to them in life? There’s youth, there’s mutual liking, +there’s wealth for them almost—only saddled with the encumbrance of an +old dragoon, who won’t be much in their way. Give us your good word, +Barnes, and let them come together; and upon my word the rest of my +days will be made happy if I can eat my meal at their table.” + +Whilst the poor Colonel was making his appeal, Barnes had time to +collect his answer; which, since in our character of historians we take +leave to explain gentlemen’s motives as well as record their speeches +and actions, we may thus interpret. “Confound the young beggar!” thinks +Barnes, then. “He will have three or four thousand a year, will he? +Hang him, but it’s a good sum of money. What a fool his father is to +give it away! Is he joking? No, he was always half crazy—the Colonel. +Highgate seemed uncommonly sweet on her, and was always hanging about +our house. Farintosh has not been brought to book yet; and perhaps +neither of them will propose for her. My grandmother, I should think, +won’t hear of her making a low marriage, as this certainly is: but it’s +a pity to throw away four thousand a year, ain’t it?” All these natural +calculations passed briskly through Barnes Newcome’s mind, as his +uncle, from the opposite side of the fireplace, implored him in the +above little speech. + +“My dear Colonel,” said Barnes, “my dear, kind Colonel! I needn’t tell +you that your proposal flatters us, as much as your extraordinary +generosity surprises me. I never heard anything like it—never. Could I +consult my own wishes I would at once—I would, permit me to say, from +sheer admiration of your noble character, say yes, with all my heart, +to your proposal. But, alas, I haven’t that power.” + +“Is—is she engaged?” asks the Colonel, looking as blank and sad as +Clive himself when Ethel had conversed with him. + +“No—I cannot say engaged—though a person of the very highest rank has +paid her the most marked attention. But my sister has, in a way, gone +from our family, and from my influence as the head of it—an influence +which I, I am sure, had most gladly exercised in your favour. My +grandmother, Lady Kew, has adopted her; purposes, I believe, to leave +Ethel the greater part of her fortune, upon certain conditions; and, of +course, expects the—the obedience, and so forth, which is customary in +such cases. By the way, Colonel, is our young soupirant aware that papa +is pleading his cause for him?” + +The Colonel said no; and Barnes lauded the caution which his uncle had +displayed. It was quite as well for the young man’s interests (which +Sir Barnes had most tenderly at heart) that Clive Newcome should not +himself move in the affair, or present himself to Lady Kew. Barnes +would take the matter in hand at the proper season; the Colonel might +be sure it would be most eagerly, most ardently pressed. Clive came +home at this juncture, whom Barnes saluted affectionately. He and the +Colonel had talked over their money business; their conversation had +been most satisfactory, thank you. “Has it not, Colonel?” The three +parted the very best of friends. + +As Barnes Newcome professed that extreme interest for his cousin and +uncle, it is odd he did not tell them that Lady Kew and Miss Ethel +Newcome were at that moment within a mile of them, at her ladyship’s +house in Queen Street, Mayfair. In the hearing of Clive’s servant, +Barnes did not order his brougham to drive to Queen Street, but waited +until he was in Bond Street before he gave the order. + +And, of course, when he entered Lady Kew’s house, he straightway asked +for his sister, and communicated to her the generous offer which the +good Colonel had made. + +You see, Lady Kew was in town, and not in town. Her ladyship was but +passing through, on her way from a tour of visits in the North, to +another tour of visits somewhere else. The newspapers were not even off +the blinds. The proprietor of the house cowered over a bed-candle and a +furtive teapot in the back drawing-room. Lady Kew’s _gens_ were not here. +The tall canary ones with white polls, only showed their plumage and +sang in spring. The solitary wretch who takes charge of London houses, +and the two servants specially affected to Lady Kew’s person, were the +only people in attendance. In fact, her ladyship was not in town. And +that is why, no doubt, Barnes Newcome said nothing about her being +there. + + + + +CHAPTER LII. +Family Secrets + + +The figure cowering over the furtive teapot glowered grimly at Barnes +as he entered; and an old voice said—“Ho, it’s you!” + +“I have brought you the notes, ma’am,” says Barnes, taking a packet of +those documents from his pocket-book. “I could not come sooner, I have +been engaged upon bank business until now.” + +“I dare say! You smell of smoke like a courier.” + +“A foreign capitalist: he would smoke. They will, ma’am. _I_ didn’t +smoke, upon my word.” + +“I don’t see why you shouldn’t, if you like it. You will never get +anything out of me whether you do or don’t. How is Clara? Is she gone +to the country with the children? Newcome is the best place for her.” + +“Doctor Bambury thinks she can move in a fortnight. The boy has had a +little——” + +“A little fiddlestick! I tell you it is she who likes to stay, and +makes that fool, Bambury, advise her not going away. I tell you to send +her to Newcome. The air is good for her.” + +“By that confounded smoky town, my dear Lady Kew?” + +“And invite your mother and little brothers and sisters to stay +Christmas there. The way in which you neglect them is shameful, it is, +Barnes.” + +“Upon my word, ma’am, I propose to manage my own affairs without your +ladyship’s assistance,” cries Barnes, starting up, “and did not come at +this time of night to hear this kind of——” + +“Of good advice. I sent for you to give it you. When I wrote to you to +bring me the money I wanted it was but a pretext; Barkins might have +fetched it from the City in the morning. I want you to send Clara and +the children to Newcome. They ought to go, sir. That is why I sent for +you; to tell you that. Have you been quarrelling as much as usual?” + +“Pretty much as usual,” says Barnes, drumming on his hat. + +“Don’t beat that devil’s tattoo; you agacez my poor old nerves. When +Clara was given to you she was as well broke a girl as any in London.” + +Sir Barnes responded by a groan. + +“She was as gentle and amenable to reason, as good-natured a girl as +could be; a little vacant and silly, but you men like dolls for your +wives; and now in three years you have utterly spoiled her. She is +restive, she is artful, she flies into rages, she fights you and beats +you. He! he! and that comes of your beating her!” + +“I didn’t come to hear this, ma’am,” says Barnes, livid with rage + +“You struck her, you know you did, Sir Barnes Newcome. She rushed over +to me last year on the night you did it, you know she did.” + +“Great God, ma’am! You know the provocation,” screams Barnes. + +“Provocation or not, I don’t say. But from that moment she has beat +you. You fool, to write her a letter and ask her pardon. If I had been +a man I would rather have strangled my wife, than have humiliated +myself so before her. She will never forgive that blow.” + +“I was mad when I did it; and she drove me mad,” says Barnes. “She has +the temper of a fiend, and the ingenuity of the devil. In two years an +entire change has come over her. If I had used a knife to her I should +not have been surprised. But it is not with you to reproach me about +Clara. Your ladyship found her for me.” + +“And you spoilt her after she was found, sir. She told me part of her +story that night she came to me. I know it is true, Barnes. You have +treated her dreadfully, sir.” + +“I know that she makes my life miserable, and there is no help for it,” +says Barnes, grinding a curse between his teeth. “Well, well, no more +about this. How is Ethel? Gone to sleep after her journey? What do you +think, ma’am, I have brought for her? A proposal.” + +“Bon Dieu! You don’t mean to say Charles Belsize was in earnest!” cries +the dowager. “I always thought it was a——” + +“It is not from Lord Highgate, ma’am,” Sir Barnes said, gloomily. “It +is some time since I have known that he was not in earnest; and he +knows that I am now.” + +“Gracious goodness! come to blows with him, too? You have not? That +would be the very thing to make the world talk,” says the dowager, with +some anxiety. + +“No,” answers Barnes. “He knows well enough that there can be no open +rupture. We had some words the other day at a dinner he gave at his own +house; Colonel Newcome and that young beggar, Clive, and that fool, Mr. +Hobson, were there. Lord Highgate was confoundedly insolent. He told me +that I did not dare to quarrel with him because of the account he kept +at our house. I should like to have massacred him! She has told him +that I struck her,—the insolent brute—he says he will tell it at my +clubs; and threatens personal violence to me, there, if I do it again. +Lady Kew, I’m not safe from that man and that woman,” cries poor +Barnes, in an agony of terror. + +“Fighting is Jack Belsize’s business, Barnes Newcome; banking is yours, +luckily,” said the dowager. “As old Lord Highgate was to die and his +eldest son, too, it is a pity certainly they had not died a year or two +earlier, and left poor Clara and Charles to come together. You should +have married some woman in the serious way; my daughter Walham could +have found you one. Frank, I am told, and his wife go on very sweetly +together; her mother-in-law governs the whole family. They have turned +the theatre back into a chapel again: they have six little ploughboys +dressed in surplices to sing the service; and Frank and the Vicar of +Kewbury play at cricket with them on holidays. Stay, why should not +Clara go to Kewbury?” + +“She and her sister have quarrelled about this very affair with Lord +Highgate. Some time ago it appears they had words about it and when I +told Kew that bygones had best be bygones, that Highgate was very sweet +upon Ethel now, and that I did not choose to lose such a good account +as his, Kew was very insolent to me; his conduct was blackguardly, +ma’am, quite blackguardly, and you may be sure but for our relationship +I would have called him to——” + +Here the talk between Barnes and his ancestress was interrupted by the +appearance of Miss Ethel Newcome, taper in hand, who descended from the +upper regions enveloped in a shawl. + +“How do you do, Barnes? How is Clara? I long to see my little nephew. +Is he like his pretty papa?” cries the young lady, giving her fair +cheek to her brother. + +“Scotland has agreed with our Newcome rose,” says Barnes, gallantly. +“My dear Ethel, I never saw you in greater beauty.” + +“By the light of one bedroom candle! what should I be if the whole room +were lighted? You would see my face then was covered all over with +wrinkles, and quite pale and woebegone, with the dreariness of the +Scotch journey. Oh, what a time we have spent! haven’t we, grandmamma? +I never wish to go to a great castle again; above all, I never wish to +go to a little shooting-box. Scotland may be very well for men; but for +women—allow me to go to Paris when next there is talk of a Scotch +expedition. I had rather be in a boarding-school in the Champs Elysées +than in the finest castle in the Highlands. If it had not been for a +blessed quarrel with Fanny Follington, I think I should have died at +Glen Shorthorn. Have you seen my dear, dear uncle, the Colonel? When +did he arrive?” + +“Is he come? Why is he come?” asks Lady Kew. + +“Is he come? Look here, grandmamma! did you ever see such a darling +shawl! I found it in a packet in my room.” + +“Well, it is beautiful,” cries the Dowager, bending her ancient nose +over the web. “Your Colonel is a galant homme. That must be said of +him; and in this does not quite take after the rest of the family. Hum! +hum! is he going away again soon?” + +“He has made a fortune, a very considerable fortune for a man in that +rank in life,” says Sir Barnes. “He cannot have less than sixty +thousand pounds.” + +“Is that much?” asks Ethel. + +“Not in England, at our rate of interest; but his money is in India, +where he gets a great percentage. His income must be five or six +thousand pounds, ma’am,” says Barnes, turning to Lady Kew. + +“A few of the Indians were in society in my time, my dear,” says Lady +Kew, musingly. “My father has often talked to me about Barbell of +Stanstead, and his house in St. James’s Square; the man who ordered +more curricles when there were not carriages enough for his guests. I +was taken to Mr. Hastings’s trial. It was very stupid and long. The +young man, the painter, I suppose will leave his paint-pots now, and +set up as a gentleman. I suppose they were very poor, or his father +would not have put him to such a profession. Barnes, why did you not +make him a clerk in the bank, and save him from the humiliation?” + +“Humiliation! why, he is proud of it. My uncle is as proud as a +Plantagenet; though he is as humble as—as what! Give me a simile +Barnes. Do you know what my quarrel with Fanny Follington was about? +She said we were not descended from the barber-surgeon, and laughed at +the Battle of Bosworth. She says our great-grandfather was a weaver. +Was he a weaver?” + +“How should I know? and what on earth does it matter, my child? Except +the Gaunts, the Howards, and one or two more, there is scarcely any +good blood in England. You are lucky in sharing some of mine. My poor +Lord Kew’s grandfather was an apothecary at Hampton Court, and founded +the family by giving a dose of rhubarb to Queen Caroline. As a rule, +nobody is of a good family. Didn’t that young man, that son of the +Colonel’s, go about last year? How did he get in society? Where did we +meet him? Oh! at Baden, yes; when Barnes was courting, and my +grandson—yes, my grandson, acted so wickedly.” Here she began to cough, +and to tremble so, that her old stick shook under her hand. “Ring the +bell for Ross. Ross, I will go to bed. Go you too, Ethel. You have been +travelling enough to-day.” + +“Her memory seems to fail her a little,” Ethel whispered to her +brother; “or she will only remember what she wishes. Don’t you see that +she has grown very much older?” + +“I will be with her in the morning. I have business with her,” said +Barnes. + +“Good night. Give my love to Clara, and kiss the little ones for me. +Have you done what you promised me, Barnes?” + +“What?” + +“To be—to be kind to Clara. Don’t say cruel things to her. She has a +high spirit, and she feels them, though she says nothing.” + +“_Doesn’t_ she?” said Barnes, grimly. + +“Ah, Barnes, be gentle with her. Seldom as I saw you together, when I +lived with you in the spring, I could see that you were harsh, though +she affected to laugh when she spoke of your conduct to her. Be kind. I +am sure it is the best, Barnes; better than all the wit in the world. +Look at grandmamma, how witty she was and is; what a reputation she +had, how people were afraid of her; and see her now—quite alone.” + +“I’ll see her in the morning quite alone, my dear,” says Barnes, waving +a little gloved hand. “Bye-bye!” and his brougham drove away. While +Ethel Newcome had been under her brother’s roof, where I and friend +Clive, and scores of others, had been smartly entertained, there had +been quarrels and recriminations, misery and heart-burning, cruel words +and shameful struggles, the wretched combatants in which appeared +before the world with smiling faces, resuming their battle when the +feast was concluded and the company gone. + +On the next morning, when Barnes came to visit his grandmother, Miss +Newcome was gone away to see her sister-in-law, Lady Kew said, with +whom she was going to pass the morning; so Barnes and Lady Kew had an +uninterrupted _tête-à-tête_, in which the former acquainted the old +lady with the proposal which Colonel Newcome had made to him on the +previous night. + +Lady Kew wondered what the impudence of the world’s would come to. An +artist propose for Ethel! One of her footmen might propose next, and +she supposed Barnes would bring the message. “The father came and +proposed for this young painter, and you didn’t order him out of the +room!” + +Barnes laughed. “The Colonel is one of my constituents. I can’t afford +to order the Bundelcund Banking Company out of its own room.” + +“You did not tell Ethel this pretty news, I suppose?” + +“Of course I didn’t tell Ethel. Nor did I tell the Colonel that Ethel +was in London. He fancies her in Scotland with your ladyship at this +moment.” + +“I wish the Colonel were at Calcutta, and his son with him. I wish he +was in the Ganges, I wish he was under Juggernaut’s car,” cried the old +lady. “How much money has the wretch really got? If he is of importance +to the bank, of course you must keep well with him. Five thousand a +year, and he says he will settle it all on his son? He must be crazy. +There is nothing some of these people will not do, no sacrifice they +will not make, to ally themselves with good families. Certainly you +must remain on good terms with him and his bank. And we must say +nothing of the business to Ethel, and trot out of town as quickly as we +can. Let me see? We go to Drummington on Saturday. This is Tuesday. +Barkins, you will keep the front drawing-room shutters shut, and +remember we are not in town, unless Lady Glenlivat or Lord Farintosh +should call.” + +“Do you think Farintosh will—will call, ma’am?” asked Sir Barnes +demurely. + +“He will be going through to Newmarket. He has been where we have been +at two or three places in Scotland,” replies the lady, with equal +gravity. “His poor mother wishes him to give up his bachelor’s life—as +well she may—for you young men are terribly dissipated. Rossmont is +quite a regal place. His Norfolk house is not inferior. A young man of +that station ought to marry, and live at his places, and be an example +to his people, instead of frittering away his time at Paris and Vienna +amongst the most odious company.” + +“Is he going to Drummington?” asks the grandson. + +“I believe he has been invited. We shall go to Paris for November: he +probably will be there,” answered the Dowager casually; “and tired of +the dissipated life he has been leading, let us hope he will mend his +ways, and find a virtuous, well-bred young woman to keep him right.” +With this her ladyship’s apothecary is announced, and her banker and +grandson takes his leave. + +Sir Barnes walked into the City with his umbrella, read his letters, +conferred with his partners and confidential clerks; was for a while +not the exasperated husband, or the affectionate brother, or the +amiable grandson, but the shrewd, brisk banker, engaged entirely with +his business. Presently he had occasion to go on ’Change, or elsewhere, +to confer with brother-capitalists, and in Cornhill behold he meets his +uncle, Colonel Newcome, riding towards the India House, a groom behind +him. + +The Colonel springs off his horse, and Barnes greets him in the +blandest manner. “Have you any news for me, Barnes?” cries the officer. + +“The accounts from Calcutta are remarkably good. That cotton is of +admirable quality really. Mr. Briggs, of our house, who knows cotton as +well as any man in England, says——” + +“It’s not the cotton, my dear Sir Barnes,” cries the other. + +“The bills are perfectly good; there is no sort of difficulty about +them. Our house will take half a million of ’em, if——” + +“You are talking of bills, and I am thinking of poor Clive,” the +Colonel interposes. “I wish you could give me good news for him, +Barnes.” + +“I wish I could. I heartily trust that I may some day. My good wishes +you know are enlisted in your son’s behalf,” cries Barnes, gallantly. +“Droll place to talk sentiment in—Cornhill, isn’t it? But Ethel, as I +told you, is in the hands of higher powers, and we must conciliate Lady +Kew if we can. She has always spoken very highly of Clive; very.” + +“Had I not best go to her?” asks the Colonel. + +“Into the North, my good sir? She is—ah—she is travelling about. I +think you had best depend upon me, Good morning. In the City we have no +hearts, you know, Colonel. Be sure you shall hear from me as soon as +Lady Kew and Ethel come to town.” + +And the banker hurried away, shaking his finger-tips to his uncle, and +leaving the good Colonel utterly surprised at his statements. For the +fact is, the Colonel knew that Lady Kew was in London, having been +apprised of the circumstance in the simplest manner in the world, +namely, by a note from Miss Ethel, which billet he had in his pocket, +whilst he was talking with the head of the house of Hobson Brothers:— + +“My dear Uncle” (the note said), “how glad I shall be to see you! How +shall I thank you for the beautiful shawl, and the kind, kind +remembrance of me? I found your present yesterday evening, on our +arrival from the North. We are only here _en passant_, and see _nobody_ +in Queen Street but Barnes, who has just been about business, and he +does not count, you know. I shall go and see Clara to-morrow, and make +her take me to see your pretty friend, Mrs. Pendennis. How glad I +should be if you _happened_ to pay Mrs. P. a visit _about two!_ +Good-night. I thank you a thousand times, and am always your +affectionate E.” + +“QUEEN STREET. Tuesday night. _Twelve o’clock_.” + +This note came to Colonel Newcome’s breakfast-table, and he smothered +the exclamation of wonder which was rising to his lips, not choosing to +provoke the questions of Clive, who sate opposite to him. Clive’s +father was in a woeful perplexity all that forenoon. “Tuesday night, +twelve o’clock,” thought he. “Why, Barnes must have gone to his +grandmother from my dinner-table; and he told me she was out of town, +and said so again just now when we met in the City.” (The Colonel was +riding towards Richmond at this time.) “What cause had the young man to +tell me these lies? Lady Kew may not wish to be at home for me, but +need Barnes Newcome say what is untrue to mislead me? The fellow +actually went away simpering, and kissing his hand to me, with a +falsehood on his lips! What a pretty villain! A fellow would deserve, +and has got, a horse-whipping for less. And to think of a Newcome doing +this to his own flesh and blood; a young Judas!” Very sad and +bewildered, the Colonel rode towards Richmond, where he was to happen +to call on Mrs. Pendennis. + +It was not much of a fib that Barnes had told. Lady Kew announcing that +she was out of town, her grandson, no doubt, thought himself justified +in saying so, as any other of her servants would have done. But if he +had recollected how Ethel came down with the Colonel’s shawl on her +shoulders, how it was possible she might have written to thank her +uncle, surely Barnes Newcome would not have pulled that unlucky +long-bow. The banker had other things to think of than Ethel and her +shawl. + +When Thomas Newcome dismounted at the door of Honeymoon Cottage, +Richmond, the temporary residence of A. Pendennis, Esq., one of the +handsomest young women in England ran into the passage with +outstretched arms, called him her dear old uncle, and gave him two +kisses, that I dare say brought blushes on his lean sunburnt cheeks. +Ethel clung always to his affection. She wanted that man, rather than +any other in the whole world, to think well of her. When she was with +him, she was the amiable and simple, the loving impetuous creature of +old times. She chose to think of no other. Worldliness, heartlessness, +eager scheming, cold flirtations, marquis-hunting and the like, +disappeared for a while—and were not, as she sate at that honest man’s +side. O me! that we should have to record such charges against Ethel +Newcome! + +“He was come home for good now? He would never leave that boy he +spoiled so, who was a good boy, too: she wished she could see him +oftener. At Paris, at Madame de Florac’s—I found out all about Madame +de Florac, sir,” says Miss Ethel, with a laugh—“we used often to meet +there; and here, sometimes, in London. But in London it was different. +You know what peculiar notions some people have; and as I live with +grandmamma, who is most kind to me and my brothers, of course I must +obey her, see her,” etc. etc. That the young lady went on talking, +defending herself, whom nobody attacked, protesting her dislike to +gaiety and dissipation—you would have fancied her an artless young +country lass, only longing to trip back to her village, milk her cows +at sunrise, and sit spinning of winter evenings by the fire. + +“Why do you come and spoil my _tête-à-tête_ with my uncle, Mr. +Pendennis?” cries the young lady to the master of the house, who +happens to enter “Of all the men in the world the one I like best to +talk to! Does he not look younger than when he went to India? When +Clive marries that pretty little Miss Mackenzie, you will marry again, +uncle, and I will be jealous of your wife.” + +“Did Barnes tell you that we had met last night, my dear?” asks the +Colonel. + +“Not one word. Your shawl and your dear kind note told me you were +come. Why did not Barnes tell us? Why do you look so grave?” + +“He has not told her that I was here, and would have me believe her +absent,” thought Newcome, as his countenance fell. “Shall I give her my +own message, and plead my poor boy’s cause with her?” I know not +whether he was about to lay his suit before her; he said himself +subsequently that his mind was not made up; but at this juncture, a +procession of nurses and babies made their appearance, followed by the +two mothers, who had been comparing their mutual prodigies (each lady +having her own private opinion)—Lady Clara and my wife—the latter for +once gracious to Lady Clara Newcome, in consideration of the infantine +company with which she came to visit Mrs. Pendennis. + +Luncheon was served presently. The carriage of the Newcomes drove away, +my wife smilingly pardoning Ethel for the assignation which the young +person had made at our house. And when those ladies were gone, our good +Colonel held a council of war with us his two friends, and told us what +had happened between him and Barnes on that morning and the previous +night. His offer to sacrifice every shilling of his fortune to young +Clive seemed to him to be perfectly simple (though the recital of the +circumstance brought tears into my wife’s eyes)—he mentioned it by the +way, and as a matter that was scarcely to call for comment, much less +praise. + +Barnes’s extraordinary statements respecting Lady Kew’s absence puzzled +the elder Newcome; and he spoke of his nephew’s conduct with much +indignation. In vain I urged that her ladyship desiring to be +considered absent from London, her grandson was bound to keep her +secret. “Keep her secret, yes! Tell me lies, no!” cries out the +Colonel. Sir Barnes’s conduct was in fact indefensible, though not +altogether unusual—the worst deduction to be drawn from it, in my +opinion, was, that Clive’s chance with the young lady was but a poor +one, and that Sir Barnes Newcome, inclined to keep his uncle in +good-humour, would therefore give him no disagreeable refusal. + +Now this gentleman could no more pardon a lie than he could utter one. +He would believe all and everything a man told him until deceived once, +after which he never forgave. And wrath being once roused in his simple +mind and distrust firmly fixed there, his anger and prejudices gathered +daily. He could see no single good quality in his opponent; and hated +him with a daily increasing bitterness. + +As ill luck would have it, that very same evening, at his return to +town, Thomas Newcome entered Bays’s club, of which, at our request, he +had become a member during his last visit to England, and there was Sir +Barnes, as usual, on his way homewards from the City. Barnes was +writing at a table, and sealing and closing a letter, as he saw the +Colonel enter; he thought he had been a little inattentive and curt +with his uncle in the morning; had remarked, perhaps, the expression of +disapproval on the Colonel’s countenance. He simpered up to his uncle +as the latter entered the clubroom, and apologised for his haste when +they met in the City in the morning—all City men were so busy! “And I +have been writing about that little affair, just as you came in,” he +said; “quite a moving letter to Lady Kew, I assure you, and I do hope +and trust we shall have a favourable answer in a day or two.” + +“You said her ladyship was in the North, I think?” said the Colonel, +drily. + +“Oh, yes—in the North, at—at Lord Wallsend’s—great coal-proprietor, you +know.” + +“And your sister is with her?” + +“Ethel is always with her.” + +“I hope you will send her my very best remembrances,” said the Colonel. + +“I’ll open the letter, and add ’em in a postscript,” said Barnes. + +“Confounded liar?” cried the Colonel, mentioning the circumstance to me +afterwards, “why does not somebody pitch him out of the bow-window?” + +If we were in the secret of Sir Barnes Newcome’s correspondence, and +could but peep into that particular letter to his grandmother, I dare +say we should read that he had seen the Colonel, who was very anxious +about his darling youth’s suit, but, pursuant to Lady Kew’s desire, +Barnes had stoutly maintained that her ladyship was still in the North, +enjoying the genial hospitality of Lord Wallsend. That of course he +should say nothing to Ethel, except with Lady Kew’s full permission: +that he wished her a pleasant trip to ——, and was, etc. etc. + +Then if we could follow him, we might see him reach his Belgravian +mansion, and fling an angry word to his wife as she sits alone in the +darkling drawing-room, poring over the embers. He will ask her, +probably with an oath, why the —— she is not dressed? and if she always +intends to keep her company waiting? An hour hence, each with a smirk, +and the lady in smart raiment, with flowers in her hair, will be +greeting their guests as they arrive. Then will come dinner and such +conversation as it brings. Then at night Sir Barnes will issue forth, +cigar in mouth; to return to his own chamber at his own hour; to +breakfast by himself; to go Citywards, money-getting. He will see his +children once a fortnight, and exchange a dozen sharp words with his +wife twice in that time. + +More and more sad does the Lady Clara become from day to day; liking +more to sit lonely over the fire; careless about the sarcasms of her +husband; the prattle of her children. She cries sometimes over the +cradle of the young heir. She is aweary, aweary. You understand, the +man to whom her parents sold her does not make her happy, though she +has been bought with diamonds, two carriages, several large footmen, a +fine country-house with delightful gardens, and conservatories, and +with all this she is miserable—is it possible? + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. +In which Kinsmen fall out + + +Not the least difficult part of Thomas Newcome’s present business was +to keep from his son all knowledge of the negotiation in which he was +engaged on Clive’s behalf. If my gentle reader has had sentimental +disappointments, he or she is aware that the friends who have given him +most sympathy under these calamities have been persons who have had +dismal histories of their own at some time of their lives, and I +conclude Colonel Newcome in his early days must have suffered very +cruelly in that affair of which we have a slight cognisance, or he +would not have felt so very much anxiety about Clive’s condition. + +A few chapters back and we described the first attack, and Clive’s +manful cure: then we had to indicate the young gentleman’s relapse, and +the noisy exclamations of the youth under this second outbreak of +fever. Calling him back after she had dismissed him, and finding +pretext after pretext to see him,—why did the girl encourage him, as +she certainly did? I allow, with Mrs. Grundy and most moralists, that +Miss Newcome’s conduct in this matter was highly reprehensible; that if +she did not intend to marry Clive she should have broken with +him—altogether; that a virtuous young woman of high principle, etc. +etc., having once determined to reject a suitor, should separate from +him utterly then and there—never give him again the least chance of a +hope, or reillume the extinguished fire in the wretch’s bosom. + +But coquetry, but kindness, but family affection, and a strong, very +strong partiality for the rejected lover—are these not to be taken in +account, and to plead as excuses for her behaviour to her cousin? The +least unworthy part of her conduct, some critics will say, was that +desire to see Clive and be well with him: as she felt the greatest +regard for him, the showing it was not blameable; and every flutter +which she made to escape out of the meshes which the world had cast +about her was but the natural effort at liberty. It was her prudence +which was wrong; and her submission wherein she was most culpable. In +the early church story, do we not read how young martyrs constantly had +to disobey worldly papas and mammas, who would have had them silent, +and not utter their dangerous opinions? how their parents locked them +up, kept them on bread-and-water, whipped and tortured them in order to +enforce obedience?—nevertheless they would declare the truth: they +would defy the gods by law established, and deliver themselves up to +the lions or the tormentors. Are not there Heathen Idols enshrined +among us still? Does not the world worship them, and persecute those +who refuse to kneel? Do not many timid souls sacrifice to them; and +other bolder spirits rebel and, with rage at their hearts, bend down +their stubborn knees at their altars? See! I began by siding with Mrs. +Grundy and the world, and at the next turn of the see-saw have lighted +down on Ethel’s side, and am disposed to think that the very best part +of her conduct has been those escapades which—which right-minded +persons most justly condemn. At least, that a young beauty should +torture a man with alternate liking and indifference; allure, dismiss, +and call him back out of banishment; practise arts to please upon him, +and ignore them when rebuked for her coquetry—these are surely +occurrences so common in young women’s history as to call for no +special censure; and if on these charges Miss Newcome is guilty, is +she, of all her sex, alone in her criminality? + +So Ethel and her duenna went away upon their tour of visits to mansions +so splendid, and among hosts and guests so polite, that the present +modest historian does not dare to follow them. Suffice it to say that +Duke This and Earl That were, according to their hospitable custom, +entertaining a brilliant circle of friends at their respective castles, +all whose names the _Morning Post_ gave; and among them those of the +Dowager Countess of Kew and Miss Newcome. + +During her absence, Thomas Newcome grimly awaited the result of his +application to Barnes. That Baronet showed his uncle a letter, or +rather a postscript, from Lady Kew, which probably had been dictated by +Barnes himself, in which the Dowager said she was greatly touched by +Colonel Newcome’s noble offer; that though she owned she had very +different views for her granddaughter, Miss Newcome’s choice of course +lay with herself. Meanwhile, Lady K. and Ethel were engaged in a round +of visits to the country, and there would be plenty of time to resume +this subject when they came to London for the season. And, lest dear +Ethel’s feelings should be needlessly agitated by a discussion of the +subject, and the Colonel should take a fancy to write to her privately, +Lady Kew gave orders that all letters from London should be despatched +under cover to her ladyship, and carefully examined the contents of the +packet before Ethel received her share of the correspondence. + +To write to her personally on the subject of the marriage, Thomas +Newcome had determined was not a proper course for him to pursue. “They +consider themselves,” says he, “above us, forsooth, in their rank of +life (oh, mercy! what pigmies we are! and don’t angels weep at the +brief authority in which we dress ourselves up!) and of course the +approaches on our side must be made in regular form, and the parents of +the young people must act for them. Clive is too honourable a man to +wish to conduct the affair in any other way. He might try the influence +of his _beaux yeux_, and run off to Gretna with a girl who had nothing; +but the young lady being wealthy, and his relation, sir, we must be on +the point of honour; and all the Kews in Christendom shan’t have more +pride than we in this matter.” + +All this time we are keeping Mr. Clive purposely in the background. His +face is so woebegone that we do not care to bring it forward in the +family picture. His case is so common that surely its lugubrious +symptoms need not be described at length. He works away fiercely at his +pictures, and in spite of himself improves in his art. He sent a +“Combat of Cavalry,” and a picture of “Sir Brian the Templar carrying +off Rebecca,” to the British Institution this year; both of which +pieces were praised in other journals besides the _Pall Mall Gazette_. +He did not care for the newspaper praises. He was rather surprised when +a dealer purchased his “Sir Brian the Templar.” He came and went from +our house a melancholy swain. He was thankful for Laura’s kindness and +pity. J. J.’s studio was his principal resort; and I dare say, as he +set up his own easel there, and worked by his friend’s side, he +bemoaned his lot to his sympathising friend. + +Sir Barnes Newcome’s family was absent from London during the winter. +His mother, and his brothers and sisters, his wife and his two +children, were gone to Newcome for Christmas. Some six weeks after +seeing him, Ethel wrote her uncle a kind, merry letter. They had been +performing private theatricals at the country-house where she and Lady +Kew were staying. “Captain Crackthorpe made an admirable Jeremy Diddler +in ‘Raising the Wind.’ Lord Farintosh broke down lamentably as Fusbos +in ‘Bombastes Furioso.’” Miss Ethel had distinguished herself in both +of these facetious little comedies. “I should like Clive to paint me as +Miss Plainways,” she wrote. “I wore a powdered front, painted my face +all over wrinkles, imitated old Lady Griffin as well as I could, and +looked sixty at least.” + +Thomas Newcome wrote an answer to his fair niece’s pleasant letter; +“Clive,” he said, “would be happy to bargain to paint her, and nobody +else but her, all the days of his life; and,” the Colonel was sure, +“would admire her at sixty as much as he did now, when she was forty +years younger.” But, determined on maintaining his appointed line of +conduct respecting Miss Newcome, he carried his letter to Sir Barnes, +and desired him to forward it to his sister. Sir Barnes took the note, +and promised to despatch it. The communications between him and his +uncle had been very brief and cold, since the telling of these little +fibs concerning old Lady Kew’s visits to London, which the Baronet +dismissed from his mind as soon as they were spoken, and which the good +Colonel never could forgive. Barnes asked his uncle to dinner once or +twice, but the Colonel was engaged. How was Barnes to know the reason +of the elder’s refusal? A London man, a banker, and a Member of +Parliament, has a thousand things to think of; and no time to wonder +that friends refuse his invitations to dinner. Barnes continued to grin +and smile most affectionately when he met the Colonel; to press his +hand, to congratulate him on the last accounts from India, unconscious +of the scorn and distrust with which his senior mentally regarded him. +“Old boy is doubtful about the young cub’s love-affair,” the Baronet +may have thought. “We’ll ease his old mind on that point some time +hence.” No doubt Barnes thought he was conducting the business very +smartly and diplomatically. + +I heard myself news at this period from the gallant Crackthorpe, which, +being interested in my young friend’s happiness, filled me with some +dismay. “Our friend the painter and glazier has been hankering about +our barracks at Knightsbridge” (the noble Life Guards Green had now +pitched their tents in that suburb), “and pumping me about _la belle +cousine_. I don’t like to break it to him—I don’t really, now. But it’s +all up with his chance, I think. Those private theatricals at +Fallowfield have done Farintosh’s business. He used to rave about the +Newcomes to me, as we were riding home from hunting. He gave Bob +Henchman the lie, who told a story which Bob got from his man, who had +it from Miss Newcome’s lady’s-maid, about—about some journey to +Brighton, which the cousins took.” Here Mr. Crackthorpe grinned most +facetiously. “Farintosh swore he’d knock Henchman down; and vows he +will be the death of—will murder our friend Clive when he comes to +town. As for Henchman, he was in a desperate way. He lives on the +Marquis, you know, and Farintosh’s anger or his marriage will be the +loss of free quarters, and ever so many good dinners a year to him.” I +did not deem it necessary to impart Crackthorpe’s story to Clive, or +explain to him the reason why Lord Farintosh scowled most fiercely upon +the young painter, and passed him without any other sign of recognition +one day as Clive and I were walking together in Pall Mall. If my lord +wanted a quarrel, young Clive was not a man to balk him; and would have +been a very fierce customer to deal with, in his actual state of mind. + +A pauper child in London at seven years old knows how to go to market, +to fetch the beer, to pawn father’s coat, to choose the largest fried +fish or the nicest ham-bone, to nurse Mary Jane of three,—to conduct a +hundred operations of trade or housekeeping, which a little Belgravian +does not perhaps acquire in all the days of her life. Poverty and +necessity force this precociousness on the poor little brat. There are +children who are accomplished shoplifters and liars almost as soon as +they can toddle and speak. I dare say little Princes know the laws of +etiquette as regards themselves, and the respect due to their rank, at +a very early period of their royal existence. Every one of us, +according to his degree, can point to the Princekins of private life +who are flattered and worshipped, and whose little shoes grown men kiss +as soon almost as they walk upon ground. + +It is a wonder what human nature will support: and that, considering +the amount of flattery some people are crammed with from their cradles, +they do not grow worse and more selfish than they are. Our poor little +pauper just mentioned is dosed with Daffy’s Elixir, and somehow +survives the drug. Princekin or lordkin from his earliest days has +nurses, dependants, governesses, little friends, schoolfellows, +schoolmasters, fellow-collegians, college tutors, stewards and valets, +led captains of his suite, and women innumerable flattering him and +doing him honour. The tradesman’s manner, which to you and me is +decently respectful, becomes straightway frantically servile before +Princekin. Honest folks at railway stations whisper to their families, +“That’s the Marquis of Farintosh,” and look hard at him as he passes. +Landlords cry, “This way, my lord; this room for your lordship.” They +say at public schools Princekin is taught the beauties of equality, and +thrashed into some kind of subordination. Psha! Toad-eaters in +pinafores surround Princekin. Do not respectable people send their +children so as to be at the same school with him; don’t they follow him +to college, and eat his toads through life? + +And as for women—oh, my dear friends and brethren in this vale of +tears—did you ever see anything so curious, monstrous, and amazing as +the way in which women court Princekin when he is marriageable, and +pursue him with their daughters? Who was the British nobleman in old +old days who brought his three daughters to the King of Mercia, that +His Majesty might choose one after inspection? Mercia was but a petty +province, and its king in fact a Princekin. Ever since those extremely +ancient and venerable times the custom exists not only in Mercia, but +in all the rest of the provinces inhabited by the Angles, and before +Princekins the daughters of our nobles are trotted out. + +There was no day of his life which our young acquaintance, the Marquis +of Farintosh, could remember on which he had not been flattered; and no +society which did not pay him court. At a private school he could +recollect the master’s wife stroking his pretty curls and treating him +furtively to goodies; at college he had the tutor simpering and bowing +as he swaggered over the grass-plat; old men at clubs would make way +for him and fawn on him—not your mere pique-assiettes and penniless +parasites, but most respectable toad-eaters, fathers of honest +families, gentlemen themselves of good station, who respected this +young gentleman as one of the institutions of their country, and the +admired wisdom of the nation that set him to legislate over us. When +Lord Farintosh walked the streets at night, he felt himself like Haroun +Alraschid—(that is, he would have felt so had he ever heard of the +Arabian potentate)—a monarch in disguise affably observing and +promenading the city. And let us be sure there was a Mesrour in his +train to knock at the doors for him and run the errands of this young +caliph. Of course he met with scores of men in life who neither +flattered him nor would suffer his airs; but he did not like the +company of such, or for the sake of truth undergo the ordeal of being +laughed at; he preferred toadies, generally speaking. “I like,” says +he, “you know, those fellows who are always saying pleasant things, you +know, and who would run from here to Hammersmith if I asked ’em—much +better than those fellows who are always making fun of me, you know.” A +man of his station who likes flatterers need not shut himself up; he +can get plenty of society. + +As for women, it was his lordship’s opinion that every daughter of Eve +was bent on marrying him. A Scotch marquis, an English earl, of the +best blood in the empire, with a handsome person, and a fortune of +fifteen thousand a year, how could the poor creatures do otherwise than +long for him? He blandly received their caresses; took their coaxing +and cajolery as matters of course; and surveyed the beauties of his +time as the Caliph the moonfaces of his harem. My lord intended to +marry certainly. He did not care for money, nor for rank; he expected +consummate beauty and talent, and some day would fling his handkerchief +to the possessor of these, and place her by his side upon the Farintosh +throne. + +At this time there were but two or three young ladies in society +endowed with the necessary qualifications, or who found favour in his +eyes. His lordship hesitated in his selection from these beauties. He +was not in a hurry, he was not angry at the notion that Lady Kew (and +Miss Newcome with her) hunted him. What else should they do but pursue +an object so charming? Everybody hunted him. The other young ladies, +whom we need not mention, languished after him still more longingly. He +had little notes from these; presents of purses worked by them, and +cigar-cases embroidered with his coronet. They sang to him in cosy +boudoirs—mamma went out of the room, and sister Ann forgot something in +the drawing-room. They ogled him as they sang. Trembling they gave him +a little foot to mount them, that they might ride on horseback with +him. They tripped along by his side from the Hall to the pretty country +church on Sundays. They warbled hymns: sweetly looking at him the while +mamma whispered confidentially to him, “What an angel Cecilia is!” And +so forth, and so forth—with which chaff our noble bird was by no means +to be caught. When he had made up his great mind, that the time was +come and the woman, he was ready to give a Marchioness of Farintosh to +the English nation. + +Miss Newcome has been compared ere this to the statue of “Huntress +Diana” at the Louvre, whose haughty figure and beauty the young lady +indeed somewhat resembled. I was not present when Diana and Diana’s +grandmother hunted the noble Scottish stag of whom we have just been +writing; nor care to know how many times Lord Farintosh escaped, and +how at last he was brought to bay and taken by his resolute pursuers. +Paris, it appears, was the scene of his fall and capture. The news was +no doubt well known amongst Lord Farintosh’s brother-dandies, among +exasperated matrons and virgins in Mayfair, and in polite society +generally, before it came to simple Tom Newcome and his son. Not a word +on the subject had Sir Barnes mentioned to the Colonel: perhaps not +choosing to speak till the intelligence was authenticated; perhaps not +wishing to be the bearer of tidings so painful. + +Though the Colonel may have read in his _Pall Mall Gazette_ a paragraph +which announced an approaching MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE, “between a noble +young marquis and an accomplished and beautiful young lady, daughter +and sister of a Northern baronet,” he did not know who were the +fashionable persons about to be made happy, nor, until he received a +letter from an old friend who lived at Paris, was the fact conveyed to +him. Here is the letter preserved by him along with all that he ever +received from the same hand:— + +“Rue St. Dominique, St. Germain, Paris, 10 Fev. + +“So behold you of return, my friend! you quit for ever the sword and +those arid plains where you have passed so many years of your life, +separated from those to whom, at the commencement, you held very +nearly. Did it not seem once as if two hands never could unlock, so +closely were they enlaced together? Ah, mine are old and feeble now; +forty years have passed since the time when you used to say they were +young and fair. How well I remember me of every one of those days, +though there is a death between me and them, and it is as across a +grave I review them! Yet another parting, and tears and regrets are +finished. Tenez, I do not believe them when they say there is no +meeting for us afterwards, there above. To what good to have seen you, +friend, if we are to part here, and in Heaven too? I have not +altogether forgotten your language, is it not so? I remember it because +it was yours, and that of my happy days. I radote like an old woman as +I am. M. de Florac has known my history from the commencement. May I +not say that after so many of years I have been faithful to him and to +all my promises? When the end comes with its great absolution, I shall +not be sorry. One supports the combats of life, but they are long, and +one comes from them very wounded; ah, when shall they be over? + +“You return and I salute you with wishes for parting. How much egotism! +I have another project which I please myself to arrange. You know how I +am arrived to love Clive as own my child. I very quick surprised his +secret, the poor boy, when he was here it is twenty months. He looked +so like you as I repeal me of you in the old time! He told me he had no +hope of his beautiful cousin. I have heard of the fine marriage that +one makes her. Paul, my son, has been at the English Ambassade last +night and has made his congratulations to M. de Farintosh. Paul says +him handsome, young, not too spiritual, rich, and haughty, like all, +all noble Montagnards. + +“But it is not of M. de Farintosh I write, whose marriage, without +doubt, has been announced to you. I have a little project; very +foolish, perhaps. You know Mr. the Duke of Ivry has left me guardian of +his little daughter Antoinette, whose _affreuse_ mother no one sees +more. Antoinette is pretty and good, and soft, and with an affectionate +heart. I love her already as my infant. I wish to bring her up, and +that Clive should marry her. They say you are returned very rich. What +follies are these I write! In the long evenings of winter, the children +escaped it is a long time from the maternal nest, a silent old man my +only company,—I live but of the past; and play with its souvenirs as +the detained caress little birds, little flowers, in their prisons. I +was born for the happiness; my God! I have learned it in knowing you. +In losing you I have lost it. It is not against the will of Heaven I +oppose myself. It is man, who makes himself so much of this evil and +misery, this slavery, these tears, these crimes, perhaps. + +“This marriage of the young Scotch Marquis and the fair Ethel (I love +her in spite of all, and shall see her soon and congratulate her, for, +do you see, I might have stopped this fine marriage, and did my best +and more than my duty for our poor Clive) shall make itself in London +next spring, I hear. You shall assist scarcely at the ceremony; he, +poor boy, shall not care to be there. Bring him to Paris to make the +court to my little Antoinette: bring him to Paris to his good friend, +Comtesse de Florac.” + +“I read marvels of his works in an English journal, which one sends +me.” + +Clive was not by when this letter reached his father. Clive was in his +painting-room, and lest he should meet his son, and in order to devise +the best means of breaking the news to the lad, Thomas Newcome +retreated out of doors; and from the Oriental he crossed Oxford Street, +and from Oxford Street he stalked over the roomy pavements of +Gloucester Place, and there he bethought him how he had neglected Mrs. +Hobson Newcome of late, and the interesting family of Bryanstone +Square. So he went to leave his card at Maria’s door: her daughters, as +we have said, are quite grown girls. If they have been lectured, and +learning, and back-boarded, and practising, and using the globes, and +laying in a store of ’ologies, ever since, what a deal they must know! +Colonel Newcome was admitted to see his nieces, and Consummate Virtue, +their parent. Maria was charmed to see her brother-in-law; she greeted +him with reproachful tenderness: “Why, why,” her fine eyes seemed to +say, “have you so long neglected us? Do you think because I am wise, +and gifted, and good, and you are, it must be confessed, a poor +creature with no education, I am not also affable? Come, let the +prodigal be welcomed by his virtuous relatives: come and lunch with us, +Colonel!” He sate down accordingly to the family tiffin. + +When the meal was over, the mother, who had matter _of importance to +impart to him_, besought him to go to the drawing-room, and there +poured out such a eulogy upon her children’s qualities as fond mothers +know how to utter. They knew this and they knew that. They were +instructed by the most eminent professors; “that wretched Frenchwoman, +whom you may remember here, Mademoiselle Lenoir,” Maria remarked +parenthetically, “turned out, oh, frightfully! She taught the girls the +worst accent, it appears. Her father was not a colonel; he was—oh! +never mind! It is a mercy I got rid of that _fiendish woman_, and +before my precious ones knew _what_ she was!” And then followed details +of the perfections of the two girls, with occasional side-shots at Lady +Anne’s family, just as in the old time. “Why don’t you bring your boy, +whom I have always loved as a son, and who avoids me? Why does not +Clive know his cousins? They are very different from others of his +kinswomen, who think best of the _heartless world_.” + +“I fear, Maria, there is too much truth in what you say,” sighs the +Colonel, drumming on a book on the drawing-room table, and looking down +sees it is a great, large, square, gilt Peerage, open at FARINTOSH, +MARQUIS OF.—Fergus Angus Malcolm Mungo Roy, Marquis of Farintosh, Earl +of Glenlivat, in the peerage of Scotland; also Earl of Rossmont, in +that of the United Kingdom. Son of Angus Fergus Malcolm, Earl of +Glenlivat, and grandson and heir of Malcolm Mungo Angus, first Marquis +of Farintosh, and twenty-fifth Earl, etc. etc. + +“You have heard the news regarding Ethel?” remarks Hobson. + +“I have just heard,” says the poor Colonel. + +“I have a letter from Anne this morning,” Maria continues. “They are of +course delighted with the match. Lord Farintosh is wealthy, handsome; +has been a little wild, I hear; is not such a husband as I would choose +for my darlings, but poor Brian’s family have been educated to love the +world; and Ethel no doubt is flattered by the prospects before her. I +_have_ heard that some one else was a little _épris_ in that quarter. +How does Clive bear the news, my dear Colonel?” + +“He has long expected it,” says the Colonel, rising: “and I left him +very cheerful at breakfast this morning.” + +“Send him to see us, the naughty boy!” cries Maria. “_We_ don’t change; +we remember old times, to us he will ever be welcome!” And with this +confirmation of Madame de Florac’s news, Thomas Newcome walked sadly +homewards. + +And now Thomas Newcome had to break the news to his son; who received +the shot in such a way as caused his friends and confidants to admire +his high spirit. He said he had long been expecting some such +announcement: it was many months since Ethel had prepared him for it. +Under her peculiar circumstances he did not see how she could act +otherwise than she had done. And he narrated to the Colonel the +substance of the conversation which the two young people had had +together several months before, in Madame de Florac’s garden. + +Clive’s father did not tell his son of his own bootless negotiation +with Barnes Newcome. There was no need to recall that now; but the +Colonel’s wrath against his nephew exploded in conversation with me, +who was the confidant of father and son in this business. Ever since +that luckless day when Barnes thought proper to—to give a wrong address +for Lady Kew, Thomas Newcome’s anger had been growing. He smothered it +yet for a while, sent a letter to Lady Anne Newcome, briefly +congratulating her on the choice which he had heard Miss Newcome had +made; and in acknowledgment of Madame de Florac’s more sentimental +epistle he wrote a reply which has not been preserved, but in which he +bade her rebuke Miss Newcome for not having answered him when he wrote +to her, and not having acquainted her old uncle with her projected +union. + +To this message, Ethel wrote back a brief, hurried reply; it said:— + +“I saw Madame de Florac last night at her daughter’s reception, and she +gave me my dear uncle’s messages. _Yes, the news is true_ which you +have heard from Madame de Florac, and in Bryanstone Square. I did not +like to write it to you, because I know one whom I regard as a brother +(and a great, great deal better), and to whom I know it will give pain. +He knows that I have done _my duty_, and _why_ I have acted as I have +done. God bless him and his dear father! + +“What is this about a letter which I never answered? Grandmamma knows +nothing about a letter. Mamma has enclosed to me that which you wrote +to her, but there has been _no letter_ from T. N. to his sincere and +affectionate E. N. + +“Rue de Rivoli. Friday.” + +This was too much, and the cup of Thomas Newcome’s wrath overflowed. +Barnes had lied about Ethel’s visit to London: Barnes had lied in +saying that he delivered the message with which his uncle charged him: +Barnes had lied about the letter which he had received, and never sent. +With these accusations firmly proven in his mind against his nephew, +the Colonel went down to confront that sinner. + +Wherever he should find Barnes, Thomas Newcome was determined to tell +him his mind. Should they meet on the steps of a church, on the flags +of ’Change, or in the newspaper-room at Bays’s, at evening-paper time, +when men most do congregate, Thomas the Colonel was determined upon +exposing and chastising his father’s grandson. With Ethel’s letter in +his pocket, he took his way into the City, penetrated into the +unsuspecting back-parlour of Hobson’s bank, and was disappointed at +first at only finding his half-brother Hobson there engaged over his +newspaper. The Colonel signified his wish to see Sir Barnes Newcome. +“Sir Barnes was not come in yet. You’ve heard about the marriage,” says +Hobson. “Great news for the Barnes’s, ain’t it? The head of the house +is as proud as a peacock about it. Said he was going out to Samuels, +the diamond merchants; going to make his sister some uncommon fine +present. Jolly to be uncle to a marquis, ain’t it, Colonel? I’ll have +nothing under a duke for my girls. I say, I know whose nose is out of +joint. But young fellows get over these things, and Clive won’t die +this time, I dare say.” + +While Hobson Newcome made these satiric and facetious remarks, his +half-brother paced up and down the glass parlour, scowling over the +panes into the bank where the busy young clerks sate before their +ledgers. At last he gave an “Ah!” as of satisfaction. Indeed, he had +seen Sir Barnes Newcome enter into the bank. + +The Baronet stopped and spoke with a clerk, and presently entered, +followed by that young gentleman into his private parlour. Barnes tried +to grin when he saw his uncle, and held out his hand to greet the +Colonel; but the Colonel put both his behind his back—that which +carried his faithful bamboo cane shook nervously. Barnes was aware that +the Colonel had the news. “I was going to—to write to you this morning, +with—with some intelligence that I am—very—very sorry to give.” + +“This young gentleman is one of your clerks?” asked Thomas Newcome, +blandly. + +“Yes; Mr. Boltby, who has your private account. This is Colonel +Newcome, Mr. Boltby,” says Sir Barnes, in some wonder. + +“Mr. Boltby, brother Hobson, you heard what Sir Barnes Newcome said +just now respecting certain intelligence which he grieved to give me?” + +At this the three other gentlemen respectively wore looks of amazement. + +“Allow me to say in your presence, that I don’t believe one single word +Sir Barnes Newcome says, when he tells me that he is very sorry for +some intelligence he has to communicate. He lies, Mr. Boltby; he is +very glad. I made up my mind that in whatsoever company I met him, and +on the very first day I found him—hold your tongue, sir; you shall +speak afterwards and tell more lies when I have done—I made up my mind, +I say, that on the very first occasion I would tell Sir Barnes Newcome +that he was a liar and a cheat. He takes charge of letters and keeps +them back. Did you break the seal, sir? There was nothing to steal in +my letter to Miss Newcome. He tells me people are out of town, when he +goes to see in the next street, after leaving my table, and whom I see +myself half an hour before he lies to me about their absence.” + +“D—n you, go out, and don’t stand staring there, you booby!” screams +out Sir Barnes to the clerk. “Stop, Boltby. Colonel Newcome, unless you +leave this room I shall—I shall——” + +“You shall call a policeman. Send for the gentleman, and I will tell +the Lord Mayor what I think of Sir Barnes Newcome, Baronet. Mr. Boltby, +shall we have the constable in?” + +“Sir, you are an old man, and my father’s brother, or you know very +well I would——” + +“You would what, Sir? Upon my word, Barnes Newcome” (here the Colonel’s +two hands and the bamboo cane came from the rear and formed in front), +“but that you are my father’s grandson, after a menace like that, I +would take you out and cane you in the presence of your clerks. I +repeat, sir, that I consider you guilty of treachery, falsehood, and +knavery. And if I ever see you at Bays’s Club, I will make the same +statement to your acquaintance at the west end of the town. A man of +your baseness ought to be known, sir; and it shall be my business to +make men of honour aware of your character. Mr. Boltby, will you have +the kindness to make out my account? Sir Barnes Newcome, for fear of +consequences that I should deplore, I recommend you to keep a wide +berth of me, sir.” And the Colonel twirled his mustachios, and waved +his cane in an ominous manner, and Barnes started back spontaneously +out of its dangerous circle. + +What Mr. Boltby’s sentiments may have been regarding this extraordinary +scene in which his principal cut so sorry a figure;—whether he narrated +the conversation to other gentlemen connected with the establishment of +Hobson Brothers, or prudently kept it to himself, I cannot say, having +no means of pursuing Mr. B.’s subsequent career. He speedily quitted +his desk at Hobson Brothers; and let us presume that Barnes _thought_ +Mr. B. had told all the other clerks of the avuncular quarrel. That +conviction will make us imagine Barnes still more comfortable. Hobson +Newcome no doubt was rejoiced at Barnes’s discomfiture; he had been +insolent and domineering beyond measure of late to his vulgar +good-natured uncle, whereas after the above interview with the Colonel +he became very humble and quiet in his demeanour, and for a long, long +time never said a rude word. Nay, I fear Hobson must have carried an +account of the transaction to Mrs. Hobson and the circle in Bryanstone +Square; for Sam Newcome, now entered at Cambridge, called the Baronet +“Barnes” quite familiarly; asked after Clara and Ethel; and requested a +small loan of Barnes. + +Of course the story did not get wind at Bays’s; of course Tom Eaves did +not know all about it, and say that Sir Barnes had been beaten +black-and-blue. Having been treated very ill by the committee in a +complaint which he made about the Club cookery, Sir Barnes Newcome +never came to Bays’s, and at the end of the year took off his name from +the lists of the Club. + +Sir Barnes, though a little taken aback in the morning, and not ready +with an impromptu reply to the Colonel and his cane, could not allow +the occurrence to pass without a protest; and indited a letter which +Thomas Newcome kept along with some others previously quoted by the +compiler of the present memoirs. + +It is as follows:— + +Belgrave St., Feb. 15, 18—. + +“Colonel Newcome, C.B., _private_. + +“SIR—The incredible insolence and violence of your behaviour to-day +(inspired by whatever causes or mistakes of your own), cannot be passed +without some comment, on my part. I laid before a friend of your own +profession, a statement of the words which you applied to me in the +presence of my partner and one of my clerks this morning; and my +adviser is of opinion, that considering the relationship unhappily +subsisting between us, I can take no notice of insults for which you +knew when you uttered them, I could not call you to account.” + +“There is some truth in that,” said the Colonel. “He couldn’t fight, +you know; but then he was such a liar I could not help speaking my +mind.” + +“I gathered from the brutal language which you thought fit to employ +towards a disarmed man, the ground of one of your monstrous accusations +against me, that I deceived you in stating that my relative, Lady Kew, +was in the country, when in fact she was at her house in London. + +“To this absurd charge I at once plead guilty. The venerable lady in +question was passing through London, where she desired to be free from +intrusion. At her ladyship’s wish I stated that she was out of town; +and would, under the same circumstances, unhesitatingly make the same +statement. Your slight acquaintance with the person in question did not +warrant that you should force yourself on her privacy, as you would +doubtless know were you more familiar with the customs of the society +in which she moves. + +“I declare upon my honour as a gentleman, that I gave her the message +which I promised to deliver from you, and also that I transmitted a +letter with which you entrusted me; and repel with scorn and +indignation the charges which you were pleased to bring against me, as +I treat with contempt the language and the threats which you thought +fit to employ. + +“Our books show the amount of _x_£. _xs. xd_. to your credit, which you +will be good enough to withdraw at your earliest convenience; as of +course all intercourse must cease henceforth between you and—Yours, +etc. + +“B. Newcome Newcome.” + +“I think, sir, he doesn’t make out a bad case,” Mr. Pendennis remarked +to the Colonel, who showed him this majestic letter. + +“It would be a good case if I believed a single word of it, Arthur,” +replied my friend, placidly twirling the old grey moustache. “If you +were to say so-and-so, and say that I had brought false charges against +you, I should cry _mea culpa_ and apologise with all my heart. But as I +have a perfect conviction that every word this fellow says is a lie, +what is the use of arguing any more about the matter? I would not +believe him if he brought twenty as witnesses, and if he lied till he +was black in the other liars’ face. Give me the walnuts. I wonder who +Sir Barnes’s military friend was.” + +Barnes’s military friend was our gallant acquaintance General Sir +George Tufto, K.C.B., who a short while afterwards talked over the +quarrel with the Colonel, and manfully told him that (in Sir George’s +opinion) he was wrong. “The little beggar behaved very well, I thought, +in the first business. You bullied him so, and in the front of his +regiment, too, that it was almost past bearing; and when he deplored, +with tears in his eyes, almost, the little humbug! that his +relationship prevented him calling you out, ecod, I believed him! It +was in the second affair that poor little Barnes showed he was a +cocktail.” + +“What second affair?” asked Thomas Newcome. + +“Don’t you know? He! he! this is famous!” cries Sir George. “Why, sir, +two days after your business, he comes to me with another letter and a +face as long as my mare’s, by Jove. And that letter, Newcome, was from +your young ’un. Stop, here it is!” and from his padded bosom General +Sir George Tufto drew a pocket-book, and from the pocket-book a copy of +a letter, inscribed, “Clive Newcome, Esq., to Sir B. N. Newcome.” +“There’s no mistake about your fellow, Colonel. No,——him!” and the man +of war fired a volley of oaths as a salute to Clive. + +And the Colonel, on horseback, riding by the other cavalry officer’s +side read as follows:— + +“George Street, Hanover Square, February 16. + +“SIR—Colonel Newcome this morning showed me a letter bearing your +signature, in which you state—1. That Colonel Newcome has uttered +calumnious and insolent charges against you. 2. That Colonel Newcome so +spoke, knowing that you could take no notice of his charges of +falsehood and treachery, on account of the relationship subsisting +between you. + +“Your statements would evidently imply that Colonel Newcome has been +guilty of ungentlemanlike conduct, and of cowardice towards you. + +“As there can be no reason why we should not meet in any manner that +you desire, I here beg leave to state, on my own part, that I fully +coincide with Colonel Newcome in his opinion that you have been guilty +of falsehood and treachery, and that the charge of cowardice which you +dare to make against a gentleman of his tried honour and courage, is +another wilful and cowardly falsehood on your part. + +“And I hope you will refer the bearer of this note, my friend, Mr. +George Warrington, of the Upper Temple, to the military gentleman whom +you consulted in respect to the just charges of Colonel Newcome. +Waiting a prompt reply, + +“Believe me, sir—Your obedient servant, +Clive Newcome. + + +“Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., M. P., etc.” + +“What a blunderhead I am!” cries the Colonel, with delight on his +countenance, spite of his professed repentance. “It never once entered +my head that the youngster would take any part in the affair. I showed +him his cousin’s letter casually, just to amuse him, I think, for he +has been deuced low lately, about—about a young man’s scrape that he +has got into. And he must have gone off and despatched his challenge +straightway. I recollect he appeared uncommonly brisk at breakfast the +next morning. And so you say, General, the Baronet did not like the +_poulet?_” + +“By no means; never saw a fellow show such a confounded white feather. +At first I congratulated him, thinking your boy’s offer must please +him, as it would have pleased any fellow in our time to have a shot. +Dammy! but I was mistaken in my man. He entered into some confounded +long-winded story about a marriage you wanted to make with that +infernal pretty sister of his, who is going to marry young Farintosh, +and how you were in a rage because the scheme fell to the ground, and +how a family duel might occasion unpleasantries to Miss Newcome; though +I showed him how this could be most easily avoided, and that the lady’s +name need never appear in the transaction. ‘Confound it, Sir Barnes,’ +says I, ‘I recollect this boy, when he was a youngster throwing a glass +of wine in your face! We’ll put it upon that, and say it’s an old feud +between you.’ He turned quite pale, and he said your fellow had +apologised for the glass of wine.” + +“Yes,” said the Colonel, sadly, “my boy apologised for the glass of +wine. It is curious how we have disliked that Barnes ever since we set +eyes on him.” + +“Well, Newcome,” Sir George resumed, as his mettled charger suddenly +jumped and curvetted, displaying the padded warrior’s cavalry-seat to +perfection. “Quiet, old lady!—easy, my dear! Well, when I found the +little beggar turning tail in this way I said to him, ‘Dash me, sir, if +you don’t want me, why the dash do you send for me, dash me? Yesterday +you talked as if you would bite the Colonel’s head off, and to-day, +when his son offers you every accommodation, by dash, sir, you’re +afraid to meet him. It’s my belief you had better send for a policeman. +A 22 is your man, Sir Barnes Newcome.’ And with that I turned on my +heel and left him. And the fellow went off to Newcome that very night.” + +“A poor devil can’t command courage, General,” said the Colonel, quite +peaceably, “any more than he can make himself six feet high.” + +“Then why the dash did the beggar send for me?” called out General Sir +George Tufto, in a loud and resolute voice; and presently the two +officers parted company. + +When the Colonel reached home, Mr. Warrington and Mr. Pendennis +happened to be on a visit to Clive, and all three were in the young +fellow’s painting-room. We knew our lad was unhappy, and did our little +best to amuse and console him. The Colonel came in. It was in the dark +February days: we lighted the gas in the studio. Clive had made a +sketch from some favourite verses of mine and George’s: those charming +lines of Scott’s:— + +“He turned his charger as he spake, + Beside the river shore; +He gave his bridle-rein a shake, + With adieu for evermore, + My dear! + Adieu for evermore!” + + +Thomas Newcome held up a finger at Warrington, and he came up to the +picture and looked at it; and George and I trolled out: + +“Adieu for evermore, + My dear! +Adieu for evermore!” + + +From the picture the brave old Colonel turned to the painter, regarding +his son with a look of beautiful inexpressible affection. And he laid +his hand on his son’s shoulder, and smiled, and stroked Clive’s yellow +moustache. + +“And—and did Barnes send no answer to that letter you wrote him?” he +said, slowly. + +Clive broke out into a laugh that was almost a sob. He took both his +father’s hands. “My dear, dear old father!” says he, “what a—what +an—old—trump you are!” My eyes were so dim I could hardly see the two +men as they embraced. + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. +Has a Tragical Ending + + +Clive presently answered the question which his father put to him in +the last chapter, by producing from the ledge of his easel a crumpled +paper, full of Cavendish now, but on which was written Sir Barnes +Newcome’s reply to his cousin’s polite invitation. Sir Barnes Newcome +wrote, “that he thought a reference to a friend was quite unnecessary, +in the most disagreeable and painful dispute in which Mr. Clive desired +to interfere as a principal; that the reasons which prevented Sir +Barnes from taking notice of Colonel Newcome’s shameful and +ungentlemanlike conduct applied equally, as Mr. Clive Newcome very well +knew, to himself; that if further insult was offered, or outrage +attempted, Sir Barnes should resort to the police for protection; that +he was about to quit London, and certainly should not delay his +departure on account of Mr. Clive Newcome’s monstrous proceedings; and +that he desired to take leave of an odious subject, as of an individual +whom he had striven to treat with kindness, but from whom, from youth +upwards, Sir Barnes Newcome had received nothing but insolence, enmity, +and ill-will.” + +“He is an ill man to offend,” remarked Mr. Pendennis. “I don’t think he +has ever forgiven that claret, Clive.” + +“Pooh! the feud dates from long before that,” said Clive; “Barnes +wanted to lick me when I was a boy, and I declined: in fact, I think he +had rather the worst of it; but then I operated freely on his shins, +and that wasn’t fair in war, you know.” + +“Heaven forgive me,” cries the Colonel; “I have always felt the fellow +was my enemy: and my mind is relieved now war is declared. It has been +a kind of hypocrisy with me to shake his hand and eat his dinner. When +I trusted him it was against my better instinct; and I have been +struggling against it these ten years, thinking it was a wicked +prejudice, and ought to be overcome.” + +“Why should we overcome such instincts?” asks Mr. Warrington. “Why +shouldn’t we hate what is hateful in people and scorn what is mean? +From what friend Pen has described to me, and from some other accounts +which have come to my ears, your respectable nephew is about as +loathsome a little villain as crawls on the earth. Good seems to be out +of his sphere, and away from his contemplation. He ill-treats every one +he comes near; or, if, gentle to them, it is that they may serve some +base purpose. Since my attention has been drawn to the creature, I have +been contemplating his ways with wonder and curiosity. How much +superior Nature’s rogues are, Pen, to the villains you novelists put +into your books! This man goes about his life business with a natural +propensity to darkness and evil—as a bug crawls, and stings, and +stinks. I don’t suppose the fellow feels any more remorse than a cat +that runs away with a mutton-chop. I recognise the Evil Spirit, sir, +and do honour to Ahrimanes, in taking off my hat to this young man. He +seduced a poor girl in his father’s country town—is it not natural? +Deserted her and her children—don’t you recognise the beast? married +for rank—could you expect otherwise from him? invites my Lord Highgate +to his house in consideration of his balance at the bank;—sir, unless +somebody’s heel shall crunch him on the way, there is no height to +which this aspiring vermin mayn’t crawl. I look to see Sir Barnes +Newcome prosper more and more. I make no doubt he will die an immense +capitalist, and an exalted Peer of this realm. He will have a marble +monument, and a pathetic funeral sermon. There is a divine in your +family, Clive, that shall preach it. I will weep respectful tears over +the grave of Baron Newcome, Viscount Newcome, Earl Newcome; and the +children whom he has deserted, and who, in the course of time, will be +sent by a grateful nation to New South Wales, will proudly say to their +brother convicts,—‘Yes, the Earl was our honoured father.’” + +“I fear he is no better than he should be, Mr. Warrington,” says the +Colonel, shaking his head. “I never heard the story about the deserted +children.” + +“How should you, O you guileless man!” cries Warrington. + +“I am not in the ways of scandal-hearing myself much: but this tale I +had from Sir Barnes Newcome’s own country. Mr. Batters of the _Newcome +Independent_ is my esteemed client. I write leading articles for his +newspaper, and when he was in town last spring he favoured me with the +anecdote; and proposed to amuse the Member for Newcome by publishing it +in his journal. This kind of writing is not much in my line: and, out +of respect to you and your young one, I believe—I strove with Mr. +Batters, and—entreated him and prevailed with him, not to publish the +story. That is how I came to know it.” + +I sate with the Colonel in the evening, when he commented on +Warrington’s story and Sir Barnes’s adventures in his simple way. He +said his brother Hobson had been with him the morning after the +dispute, reiterating Barnes’s defence of his conduct: and professing on +his own part nothing but goodwill towards his brother. “Between +ourselves the young Baronet carries matters with rather a high hand +sometimes, and I am not sorry that you gave him a little dressing. But +you were too hard upon him, Colonel—really you were.” “Had I known that +child-deserting story I would have given it harder still, sir,” says +Thomas Newcome, twirling his mustachios: “but my brother had nothing to +do with the quarrel, and very rightly did not wish to engage in it. He +has an eye to business, has Master Hobson too,” my friend continued: +“for he brought me a cheque for my private account, which of course, he +said, could not remain after my quarrel with Barnes. But the Indian +bank account, which is pretty large, he supposed need not be taken +away? and indeed why should it? So that, which is little business of +mine, remains where it was; and brother Hobson and I remain perfectly +good friends. + +“I think Clive is much better since he has been quite put out of his +suspense. He speaks with a great deal more kindness and good-nature +about the marriage than I am disposed to feel regarding it: and depend +on it has too high a spirit to show that he is beaten. But I know he is +a good deal cut up, though he says nothing; and he agreed willingly +enough to take a little journey, Arthur, and be out of the way when +this business takes place. We shall go to Paris: I don’t know where +else besides. These misfortunes do good in one way, hard as they are to +bear: they unite people who love each other. It seems to me my boy has +been nearer to me, and likes his old father better than he has done of +late.” And very soon after this talk our friends departed. + +The Bulgarian minister having been recalled, and Lady Anne Newcome’s +house in park Lane being vacant, her ladyship and her family came to +occupy the mansion for this eventful season, and sate once more in the +dismal dining-room under the picture of the defunct Sir Brian. A little +of the splendour and hospitality of old days was revived in the house: +entertainments were given by Lady Anne: and amongst other festivities a +fine ball took place, when pretty Miss Alice, Miss Ethel’s younger +sister, made her first appearance in the world, to which she was +afterwards to be presented by the Marchioness of Farintosh. All the +little sisters were charmed, no doubt, that the beautiful Ethel was to +become a beautiful Marchioness, who, as they came up to womanhood one +after another, would introduce them severally to amiable young earls, +dukes, and marquises, when they would be married off and wear coronets +and diamonds of their own right. At Lady Anne’s ball I saw my +acquaintance, young Mumford, who was going to Oxford next October, and +about to leave Rugby, where he was at the head of the school, looking +very dismal as Miss Alice whirled round the room dancing in Viscount +Bustington’s arms;—Miss Alice, with whose mamma he used to take tea at +Rugby, and for whose pretty sake Mumford did Alfred Newcome’s verses +for him and let him off his thrashings. Poor Mumford! he dismally went +about under the protection of young Alfred, a fourth-form boy—not one +soul did he know in that rattling London ballroom; his young face—as +white as the large white tie, donned two hours since at the Tavistock +with such nervousness and beating of heart! + +With these lads, and decorated with a tie equally splendid, moved about +young Sam Newcome, who was shirking from his sister and his mamma. Mrs. +Hobson had actually assumed clean gloves for this festive occasion. Sam +stared at all the “Nobs:” and insisted upon being introduced to +“Farintosh,” and congratulated his lordship with much graceful ease: +and then pushed about the rooms perseveringly hanging on to Alfred’s +jacket. “I say, I wish you wouldn’t call me Al’,” I heard Mr. Alfred +say to his cousin. Seeing my face, Mr. Samuel ran up to claim +acquaintance. He was good enough to say he thought Farintosh seemed +devilish haughty. Even my wife could not help saying, that Mr. Sam was +an odious little creature. + +So it was for young Alfred, and his brothers and sisters, who would +want help and protection in the world, that Ethel was about to give up +her independence, her inclination perhaps, and to bestow her life on +yonder young nobleman. Looking at her as a girl devoting herself to her +family, her sacrifice gave her a melancholy interest in our eyes. My +wife and I watched her, grave and beautiful, moving through the rooms, +receiving and returning a hundred greetings, bending to compliments, +talking with this friend and that, with my lord’s lordly relations, +with himself, to whom she listened deferentially; faintly smiling as he +spoke now and again; doing the honours of her mother’s house. Lady +after lady of his lordship’s clan and kinsfolk complimented the girl +and her pleased mother. Old Lady Kew was radiant (if one can call +radiance the glances of those darkling old eyes). She sate in a little +room apart, and thither people went to pay their court to her. +Unwillingly I came in on this levee with my wife on my arm: Lady Kew +scowled at me over her crutch, but without a sign of recognition. “What +an awful countenance that old woman has!” Laura whispered as we +retreated out of that gloomy presence. + +And Doubt (as its wont is) whispered too a question in my ear, “Is it +for her brothers and sisters only that Miss Ethel is sacrificing +herself? Is it not for the coronet, and the triumph, and the fine +houses?” “When two motives may actuate a friend, we surely may try and +believe in the good one,” says Laura. “But, but I am glad Clive does +not marry her—poor fellow—he would not have been happy with her. She +belongs to this great world: she has spent all her life in it: Clive +would have entered into it very likely in her train; and you know, sir, +it is not good that we should be our husbands’ superiors,” adds Mrs. +Laura, with a curtsey. + +She presently pronounced that the air was very hot in the rooms, and in +fact wanted to go home to see her child. As we passed out, we saw Sir +Barnes Newcome, eagerly smiling, smirking, bowing, and in the fondest +conversation with his sister and Lord Farintosh. By Sir Barnes +presently brushed Lieutenant-General Sir George Tufto, K.C.B., who, +when he saw on whose foot he had trodden, grunted out, “H’m, beg your +pardon!” and turning his back on Barnes, forthwith began complimenting +Ethel and the Marquis. “Served with your lordship’s father in Spain; +glad to make your lordship’s acquaintance,” says Sir George. Ethel bows +to us as we pass out of the rooms, and we hear no more of Sir George’s +conversation. + +In the cloak-room sits Lady Clara Newcome, with a gentleman bending +over her, just in such an attitude as the bride is in Hogarth’s +“Marriage à la Mode” as the counsellor talks to her. Lady Clara starts +up as a crowd of blushes come into her wan face, and tries to smile, +and rises to greet my wife, and says something about its being so +dreadfully hot in the upper rooms, and so very tedious waiting for the +carriages. The gentleman advances towards me with a military stride, +and says, “How do you do, Mr. Pendennis? How’s our young friend, the +painter?” I answer Lord Highgate civilly enough, whereas my wife will +scarce speak a word in reply to Lady Clara Newcome. + +Lady Clara asked us to her ball, which my wife declined altogether to +attend. Sir Barnes published a series of quite splendid entertainments +on the happy occasion of his sister’s betrothal. We read the names of +all the clan Farintosh in the _Morning Post_, as attending these +banquets. Mr. and Mrs. Hobson Newcome, in Bryanstone Square, gave also +signs of rejoicing at their niece’s marriage. They had a grand banquet +followed by a tea, to which latter amusement the present biographer was +invited. Lady Anne, and Lady Kew and her granddaughter, and the Baronet +and his wife, and my Lord Highgate and Sir George Tufto attended the +dinner; but it was rather a damp entertainment. “Farintosh,” whispers +Sam Newcome, “sent word just before dinner that he had a sore throat, +and Barnes was as sulky as possible. Sir George wouldn’t speak to him, +and the Dowager wouldn’t speak to Lord Highgate. Scarcely anything was +drank,” concluded Mr. Sam, with a slight hiccup. “I say, Pendennis, how +sold Clive will be!” And the amiable youth went off to commune with +others of his parents’ guests. + +Thus the Newcomes entertained the Farintoshes, and the Farintoshes +entertained the Newcomes. And the Dowager Countess of Kew went from +assembly to assembly every evening, and to jewellers and upholsterers +and dressmakers every morning; and Lord Farintosh’s town-house was +splendidly re-decorated in the newest fashion; and he seemed to grow +more and more attentive as the happy day approached, and he gave away +all his cigars to his brother Rob; and his sisters were delighted with +Ethel, and constantly in her company, and his mother was pleased with +her, and thought a girl of her spirit and resolution would make a good +wife for her son: and select crowds flocked to see the service of plate +at Handyman’s, and the diamonds which were being set for the lady; and +Smee, R.A., painted her portrait, as a _souvenir_ for mamma when Miss +Newcome should be Miss Newcome no more; and Lady Kew made a will +leaving all she could leave to her beloved granddaughter, Ethel, +daughter of the late Sir Brian Newcome, Baronet; and Lord Kew wrote an +affectionate letter to his cousin, congratulating her, and wishing her +happiness with all his heart; and I was glancing over _The Times_ +newspaper at breakfast one morning; when I laid it down with an +exclamation which caused my wife to start with surprise. + +“What is it?” cries Laura, and I read as follows:— + +“‘Death of the Countess Dowager of Kew.—We regret to have to announce +the awfully sudden death of this venerable lady. Her ladyship, who had +been at several parties of the nobility the night before last, +seemingly in perfect health, was seized with a fit as she was waiting +for her carriage, and about to quit Lady Pallgrave’s assembly. +Immediate medical assistance was procured, and her ladyship was carried +to her own house, in Queen Street, Mayfair. But she never rallied, or, +we believe, spoke, after the first fatal seizure, and sank at eleven +o’clock last evening, The deceased, Louisa Joanna Gaunt, widow of +Frédéric, first Earl of Kew, was daughter of Charles, Earl of Gaunt, +and sister of the late and aunt of the present Marquis of Steyne. The +present Earl of Kew is her ladyship’s grandson, his lordship’s father, +Lord Walham, having died before his own father, the first earl. Many +noble families are placed in mourning by this sad event. Society has to +deplore the death of a lady who has been its ornament for more than +half a century, and who was known, we may say, throughout Europe for +her remarkable sense, extraordinary memory, and brilliant wit.’” + + + + +CHAPTER LV. +Barnes’s Skeleton Closet + + +The demise of Lady Kew of course put a stop for a while to the +matrimonial projects so interesting to the house of Newcome. Hymen blew +his torch out, put it into the cupboard for use on a future day, and +exchanged his garish saffron-coloured robe for decent temporary +mourning. Charles Honeyman improved the occasion at Lady Whittlesea’s +Chapel hard by; and “Death at the Festival” was one of his most +thrilling sermons; reprinted at the request of some of the +congregation. There were those of his flock, especially a pair whose +quarter of the fold was the organ-loft, who were always charmed with +the piping of that melodious pastor. + +Shall we too, while the coffin yet rests on the earth’s outer surface, +enter the chapel whither these void remains of our dear sister departed +are borne by the smug undertaker’s gentlemen, and pronounce an elegy +over that bedizened box of corruption? When the young are stricken +down, and their roses nipped in an hour by the destroying blight, even +the stranger can sympathise, who counts the scant years on the +gravestone, or reads the notice in the newspaper corner. The contrast +forces itself on you. A fair young creature, bright and blooming +yesterday, distributing smiles, levying homage, inspiring desire, +conscious of her power to charm, and gay with the natural enjoyment of +her conquests—who in his walk through the world has not looked on many +such a one; and, at the notion of her sudden call away from beauty, +triumph, pleasure; her helpless outcries during her short pain; her +vain pleas for a little respite; her sentence, and its execution; has +not felt a shock of pity? When the days of a long life come to its +close, and a white head sinks to rise no more, we bow our own with +respect as the mourning train passes, and salute the heraldry and +devices of yonder pomp, as symbols of age, wisdom, deserved respect and +merited honour; long experience of suffering and action. The wealth he +may have achieved is the harvest which he sowed; the titles on his +hearse, fruits of the field he bravely and laboriously wrought in. But +to live to fourscore years, and be found dancing among the idle +virgins! to have had near a century of allotted time, and then be +called away from the giddy notes of a Mayfair fiddle! To have to yield +your roses too, and then drop out of the bony clutch of your old +fingers a wreath that came from a Parisian bandbox! One fancies around +some graves unseen troops of mourners waiting; many and many a poor +pensioner trooping to the place; many weeping charities; many kind +actions; many dear friends beloved and deplored, rising up at the toll +of that bell to follow the honoured hearse; dead parents waiting above, +and calling, “Come, daughter!” lost children, heaven’s fondlings, +hovering round like cherubim, and whispering, “Welcome, mother!” Here +is one who reposes after a long feast where no love has been; after +girlhood without kindly maternal nurture; marriage without affection; +matronhood without its precious griefs and joys; after fourscore years +of lonely vanity. Let us take off our hats to that procession too as it +passes, admiring the different lots awarded to the children of men, and +the various usages to which Heaven puts its creatures. + +Leave we yonder velvet-palled box, spangled with fantastic heraldry, +and containing within the aged slough and envelope of a soul gone to +render its account. Look rather at the living audience standing round +the shell;—the deep grief on Barnes Newcome’s fine countenance; the +sadness depicted in the face of the most noble the Marquis of +Farintosh; the sympathy of her ladyship’s medical man (who came in the +third mourning carriage); better than these, the awe, and reverence, +and emotion, exhibited in the kind face of one of the witnesses of this +scene, as he listens to those words which the priest rehearses over our +dead. What magnificent words! what a burning faith, what a glorious +triumph; what a heroic life, death, hope, they record! They are read +over all of us alike; as the sun shines on just and unjust. We have all +of us heard them; and I have fancied, for my part, that they fell and +smote like the sods on the coffin. + +The ceremony over, the undertaker’s gentlemen clamber on the roof of +the vacant hearse, into which palls, tressels, trays of feathers, are +inserted, and the horses break out into a trot, and the empty +carriages, expressing the deep grief of the deceased lady’s friends, +depart homeward. It is remarked that Lord Kew hardly has any +communication with his cousin, Sir Barnes Newcome. His lordship jumps +into a cab, and goes to the railroad. Issuing from the cemetery, the +Marquis of Farintosh hastily orders that thing to be taken off his hat, +and returns to town in his brougham, smoking a cigar. Sir Barnes +Newcome rides in the brougham beside Lord Farintosh as far as Oxford +Street, where he gets a cab, and goes to the City. For business is +business, and must be attended to, though grief be ever so severe. + +A very short time previous to her demise, Mr. Rood (that was Mr. +Rood—that other little gentleman in black, who shared the third +mourning coach along with her ladyship’s medical man) had executed a +will by which almost all the Countess’s property was devised to her +granddaughter, Ethel Newcome. Lady Kew’s decease of course delayed the +marriage projects for a while. The young heiress returned to her +mother’s house in Park Lane. I dare say the deep mourning habiliments +in which the domestics of that establishment appeared, were purchased +out of the funds left in his hands, which Ethel’s banker and brother +had at her disposal. + +Sir Barnes Newcome, who was one of the trustees of his sister’s +property, grumbled no doubt because his grandmother had bequeathed to +him but a paltry recompense of five hundred pounds for his pains and +trouble of trusteeship; but his manner to Ethel was extremely bland and +respectful: an heiress now, and to be a marchioness in a few months, +Sir Barnes treated her with a very different regard to that which he +was accustomed to show to other members of his family. For while this +worthy Baronet would contradict his mother at every word she uttered, +and take no pains to disguise his opinion that Lady Anne’s intellect +was of the very poorest order, he would listen deferentially to Ethel’s +smallest observations, exert himself to amuse her under her grief, +which he chose to take for granted was very severe, visit her +constantly, and show the most charming solicitude for her general +comfort and welfare. + +During this time my wife received constant notes from Ethel Newcome, +and the intimacy between the two ladies much increased. Laura was so +unlike the women of Ethel’s circle, the young lady was pleased to say, +that to be with her was Ethel’s greatest comfort. Miss Newcome was now +her own mistress, had her carriage, and would drive day after day to +our cottage at Richmond. The frigid society of Lord Farintosh’s +sisters, the conversation of his mother, did not amuse Ethel, and she +escaped from both with her usual impatience of control. She was at home +every day dutifully to receive my lord’s visits; but though she did not +open her mind to Laura as freely regarding the young gentleman as she +did when the character and disposition of her future mother and +sisters-in-law was the subject of their talk, I could see, from the +grave look of commiseration which my wife’s face bore after her young +friend’s visits, that Mrs. Pendennis augured rather ill of the future +happiness of this betrothed pair. Once, at Miss Newcome’s special +request, I took my wife to see her in Park Lane, where the Marquis of +Farintosh found us. His lordship and I had already a half-acquaintance, +which was not, however, improved after my regular presentation to him +by Miss Newcome: he scowled at me with a countenance indicative of +anything but welcome, and did not seem in the least more pleased when +Ethel entreated her friend Laura not to take her bonnet, not to think +of going away so soon. She came to see us the very next day, stayed +much longer with us than usual, and returned to town quite late in the +evening, in spite of the entreaties of the inhospitable Laura, who +would have had her leave us long before. “I am sure,” says +clear-sighted Mrs. Laura, “she is come out of bravado, and after we +went away yesterday that there were words between her and Lord +Farintosh on our account.” + +“Confound the young man,” breaks out Mr. Pendennis in a fume; “what +does he mean by his insolent airs?” + +“He may think we are partisans de l’autre,” says Mrs. Pendennis, with a +smile first, and a sigh afterwards, as she said “poor Clive!” + +“Do you ever talk about Clive?” asks the husband. + +“Never. Once, twice, perhaps, in the most natural manner in the world +we mentioned where he is; but nothing further passes. The subject is a +sealed one between us. She often looks at his drawings in my album +(Clive had drawn our baby there and its mother in a great variety of +attitudes), and gazes at his sketch of his dear old father: but of him +she never says a word.” + +“So it is best,” says Mr. Pendennis. + +“Yes—best,” echoes Laura, with a sigh. + +“You think, Laura,” continues the husband, “you think she——” + +“She what?” What did Mr. Pendennis mean? Laura his wife certainly +understood him, though upon my conscience the sentence went no +further—for she answered at once: + +“Yes—I think she certainly did, poor boy! But that, of course, is over +now: and Ethel, though she cannot help being a worldly woman, has such +firmness and resolution of character, that if she has once determined +to conquer any inclination of that sort I am sure she will master it, +and make Lord Farintosh a very good wife.” + +“Since the Colonel’s quarrel with Sir Barnes,” cries Mr. Pendennis, +adverting by a natural transition from Ethel to her amiable brother, +“our banking friend does not invite us any more: Lady Clara sends you +no cards. I have a great mind to withdraw my account.” + +Laura, who understands nothing about accounts, did not perceive the +fine irony of this remark: but her face straightway put on the severe +expression which it chose to assume whenever Sir Barnes’s family was +mentioned, and she said, “My dear, I am very glad indeed that Lady +Clara sends us no more of her invitations. You know very well why I +disliked them.” + +“Why?” + +“I hear baby crying,” says Laura. Oh, Laura, Laura! how could you tell +your husband such a fib?—and she quits the room without deigning to +give any answer to that “Why?” + +Let us pay a brief visit to Newcome in the north of England, and there +we may get some answer to the question of which Mr. Pendennis had just +in vain asked a reply from his wife. My design does not include a +description of that great and flourishing town of Newcome, and of the +manufactures which caused its prosperity; but only admits of the +introduction of those Newcomites who are concerned in the affairs of +the family which has given its respectable name to these volumes. + +Thus in previous pages we have said nothing about the Mayor and +Corporation of Newcome the magnificent bankers and manufacturers who +had their places of business in the town, and their splendid villas +outside its smoky precincts; people who would give their thousand +guineas for a picture or a statue, and write you off a cheque for ten +times the amount any day; people who, if there was a talk of a statue +to the Queen or the Duke, would come down to the Town All and subscribe +their one, two, three undred apiece (especially if in the neighbouring +city of SLOWCOME they were putting up a statue to the Duke or the +Queen)—not of such men have I spoken, the magnates of the place; but of +the humble Sarah Mason in Jubilee Row—of the Reverend Dr. Bulders the +Vicar, Mr. Vidler the apothecary, Mr. Puff the baker—of Tom Potts, the +jolly reporter of the _Newcome Independent_, and —— Batters, Esq., the +proprietor of that journal—persons with whom our friends have had +already, or will be found presently to have, some connexion. And it is +from these that we shall arrive at some particulars regarding the +Newcome family, which will show us that they have a skeleton or two in +_their_ closets, as well as their neighbours. + +Now, how will you have the story? Worthy mammas of families—if you do +not like to have your daughters told that bad husbands will make bad +wives; that marriages begun in indifference make homes unhappy; that +men whom girls are brought to swear to love and honour are sometimes +false, selfish, and cruel; and that women forget the oaths which they +have been made to swear—if you will not hear of this, ladies, close the +book, and send for some other. Banish the newspaper out of your houses, +and shut your eyes to the truth, the awful truth, of life and sin. Is +the world made of Jennies and Jessamies; and passion the play of +schoolboys and schoolgirls, scribbling valentines and interchanging +lollipops? Is life all over when Jenny and Jessamy are married; and are +there no subsequent trials, griefs, wars, bitter heart-pangs, dreadful +temptations, defeats, remorses, sufferings to bear, and dangers to +overcome? As you and I, friend, kneel with our children round about us, +prostrate before the Father of us all, and asking mercy for miserable +sinners, are the young ones to suppose the words are mere form, and +don’t apply to us?—to some outcasts in the free seats probably, or +those naughty boys playing in the churchyard? Are they not to know that +we err too, and pray with all our hearts to be rescued from temptation? +If such a knowledge is wrong for them, send them to church apart. Go +you and worship in private; or if not too proud, kneel humbly in the +midst of them, owning your wrong, and praying Heaven to be merciful to +you a sinner. + +When Barnes Newcome became the reigning Prince of the Newcome family, +and after the first agonies of grief for his father’s death had +subsided, he made strong attempts to conciliate the principal persons +in the neighbourhood, and to render himself popular in the borough. He +gave handsome entertainments to the townsfolk and to the county gentry; +he tried even to bring those two warring classes together. He +endeavoured to be civil to the _Newcome Independent_, the Opposition +paper, as well as to the _Newcome Sentinel_ that true old +Uncompromising Blue. He asked the Dissenting clergyman to dinner, and +the Low Church clergyman, as well as the orthodox Doctor Bulders and +his curates. He gave a lecture at the Newcome Athenæum, which everybody +said was very amusing, and which _Sentinel_ and _Independent_ both +agreed in praising. Of course he subscribed to that statue which the +Newcomites were raising; to the philanthropic missions which Reverend +Low Church gentlemen were engaged in; to the races (for the young Newcomite +manufacturers are as sporting as any gents in the North), to the +hospital, the People’s Library, the restoration of the rood-screen and +the great painted window in Newcome Old Church (Rev. J. Bulders), and +he had to pay in fine a most awful price for his privilege of sitting +in Parliament as representative of his native place—as he called it in +his speeches “the cradle of his forefathers, the home of his race,” +etc., though Barnes was in fact born at Clapham. + +Lady Clara could not in the least help this young statesman in his +designs upon Newcome and the Newcomites. After she came into Barnes’s +hands, a dreadful weight fell upon her. She would smile and simper, and +talk kindly and gaily enough at first, during Sir Brian’s life; and +among women, when Barnes was not present. But as soon as he joined the +company, it was remarked that his wife became silent, and looked +eagerly towards him whenever he ventured to speak. She blundered, her +eyes filled with tears; the little wit she had left her in her +husband’s presence: he grew angry, and tried to hide his anger with a +sneer, or broke out with gibe and an oath, when he lost patience, and +Clara, whimpering, would leave the room. Everybody at Newcome knew that +Barnes bullied his wife. + +People had worse charges against Barnes than wife-bullying. Do you +suppose that little interruption which occurred at Barnes’s marriage +was not known in Newcome? His victim had been a Newcome girl, the man +to whom she was betrothed was in a Newcome factory. When Barnes was a +young man, and in his occasional visits to Newcome, lived along with +those dashing young blades Sam Jollyman (Jollyman Brothers and +Bowcher), Bob Homer, Cross Country Bill, Al Rackner (for whom his +father had to pay eighteen thousand pounds after the Leger, the year +Toggery won it) and that wild lot, all sorts of stories were told of +them, and of Barnes especially. Most of them were settled, and steady +business men by this time. Al, it was known had become very serious, +besides making his fortune in cotton. Bob Homer managed the Bank; and +as for S. Jollyman, Mrs. S. J. took uncommon good care that he didn’t +break out of bounds any more; why, he was not even allowed to play a +game at billiards; or to dine out without her——I could go on giving you +interesting particulars of a hundred members of the Newcome +aristocracy, were not our attention especially directed to one +respectable family. + +All Barnes’s endeavours at popularity were vain, partly from his own +fault, and partly from the nature of mankind, and of the Newcome folks +especially, whom no single person could possibly conciliate. Thus, +suppose he gave the advertisements to the _Independent;_ the old Blue +paper the _Sentinel_ was very angry: suppose he asked Mr. Hunch, the +Dissenting minister, to bless the tablecloth after dinner, as he had +begged Dr. Bulders to utter a benediction on the first course, Hunch +and Bulders were both angry. He subscribed to the races—what +heathenism! to the missionaries—what sanctimonious humbug! And the +worst was that Barnes being young at that time, and not able to keep +his tongue in order, could not help saying not to but of such and such +a man, that he was an infernal ass, or a confounded old idiot, and so +forth—peevish phrases, which undid in a moment the work of a dozen +dinners, countless compliments, and months of grinning good-humour. + +Now he is wiser. He is very proud of being Newcome of Newcome, and +quite believes that the place is his hereditary principality. But +still, he says, his father was a fool for ever representing the +borough. “Dammy, sir,” cries Sir Barnes, “never sit for a place that +lies at your park-gates, and above all never try to conciliate ’em. +Curse ’em! Hate ’em well, sir! Take a line, and flog the fellows on the +other side. Since I have sate in Parliament for another place, I have +saved myself I don’t know how much a year. I never go to High Church or +Low; don’t give a shillin’ to the confounded races, or the infernal +souptickets, or to the miserable missionaries; and at last live in +quiet.” + +So, in spite of all his subscriptions, and his coaxing of the various +orders of Newcomites, Sir Barnes Newcome was not popular among them; +and while he had enemies on all sides, had sturdy friends not even on +his own. Scarce a man but felt Barnes was laughing at him; Bulders in +his pulpit, Holder who seconded him in his election, the Newcome +society; and the ladies, even more than the men, were uneasy under his +ominous familiarity, and recovered their good-humour when he left them. +People felt as if it was a truce only, and not an alliance with him, +and always speculated on the possibility of war: when he turned his +back on them in the market, men felt relieved, and, as they passed his +gate, looked with no friendly glances over his park-wall. + +What happened within was perfectly familiar to many persons. Our friend +was insolent to all his servants; and of course very well served, but +very much disliked, in consequence. The butler was familiar with +Taplow—the housekeeper had a friend at Newcome; Mrs. Taplow, in fact, of +the King’s Arms—one of the grooms at Newcome Park kept company with +Mrs. Bulder’s maid: the incomings and outgoings, the quarrels and +tears, the company from London, and all the doings of the folks at +Newcome Park were thus known to the neighbourhood round about. The +apothecary brought an awful story back from Newcome. He had been called +to Lady Clara in strong hysterical fits. He found her ladyship with a +bruise on her face. When Sir Barnes approached her (he would not allow +the medical man to see her except in his presence) she screamed and +bade him not come near her. These things did Mr. Vidler weakly impart +to Mrs. Vidler: these, under solemn vows of secrecy, Mrs. Vidler told +to one or two friends. Sir Barnes and Lady Clara were seen shopping +together very graciously in Newcome a short time afterwards; persons +who dined at the Park said the Baronet and his wife seemed on very good +terms; but—but that story of the bruised cheek remained in the minds of +certain people, and lay by at compound interest as such stories will. + +Now, say people quarrel and make it up; or don’t make it up, but wear a +smirking face to society, and call each other “my dear” and “my love,” +and smooth over their countenances before John, who enters with the +coals as they are barking and biting, or who announces the dinner as +they are tearing each other’s eyes out? Suppose a woman is ever so +miserable, and yet smiles, and doesn’t show her grief? “Quite right,” +say her prudent friends, and her husband’s relations above all. “My +dear, you have too much propriety to exhibit your grief before the +world, or above all, before the darling children.” So to lie is your +duty, to lie to your friends, to yourself if you can, to your children. + +Does this discipline of hypocrisy improve any mortal woman? Say she +learns to smile after a blow, do you suppose in this matter alone she +will be a hypocrite? Poor Lady Clara! I fancy a better lot for you than +that to which fate handed you over. I fancy there need have been no +deceit in your fond simple little heart, could it but have been given +into other keeping. But you were consigned to a master, whose scorn and +cruelty terrified you; under whose sardonic glances your scared eyes +were afraid to look up, and before whose gloomy coldness you dared not +be happy. Suppose a little plant, very frail and delicate from the +first, but that might have bloomed sweetly and borne fair flowers, had +it received warm shelter and kindly nurture; suppose a young creature +taken out of her home, and given over to a hard master whose caresses +are as insulting as his neglect; consigned to cruel usage; to weary +loneliness; to bitter, bitter recollections of the past; suppose her +schooled into hypocrisy by tyranny—and then, quick, let us hire an +advocate to roar out to a British jury the wrongs of her injured +husband, to paint the agonies of his bleeding heart (if Mr. Advocate +gets plaintiff’s brief in time, and before defendant’s attorney has +retained him), and to show Society injured through him. Let us console +that martyr, I say, with thumping damages; and as for the woman—the +guilty wretch!—let us lead her out and stone her. + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. +Rosa quo locorum sera moratur + + +Clive Newcome bore his defeat with such a courage and resolution as +those who knew the young fellow’s character were sure he would display. +It was whilst he had a little lingering hope still that the poor lad +was in the worst condition; as a gambler is restless and unhappy whilst +his last few guineas remain with him, and he is venturing them against +the overpowering chances of the bank. His last piece, however, gone, +our friend rises up from that unlucky table beaten at the contest but +not broken in spirit. He goes back into the world again and withdraws +from that dangerous excitement; sometimes when he is alone or wakeful, +tossing in his bed at nights, he may recall the fatal game, and think +how he might have won it—think what a fool he was ever to have played +it at all—but these cogitations Clive kept for himself. He was +magnanimous enough not even to blame Ethel much, and to take her side +against his father, who it must be confessed now exhibited a violent +hostility against that young lady and her belongings. Slow to anger and +utterly beyond deceit himself, when Thomas Newcome was once roused, or +at length believed that he was cheated woe to the offender! From that +day forth, Thomas believed no good of him. Every thought or action of +his enemy’s life seemed treason to the worthy Colonel. If Barnes gave a +dinner-party, his uncle was ready to fancy that the banker wanted to +poison somebody; if he made a little speech in the House of Commons +(Barnes did make little speeches in the House of Commons), the Colonel +was sure some infernal conspiracy lay under the villain’s words. The +whole of that branch of the Newcomes fared little better at their +kinsman’s hands—they were all deceitful, sordid, heartless, +worldly;—Ethel herself no better now than the people who had bred her +up. People hate, as they love, unreasonably. Whether is it the more +mortifying to us, to feel that we are disliked or liked undeservedly? + +Clive was not easy until he had the sea between him and his misfortune: +and now Thomas Newcome had the chance of making that tour with his son, +which in early days had been such a favourite project with the good +man. They travelled Rhineland and Switzerland together—they crossed +into Italy—went from Milan to Venice (where Clive saluted the greatest +painting in the world—the glorious ‘Assumption’ of Titian)—they went to +Trieste and over the beautiful Styrian Alps to Vienna—they beheld +Danube, and the plain where the Turk and Sobieski fought. They +travelled at a prodigious fast pace. They did not speak much to one +another. They were a pattern pair of English travellers: I dare say +many persons whom they met smiled to observe them; and shrugged their +shoulders at the aspect of _ces Anglais_. They did not know the care in +the young traveller’s mind; and the deep tenderness and solicitude of +the elder. Clive wrote to say it was a very pleasant tour, but I think +I should not have liked to join it. Let us dismiss it in this single +sentence. Other gentlemen have taken the same journey, and with sorrow +perhaps as their silent fellow-traveller. How you remember the places +afterwards, and the thoughts which pursued you! If in after days, when +your grief is dead and buried, you revisit the scenes in which it was +your companion, how its ghost rises and shows itself again! Suppose +this part of Mr. Clive’s life were to be described at length in several +chapters, and not in a single brief sentence, what dreary pages they +would be! In two or three months our friends saw a number of men, +cities, mountains, rivers, and what not. It was yet early autumn when +they were back in France again, and September found them at Brussels, +where James Binnie, Esq., and his family were established in +comfortable quarters, and where we may be sure Clive and his father +were very welcome. + +Dragged abroad at first sorely against his will, James Binnie had found +the Continental life pretty much to his liking. He had passed a winter +at Pau, a summer at Vichy, where the waters had done him good. His +ladies had made several charming foreign acquaintances. Mrs. Mackenzie +had quite a list of counts and marchionesses among her friends. The +excellent Captain Goby, wandered about the country with them. Was it to +Rosey, was it to her mother, the Captain was most attached? Rosey +received him as a godpapa; Mrs. Mackenzie as a wicked, odious, +good-for-nothing, dangerous, delightful creature. Is it humiliating, is +it consolatory, to remark, with what small wit some of our friends are +amused? The jovial sallies of Goby appeared exquisite to Rosey’s +mother, and to the girl probably; though that young Bahawder of a Clive +Newcome chose to wear a grave face (confound his insolent airs!) at the +very best of the Goby jokes. + +In Goby’s train was his fervent admirer and inseparable young friend, +Clarence Hoby. Captain Hoby and Captain Goby travelled the world +together, visited Hombourg and Baden, Cheltenham and Leamington, Paris +and Brussels, in company, belonged to the same club in London—the +centre of all pleasure, fashion, and joy, for the young officer and the +older campaigner. The jokes at the Flag, the dinners at the Flag, the +committee of the Flag, were the theme of their constant conversation. +Goby fifty years old, unattached, and with dyed moustaches, was the +affable comrade of the youngest member of his club: when absent, a +friend wrote him the last riddle from the smoking-room; when present, +his knowledge of horses, of cookery, wines, and cigars, and military +history, rendered him a most acceptable companion. He knew the history +and achievements of every regiment in the army; of every general and +commanding officer. He was known to have been ‘out’ more than once +himself, and had made up a hundred quarrels. He was certainly not a man +of an ascetic life or a profound intellectual culture: but though poor +he was known to be most honourable; though more than middle-aged he was +cheerful, busy, and kindly; and though the youngsters called him Old +Goby, he bore his years very gaily and handsomely, and I dare say +numbers of ladies besides Mrs. Mackenzie thought him delightful. Goby’s +talk and rattle perhaps somewhat bored James Binnie, but Thomas Newcome +found the Captain excellent company; and Goby did justice to the good +qualities of the Colonel. + +Clive’s father liked Brussels very well. He and his son occupied very +handsome quarters, near the spacious apartments in the Park which James +Binnie’s family inhabited. Waterloo was not far off, to which the +Indian officer paid several visits with Captain Goby for a guide; and +many of Marlborough’s battlefields were near, in which Goby certainly +took but a minor interest; but on the other hand Clive beheld these +with the greatest pleasure, and painted more than one dashing piece, in +which Churchill and Eugene, Cutts and Cadogan, were the heroes; whose +flowing periwigs, huge boots, and thundering Flemish chargers were, he +thought, more novel and picturesque than the Duke’s surtout, and the +French Grenadiers’ hairy caps, which so many English and French artists +have portrayed. + +Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis were invited by our kind Colonel to pass a +month—six months if they chose—at Brussels, and were most splendidly +entertained by our friends in that city. A suite of handsome rooms was +set apart for us. My study communicated with Clive’s atelier. Many an +hour did we pass, and many a ride and walk did we take together. I +observed that Clive never mentioned Miss Newcome’s name, and Laura and +I agreed that it was as well not to recall it. Only once, when we read +the death of Lady Glenlivat, Lord Farintosh’s mother, in the newspaper, +I remember to have said, “I suppose that marriage will be put off +again.” + +“Qu’est ce que cela me fait?” says Mr. Clive gloomily, over his +picture—a cheerful piece representing Count Egmont going to execution; +in which I have the honour to figure as a halberdier, Captain Hoby as +the Count, and Captain Goby as the Duke of Alva, looking out of window. + +Mrs. Mackenzie was in a state of great happiness and glory during this +winter. She had a carriage, and worked that vehicle most indefatigably. +She knew a great deal of good company at Brussels. She had an evening +for receiving. She herself went to countless evening-parties, and had +the joy of being invited to a couple of court balls, at which I am +bound to say her daughter and herself both looked very handsome. The +Colonel brushed up his old uniform and attended these entertainments. +M. Newcome fils, as I should judge, was not the worst-looking man in +the room; and, as these young people waltzed together (in which +accomplishment Clive was very much more skilful than Captain Goby) I +dare say many people thought he and Rosey made a pretty couple. + +Most persons, my wife included, difficult as that lady is to please, +were pleased with the pretty little Rosey. She sang charmingly now, and +looked so while singing. If her mother would but have omitted that +chorus, which she cackled perseveringly behind her daughter’s pretty +back: about Rosey’s angelic temper; about the compliments Signor +Polonini paid her; about Sir Horace Dash, our minister, _insisting_ +upon her singing “Batti Batti” over again, and the Archduke clapping +his hands and saying, “Oh, yes!” about Count Vanderslaapen’s attentions +to her, etc. etc.; but for these constant remarks of Mrs. Mack’s, I am +sure no one would have been better pleased with Miss Rosey’s singing +and behaviour than myself. As for Captain Hoby, it was easy to see how +_he was_ affected towards Miss Rosalind’s music and person. + +And indeed few things could be pleasanter than to watch the behaviour +of this pretty little maid with her Uncle James and his old chum the +Colonel. The latter was soon as fond of her as James Binnie himself, +whose face used to lighten with pleasure whenever it turned towards +hers. She seemed to divine his wants, as she would trip across the room +to fulfil them. She skipped into the carriage and covered his feet with +a shawl. James was lazy and chilly now, when he took his drive. She +sate opposite to him and smiled on him; and, if he dozed, quick, +another handkerchief was round his neck. I do not know whether she +understood his jokes, but she saluted them always with a sweet kind +smile. How she kissed him, and how delighted she was if he bought her a +bouquet for her ball that night! One day, upon occasion of one of these +balls, James and Thomas, those two old boys, absolutely came into Mrs. +Mackenzie’s drawing-room with a bouquet apiece for Miss Rosey; and +there was a fine laughing. + +“Oh, you little Susanna!” says James, after taking his usual payment; +“now go and pay t’other elder.” Rosey did not quite understand at +first, being, you see, more ready to laugh at jokes than to comprehend +them: but when she did, I promise you she looked uncommonly pretty as +she advanced to Colonel Newcome and put that pretty fresh cheek of hers +up to his grizzled moustache. + +“I protest I don’t know which of you blushes the most,” chuckles James +Binnie—and the truth is, the old man and the young girl had both hung +out those signals of amiable distress. + +On this day, and as Miss Rosey was to be overpowered by flowers, who +should come presently to dinner but Captain Hoby, with another bouquet? +on which Uncle James said Rosey should go to the ball like an American +Indian with her scalps at her belt. + +“Scalps!” cries Mrs. Mackenzie. + +“Scalps! Oh law, uncle!” exclaims Miss Rosey. “What can you mean by +anything so horrid?” + +Goby recalls to Mrs. Mack, Hook-ee-ma-goosh the Indian chief, whom she +must have seen when the Hundred and Fiftieth were at Quebec, and who +had his lodge full of them; and who used to lie about the barracks so +drunk, and who used to beat his poor little European wife: and +presently Mr. Clive Newcome joins this company, when the chirping, +tittering, joking, laughing, cease somehow. + +Has Clive brought a bouquet too? No. He has never thought about a +bouquet. He is dressed in black, with long hair, a long moustache, and +melancholy imperial. He looks very handsome, but as glum as an +undertaker. And James Binnie says, “Egad, Tom, they used to call you +the knight of the woeful countenance, and Clive has just inherited the +paternal mug.” Then James calls out in a cheery voice, “Dinner, +dinner!” and trots off with Mrs. Pendennis under his arm; Rosey nestles +up against the Colonel; Goby and Mrs. Mack walk away arm-in-arm very +contentedly; and I don’t know with which of her three nosegays pretty +Rosey appears at the ball. + +Our stay with our friends at Brussels could not be prolonged beyond a +month, for at the end of that period we were under an engagement to +other friends in England, who were good enough to desire the presence +of Mrs. Pendennis and her suite of baby, nurse, and husband. So we +presently took leave of Rosey and the Campaigner, of the two stout +elders, and our melancholy young Clive, who bore us company to Antwerp, +and who won Laura’s heart by the neat way in which he took her child on +board ship. Poor fellow! how sad he looked as he bowed to us and took +off his hat! His eyes did not seem to be looking at us, though they and +his thoughts were turned another way. He moved off immediately, with +his head down, puffing his eternal cigar, and lost in his own +meditations; our going or our staying was of very little importance to +the lugubrious youth. + +“I think it was a great pity they came to Brussels,” says Laura, as we +sate on the deck, while her unconscious infant was cheerful, and while +the water of the lazy Scheldt as yet was smooth. + +“Who? The Colonel and Clive? They are very handsomely lodged. They have +a good maître-d’hôtel. Their dinners, I am sure, are excellent; and +your child, madam, is as healthy as it possibly can be.” + +“Blessed darling! Yes!” (Blessed darling crows, moos, jumps in his +nurse’s arms, and holds out a little mottled hand for a biscuit of +Savoy, which mamma supplies.) “I can’t help thinking, Arthur, that +Rosey would have been much happier as Mrs. Hoby than she will be as +Mrs. Newcome.” + +“Who thinks of her being Mrs. Newcome?” + +“Her mother, her uncle, and Clive’s father. Since the Colonel has been +so rich, I think Mrs. Mackenzie sees a great deal of merit in Clive. +Rosey will do anything her mother bids her. If Clive can be brought to +the same obedience, Uncle James and the Colonel will be delighted. +Uncle James has set his heart on this marriage. (He and his sister +agree upon this point.) He told me, last night, that he would sing +‘Nunc dimittis,’ could he but see the two children happy; and that he +should lie easier in purgatory if that could be brought about.” + +“And what did you say, Laura?” + +“I laughed, and told Uncle James I was of the Hoby faction. He is very +good-natured, frank, honest, and gentlemanlike, Mr. Hoby. But Uncle +James said he thought Mr. Hoby was so—well, so stupid—that his Rosey +would be thrown away upon the poor Captain. So I did not tell Uncle +James that, before Clive’s arrival, Rosey had found Captain Hoby far +from stupid. He used to sing duets with her; he used to ride with her +before Clive came. Last winter, when they were at Pau, I feel certain +Miss Rosey thought Captain Hoby very pleasant indeed. She thinks she +was attached to Clive formerly, and now she admires him, and is +dreadfully afraid of him. He is taller and handsomer, and richer and +cleverer than Captain Hoby, certainly.” + +“I should think so, indeed,” breaks out Mr. Pendennis. “Why, my dear, +Clive is as fine a fellow as one can see on a summer’s day. It does one +good to look at him. What a frank pair of bright blue eyes he has, or +used to have, till this mishap overclouded them! What a pleasant laugh +he has! What a well-built, agile figure it is—what pluck, and spirit, +and honour, there is about my young chap! I don’t say he is a genius of +the highest order, but he is the staunchest, the bravest, the +cheeriest, the most truth-telling, the kindest heart. Compare him and +Hoby! Why, Clive is an eagle, and yonder little creature a mousing +owl!” + +“I like to hear you speak so,” cries Mrs. Laura, very tenderly. “People +say that you are always sneering, Arthur; but I know my husband better. +We know papa better, don’t we, baby?” (Here my wife kisses the infant +Pendennis with great effusion, who has come up dancing on his nurse’s +arms.) “But,” says she, coming back and snuggling by her husband’s side +again—“But suppose your favourite Clive is an eagle, Arthur, don’t you +think he had better have an eagle for a mate? If he were to marry +little Rosey, I dare say he would be very good to her; but I think +neither he nor she would be very happy. My dear, she does not care for +his pursuits; she does not understand him when he talks. The two +captains, and Rosey and I, and the campaigner, as you call her, laugh +and talk, and prattle, and have the merriest little jokes with one +another, and we all are as quiet as mice when you and Clive come in.” + +“What, am I an eagle, too? I have no aquiline pretensions at all, Mrs. +Pendennis.” + +“No. Well, we are not afraid of you. We are not afraid of papa, are we, +darling?” this young woman now calls out to the other member of her +family; who, if you will calculate, has just had time to be walked +twice up and down the deck of the steamer, whilst Laura has been making +her speech about eagles. And soon the mother, child, and attendant +descend into the lower cabins: and then dinner is announced: and +Captain Jackson treats us to champagne from his end of the table: and +yet a short while, and we are at sea, and conversation becomes +impossible: and morning sees us under the grey London sky, and amid the +million of masts in the Thames. + + + + +CHAPTER LVII. +Rosebury and Newcome + + +The friends to whom we were engaged in England were Florac and his +wife, Madame la Princesse de Moncontour, who were determined to spend +the Christmas holidays at the Princess’s country seat. It was for the +first time since their reconciliation, that the Prince and Princess +dispensed their hospitalities at the latter’s château. It is situated, +as the reader has already been informed, at some five miles from the +town of Newcome; away from the chimneys and smoky atmosphere of that +place, in a sweet country of rural woodlands; over which quiet +villages, grey church spires, and ancient gabled farmhouses are +scattered: still wearing the peaceful aspect which belonged to them +when Newcome was as yet but an antiquated country town, before mills +were erected on its river-banks, and dyes and cinders blackened its +stream. Twenty years since Newcome Park was the only great house in +that district; now scores of fine villas have sprung up in the suburb +lying between the town and park. Newcome New Town, as everybody knows, +has grown round the park-gates, and the New Town Hotel (where the +railway station is) is a splendid structure in the Tudor style, more +ancient in appearance than the park itself; surrounded by little +antique villas with spiked gables, stacks of crooked chimneys, and +plate-glass windows looking upon trim lawns; with glistening hedges of +evergreens, spotless gravel walks, and Elizabethan gig-houses. Under +the great railway viaduct of the New Town, goes the old tranquil +winding London highroad, once busy with a score of gay coaches, and +ground by innumerable wheels: but at a few miles from the New Town +Station the road has become so mouldy that the grass actually grows on +it; and Rosebury, Madame de Moncontour’s house, stands at one end of a +village-green, which is even more quiet now than it was a hundred years +ago. + +When first Madame de Florac bought the place, it scarcely ranked +amongst the country-houses; and she, the sister of manufacturers at +Newcome and Manchester, did not of course visit the county families. A +homely little body, married to a Frenchman from whom she was separated, +may or may not have done a great deal of good in her village, have had +pretty gardens, and won prizes at the Newcome flower and fruit shows; +but, of course, she was nobody in such an aristocratic county as we +know ———shire is. She had her friends and relatives from Newcome. Many +of them were Quakers—many were retail shopkeepers. She even frequented +the little branch Ebenezer, on Rosebury Green; and it was only by her +charities and kindness at Christmas-time, that the Rev. Dr. Potter, the +rector at Rosebury, knew her. The old clergy, you see, live with the +county families. Good little Madame de Florac was pitied and patronised +by the Doctor, treated with no little superciliousness by Mrs. Potter, +and the young ladies, who only kept the first society. Even when her +rich brother died, and she got her share of all that money Mrs. Potter +said poor Madame de Florac did well in not trying to move out of her +natural sphere (Mrs. P. was the daughter of a bankrupt hatter in +London, and had herself been governess in a noble family, out of which +she married Mr. P., who was private tutor). Madame de Florac did well, +she said, not to endeavour to leave her natural sphere, and that The +County never would receive her. Tom Potter, the rector’s son, with whom +I had the good fortune to be a fellow-student at Saint Boniface +College, Oxbridge—a rattling, forward, and it must be owned, vulgar +youth—asked me whether Florac was not a billiard-marker by profession? +and was even so kind as to caution his sisters not to speak of +billiards before the lady of Rosebury. Tom was surprised to learn that +Monsieur Paul de Florac was a gentleman of lineage incomparably better +than that of any, except two or three families in England (including +your own, my dear and respected reader, of course, if you hold to your +pedigree). But the truth is, heraldically speaking, that union with the +Higgs of Manchester was the first misalliance which the Florac family +had made for long long years. Not that I would wish for a moment to +insinuate that any nobleman is equal to an English nobleman; nay, that +an English snob, with a coat-of-arms bought yesterday, or stolen out of +Edmonton, or a pedigree purchased from a peerage-maker, has not a right +to look down upon any of your paltry foreign nobility. + +One day the carriage-and-four came in state from Newcome Park, with the +well-known chaste liveries of the Newcomes, and drove up Rosebury +Green, towards the parsonage gate, when Mrs. and the Miss Potters +happened to be standing, cheapening fish from a donkey-man, with whom +they were in the habit of dealing. The ladies were in their pokiest old +head-gear and most dingy gowns, when they perceived the carriage +approaching; and considering, of course, that the visit of the Park +people was intended for them, dashed into the rectory to change their +clothes, leaving Rowkins, the costermonger, in the very midst of the +negotiation about the three mackerel. Mamma got that new bonnet out of +the bandbox; Lizzy and Liddy skipped up to their bedroom, and brought +out those dresses which they wore at the _déjeûner_ at the Newcome +Athenæum, when Lord Leveret came down to lecture; into which they no +sooner had hooked their lovely shoulders, than they reflected with +terror that mamma had been altering one of papa’s flannel waistcoats +and had left it in the drawing-room, when they were called out by the +song of Rowkins, and the appearance of his donkey’s ears over the green +gate of the rectory. To think of the Park people coming, and the +drawing-room in that dreadful state! + +But when they came downstairs the Park people were not in the room—the +woollen garment was still on the table (how they plunged it into the +chiffonier!)—and the only visitor was Rowkins, the costermonger, +grinning at the open French windows, with the three mackerel, and +crying, “Make it sixpence, miss—don’t say fippens, maam, to a pore +fellow that has a wife and family.” So that the young ladies had to +cry—“Impudence!” “Get away, you vulgar insolent creature!—Go round, +sir, to the back door!” “How dare you?” and the like; fearing lest Lady +Anne Newcome, and Young Ethel, and Barnes should enter in the midst of +this ignoble controversy. + +They never came at all—those Park people. How very odd! They passed the +rectory gate; they drove on to Madame de Florac’s lodge. They went in. +They stayed for half an hour; the horses driving round and round the +gravel road before the house; and Mrs. Potter and the girls speedily +going to the upper chambers, and looking out of the room where the +maids slept, saw Lady Anne, Ethel, and Barnes walking with Madame de +Florac, going into the conservatories, issuing thence with MacWhirter, +the gardener, bearing huge bunches of grapes and large fasces of +flowers; they saw Barnes talking in the most respectful manner to +Madame de Florac: and when they went downstairs and had their work +before them—Liddy her gilt music-book, Lizzy her embroidered +altar-cloth, mamma her scarlet cloak for one of the old women—they had +the agony of seeing the barouche over the railings whisk by, with the +Park people inside, and Barnes driving the four horses. + +It was on that day when Barnes had determined to take up Madame de +Florac; when he was bent upon reconciling her to her husband. In spite +of all Mrs. Potter’s predictions, the county families did come and +visit the manufacturer’s daughter; and when Madame de Florac became +Madame la Princesse de Moncontour, when it was announced that she was +coming to stay at Rosebury for Christmas, I leave you to imagine +whether the circumstance was or was not mentioned in the _Newcome +Sentinel_ and the _Newcome Independent;_ and whether Rev. G. Potter, +D.D., and Mrs. Potter did or did not call on the Prince and Princess. I +leave you to imagine whether the lady did or did not inspect all the +alterations which Vineer’s people from Newcome were making at Rosebury +House—the chaste yellow satin and gold of the drawing-room—the carved +oak for the dining-room—the chintz for the bedrooms—the Princess’s +apartment—the Prince’s apartment—the guests’ apartments—the +smoking-room, gracious goodness!—the stables (these were under Tom +Potter’s superintendence), “and I’m finished,” says he one day, “if +here doesn’t come a billiard-table!” + +The house was most comfortably and snugly appointed from top to bottom; +and thus it will be seen that Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis were likely to be +in very good quarters for Christmas of 184-. + +Tom Potter was so kind as to call on me two days after our arrival; and +to greet me in the Princess’s pew at church on the previous day. Before +desiring to be introduced to my wife, he requested me to present him to +my friend the Prince. He called him your Highness. His Highness, who +had behaved with exemplary gravity, save once when he shrieked an “ah!” +as Miss Liddy led off the children in the organ-loft in a hymn, and the +whole pack went woefully out of tune, complimented Monsieur Tom on the +sermon of monsieur his father. Tom walked with us to Rosebury +lodge-gate. “Will you not come in, and make a party of billiard with +me?” says His Highness. “Ah Pardon! I forgot, you do not play the +billiard the Sunday!” “_Any other day_, Prince, I shall be delighted,” +says Tom; and squeezed His Highness’s hand tenderly at parting. “Your +comrade of college was he?” asks Florac. “My dear, what men are these +comrades of college! What men are you English! My word of honour, there +are some of them here—if I were to say to them wax my boots, they would +take them and wax them! Didst thou see how the Révérend eyed us during +the sermon? He regarded us over his book, my word of honour!” + +Madame de Florac said simply, she wished the Prince would go and hear +Mr. Jacob at the Ebenezer. Mr. Potter was not a good preacher, +certainly. + +“Savez-vous qu’elle est furieusement belle, la fille du Révérend?” +whispered His Highness to me. “I have made eyes at her during the +sermon. They will be of pretty neighbours these meess!” and Paul looked +unutterably roguish and victorious as he spoke. To my wife, I am bound +to say, Monsieur de Moncontour showed a courtesy, a respect and +kindness, that could not be exceeded. He admired her. He paid her +compliments innumerable, and gave me I am sure sincere congratulations +at possessing such a treasure. I do not think he doubted about his +power of conquering her, or any other of the daughters of women. But I +was the friend of his misfortunes—his guest; and he spared me. + +I have seen nothing more amusing, odd, and pleasant than Florac at this +time of his prosperity. We arrived, as this veracious chronicle has +already asserted, on a Saturday evening. We were conducted to our most +comfortable apartments; with crackling fires blazing on the hearths, +and every warmth of welcome. Florac expanded and beamed with +good-nature. He shook me many times by the hand; he patted me; he +called me his good—his brave. He cried to his maître-d’hôtel, +“Frédéric, remember monsieur is master here! Run before his orders. +Prostrate thyself to him. He was good to me in the days of my +misfortune. Hearest thou, Frédéric? See that everything be done for +Monsieur Pendennis—for madame sa charmante lady—for her angelic infant, +and the bonne. None of thy garrison tricks with that young person, +Frédéric! vieux scélérat! Garde-toi de là, Frédéric; si non, je +t’envoie à Botani Bay; je te traduis devant le Lord-Maire!” + +“En Angleterre je me fais Anglais, vois-tu, mon ami,” continued the +Prince. “Demain c’est Sunday, et tu vas voir! I hear the bell, dress +thyself for the dinner—my friend!”; Here there was another squeeze of +both hands from the good-natured fellow. “It do good to my art to ’ave +you in my ’ouse! Heuh!” He hugged his guest; he had tears in his eyes +as he performed this droll, this kind embrace. Not less kind in her +way, though less expensive and _embracive_, was Madame de Moncontour to +my wife, as I found on comparing notes with that young woman, when the +day’s hospitalities were ended. The little Princess trotted from +bedchamber to nursery to see that everything was made comfortable for +her guests. She sate and saw the child washed and put to bed. She had +never beheld such a little angel. She brought it a fine toy to play +with. She and her grim old maid frightened the little creature at +first, but it was very speedily reconciled to their countenances. She +was in the nursery almost as early as the child’s mother. “Ah!” sighed +the poor little woman, “how happy you must be to have one!” In fine, my +wife was quite overcome by her goodness and welcome. + +Sunday morning arrived in the course of time, and then Florac appeared +as a most wonderful Briton indeed! He wore top-boots and buckskins; and +after breakfast, when we went to church, a white great-coat with a +little cape, in which garment he felt that his similarity to an English +gentleman was perfect. In conversation with his grooms and servants he +swore freely,—not that he was accustomed to employ oaths in his own +private talk, but he thought the employment of these expletives +necessary as an English country gentleman. He never dined without a +roast-beef, and insisted that the piece of meat should be bleeding, “as +you love it, you others.” He got up boxing-matches: and kept birds for +combats of cock. He assumed the sporting language with admirable +enthusiasm—drove over to cover with a steppère—rode across countri like +a good one—was splendid in the hunting-field in his velvet cap and +Napoleon boots, and made the Hunt welcome at Rosebury where his +good-natured little wife was as kind to the gentlemen in scarlet as she +used to be of old to the stout Dissenting gentlemen in black, who sang +hymns and spake sermons on her lawn. These folks, scared at the change +which had taken place in the little Princess’s habits of life, lamented +her falling away: but in the county she and her husband got a great +popularity, and in Newcome town itself they were not less liked, for +her benefactions were unceasing, and Paul’s affability the theme of all +praise. The _Newcome Independent_ and the _Newcome Sentinel_ both paid +him compliments; the former journal contrasting his behaviour with that +of Sir Barnes, their member. Florac’s pleasure was to drive his +Princess with four horses into Newcome. He called his carriage his +“trappe,” his “drague.” The street-boys cheered and hurrayed the Prince +as he passed through the town. One haberdasher had a yellow stock +called the “Moncontour” displayed in his windows; another had a pink +one marked “The Princely,” and as such recommended it to the young +Newcome gents. + +The drague conveyed us once to the neighbouring house of Newcome, +whither my wife accompanied Madame de Moncontour at that lady’s own +request, to whom Laura very properly did not think fit to confide her +antipathy for Lady Clara Newcome. Coming away from a great house, how +often she and I, egotistical philosophers, thanked our fates that our +own home was a small one! How long will great houses last in this +world? Do not their owners now prefer a lodging at Brighton, or a +little entresol on the Boulevard, to the solitary ancestral palace in a +park barred round with snow? We were as glad to get out of Newcome as +out of a prison. My wife and our hostess skipped into the carriage, and +began to talk freely as the lodge-gates closed after us. Would we be +lords of such a place under the penalty of living in it? We agreed that +the little angle of earth called Fairoaks was dearer to us than the +clumsy Newcome-pile of Tudor masonry. The house had been fitted up in +the time of George IV. and the quasi-Gothic revival. We were made to +pass through Gothic dining-rooms, where there was now no +hospitality,—Gothic drawing-rooms shrouded in brown hollands, to one +little room at the end of the dusky suite, where Lady Clara sate alone, +or in the company of the nurses and children. The blank gloom of the +place had fallen upon the poor lady. Even when my wife talked about +children (good-natured Madame de Moncontour vaunting ours as a prodigy) +Lady Clara did not brighten up! Her pair of young ones was exhibited +and withdrawn. A something weighed upon the woman. We talked about +Ethel’s marriage. She said it was fixed for the new year, she believed. +She did not know whether Glenlivat had been very handsomely fitted up. +She had not seen Lord Farintosh’s house in London. Sir Barnes came down +once—twice—of a Saturday sometimes, for three or four days to hunt, to +amuse himself, as all men do she supposed. She did not know when he was +coming again. She rang languidly when we rose to take leave, and sank +back on her sofa, where lay a heap of French novels. “She has chosen +some pretty books,” says Paul, as we drove through the sombre avenues +through the grey park, mists lying about the melancholy ornamental +waters, dingy herds of huddled sheep speckling the grass here and +there; no smoke rising up from the great stacks of chimneys of the +building we were leaving behind us, save one little feeble thread of +white which we knew came from the fire by which the lonely mistress of +Newcome was seated. “Ouf!” cries Florac, playing his whip, as the +lodge-gates closed on us, and his team of horses rattled merrily along +the road, “what a blessing it is to be out of that vault of a place! +There is something fatal in this house—in this woman. One smells +misfortune there.” + +The hotel which our friend Florac patronised on occasion of his visits +to Newcome was the King’s Arms, and it happened, one day, as we entered +that place of entertainment in company, that a visitor of the house was +issuing through the hall, to whom Florac seemed as if he would +administer one of his customary embraces, and to whom the Prince called +out “Jack,” with great warmth and kindness as he ran towards the +stranger. + +Jack did not appear to be particularly well pleased on beholding us; he +rather retreated from before the Frenchman’s advances. + +“My dear Jack, my good, my brave Ighgate! I am delighted to see you!” +Florac continues, regardless of the stranger’s reception, or of the +landlord’s looks towards us, who was bowing the Prince into his very +best room. + +“How do you do, Monsieur de Florac?” growls the new comer, surlily; and +was for moving on after this brief salutation; but having a second +thought seemingly, turned back and followed Florac into the apartment +where our host conducted us. _A la bonne heure!_ Florac renewed his +cordial greetings to Lord Highgate. “I knew not, mon bon, what fly had +stung you,” says he to my lord. The landlord, rubbing his hands, +smirking and bowing, was anxious to know whether the Prince would take +anything after his drive. As the Prince’s attendant and friend, the +lustre of his reception partially illuminated me. When the chief was +not by, I was treated with great attention (mingled with a certain +degree of familiarity) by my landlord. + +Lord Highgate waited until Mr. Taplow was out of the room; and then +said to Florac, “Don’t call me by my name here, please, Florac, I am +here incog.” + +“Plait-il?” asks Florac. “Where is incog.?” He laughed when the word +was interpreted to him. Lord Highgate had turned to me. “There was no +rudeness, you understand, intended, Mr. Pendennis, but I am down here +on some business, and don’t care to wear the handle to my name. Fellows +work it so, don’t you understand? never leave you at rest in a country +town—that sort of thing. Heard of our friend Clive lately?” + +“Whether you ’ave ’andle or no ’andle, Jack, you are always the +bien-venu to me. What is thy affair? Old monster! I wager——” + +“No, no, no such nonsense,” says Jack, rather eagerly. “I give you my +honour, I—I want to—to raise a sum of money—that is, to invest some in +a speculation down here—deuced good the speculations down here; and, by +the way, if the landlord asks you, I’m Mr. Harris—I’m a civil +engineer—I’m waiting for the arrival of the Canada at Liverpool from +America, and very uneasy about my brother who is on board.” + +“What does he recount to us there? Keep these stories for the landlord, +Jack; to us ’tis not the pain to lie. My good Mr. Harris, why have we +not seen you at Rosebury? The Princess will scold me if you do not +come; and you must bring your dear brother when he arrive too. Do you +hear?” The last part of this sentence was uttered for Mr. Taplow’s +benefit, who had re-entered the George bearing a tray of wine and +biscuit. + +The Master of Rosebury and Mr. Harris went out presently to look at a +horse which was waiting the former’s inspection in the stableyard of +the hotel. The landlord took advantage of his business, to hear a bell +which never was rung, and to ask me questions about the guest who had +been staying at his house for a week past. Did I know that party? Mr. +Pendennis said, “Yes, he knew that party.” + +“Most respectable party, I have no doubt,” continues Boniface. “Do you +suppose the Prince of Moncontour knows any but respectable parties?” +asks Mr. Pendennis—a query of which the force was so great as to +discomfit and silence our landlord, who retreated to ask questions +concerning Mr. Harris of Florac’s grooms. + +What was Highgate’s business here? Was it mine to know? I might have +suspicions, but should I entertain them or communicate them, and had I +not best keep them to myself? I exchanged not a word on the subject of +Highgate with Florac, as we drove home: though from the way in which we +looked at one another each saw that the other was acquainted with that +unhappy gentleman’s secret. We fell to talking about Madame la Duchesse +d’Ivry as we trotted on; and then of English manners by way of +contrast, of intrigues, elopements, Gretna Grin, etc., etc. “You are a +droll nation!” says Florac. “To make love well, you must absolutely +have a chaise-de-poste, and a scandal afterwards. If our affairs of +this kind made themselves on the grand route, what armies of +postillions we should need!” + +I held my peace. In that vision of Jack Belsize I saw misery, guilt, +children dishonoured, homes deserted,—ruin for all the actors and +victims of the wretched conspiracy. Laura marked my disturbance when we +reached home. She even divined the cause of it, and charged me with it +at night, when we sate alone by our dressing-room fire, and had taken +leave of our kind entertainers. Then, under her cross-examination, I +own that I told what I had seen—Lord Highgate, under a feigned name +staying at Newcome. It might be nothing. “Nothing! Gracious heavens! +Could not this crime and misery be stopped?” “It might be too late,” +Laura’s husband said sadly, bending down his head into the fire. + +She was silent too for a while. I could see she was engaged where pious +women ever will betake themselves in moments of doubt, of grief, of +pain, of separation, of joy even, or whatsoever other trial. They have +but to will, and as it were an invisible temple rises round them; their +hearts can kneel down there; and they have an audience of the great, +the merciful untiring Counsellor and Consoler. She would not have been +frightened at Death near at hand. I have known her to tend the poor +round about us, or to bear pain—not her own merely, but even her +children’s and mine, with a surprising outward constancy and calm. But +the idea of this crime being enacted close at hand, and no help for +it—quite overcame her. I believe she lay awake all that night; and rose +quite haggard and pale after the bitter thoughts which had deprived her +of rest. + +She embraced her own child with extraordinary tenderness that morning, +and even wept over it, calling it by a thousand fond names of maternal +endearment “Would I leave you, my darling—could I ever, ever, ever quit +you, my blessing, and treasure!” The unconscious little thing, hugged +to his mother’s bosom, and scared at her tones and tragic face, clung +frightened and weeping round Laura’s neck. Would you ask what the +husband’s feelings were as he looked at that sweet love, that sublime +tenderness, that pure Saint blessing the life of him unworthy? Of all +the gifts of Heaven to us below, that felicity is the sum and the +chief. I tremble as I hold it lest I should lose it, and be left alone +in the blank world without it: again, I feel humiliated to think that I +possess it; as hastening home to a warm fireside and a plentiful table, +I feel ashamed sometimes before the poor outcast beggar shivering in +the street. + +Breakfast was scarcely over when Laura asked for a pony carriage, and +said she was bent on a private visit. She took her baby and nurse with +her. She refused our company, and would not even say whither she was +bound until she had passed the lodge-gate. I may have suspected what +the object was of her journey. Florac and I did not talk of it. We rode +out to meet the hounds of a cheery winter morning: on another day I +might have been amused with my host—the splendour of his raiment, the +neatness of his velvet cap, the gloss of his hunting-boots; the cheers, +shouts, salutations, to dog and man; the oaths and outcries of this +Nimrod, who shouted louder than the whole field and the whole pack +too—but on this morning—I was thinking of the tragedy yonder enacting, +and came away early from the hunting-field, and found my wife already +returned to Rosebury. + +Laura had been, as I suspected, to Lady Clara. She did not know why, +indeed. She scarce knew what she should say when she arrived—how she +could say what she had in her mind. “I hoped, Arthur, that I should +have something—something told me to say,” whispered Laura, with her +head on my shoulder; and as I lay awake last night thinking of her, +prayed—that is, hoped, I might find a word of consolation for that poor +lady. Do you know, I think she has hardly ever heard a kind word? She +said so; she was very much affected after we had talked together a +little. + +“At first she was very indifferent; cold and haughty in her manner; +asked what had caused the pleasure of this visit, for I would go in, +though at the lodge they told me her ladyship was unwell, and they +thought received no company. I said I wanted to show our boy to +her—that the children ought to be acquainted—I don’t know what I said. +She seemed more and more surprised—then all of a sudden—I don’t know +how—I said, ‘Lady Clara, I have had a dream about you and your +children, and I was so frightened that I came over to you to speak +about it.’ And I _had_ the dream, Pen; it came to me absolutely as I +was speaking to her. + +“She looked a little scared, and I went on telling her the dream. ‘My +dear’ I said, ‘I dreamed that I saw you happy with those children.’ + +“‘Happy!’ says she—the three were playing in the conservatory into +which her sitting-room opens. + +“‘And that a bad spirit came and tore them from you, and drove you out +into the darkness; and I saw you wandering about quite lonely and +wretched, and looking back into the garden where the children were +playing. And you asked and implored to see them; and the Keeper at the +gate said ‘No, never.’ And then—then I thought they passed by you, and +they did not know you.’ + +“‘Ah!’ said Lady Clara. + +“‘And then I thought, as we do in dreams, you know, that it was my +child who was separated from me, and who would not know me: and oh, +what a pang that was! Fancy that! Let us pray God it was only a dream. +And worse than that, when you, when I implored to come to the child, +and the man said, ‘No, never,’ I thought there came a spirit—an angel +that fetched the child to heaven, and you said, ‘Let me come too; oh, +let me come too, I am so miserable.’ And the angel said, ‘No, never, +never.’ + +“By this time Lady Clara was looking very pale. ‘What do you mean?’ she +asked of me,” Laura continued. + +“‘Oh, dear lady, for the sake of the little ones, and Him who calls +them to Him, go you with them. Never, never part from them! Cling to +His knees, and take shelter there.’ I took her hands, and I said more +to her in this way, Arthur, that I need not, that I ought not to speak +again. But she was touched at length when I kissed her; and she said I +was very kind to her, and no one had ever been so, and that she was +quite alone in the world and had no friend to fly to; and would I go +and stay with her? and I said ‘yes;’ and we must go, my dear. I think +you should see that person at Newcome—see him, and warn him,” cried +Laura, warming as she spoke, “and pray God to enlighten and strengthen +him, and to keep him from this temptation, and implore him to leave +this poor, weak, frightened, trembling creature; if he has the heart of +a gentleman and the courage of a man, he will, I know he will.” + +“I think he would, my dearest,” I said, “if he but heard the +petitioner.” Laura’s cheeks were blushing, her eyes brightened, her +voice rang with a sweet pathos of love that vibrates through my whole +being sometimes. It seems to me as if evil must give way, and bad +thoughts retire before that purest creature. + +“Why has she not some of her family with her, poor thing!” my wife +continued. “She perishes in that solitude. Her husband prevents her, I +think—and—oh—I know enough of _him_ to know what his life is. I +shudder, Arthur, to see you take the hand of that wicked, selfish man. +You must break with him, do you hear, sir?” + +“Before or after going to stay at his house, my love?” asks Mr. +Pendennis. + +“Poor thing! she lighted up at the idea of any one coming. She ran and +showed me the rooms we were to have. It will be very stupid; and you +don’t like that. But you can write your book, and still hunt and shoot +with our friends here. And Lady Anne Newcome must be made to come back +again. Sir Barnes quarrelled with his mother and drove her out of the +house on her last visit—think of that! The servants here know it. +Martha brought me the whole story from the housekeeper’s room. This Sir +Barnes Newcome is a dreadful creature, Arthur. I am so glad I loathed +him from the very first moment I saw him.” + +“And into this ogre’s den you propose to put me and my family, madam!” +says the husband. “Indeed, where won’t I go if you order me? Oh, who +will pack my portmanteau?” + +Florac and the Princess were both in desolation when, at dinner, we +announced our resolution to go away—and to our neighbours at Newcome! +that was more extraordinary. “Que diable goest thou to do in this +galley?” asks our host as we sat alone over our wine. + +But Laura’s intended visit to Lady Clara was never to have a +fulfilment, for on this same evening, as we sate at our dessert, comes +a messenger from Newcome, with a note for my wife from the lady there:— + +“_Dearest, kindest_ Mrs. Pendennis,” Lady Clara wrote, with many +italics, and evidently in much distress of mind. “Your visit _is not to +be_. I spoke about it to Sir B., who _arrived this afternoon_, and who +has already begun to treat me _in his usual way_. Oh, I am so unhappy! +Pray, pray do not be angry at this rudeness—though indeed it is only a +kindness to keep you from this wretched place! I feel as _if I cannot +bear this much longer_. But, whatever happens, I shall always remember +your goodness, your beautiful goodness and kindness; and shall worship +you as _an angel_ deserves to be worshipped. Oh, why had I not such a +friend _earlier!_ But alas! I have none—only _his odious family_ thrust +upon me for companions to the _wretched, lonely_, C. N. + +“P.S.—He does not know of my writing. Do not be surprised if you get +another note from me in the morning, written in a _ceremonious style_ +and regretting that we _cannot have the pleasure_ of receiving Mr. and +Mrs. Pendennis for the present at Newcome. + +“P.S.—The hypocrite!” + +This letter was handed to my wife at dinner-time, and she gave it to me +as she passed out of the room with the other ladies. + +I told Florac that the Newcomes could not receive us, and that we would +remain, if he willed it, his guests for a little longer. The kind +fellow was only too glad to keep us. “My wife would die without +_Bébi_,” he said. “She becomes quite dangerous about Bébi.” It was +gratifying that the good old lady was not to be parted as yet from the +innocent object of her love. + +My host knew as well as I the terms upon which Sir Barnes and his wife +were living. Their quarrels were the talk of the whole county; one side +brought forward his treatment of her, and his conduct elsewhere, and +said that he was so bad that honest people should not know him. The +other party laid the blame upon her, and declared that Lady Clara was a +languid, silly, weak, frivolous creature; always crying out of season; +who had notoriously taken Sir Barnes for his money and who as certainly +had had an attachment elsewhere. Yes, the accusations were true on both +sides. A bad, selfish husband had married a woman for her rank: a weak, +thoughtless girl had been sold to a man for his money; and the union, +which might have ended in a complete indifference, had taken an ill +turn and resulted in misery, cruelty, fierce mutual recriminations, +bitter tears shed in private, husband’s curses and maledictions, and +open scenes of wrath and violence for servants to witness and the world +to sneer at. We arrange such matches every day; we sell or buy beauty, +or rank, or wealth; we inaugurate the bargain in churches with +sacramental services, in which the parties engaged call upon Heaven to +witness their vows—we know them to be lies, and we seal them with God’s +name. “I, Barnes, promise to take you, Clara, to love and honour till +death do us part” “I Clara, promise to take you, Barnes,” etc, etc. Who +has not heard the ancient words; and how many of us have uttered them, +knowing them to be untrue: and is there a bishop on the bench that has +not amen’d the humbug in his lawn sleeves and called a blessing over +the kneeling perjurers? + +“Does Mr. Harris know of Newcome’s return?” Florac asked, when I +acquainted him with this intelligence. “Ce scelerat de Highgate—Va!” + +“Does Newcome know that Lord Highgate is here?” I thought within +myself, admiring my wife’s faithfulness and simplicity, and trying to +believe with that pure and guileless creature that it was not yet too +late to save the unhappy Lady Clara. + +“Mr. Harris had best be warned,” I said to Florac; “will you write him +a word, and let us send a messenger to Newcome?” + +At first Florac said, “Parbleu! No;” the affair was none of his, he +attended himself always to this result of Lady Clara’s marriage. He had +even complimented Jack upon it years before at Baden, when scenes +enough tragic, enough comical, _ma foi_, had taken place _à propos_ of +this affair. Why should he meddle with it now? + +“Children dishonoured,” said I, “honest families made miserable; for +Heaven’s sake, Florac, let us stay this catastrophe if we can.” I spoke +with much warmth, eagerly desirous to avert this calamity if possible, +and very strongly moved by the tale which I had heard only just before +dinner from that noble and innocent creature, whose pure heart had +already prompted her to plead the cause of right and truth, and to try +and rescue an unhappy desperate sister trembling on the verge of ruin. + +“If you will not write to him,” said I, in some heat, “if your grooms +don’t like to go out of a night” (this was one of the objections which +Florac had raised), “I will walk.” We were talking over the affair +rather late in the evening, the ladies having retreated to their +sleeping apartments, and some guests having taken leave, whom our +hospitable host and hostess had entertained that night, and before whom +I naturally did not care to speak upon a subject so dangerous. + +“Parbleu, what virtue, my friend! what a Joseph!” cries Florac, puffing +his cigar. “One sees well that your wife had made you the sermon. My +poor Pendennis! You are henpecked, my pauvre bon! You become the +husband model. It is true my mother writes that thy wife is an angel!” + +“I do not object to obey such a woman when she bids me do right,” I +said; and would indeed at that woman’s request have gone out upon the +errand, but that we here found another messenger. On days when +dinner-parties were held at Rosebury, certain auxiliary waiters used to +attend from Newcome whom the landlord of the King’s Arms was accustomed +to supply; indeed, it was to secure these, and make other necessary +arrangements respecting fish, game, etc., that the Prince de Moncontour +had ridden over to Newcome on the day when we met Lord Highgate, +_alias_ Mr. Harris, before the bar of the hotel. Whilst we were engaged +in the above conversation a servant enters, and says, “My lord, Jenkins +and the other man is going back to Newcome in their cart, and is there +anything wanted?” + +“It is the Heaven which sends him,” says Florac, turning round to me +with a laugh; “make Jenkins to wait five minutes, Robert; I have to +write to a gentleman at the King’s Arms.” And so saying, Florac wrote a +line which he showed me, and having sealed the note, directed it to Mr. +Harris at the King’s Arms. The cart, the note, and the assistant +waiters departed on their way to Newcome. Florac bade me go to rest +with a clear conscience. In truth, the warning was better given in that +way than any other, and a word from Florac was more likely to be +effectual than an expostulation from me. I had never thought of making +it, perhaps; except at the expressed desire of a lady whose counsel in +all the difficult circumstances of life I own I am disposed to take. + +Mr. Jenkins’s horse no doubt trotted at a very brisk pace, as +gentlemen’s horses will of a frosty night, after their masters have +been regaled with plentiful supplies of wine and ale. I remember in my +bachelor days that my horses always trotted quicker after I had had a +good dinner; the champagne used to communicate itself to them somehow, +and the claret get into their heels. Before midnight the letter for Mr. +Harris was in Mr. Harris’s hands in the King’s Arms. + +It has been said that in the Boscawen Room at the Arms, some of the +jolly fellows of Newcome had a club, of which Parrot the auctioneer, +Tom Potts the talented reporter, now editor of the _Independent_, +Vidler the apothecary, and other gentlemen, were members. + +When we first had occasion to mention that society, it was at an early +stage of this history, long before Clive Newcome’s fine moustache had +grown. If Vidler the apothecary was old and infirm then, he is near ten +years older now; he has had various assistants, of course, and one of +them of late years had his become his partner, though the firm +continues to be known by Vidler’s ancient and respectable name. A +jovial fellow was this partner—a capital convivial member of the Jolly +Britons, where he used to sit very late, so as to be in readiness for +any night-work that might come in. + +So the Britons were all sitting, smoking, drinking, and making merry, +in the Boscawen Room, when Jenkins enters with a note, which he +straightway delivers to Mr. Vidler’s partner. “From Rosebury? The +Princess ill again, I suppose,” says the surgeon, not sorry to let the +company know that he attends her. “I wish the old girl would be ill in +the daytime. Confound it,” says he, “what’s this——” and he reads out, +“‘Sir Newcome est de retour. Bon voyage, mon ami.—F.’ What does this +mean?” + +“I thought you knew French, Jack Harris,” says Tom Potts; “you’re +always bothering us with your French songs.” + +“Of course I know French,” says the other; “but what’s the meaning of +this?” + +“Screwcome came back by the five o’clock train. I was in it, and his +royal highness would scarcely speak to me. Took Brown’s fly from the +station. Brown won’t enrich his family much by the operation,” says Mr. +Potts. + +“But what do _I_ care?” cries Jack Harris; “we don’t attend him, and we +don’t lose much by that. Howell attends him, ever since Vidler and he +had that row.” + +“Hulloh! I say, it’s a mistake,” cries Mr. Taplow, smoking in his +chair. “This letter is for the party in the Benbow. The gent which the +Prince spoke to him, and called him Jack the other day when he was +here. Here’s a nice business, and the seal broke, and all. Is the +Benbow party gone to bed? John, you must carry him in this here note.” +John, quite innocent of the note and its contents, for he that moment +had entered the clubroom with Mr. Potts’s supper, took the note to the +Benbow, from which he presently returned to his master with a very +scared countenance. He said the gent in the Benbow was a most +harbitrary gent. He had almost choked John after reading the letter, +and John wouldn’t stand it; and when John said he supposed that Mr. +Harris in the Boscawen—that Mr. Jack Harris, had opened the letter, the +other gent cursed and swore awful. + +“Potts,” said Taplow, who was only too communicative on some occasions +after he had imbibed too much of his own brandy-and-water, “it’s my +belief that that party’s name is no more Harris than mine is. I have +sent his linen to the wash, and there was two white +pocket-handkerchiefs with H. and a coronet.” + +On the next day we drove over to Newcome, hoping perhaps to find that +Lord Highgate had taken the warning sent to him and quitted the place. +But we were disappointed. He was walking in front of the hotel, where a +thousand persons might see him as well as ourselves. + +We entered into his private apartment with him, and there expostulated +upon his appearance in the public street, where Barnes Newcome or any +passer-by might recognise him. He then told us of the mishap which had +befallen Florac’s letter on the previous night. + +“I can’t go away now, whatever might have happened previously: by this +time that villain knows that I am here. If I go, he will say I was +afraid of him, and ran away. Oh, how I wish he would come and find me!” +He broke out with a savage laugh. + +“It is best to run away,” one of us interposed sadly. + +“Pendennis,” he said with a tone of great softness, “your wife is a +good woman. God bless her! God bless her for all she has said and +done—would have done, if that villain had let her! Do you know the poor +thing hasn’t a single friend in the world, not one, one—except me, and +that girl they are selling to Farintosh, and who does not count for +much. He has driven away all her friends from her: one and all turn +upon her. Her relations, of course; when did _they_ ever fail to hit a +poor fellow or a poor girl when she was down? The poor angel! The +mother who sold her comes and preaches at her; Kew’s wife turns up her +little cursed nose and scorns her; Rooster, forsooth, must ride high +the horse, now he is married and lives at Chanticlere, and give her +warning to avoid my company or his! Do you know the only friend she +ever had was that old woman with the stick—old Kew; the old witch whom +they buried four months ago after nobbling her money for the beauty of +the family? She used to protect her—that old woman; heaven bless her +for it, wherever she is now, the old hag—a good word won’t do her any +harm. Ha! ha!” His laughter was cruel to hear. + +“Why did I come down?” he continued in reply to our sad queries. “Why +did I come down, do you ask? Because she was wretched, and sent for me. +Because if I was at the end of the world, and she was to say, ‘Jack, +come!’ I’d come.” + +“And if she bade you go?” asked his friends. + +“I would go; and I have gone. If she told me to jump into the sea, do +you think I would not do it? But I go; and when she is alone with him, +do you know what he does? He strikes her. Strikes _that_ poor little +thing! He has owned to it. She fled from him and sheltered with the old +woman who’s dead. He may be doing it now. Why did I ever shake hands +with him? that’s humiliation sufficient, isn’t it? But she wished it; +and I’d black his boots, curse him, if she told me. And because he +wanted to keep my money in his confounded bank; and because he knew he +might rely upon my honour and hers, poor dear child, he chooses to +shake hands with me—me, whom he hates worse than a thousand devils—and +quite right too. Why isn’t there a place where we can go and meet, like +man to man, and have it over! If I had a ball through my brains I +shouldn’t mind, I tell you. I’ve a mind to do it for myself, Pendennis. +You don’t understand me, Viscount.” + +“Il est vrai,” said Florac, with a shrug, “I comprehend neither the +suicide nor the chaise-de-poste. What will you? I am not yet enough +English, my friend. We make marriages of convenance in our country, que +diable, and what follows follows; but no scandal afterwards! Do not +adopt our institutions à demi, my friend. Vous ne me comprenez pas non +plus, men pauvre Jack!” + +“There is one way still, I think,” said the third of the speakers in +this scene. “Let Lord Highgate come to Rosebury in his own name, +leaving that of Mr. Harris behind him. If Sir Barnes Newcome wants you, +he can seek you there. If you will go, as go you should, and God speed +you, you can go, and in your own name, too.” + +“Parbleu, c’est ça,” cries Florac, “he speaks like a book—the +romancier!” I confess, for my part, I thought that a good woman might +plead with him, and touch that manly not disloyal heart now trembling +on the awful balance between evil and good. + +“Allons! let us make to come the drague!” cries Florac. “Jack, thou +returnest with us, my friend! Madame Pendennis, an angel, my friend, a +_quakre_ the most charming, shall roucoule to thee the sweetest +sermons. My wife shall tend thee like a mother—a grandmother. Go make +thy packet!” + +Lord Highgate was very much pleased and relieved seemingly. He shook +our hands, he said he should never forget our kindness, never! In +truth, the didactic part of our conversation was carried on at much +greater length than as here noted down: and he would come that evening, +but not with us, thank you; he had a particular engagement, some +letters he must write. Those done, he would not fail us, and would be +at Rosebury by dinner-time. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. +“One more Unfortunate” + + +The Fates did not ordain that the plan should succeed which Lord +Highgate’s friends had devised for Lady Clara’s rescue or respite. He +was bent upon one more interview with the unfortunate lady; and in that +meeting the future destiny of their luckless lives was decided. On the +morning of his return home, Barnes Newcome had information that Lord +Highgate, under a feigned name, had been staying in the neighbourhood +of his house, and had repeatedly been seen in the company of Lady +Clara. She may have gone out to meet him but for one hour more. She had +taken no leave of her children on the day when she left her home, and, +far from making preparations for her own departure, had been engaged in +getting the house ready for the reception of members of the family, +whose arrival her husband announced as speedily to follow his own. +Ethel and Lady Anne and some of the children were coming. Lord +Farintosh’s mother and sisters were to follow. It was to be a reunion +previous to the marriage which was closer to unite the two families. +Lady Clara said Yes to her husband’s orders; rose mechanically to obey +his wishes and arrange for the reception of the guests; and spoke +tremblingly to the housekeeper as her husband gibed at her. The little +ones had been consigned to bed early and before Sir Barnes’s arrival. +He did not think fit to see them in their sleep; nor did their mother. +She did not know, as the poor little creatures left her room in charge +of their nurses, that she looked on them for the last time. Perhaps, +had she gone to their bedsides that evening, had the wretched +panic-stricken soul been allowed leisure to pause, and to think, and to +pray, the fate of the morrow might have been otherwise, and the +trembling balance of the scale have inclined to right’s side. But the +pause was not allowed her. Her husband came and saluted her with his +accustomed greetings of scorn, and sarcasm, and brutal insult. On a +future day he never dared to call a servant of his household to testify +to his treatment of her; though many were ready to attend to prove his +cruelty and her terror. On that very last night, Lady Clara’s maid, a +country girl from her father’s house at Chanticlere, told Sir Barnes in +the midst of a conjugal dispute that her lady might bear his conduct +but she could not, and that she would no longer live under the roof of +such a brute. The girl’s interference was not likely to benefit her +mistress much: the wretched Lady Clara passed the last night under the +roof of her husband and children, unattended save by this poor domestic +who was about to leave her, in tears and hysterical outcries, and then +in moaning stupor. Lady Clara put to sleep with laudanum, her maid +carried down the story of her wrongs to the servants’ quarters; and +half a dozen of them took in their resignation to Sir Barnes as he sat +over his breakfast the next morning—in his ancestral hall—surrounded by +the portraits of his august forefathers—in his happy home. + +Their mutiny of course did not add to their master’s good-humour; and +his letters brought him news which increased Barnes’s fury. A messenger +arrived with a letter from his man of business at Newcome, upon the +receipt of which he started up with such an execration as frightened +the servant waiting on him, and letter in hand he ran to Lady Clara’s +sitting-room. Her ladyship was up. Sir Barnes breakfasted rather late +on the first morning after an arrival at Newcome. He had to look over +the bailiff’s books, and to look about him round the park and grounds; +to curse the gardeners; to damn the stable and kennel grooms; to yell +at the woodman for clearing not enough or too much; to rail at the poor +old workpeople brooming away the fallen leaves, etc. So Lady Clara was +up and dressed when her husband went to her room, which lay at the end +of the house as we have said, the last of a suite of ancestral halls. + +The mutinous servant heard high voices and curses within; then Lady +Clara’s screams; then Sir Barnes Newcome burst out of the room, locking +the door and taking the key with him, and saluting with more curses +James, the mutineer, over whom his master ran. + +“Curse your wife, and don’t curse me, Sir Barnes Newcome!” said James, +the mutineer; and knocked down a hand which the infuriated Baronet +raised against him, with an arm that was twice as strong as Barnes’s +own. This man and maid followed their mistress in the sad journey upon +which she was bent. They treated her with unalterable respect. They +never could be got to see that her conduct was wrong. When Barnes’s +counsel subsequently tried to impugn their testimony, they dared him; +and hurt the plaintiff’s case very much. For the balance had weighed +over; and it was Barnes himself who caused what now ensued; and what we +learned in a very few hours afterwards from Newcome, where it was the +talk of the whole neighbourhood. + +Florac and I, as yet ignorant of all that was occurring, met Barnes +near his own lodge-gate riding in the direction of Newcome, as we were +ourselves returning to Rosebury. The Prince de Moncontour, who was +driving, affably saluted the Baronet, who gave us a scowling +recognition, and rode on, his groom behind him. “The figure of the +garçon,” says Florac, as our acquaintance passed, “is not agreeable. Of +pale, he has become livid. I hope these two men will not meet, or evil +will come!” Evil to Barnes there might be, Florac’s companion thought, +who knew the previous little affairs between Barnes and his uncle and +cousin; and that Lord Highgate was quite able to take care of himself. + +In half an hour after Florac spoke, that meeting between Barnes and +Highgate actually had taken place—in the open square of Newcome, within +four doors of the King’s Arms inn, close to which lives Sir Barnes +Newcome’s man of business; and before which, Mr. Harris, as he was +called, was walking, and waiting till a carriage which he had ordered +came round from the inn yard. As Sir Barnes Newcome rode into the place +many people touched their hats to him, however little they loved him. +He was bowing and smirking to one of these, when he suddenly saw +Belsize. + +He started back, causing his horse to back with him on to the pavement, +and it may have been rage and fury, or accident and nervousness merely, +but at this instant Barnes Newcome, looking towards Lord Highgate, +shook his whip. + +“You cowardly villain!” said the other, springing forward. “I was going +to your house.” + +“How dare you, sir,” cries Sir Barnes, still holding up that unlucky +cane, “how dare you to—to——” + +“Dare, you scoundrel!” said Belsize. “Is that the cane you strike your +wife with, you ruffian!” Belsize seized and tore him out of the saddle, +flinging him screaming down on the pavement. The horse, rearing and +making way for himself, galloped down the clattering street; a hundred +people were round Sir Barnes in a moment. + +The carriage which Belsize had ordered came round at this very +juncture. Amidst the crowd, shrinking, bustling, expostulating, +threatening, who pressed about him, he shouldered his way. Mr. Taplow, +aghast, was one of the hundred spectators of the scene. + +“I am Lord Highgate,” said Barnes’s adversary. “If Sir Barnes Newcome +wants me, tell him I will send him word where he may hear of me.” And +getting into the carriage, he told the driver to go “to the usual +place.” + +Imagine the hubbub in the town, the conclaves at the inns, the talks in +the counting-houses, the commotion amongst the factory people, the +paragraphs in the Newcome papers, the bustle of surgeons and lawyers, +after this event. Crowds gathered at the King’s Arms, and waited round +Mr. Speers the lawyer’s house, into which Sir Barnes was carried. In +vain policemen told them to move on; fresh groups gathered after the +seceders. On the next day, when Barnes Newcome, who was not much hurt, +had a fly to go home, a factory man shook his fist in at the carriage +window, and, with a curse, said, “Serve you right, you villain.” It was +the man whose sweetheart this Don Juan had seduced and deserted years +before; whose wrongs were well known amongst his mates, a leader in the +chorus of hatred which growled round Barnes Newcome. + +Barnes’s mother and sister Ethel had reached Newcome shortly before the +return of the master of the house. The people there were in +disturbance. Lady Anne and Miss Newcome came out with pallid looks to +greet him. He laughed and reassured them about his accident: indeed his +hurt had been trifling; he had been bled by the surgeon, a little +jarred by the fall from his horse; but there was no sort of danger. +Still their pale and doubtful looks continued. What caused them? In the +open day, with a servant attending her Lady Clara Newcome had left her +husband’s house; and a letter was forwarded to him that same evening +from my Lord Highgate, informing Sir Barnes Newcome that Lady Clara +Pulleyn could bear his tyranny no longer, and had left his roof; that +Lord Highgate proposed to leave England almost immediately, but would +remain long enough to afford Sir Barnes Newcome the opportunity for an +interview, in case he should be disposed to demand one: and a friend +(of Lord Highgate’s late regiment) was named who would receive letters +and act in any way necessary for his lordship. + +The debates of the House of Lords must tell what followed afterwards in +the dreary history of Lady Clara Pulleyn. The proceedings in the +Newcome Divorce Bill filled the usual number of columns in the +papers,—especially the Sunday papers. The witnesses were examined by +learned peers whose business—nay, pleasure—it seems to be to enter into +such matters; and, for the ends of justice and morality, doubtless, the +whole story of Barnes Newcome’s household was told to the British +public. In the previous trial in the Court of Queen’s Bench, how +grandly Serjeant Rowland stood up for the rights of British husbands! +with what pathos he depicted the conjugal paradise, the innocent +children prattling round their happy parents, the serpent, the +destroyer, entering into that Belgravian Eden; the wretched and +deserted husband alone by his desecrated hearth, and calling for +redress on his country! Rowland wept freely during his noble harangue. +At not a shilling under twenty thousand pounds would he estimate the +cost of his client’s injuries. The jury was very much affected: the +evening papers gave Rowland’s address _in extenso_, with some pretty +sharp raps at the aristocracy in general. The _Day_, the principal +morning journal of that period, came out with a leading article the +next morning, in which every party concerned and every institution was +knocked about. The disgrace of the peerage, the ruin of the monarchy +(with a retrospective view of the well-known case of Gyges and +Candaules), the monstrosity of the crime, and the absurdity of the +tribunal and the punishment, were all set forth in the terrible leading +article of the _Day_. + +But when, on the next day, Serjeant Rowland was requested to call +witnesses to prove that connubial happiness which he had depicted so +pathetically, he had none at hand. + +Oliver, Q.C., now had his innings. A man, a husband, and a father, Mr. +Oliver could not attempt to defend the conduct of his unfortunate +client; but if there could be any excuse for such conduct, that excuse +he was free to confess the plaintiff had afforded, whose cruelty and +neglect twenty witnesses in court were ready to prove—neglect so +outrageous, cruelty so systematic, that he wondered the plaintiff had +not been better advised than to bring this trial, with all its +degrading particulars, to a public issue. On the very day when the +ill-omened marriage took place, another victim of cruelty had +interposed as vainly—as vainly as Serjeant Rowland himself interposed +in Court to prevent this case being made known—and with piteous +outcries, in the name of outraged neglected woman, of castaway children +pleading in vain for bread, had besought the bride to pause, and the +bridegroom to look upon the wretched beings who owed him life. Why had +not Lady Clara Pulleyn’s friends listened to that appeal? And so on, +and so on, between Rowland and Oliver the battle waged fiercely that +day. Many witnesses were mauled and slain. Out of that combat scarce +anybody came well, except the two principal champions, Rowland, +Serjeant, and Oliver, Q.C. The whole country looked on and heard the +wretched story, not only of Barnes’s fault and Highgate’s fault, but of +the private peccadilloes of their suborned footmen and conspiring +housemaids. Mr. Justice C. Sawyer charged the jury at great +length—those men were respectable men and fathers of families +themselves—of course they dealt full measure to Lord Highgate for his +delinquencies; consoled the injured husband with immense damages, and +left him free to pursue the further steps for releasing himself +altogether from the tie which had been bound with affecting episcopal +benediction at St. George’s, Hanover Square. + +So Lady Clara flies from the custody of her tyrant, but to what a +rescue! The very man who loves her, and gives her asylum, pities and +deplores her. She scarce dares to look out of the windows of her new +home upon the world, lest it should know and reproach her. All the +sisterhood of friendship is cut off from her. If she dares to go abroad +she feels the sneer of the world as she goes through it; and knows that +malice and scorn whisper behind her. People, as criminal but +undiscovered, make room for her, as if her touch were pollution. She +knows she has darkened the lot and made wretched the home of the man +whom she loves best; that his friends who see her, treat her with but a +doubtful respect; and the domestics who attend her, with a suspicious +obedience. In the country lanes, or the streets of the county town, +neighbours look aside as the carriage passes in which she sits splendid +and lonely. Rough hunting companions of her husband’s come to her +table: he is driven perforce to the company of flatterers and men of +inferior sort; his equals, at least in his own home, will not live with +him. She would be kind, perhaps, and charitable to the cottagers round +about her, but she fears to visit them lest they too should scorn her. +The clergyman who distributes her charities, blushes and looks awkward +on passing her in the village, if he should be walking with his wife or +one of his children. Shall they go to the Continent, and set up a grand +house at Paris or at Florence? There they can get society, but of what +a sort! Our acquaintances of Baden,—Madame Schlangenbad, and Madame de +Cruchecassée, and Madame d’Ivry, and Messrs. Loder, and Punter, and +Blackball, and Deuceace, will come, and dance, and flirt, and quarrel, +and gamble, and feast round about her; but what in common with such +wild people has this poor, timid, shrinking soul? Even these scorn her. +The leers and laughter on those painted faces are quite unlike her own +sad countenance. She has no reply to their wit. Their infernal gaiety +scares her more than the solitude at home. No wonder that her husband +does not like home, except for a short while in the hunting season. No +wonder that he is away all day; how can he like a home which she has +made so wretched? In the midst of her sorrow, and doubt, and misery, a +child comes to her: how she clings to it! how her whole being, and +hope, and passion centres itself on this feeble infant!——but she no +more belongs to our story; with the new name she has taken, the poor +lady passes out of the history of the Newcomes. + +If Barnes Newcome’s children meet yonder solitary lady, do they know +her? If her once-husband thinks upon the unhappy young creature whom +his cruelty drove from him, does his conscience affect his sleep at +night? Why should Sir Barnes Newcome’s conscience be more squeamish +than his country’s, which has put money in his pocket for having +trampled on the poor weak young thing, and scorned her, and driven her +to ruin? When the whole of the accounts of that wretched bankruptcy are +brought up for final Audit, which of the unhappy partners shall be +shown to be most guilty? Does the Right Reverend Prelate who did the +benedictory business for Barnes and Clara his wife repent in secret? Do +the parents who pressed the marriage, and the fine folks who signed the +book, and ate the breakfast, and applauded the bridegroom’s speech, +feel a little ashamed? O Hymen Hymenæe! The bishops, beadles, clergy, +pew-openers, and other officers of the temple dedicated to Heaven under +the invocation of St. George, will officiate in the same place at +scores and scores more of such marriages: and St. George of England may +behold virgin after virgin offered up to the devouring monster, Mammon +(with many most respectable female dragons looking on)—may see virgin +after virgin given away, just as in the Soldan of Babylon’s time, but +with never a champion to come to the rescue! + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. +In which Achilles loses Briseis + + +Although the years of the Marquis of Farintosh were few, he had spent +most of them in the habit of command; and, from his childhood upwards, +had been obeyed by all persons round about him. As an infant he had but +to roar, and his mother and nurses were as much frightened as though he +had been a Libyan lion. What he willed and ordered was law amongst his +clan and family. During the period of his London and Parisian +dissipations his poor mother did not venture to remonstrate with her +young prodigal, but shut her eyes, not daring to open them on his wild +courses. As for the friends of his person and house, many of whom were +portly elderly gentlemen, their affection for the young Marquis was so +extreme that there was no company into which their fidelity would not +lead them to follow him; and you might see him dancing at Mabille with +veteran aides-de-camp looking on, or disporting with opera-dancers at a +Trois Freres banquet, which some old gentleman of his father’s age had +taken the pains to order. If his lordship Count Almaviva wants a friend +to carry the lanthorn or to hold the ladder; do you suppose there are +not many most respectable men in society who will act Figaro? When +Farintosh thought fit, in the fulness of time and the blooming pride of +manhood, to select a spouse, and to elevate a marchioness to his +throne, no one dared gainsay him. When he called upon his mother and +sisters, and their ladyships’ hangers-on and attendants; upon his own +particular kinsmen, led captains, and toadies; to bow the knee and do +homage to the woman whom he delighted to honour, those duteous subjects +trembled and obeyed; in fact, he thought that the position of a +Marchioness of Farintosh was under heaven, and before men, so splendid, +that, had he elevated a beggar-maid to that sublime rank, the inferior +world was bound to worship her. + +So my lord’s lady-mother, and my lord’s sisters, and his captains, and +his players of billiards, and the toadies of his august person, all +performed obeisance to his bride-elect, and never questioned the will +of the young chieftain. What were the private comments of the ladies of +the family we had no means of knowing; but it may naturally be supposed +that his lordship’s gentlemen-in-waiting, Captain Henchman, Jack +Todhunter, and the rest, had many misgivings of their own respecting +their patron’s change in life, and could not view without anxiety the +advent of a mistress who might reign over him and them, who might +possibly not like their company, and might exert her influence over her +husband to oust these honest fellows from places in which they were +very comfortable. The jovial rogues had the run of my lord’s kitchen, +stables, cellars, and cigar-boxes. A new marchioness might hate +hunting, smoking, jolly parties, and toad-eaters in general, or might +bring into the house favourites of her own. I am sure any kind-hearted +man of the world must feel for the position of these faithful, +doubtful, disconsolate vassals, and have a sympathy for their rueful +looks and demeanour as they eye the splendid preparations for the +ensuing marriage, the grand furniture sent to my lord’s castles and +houses, the magnificent plate provided for his tables—tables at which +they may never have a knife and fork; castles and houses of which the +poor rogues may never be allowed to pass the doors. + +When, then, “the elopement in High Life,” which has been described in +the previous pages, burst upon the town in the morning papers, I can +fancy the agitation which the news occasioned in the faithful bosoms of +the generous Todhunter, and the attached Henchman. My lord was not in +his own house as yet. He and his friends still lingered on in the +little house in Mayfair, the dear little bachelor’s quarters, where +they had enjoyed such good dinners, such good suppers, such rare +doings, such a jolly time. I fancy Hench coming down to breakfast, and +reading the _Morning Post_. I imagine Tod dropping in from his bedroom +over the way, and Hench handing the paper over to Tod, and the +conversation which ensued between those worthy men. Elopement in high +life—excitement in N—come, and flight of Lady Cl— N—come, daughter of +the late and sister of the present Earl of D-rking, with Lord H—gate; +personal rencontre between Lord H—gate and Sir B—nes N—come. +Extraordinary disclosures. I say, I can fancy Hench and Tod over this +awful piece of news. + +“Pretty news, ain’t it, Toddy?” says Henchman, looking up from a +Perigord-pie, which the faithful creature is discussing. + +“Always expected it,” remarks the other. “Anybody who saw them together +last season must have known it. The Chief himself spoke of it to me.” + +“It’ll cut him up awfully when he reads it. Is it in the _Morning +Post?_ He has the _Post_ in his bedroom. I know he has rung his bell: I +heard it. Bowman, has his lordship read his paper yet?” + +Bowman, the valet, said, “I believe you, he _have_ read his paper. When +he read it, he jumped out of bed and swore most awful. I cut as soon as +I could,” continued Mr. Bowman, who was on familiar—nay contemptuous +terms with the other two gentlemen. + +“Enough to make any man swear,” says Toddy to Henchman; and both were +alarmed in their noble souls, reflecting that their chieftain was now +actually getting up and dressing himself; that he would speedily, and +in course of nature, come downstairs; and, then, most probably, would +begin swearing at _them_. + +The most noble Mungo Malcolm Angus was in an awful state of mind when, +at length, he appeared in the breakfast-room. “Why the dash do you make +a taproom of this?” he cries. The trembling Henchman, who has begun to +smoke—as he has done a hundred times before in this bachelor’s +hall—flings his cigar into the fire. + +“There you go—nothing like it! Why don’t you fling some more in? You +can get ’em at Hudson’s for five guineas a pound.” bursts out the +youthful peer. + +“I understand why you are out of sorts, old boy,” says Henchman, +stretching out his manly hand. A tear of compassion twinkled in his +eyelid, and coursed down his mottled cheek. “Cut away at old Frank, +Farintosh,—a fellow who has been attached to you since before you could +speak. It’s not when a fellow’s down and cut up, and riled—naturally +riled—as you are—I know you are, Marquis; it’s not then that I’m going +to be angry with you. Pitch into old Frank Henchman—hit away, my young +one.” And Frank put himself into an attitude as of one prepared to +receive a pugilistic assault. He bared his breast, as it were, and +showed his scars, and said, “Strike!” Frank Henchman was a florid +toady. My uncle, Major Pendennis, has often laughed with me about the +fellow’s pompous flatteries and ebullient fidelity. + +“You have read this confounded paragraph?” says the Marquis. + +“We _have_ read it: and were deucedly cut up, too,” says Henchman, “for +your sake, my dear boy.” + +“I remembered what you said, last year, Marquis,” cries Todhunter (not +unadroitly). “You, yourself, pointed out, in this very room, I +recollect, at this very table—that night Coralie and the little Spanish +dancer and her mother supped here, and there was a talk about +Highgate—you, yourself, pointed out what was likely to happen. I +doubted it; for I have dined at the Newcomes’, and seen Highgate and +her together in society often. But though you are a younger bird, you +have better eyes than I have—and you saw the thing at once—at once, +don’t you remember I and Coralie said how glad she was, because Sir +Barnes ill-treated her friend. What was the name of Coralie’s friend, +Hench?” + +“How should _I_ know her confounded name?” Henchman briskly answers. +“What do I care for Sir Barnes Newcome and his private affairs? He is +no friend of mine. I never said he was a friend of mine. I never said I +liked him. Out of respect for the Chief here, I held my tongue about +him, and shall hold my tongue. Have some of this pate, Chief! No? Poor +old boy! I know you haven’t got an appetite. I know this news cuts you +up. I say nothing, and make no pretence of condolence; though I feel +for you—and you know you can count on old Frank Henchman—don’t you, +Malcolm?” And again he turns away to conceal his gallant sensibility +and generous emotion. + +“What does it matter to me?” bursts out the Marquis, garnishing his +conversation with the usual expletives which adorned his eloquence when +he was strongly moved. “What do I care for Barnes Newcome, and his +confounded affairs and family? I never want to see him again, but in +the light of a banker, when I go to the City, where he keeps my +account. I say, I have nothing to do with him, or all the Newcomes +under the sun. Why, one of them is a painter, and will paint my dog, +Ratcatcher, by Jove! or my horse, or my groom, if I give him the order. +Do you think I care for any one of the pack? It’s not the fault of the +Marchioness of Farintosh that her family is not equal to mine. Besides +two others in England and Scotland, I should like to know what family +is? I tell you what, Hench. I bet you five to two, that before an hour +is over my mother will be here, and down on her knees to me, begging me +to break off this engagement.” + +“And what will you do, Farintosh?” asks Henchman, slowly, “Will you +break it off?” + +“No!” shouts the Marquis. “Why shall I break off with the finest girl +in England—and the best-plucked one, and the cleverest and wittiest, +and the most beautiful creature, by Jove, that ever stepped, for no +fault of hers, and because her sister-in-law leaves her brother, who I +know treated her infernally? We have talked this matter over at home +before. I wouldn’t dine with the fellow; though he was always asking +me; nor meet, except just out of civility, any of his confounded +family. Lady Anne is different. She is a lady, she is. She is a good +woman: and Kew is a most respectable man, though he is only a peer of +George III.’s creation, and you should hear how _he_ speaks of Miss +Newcome, though she refused him. I should like to know who is to +prevent me marrying Lady Anne Newcome’s daughter?” + +“By Jove, you are a good-plucked fellow, Farintosh—give me your hand, +old boy,” says Henchman. + +“Heh! am I? You would have said, give me your hand, old boy, whichever +way I determined, Hench! I tell you, I ain’t intellectual, and that +sort of thing. But I know my rank, and I know my place; and when a man +of my station gives his word, he sticks to it, sir; and my lady, and my +sisters, may go on their knees all round; and, by Jove, I won’t +flinch.” + +The justice of Lord Farintosh’s views was speedily proved by the +appearance of his lordship’s mother, Lady Glenlivat, whose arrival put +a stop to a conversation which Captain Francis Henchman has often +subsequently narrated. She besought to see her son in terms so urgent, +that the young nobleman could not be denied to his parent; and, no +doubt, a long and interesting interview took place, in which Lord +Farintosh’s mother passionately implored him to break off a match upon +which he was as resolutely bent. + +Was it a sense of honour, a longing desire to possess this young +beauty, and call her his own, or a fierce and profound dislike to being +balked in any object of his wishes, which actuated the young lord? +Certainly he had borne, very philosophically, delay after delay which +had taken place in the devised union; and being quite sure of his +mistress, had not cared to press on the marriage, but lingered over the +dregs of his bachelor cup complacently still. We all know in what an +affecting farewell he took leave of the associates of his _vie de +garçon:_ the speeches made (in both languages), the presents +distributed, the tears and hysterics of some of the guests assembled; +the cigar-boxes given over to this friend, the _écrin_ of diamonds to +that, et cætera, et cætera, et cætera. Don’t we know? If we don’t it is +not Henchman’s fault, who has told the story of Farintosh’s betrothals +a thousand and one times at his clubs, at the houses where he is asked +to dine, on account of his intimacy with the nobility, among the young +men of fashion, or no fashion, whom this two-bottle Mentor, and burly +admirer of youth, has since taken upon himself to form. The farewell at +Greenwich was so affecting that all “traversed the cart,” and took +another farewell at Richmond, where there was crying too, but it was +Eucharis cried because fair Calypso wanted to tear her eyes out; and +where not only Telemachus (as was natural to his age), but Mentor +likewise, quaffed the wine-cup too freely. You are virtuous, O reader! +but there are still cakes and ale, Ask Henchman if there be not. You +will find him in the Park any afternoon; he will dine with you if no +better man ask him in the interval. He will tell you story upon story +regarding young Lord Farintosh, and his marriage, and what happened +before his marriage, and afterwards; and he will sigh, weep almost at +some moments, as he narrates their subsequent quarrel, and Farintosh’s +unworthy conduct, and tells you how he formed that young man. My uncle +and Captain Henchman disliked each other very much, I am sorry to +say—sorry to add that it was very amusing to hear either one of them +speak of the other. + +Lady Glenlivat, according to the Captain, then, had no success in the +interview with her son; who, unmoved by the maternal tears, commands, +and entreaties, swore he would marry Miss Newcome, and that no power on +earth should prevent him. “As if trying to thwart that man—_could_ ever +prevent his having his way!” ejaculated his quondam friend. + +But on the next day, after ten thousand men in clubs and coteries had +talked the news over; after the evening had repeated and improved the +delightful theme of our “morning contemporaries;” after Calypso and +Eucharis driving together in the Park, and reconciled now, had kissed +their hands to Lord Farintosh, and made him their compliments—after a +night of natural doubt, disturbance, defiance, fury—as men whispered to +each other at the club where his lordship dined, and at the theatre +where he took his recreation—after an awful time at breakfast in which +Messrs. Bowman, valet, and Todhunter and Henchman, captains of the +Farintosh bodyguard, all got their share of kicks and growling—behold +Lady Glenlivat came back to the charge again; and this time with such +force that poor Lord Farintosh was shaken indeed. + +Her ladyship’s ally was no other than Miss Newcome herself; from whom +Lord Farintosh’s mother received, by that day’s post, a letter, which +she was commissioned to read to her son:— + +“Dear Madam” (wrote the young lady in her firmest handwriting)—“Mamma +is at this moment in a state of such _grief and dismay_ at the _cruel_ +misfortune and _humiliation_ which has just befallen our family, that +she is really not able to write to you as she _ought_, and this task, +painful as it is, must be _mine_. Dear Lady Glenlivat, the kindness and +confidence which I have ever received from you and _yours_, merit +truth, and most grateful respect and regard from _me_. And I feel after +the late fatal occurrence, what I have often and often owned to myself +though I did not _dare_ to acknowledge it, that I ought to release Lord +F., _at once and for ever_, from an engagement _which he could never +think_ of maintaining with a family _so unfortunate as ours_. I thank +him with all my heart for his goodness in bearing with my humours so +long; if I have given him pain, as I _know_ I have sometimes, I beg his +pardon, and would do so _on my knees_. I hope and pray he may be happy, +as I feared he never could be with me. He has many good and noble +qualities; and, in bidding him farewell, I trust I may retain his +friendship, and that he will believe in the esteem and gratitude of +your most sincere, + +Ethel Newcome.” + + +A copy of this farewell letter was seen by a lady who happened to be a +neighbour of Miss Newcome’s when the family misfortune occurred, and to +whom, in her natural dismay and grief, the young lady fled for comfort +and consolation. “Dearest Mrs. Pendennis,” wrote Miss Ethel to my wife, +“I hear you are at Rosebury; do, do come to your affectionate E. N.” +The next day, it was—“Dearest Laura—If you can, pray, pray come to +Newcome this morning. I want very much to speak to you about the poor +children, to consult you about something most important.” Madame de +Moncontour’s pony-carriage was constantly trotting between Rosebury and +Newcome in these days of calamity. + +And my wife, as in duty bound, gave me full reports of all that +happened in that house of mourning. On the very day of the flight, Lady +Anne, her daughter, and some others of her family arrived at Newcome. +The deserted little girl, Barnes’s eldest child, ran, with tears and +cries of joy, to her Aunt Ethel, whom she had always loved better than +her mother; and clung to her and embraced her; and, in her artless +little words, told her that mamma had gone away, and that Ethel should +be her mamma now. Very strongly moved by the misfortune, as by the +caresses and affection of the poor orphaned creature, Ethel took the +little girl to her heart, and promised to be a mother to her, and that +she would not leave her; in which pious resolve I scarcely need say +Laura strengthened her, when, at her young friend’s urgent summons, my +wife came to her. + +The household at Newcome was in a state of disorganisation after the +catastrophe. Two of Lady Clara’s servants; it has been stated already, +went away with her. The luckless master of the house was lying wounded +in the neighbouring town. Lady Anne Newcome, his mother, was terribly +agitated by the news, which was abruptly broken to her, of the flight +of her daughter-in-law and her son’s danger. Now she thought of flying +to Newcome to nurse him; and then feared lest she should be ill +received by the invalid—indeed, ordered by Sir Barnes to go home, and +not to bother him. So at home Lady Anne remained, where the thoughts of +the sufferings she had already undergone in that house, of Sir Barnes’s +cruel behaviour to her at her last visit, which he had abruptly +requested her to shorten, of the happy days which she had passed as +mistress of that house and wife of the defunct Sir Brian; the sight of +that departed angel’s picture in the dining-room and wheel-chair in the +gallery; the recollection of little Barnes as a cherub of a child in +that very gallery, and pulled out of the fire by a nurse in the second +year of his age, when he was all that a fond mother could wish—these +incidents and reminiscences so agitated Lady Anne Newcome, that she, +for her part, went off in a series of hysterical fits, and acted as one +distraught: her second daughter screamed in sympathy with her and Miss +Newcome had to take the command of the whole of this demented +household, hysterical mamma and sister, mutineering servants, and +shrieking abandoned nursery, and bring young people and old to peace +and quiet. + +On the morrow after his little concussion Sir Barnes Newcome came home, +not much hurt in body, but woefully afflicted in temper, and venting +his wrath upon everybody round about him in that strong language which +he employed when displeased; and under which his valet, his +housekeeper, his butler, his farm-bailiff, his lawyer, his doctor, his +dishevelled mother herself—who rose from her couch and her sal-volatile +to fling herself round her dear boy’s knees—all had to suffer. Ethel +Newcome, the Baronet’s sister, was the only person in his house to whom +Sir Barnes did not utter oaths or proffer rude speeches. He was afraid +of offending her or encountering that resolute spirit, and lapsed into +a surly silence in her presence. Indistinct maledictions growled about +Sir Barnes’s chair when he beheld my wife’s pony-carriage drive up; and +he asked what brought _her_ here? But Ethel sternly told her brother +that Mrs. Pendennis came at her particular request, and asked him +whether he supposed anybody could come into that house for pleasure +now, or for any other motive but kindness? Upon which, Sir Barnes +fairly burst out into tears, intermingled with execrations against his +enemies and his own fate, and assertions that he was the most miserable +beggar alive. He would not see his children: but with more tears he +would implore Ethel never to leave them, and, anon, would ask what he +should do when she married, and he was left alone in that infernal +house? + +T. Potts, Esq., of the _Newcome Independent_, used to say afterwards +that the Baronet was in the direst terror of another meeting with Lord +Highgate, and kept a policeman at the lodge-gate, and a second in the +kitchen, to interpose in event of a collision. But Mr. Potts made this +statement in after days, when the quarrel between his party and paper +and Sir Barnes Newcome was flagrant. Five or six days after the meeting +of the two rivals in Newcome market-place, Sir Barnes received a letter +from the friend of Lord Highgate, informing him that his lordship, +having waited for him according to promise, had now left England, and +presumed that the differences between them were to be settled by their +respective lawyers—infamous behaviour on a par with the rest of Lord +Highgate’s villainy, the Baronet said. “When the scoundrel knew I could +lift my pistol arm,” Barnes said, “Lord Highgate fled the +country;”—thus hinting that death, and not damages, were what he +intended to seek from his enemy. + +After that interview in which Ethel communicated to Laura her farewell +letter to Lord Farintosh, my wife returned to Rosebury with an +extraordinary brightness and gaiety in her face and her demeanour. She +pressed Madame de Moncontour’s hands with such warmth, she blushed and +looked so handsome, she sang and talked so gaily, that our host was +struck by her behaviour, and paid her husband more compliments +regarding her beauty, amiability, and other good qualities, than need +be set down here. It may be that I like Paul de Florac so much, in +spite of certain undeniable faults of character, because of his +admiration for my wife. She was in such a hurry to talk to me, that +night, that Paul’s game and Nicotian amusements were cut short by her +visit to the billiard-room; and when we were alone by the cosy +dressing-room fire, she told me what had happened during the day. Why +should Ethel’s refusal of Lord Farintosh have so much elated my wife? + +“Ah!” cries Mrs. Pendennis, “she has a generous nature, and the world +has not had time to spoil it. Do you know there are many points that +she never has thought of—I would say problems that she has to work out +for herself, only you, Pen, do not like us poor ignorant women to use +such a learned word as problems? Life and experience force things upon +her mind which others learn from their parents or those who educate +them, but, for which she has never had any teachers. Nobody has ever +told her, Arthur, that it was wrong to marry without love, or pronounce +lightly those awful vows which we utter before God at the altar. I +believe, if she knew that her life was futile, it is but of late she +has thought it could be otherwise, and that she might mend it. I have +read (besides that poem of Goethe of which you are so fond) in books of +Indian travels of Bayaderes, dancing-girls brought up by troops round +about the temples, whose calling is to dance, and wear jewels, and look +beautiful; I believe they are quite respected in—in Pagoda-land. They +perform before the priests in the pagodas; and the Brahmins and the +Indian princes marry them. Can we cry out against these poor creatures, +or against the custom of their country? It seems to me that young women +in our world are bred up in a way not very different. What they do they +scarcely know to be wrong. They are educated for the world, and taught +to display: their mothers will give them to the richest suitor, as they +themselves were given before. How can these think seriously, Arthur, of +souls to be saved, weak hearts to be kept out of temptation, prayers to +be uttered, and a better world to be held always in view, when the +vanities of this one are all their thought and scheme? Ethel’s simple +talk made me smile sometimes, do you know, and her _strenuous_ way of +imparting her discoveries. I thought of the shepherd boy who made a +watch, and found on taking it into the town how very many watches there +were, and how much better than his. But the poor child has had to make +hers for herself, such as it is; and, indeed, is employed now in +working on it. She told me very artlessly her little history, Arthur; +it affected me to hear her simple talk, and—and I blessed God for our +mother, my dear, and that my early days had had a better guide. + +“You know that for a long time it was settled that she was to marry her +cousin, Lord Kew. She was bred to that notion from her earliest youth; +about which she spoke as we all can about our early days. They were +spent, she said, in the nursery and schoolroom for the most part. She +was allowed to come to her mother’s dressing-room, and sometimes to see +more of her during the winter at Newcome. She describes her mother as +always the kindest of the kind: but from very early times the daughter +must have felt her own superiority, I think, though she does not speak +of it. You should see her at home now in their dreadful calamity. She +seems the only person of the house who keeps her head. + +“She told very nicely and modestly how it was Lord Kew who parted from +her, not she who had dismissed him, as you know the Newcomes used to +say. I have heard that—oh—that man Sir Barnes say so myself. She says +humbly that her cousin Kew was a great deal too good for her; and so is +every one almost, she adds, poor thing!” + +“Poor every one! Did you ask about him, Laura?” said Mr. Pendennis. + +“No; I did not venture. She looked at me out of her downright eyes, and +went on with her little tale. ‘I was scarcely more than a child then,’ +she continued, ‘and though I liked Kew very much—who would not like +such a generous honest creature? I felt somehow that I was _taller_ +than my cousin, and as if I ought not to marry him, or should make him +unhappy if I did. When poor papa used to talk, we children remarked +that mamma hardly listened to him; and so we did not respect him as we +should, and Barnes was especially scoffing and odious with him. Why, +when he was a boy, he used to sneer at papa openly before us younger +ones. Now Harriet admires everything that Kew says, and that makes her +a great deal happier at being with him.’ And then,” added Mrs. +Pendennis, “Ethel said, ‘I hope you respect your husband, Laura: depend +on it, you will be happier if you do.’ Was not that a fine discovery of +Ethel’s, Mr. Pen? + +“‘Clara’s terror of Barnes frightened me when I stayed in the house,’ +Ethel went on. ‘I am sure _I_ would not tremble before any man in the +world as she did. I saw early that she used to deceive him, and tell +him lies, Laura. I do not mean lies of words alone, but lies of looks +and actions. Oh! I do not wonder at her flying from him. He was +dreadful to be with: cruel, and selfish, and cold. He was made worse by +marrying a woman he did not love; as she was, by that unfortunate union +with him. Suppose he had found a clever woman who could have controlled +him, and amused him, and whom he and his friends could have admired, +instead of poor Clara, who made his home wearisome, and trembled when +he entered it? Suppose she could have married that unhappy man to whom +she was attached early? I was frightened, Laura, to think how ill this +worldly marriage had prospered. + +“‘My poor grandmother, whenever I spoke upon such a subject, would +break out into a thousand gibes and sarcasms, and point to many of our +friends who had made love-matches, and were quarrelling now as fiercely +as though they had never loved each other. You remember that dreadful +case in France Duc de ——, who murdered his duchess? That was a +love-match, and I can remember the sort of screech with which Lady Kew +used to speak about it; and of the journal which the poor duchess kept, +and in which she noted down all her husband’s ill-behaviour.’” + +“Hush, Laura! Do you remember where we are? If the Princess were to put +down all Florac’s culpabilities in an album, what a ledger it would +be—as big as Dr. Portman’s Chrysostom!” But this was parenthetical: and +after a smile, and a little respite, the young woman proceeded in her +narration of her friend’s history. + +“‘I was willing enough to listen,’ Ethel said, ‘to grandmamma then: for +we are glad of an excuse to do what we like; and I liked admiration, +and rank, and great wealth, Laura; and Lord Farintosh offered me these. +I liked to surpass my companions, and I saw _them_ so eager in pursuing +him! You cannot think, Laura, what meannesses women in the world will +commit—mothers and daughters too, in the pursuit of a person of his +great rank. Those Miss Burrs, you should have seen them at the +country-houses where we visited together, and how they followed him; +how they would meet him in the parks and shrubberies; how they liked +smoking though I knew it made them ill; how they were always finding +pretexts for getting near him! Oh, it was odious!’” + +I would not willingly interrupt the narrative, but let the reporter be +allowed here to state that at this point of Miss Newcome’s story (which +my wife gave with a very pretty imitation of the girl’s manner), we +both burst out laughing so loud that little Madame de Moncontour put +her head into the drawing-room and asked what we was a-laughing at? We +did not tell our hostess that poor Ethel and her grandmother had been +accused of doing the very same thing for which she found fault with the +Misses Burr. Miss Newcome thought _herself_ quite innocent, or how +should she have cried out at the naughty behaviour of other people? + +“‘Wherever we went, however,’ resumed my wife’s young penitent, ‘it was +easy to see, I think I may say so without vanity, who was the object of +Lord Farintosh’s attention. He followed us everywhere; and we could not +go upon any visit in England or Scotland but he was in the same house. +Grandmamma’s whole heart was bent upon that marriage, and when he +proposed for me I do not disown that I was very pleased and vain. + +“‘It is in these last months that I have heard about him more, and +learned to know him better—him and myself too, Laura. Some one—some one +you know, and whom I shall always love as a brother—reproached me in +former days for a worldliness about which you talk too sometimes. But +it is not worldly to give yourself up for your family, is it? One +cannot help the rank in which one is born, and surely it is but natural +and proper to marry in it. Not that Lord Farintosh thinks me or any one +of his rank.’ (Here Miss Ethel laughed.) ‘He is the Sultan, and we, +every unmarried girl in society, is his humblest slave. His Majesty’s +opinions upon this subject did not suit me, I can assure you: I have no +notion of such pride! + +“‘But I do not disguise from you, dear Laura, that after accepting him, +as I came to know him better, and heard him, and heard of him, and +talked with him daily, and understood Lord Farintosh’s character, I +looked forward with more and more doubt to the day when I was to become +his wife. I have not learned to respect him in these months that I have +known him, and during which there has been mourning in our families. I +will not talk to you about him; I have no right, have I?—to hear him +speak out his heart, and tell it to any friend. He said he liked me +because I did not flatter him. Poor Malcolm! they all do. What was my +acceptance of him, Laura, but flattery? Yes, flattery, and servility to +rank, and a desire to possess it. Would I have accepted plain Malcolm +Roy? I sent away a better than him, Laura. + +“‘These things have been brooding in my mind for some months past. I +must have been but an ill companion for him, and indeed he bore with my +waywardness much more kindly than I ever thought possible; and when +four days since we came to this sad house, where he was to have joined +us, and I found only dismay and wretchedness, and these poor children +deprived of a mother, whom I pity, God help her, for she has been made +so miserable—and is now and must be to the end of her days; as I lay +awake, thinking of my own future life, and that I was going to marry, +as poor Clara had married, but for an establishment and a position in +life; I, my own mistress, and not obedient by nature, or a slave to +others as that poor creature was—I thought to myself, why shall I do +this? Now Clara has left us, and is, as it were, dead to us who made +her so unhappy, let me be the mother to her orphans. I love the little +girl, and she has always loved me, and came crying to me that day when +we arrived, and put her dear little arms round my neck, and said, +‘_You_ won’t go away, will you, Aunt Ethel?’ in her sweet voice. And I +will stay with her; and will try and learn myself that I may teach her; +and learn to be good too—better than I have been. Will praying help me, +Laura? I did. I am sure I was right, and that it is my duty to stay +here.’” + +Laura was greatly moved as she told her friend’s confession; and when +the next day at church the clergyman read the opening words of the +service I thought a peculiar radiance and happiness beamed from her +bright face. + +Some subsequent occurrences in the history of this branch of the +Newcome family I am enabled to report from the testimony of the same +informant who has just given us an account of her own feelings and +life. Miss Ethel and my wife were now in daily communication, and +“my-dearesting” each other with that female fervour, which, cold men of +the world as we are—not only chary of warm expressions of friendship, +but averse to entertaining warm feelings at all—we surely must admire +in persons of the inferior sex, whose loves grow up and reach the skies +in a night; who kiss, embrace, console, call each other by Christian +names, in that sweet, kindly sisterhood of Misfortune and Compassion +who are always entering into partnership here in life. I say the world +is full of Miss Nightingales; and we, sick and wounded in our private +Scutaris, have countless nurse-tenders. I did not see my wife +ministering to the afflicted family at Newcome Park; but I can fancy +her there amongst the women and children, her prudent counsel, her +thousand gentle offices, her apt pity and cheerfulness, the love and +truth glowing in her face, and inspiring her words, movements, +demeanour. + +Mrs. Pendennis’s husband for his part did not attempt to console Sir +Barnes Newcome Newcome, Baronet. I never professed to have a +halfpennyworth of pity at that gentleman’s command. Florac, who owed +Barnes his principality and his present comforts in life, did make some +futile efforts at condolence, but was received by the Baronet with such +fierceness, and evident ill-humour, that he did not care to repeat his +visits, and allowed him to vent his curses and peevishness on his own +immediate dependents. We used to ask Laura on her return to Rosebury +from her charity visits to Newcome about the poor suffering master of +the house. She faltered and stammered in describing him and what she +heard of him; she smiled, I grieve to say, for this unfortunate lady +cannot help having a sense of humour; and we could not help laughing +outright sometimes at the idea of that discomfited wretch, that +overbearing creature overborne in his turn—which laughter Mrs. Laura +used to chide as very naughty and unfeeling. When we went into Newcome +the landlord of the King’s Arms looked knowing and quizzical: Tom Potts +grinned at me and rubbed his hands. “This business serves the paper +better than Mr. Warrington’s articles,” says Mr. Potts. “We have sold +no end of _Independents;_ and if you polled the whole borough, I bet +that five to one would say Sir Screwcome Screwcome was served right. By +the way, what’s up about the Marquis of Farintosh, Mr. Pendennis? He +arrived at the Arms last night; went over to the Park this morning, and +is gone back to town by the afternoon train.” + +What had happened between the Marquis of Farintosh and Miss Newcome I +am enabled to know from the report of Miss Newcome’s confidante. On the +receipt of that letter of _congé_ which has been mentioned in a former +chapter, his lordship must have been very much excited, for he left +town straightway by that evening’s mail, and on the next morning, after +a few hours of rest at his inn, was at Newcome lodge-gate demanding to +see the Baronet. + +On that morning it chanced that Sir Barnes had left home with Mr. Speer, +his legal adviser; and hereupon the Marquis asked to see Miss Newcome; +nor could the lodge-keeper venture to exclude so distinguished a person +from the Park. His lordship drove up to the house, and his name was +taken to Miss Ethel. She turned very pale when she heard it; and my +wife divined at once who was her visitor. Lady Anne had not left her +room as yet. Laura Pendennis remained in command of the little conclave +of children, with whom the two ladies were sitting when Lord Farintosh +arrived. Little Clara wanted to go with her aunt as she rose to leave +the room—the child could scarcely be got to part from her now. + +At the end of an hour the carriage was seen driving away, and Ethel +returned looking as pale as before, and red about the eyes. Miss +Clara’s mutton-chop for dinner coming in at the same time, the child +was not so presently eager for her aunt’s company. Aunt Ethel cut up +the mutton-chop very neatly, and then, having seen the child +comfortably seated at her meal, went with her friend into a +neighbouring apartment (of course, with some pretext of showing Laura a +picture, or a piece of china, or a new child’s frock, or with some +other hypocritical pretence by which the ingenuous female attendants +pretended to be utterly blinded), and there, I have no doubt, before +beginning her story, dearest Laura embraced dearest Ethel, and vice +versa. + +“He is gone!” at length gasps dearest Ethel. + +“Pour toujours? poor young man!” sighs dearest Laura. “Was he very +unhappy, Ethel?” + +“He was more angry,” Ethel answers. “He had a right to be hurt, but not +to speak as he did. He lost his temper quite at last, and broke out in +the most frantic reproaches. He forgot all respect and even +gentlemanlike behaviour. Do you know he used words—words such as Barnes +uses sometimes when he is angry! and dared this language to me! I was +sorry till then, very sorry, and very much moved; but I know more than +ever, now, that I was right in refusing Lord Farintosh.” + +Dearest Laura now pressed for an account of all that had happened, +which may be briefly told as follows. Feeling very deeply upon the +subject which brought him to Miss Newcome, it was no wonder that Lord +Farintosh spoke at first in a way which moved her. He said he thought +her letter to his mother was very rightly written under the +circumstances, and thanked her for her generosity in offering to +release him from his engagement. But the affair—the painful +circumstance of Highgate, and that—which had happened in the Newcome +family, was no fault of Miss Newcome’s, and Lord Farintosh could not +think of holding her accountable. His friends had long urged him to +marry, and it was by his mother’s own wish that the engagement was +formed, which he was determined to maintain. In his course through the +world (of which he was getting very tired), he had never seen a woman, +a lady who was so—you understand, Ethel—whom he admired so much, who +was likely to make so good a wife for him as you are. “You allude,” he +continued, “to differences we have had—and we have had them—but many of +them, I own, have been from my fault. I have been bred up in a way +different to most young men. I cannot help it if I have had temptations +to which other men are not exposed; and have been placed by—by +Providence—in a high rank of life; I am sure if you share it with me +you will adorn it, and be in every way worthy of it, and make me much +better than I have been. If you knew what a night of agony I passed +after my mother read that letter to me—I know you’d pity me, Ethel,—I +know you would. The idea of losing you makes me wild. My mother was +dreadfully alarmed when she saw the state I was in; so was the doctor—I +assure you he was. And I had no rest at all, and no peace of mind, +until I determined to come down to you; and say that I adored you, and +you only; and that I would hold to my engagement in spite of +everything—and prove to you that—that no man in the world could love +you more sincerely than I do.” Here the young gentleman was so overcome +that he paused in his speech, and gave way to an emotion, for which, +surely no man who has been in the same condition with Lord Farintosh +will blame him. + +Miss Newcome was also much touched by this exhibition of natural +feeling; and, I dare say, it was at this time that her eyes showed the +first symptoms of that malady of which the traces were visible an hour +after. + +“You are very generous and kind to me, Lord Farintosh,” she said. “Your +constancy honours me very much, and proves how good and loyal you are; +but—but do not think hardly of me for saying that the more I have +thought of what has happened here,—of the wretched consequences of +interested marriages; the long union growing each day so miserable, +that at last it becomes intolerable and is burst asunder, as in poor +Clara’s case;—the more I am resolved not to commit that first fatal +step of entering into a marriage without—without the degree of +affection which people who take that vow ought to feel for one +another.” + +“Affection! Can you doubt it? Gracious heavens, I adore you! Isn’t my +being here a proof that I do?” cries the young lady’s lover. + +“But I?” answered the girl. “I have asked my own heart that question +before now. I have thought to myself,—If he comes after all,—if his +affection for me survives this disgrace of our family, as it has, and +every one of us should be thankful to you—ought I not to show at least +gratitude for so much kindness and honour, and devote myself to one who +makes such sacrifices for me? But, before all things I owe you the +truth, Lord Farintosh. I never could make you happy; I know I could +not: nor obey you as you are accustomed to be obeyed; nor give you such +a devotion as you have a right to expect from your wife. I thought I +might once. I can’t now! I know that I took you because you were rich, +and had a great name; not because you were honest, and attached to me +as you show yourself to be. I ask your pardon for the deceit I +practised on you.—Look at Clara, poor child, and her misery! My pride, +I know, would never have let me fall as far as she has done; but oh! I +am humiliated to think that I could have been made to say I would take +the first step in that awful career.” + +“What career, in God’s name?” cries the astonished suitor. “Humiliated, +Ethel? Who’s going to humiliate you? I suppose there is no woman in +England who need be humiliated by becoming my wife. I should like to +see the one that I can’t pretend to—or to royal blood if I like: it’s +not better than mine. Humiliated, indeed! That _is_ news. Ha! ha! You +don’t suppose that your pedigree, which I know all about, and the +Newcome family, with your barber-surgeon to Edward the Confessor, are +equal to——” + +“To yours? No. It is not very long that I have learned to disbelieve in +that story altogether. I fancy it was an odd whim of my poor father’s, +and that our family were quite poor people. + +“I knew it,” said Lord Farintosh. “Do you suppose there was not plenty +of women to tell it me?” + +“It was not because we were poor that I am ashamed,” Ethel went on. +“That cannot be our fault, though some of us seem think it is, as they +hide the truth so. One of my uncles used to tell me that my +grandfather’s father was a labourer in Newcome: but I was a child then, +and liked to believe the prettiest story best.” + +“As if it matters!” cries Lord Farintosh. + +“As if it matters in your wife? _n’est-ce pas?_ I never thought that it +would. I should have told you, as it was my duty to tell you all. It +was not my ancestors you cared for; and it is you yourself that your +wife must swear before heaven to love.” + +“Of course it’s me,” answers the young man, not quite understanding the +train of ideas in his companion’s mind. “And I’ve given up +everything—everything—and have broken off with my old habits and—and +things, you know—and intend to lead a regular life—and will never go to +Tattersall’s again; nor bet a shilling; nor touch another cigar if you +like—that is, if you don’t like; for I love you so, Ethel—I do, with +all my heart I do!” + +“You are very generous and kind, Lord Farintosh,” Ethel said. “It is +myself, not you, I doubt. Oh, I am humiliated to make such a +confession!” + +“How humiliated?” Ethel withdrew the hand which the young nobleman +endeavoured to seize. + +“If,” she continued, “if I found it was your birth, and your name, and +your wealth that I coveted, and had nearly taken, ought I not to feel +humiliated, and ask pardon of you and of God? Oh, what perjuries poor +Clara was made to speak,—and see what has befallen her! We stood by and +heard her without being shocked. We applauded even. And to what shame +and misery we brought her! Why did her parents and mine consign her to +such ruin! She might have lived pure and happy but for us. With her +example before me—not her flight, poor child—I am not afraid of _that_ +happening to me—but her long solitude, the misery of her wasted +years,—my brother’s own wretchedness and faults aggravated a +hundredfold by his unhappy union with her—I must pause while it is yet +time, and recall a promise which I know I should make you unhappy if I +fulfilled. I ask your pardon that I deceived you, Lord Farintosh, and +feel ashamed for myself that I could have consented to do so.” + +“Do you mean,” cried the young Marquis, “that after my conduct to +you—after my loving you, so that even this—this disgrace in your family +don’t prevent my going on—after my mother has been down on her knees to +me to break off, and I wouldn’t—no, I wouldn’t—after all White’s +sneering at me and laughing at me, and all my friends, friends of my +family, who would go to—go anywhere for me, advising me, and saying, +‘Farintosh, what a fool you are! break off this match,’—and I wouldn’t +back out, because I loved you so, by Heaven, and because, as a man and +a gentleman, when I give my word I keep it—do you mean that you throw +me over? It’s a shame—it’s a shame!” And again there were tears of rage +and anguish in Farintosh’s eyes. + +“What I did was a shame, my lord,” Ethel said, humbly; “and again I ask +your pardon for it. What I do now is only to tell you the truth, and to +grieve with all my soul for the falsehood—yes the falsehood—which I +told you, and which has given your kind heart such cruel pain.” + +“Yes, it was a falsehood!” the poor lad cried out. “You follow a +fellow, and you make a fool of him, and you make him frantic in love +with you, and then you fling him over! I wonder you can look me in the +face after such an infernal treason. You’ve done it to twenty fellows +before, I know you have. Everybody said so, and warned me. You draw +them on, and get them to be in love, and then you fling them away. Am I +to go back to London and be made the laughing-stock of the whole +town—I, who might marry any woman in Europe, and who am at the head of +the nobility of England?” + +“Upon my word, if you will believe me after deceiving you once,” Ethel +interposed, still very humbly, “I will never say that it was I who +withdrew from you, and that it was not you who refused me. What has +happened here fully authorises you. Let the rupture of the engagement +come from you, my lord. Indeed, indeed, I would spare you all the pain +I can. I have done you wrong enough already, Lord Farintosh.” + +And now the Marquis burst forth with tears and imprecations, wild cries +of anger, love, and disappointment, so fierce and incoherent that the +lady to whom they were addressed did not repeat them to her confidante. +Only she generously charged Laura to remember, if ever she heard the +matter talked of in the world, that it was Lord Farintosh’s family +which broke off the marriage; but that his lordship had acted most +kindly and generously throughout the whole affair. + +He went back to London in such a state of fury, and raved so wildly +amongst his friends against the whole Newcome family, that many men +knew what the case really was. But all women averred that that +intriguing worldly Ethel Newcome, the apt pupil of her wicked old +grandmother, had met with a deserved rebuff; that, after doing +everything in her power to catch the great _parti_, Lord Farintosh, who +had long been tired of her, flung her over, not liking the connexion; +and that she was living out of the world now at Newcome, under the +pretence of taking care of that unfortunate Lady Clara’s children, but +really because she was pining away for Lord Farintosh, who, as we all +know, married six months afterwards. + + + + +CHAPTER LX. +In which we write to the Colonel + + +Deeming that her brother Barnes had cares enough of his own presently +at hand, Ethel did not think fit to confide to him the particulars of +her interview with Lord Farintosh; nor even was poor Lady Anne informed +that she had lost a noble son-in-law. The news would come to both of +them soon enough, Ethel thought; and indeed, before many hours were +over, it reached Sir Barnes Newcome in a very abrupt and unpleasant +way. He had dismal occasion now to see his lawyers every day; and on +the day after Lord Farintosh’s abrupt visit and departure, Sir Barnes, +going into Newcome upon his own unfortunate affairs, was told by his +attorney, Mr. Speers, how the Marquis of Farintosh had slept for a few +hours at the King’s Arms, and returned to town the same evening by the +train. We may add, that his lordship had occupied the very room in +which Lord Highgate had previously slept; and Mr. Taplow recommends the +bed accordingly, and shows pride it with to this very day. + +Much disturbed by this intelligence, Sir Barnes was making his way to +his cheerless home in the evening, when near his own gate he overtook +another messenger. This was the railway porter, who daily brought +telegraphic messages from his uncle and the London bank. The message of +that day was,—“Consols, so-and-so. French Rentes, so much. _Highgate’s +and Farintosh’s accounts withdrawn_.” The wretched keeper of the lodge +owned, with trembling, in reply to the curses and queries of his +employer, that a gentleman, calling himself the Marquis of Farintosh, +had gone up to the house the day before, and come away an hour +afterwards,—did not like to speak to Sir Barnes when he came home, Sir +Barnes looked so bad like. + +Now, of course, there could be no concealment from her brother, and +Ethel and Barnes had a conversation, in which the latter expressed +himself with that freedom of language which characterised the head of +the house of Newcome. Madame de Moncontour’s pony-chaise was in waiting +at the hall door, when the owner of the house entered it; and my wife +was just taking leave of Ethel and her little people when Sir Barnes +Newcome entered the lady’s sitting-room. + +The livid scowl with which Barnes greeted my wife surprised that lady, +though it did not induce her to prolong her visit to her friend. As +Laura took leave, she heard Sir Barnes screaming to the nurses to “take +those little beggars away,” and she rightly conjectured that some more +unpleasantries had occurred to disturb this luckless gentleman’s +temper. + +On the morrow, dearest Ethel’s usual courier, one of the boys from the +lodge, trotted over on his donkey to dearest Laura at Rosebury, with +one of those missives which were daily passing between the ladies. This +letter said:— + +“Barnes m’a fait une scène terrible hier. I was obliged to tell him +everything about Lord F., and _to use the plainest language_. At first, +he forbade you the house. He thinks that you have been the cause of +F.’s dismissal, and charged me, _most unjustly_, with a desire to bring +back poor C. N. I replied _as became me_, and told him fairly I would +leave the house if _odious insulting charges_ were made against me, if +my friends were not received. He stormed, he cried, he employed_ his +usual language_,—he was in a dreadful state. He relented and asked +pardon. He goes to town to-night by the mail-train. _Of course_ you +come as usual, dear, dear Laura. I am miserable without you; and you +know I cannot leave poor mamma. Clarykin sends a _thousand kisses_ to +little Arty; and I am _his mother’s_ always affectionate—E. N. + +“Will the gentlemen like to shoot our pheasants? Please ask the Prince +to let Warren know when. I sent a brace to poor dear old Mrs. Mason, +and had such a nice letter from her!” + +“And who is poor dear Mrs. Mason” asks Mr. Pendennis, as yet but +imperfectly acquainted with the history of the Newcomes. + +And Laura told me—perhaps I had heard before, and forgotten—that Mrs. +Mason was an old nurse and pensioner of the Colonel’s, and how he had +been to see her for the sake of old times; and how she was a great +favourite with Ethel; and Laura kissed her little son, and was +exceedingly bright, cheerful, and hilarious that evening, in spite of +the affliction under which her dear friends at Newcome were labouring. + +People in country-houses should be exceedingly careful about their +blotting-paper. They should bring their own portfolios with them. If +any kind readers will bear this simple little hint in mind, how much +mischief may they save themselves,—nay, enjoy possibly, by looking at +the pages of the next portfolio in the next friend’s bedroom in which +they sleep. From such a book I once cut out, in Charles Slyboots’ +well-known and perfectly clear handwriting, the words, “Miss Emily +Hartington, James Street, Backingham Gate, London,” and produced as +legibly on the blotting-paper as on the envelope which the postman +delivered. After showing the paper round to the company, I enclosed it +in a note and sent it to Mr. Slyboots, who married Miss Hartington +three months afterwards. In such a book at the club I read, as plainly +as you may read this page, a holograph page of the Right Honourable the +Earl of Bareacres, which informed the whole club of a painful and +private circumstance, and said, “My dear Green,—I am truly sorry that I +shall not be able to take up the bill for eight hundred and fifty-six +pounds, which becomes due next Tu——” and upon such a book, going to +write a note in Madame de Moncontour’s drawing-room at Rosebury, what +should I find but proofs that my own wife was engaged in a clandestine +correspondence with a gentleman residing abroad! + +“Colonel Newcome, C.B., Montagne de la Cour, Brussels,” I read, in this +young woman’s handwriting; and asked, turning round upon Laura, who +entered the room just as I discovered her guilt: “What have you been +writing to Colonel Newcome about, miss?” + +“I wanted him to get me some lace,” she said. + +“To lace some nightcaps for me, didn’t you, my dear? He is such a fine +judge of lace! If I had known you had been writing, I would have asked +you to send him a message. I want something from Brussels. Is the +letter—ahem—gone?” (In this artful way, you see, I just hinted that I +should like to see letter.). + +“The letter is—ahem—gone,” says Laura. “What do you want from Brussels, +Pen?” + +“I want some Brussels sprouts, my love—they are so fine in their native +country.” + +“Shall I write to him to send the letter back?” palpitates poor little +Laura; for she thought her husband was offended, by using the ironic +method. + +“No, you dear little woman! You need not send for letter the back: and +you need not tell me what was in it: and I will bet you a hundred yards +of lace to a cotton nightcap—and you know whether _I_, madam, am a man +_à bonnet-de-coton_—I will let you that I know what you have been +writing about, under pretence of a message about lace, to our Colonel.” + +“He promised to send it me. He really did. Lady Rockminster gave me +twenty pounds——” gasps Laura. + +“Under pretence of lace, you have been sending over a love-message. You +want to see whether Clive is still of his old mind. You think the coast +is now clear, and that dearest Ethel may like him. You think Mrs. Mason +is growing very old and infirm, and the sight of her dear boy would——” + +“Pen! Pen! _did you open my letter?_” cries Laura; and a laugh which +could afford to be good-humoured (followed by yet another expression of +the lips) ended this colloquy. No; Mr. Pendennis did not see the +letter—but he knew the writer;—flattered himself that he knew women in +general. + +“Where did you get your experience of them, sir?” asks Mrs. Laura. +Question answered in the same manner as the previous demand. + +“Well, my dear; and why should not the poor boy be made happy?” Laura +continues, standing very close up to her husband. “It is evident to me +that Ethel is fond of him. I would rather see her married to a good +young man whom she loves, than the mistress of a thousand palaces and +coronets. Suppose—suppose you had married Miss Amory, sir, what a +wretched worldly creature you would have been by this time; whereas +now——” + +“Now that I am the humble slave of a good woman there is some chance +for me,” cries this model of husbands. “And all good women are +match-makers, as we know very well; and you have had this match in your +heart ever since you saw the two young people together. Now; madam, +since I did not see your letter to the Colonel—though I have guessed +part of it—tell me, what have you said in it? Have you by any chance +told the Colonel that the Farintosh alliance was broken off?” + +Laura owned that she had hinted as much. + +“You have not ventured to say that Ethel is well inclined to Clive?” + +“Oh, no—oh _dear_, no!” But after much cross-examining and a little +blushing on Laura’s part, she is brought to confess that she has asked +the Colonel whether he will not come and see Mrs. Mason, who is pining +to see him, and is growing very old. And I find out that she has been +to see this Mrs. Mason; that she and Miss Newcome visited the old lady +the day before yesterday; and Laura thought from the manner in which +Ethel looked at Clive’s picture, hanging up in the parlour of his +father’s old friend, that she really was very much, etc. etc. So, the +letter being gone, Mrs. Pendennis is most eager about the answer to it, +and day after day examines the bag, and is provoked that it brings no +letter bearing the Brussels post-mark. + +Madame de Moncontour seems perfectly well to know what Mrs. Laura has +been doing and is hoping. “What, no letters again to-day? Ain’t it +provoking?” she cries. She is in the conspiracy too; and presently +Florac is one of the initiated. “These women wish to _bacler_ a +marriage between the belle miss and le petit Claive,” Florac announces +to me. He pays the highest compliments to Miss Newcome’s person, as he +speaks regarding the marriage. “I continue to adore your Anglaises,” he +is pleased to say. “What of freshness, what of beauty, what roses! And +then they are so adorably good! Go, Pendennis, thou art a happy +_coquin!_” Mr. Pendennis does not say No. He has won the +twenty-thousand-pound prize; and we know there are worse blanks in that +lottery. + + + + +CHAPTER LXI. +In which we are introduced to a New Newcome + + +No answer came to Mrs. Pendennis’s letter to Colonel Newcome at +Brussels, for the Colonel was absent from that city, and at the time +when Laura wrote was actually in London, whither affairs of his own had +called him. A note from George Warrington acquainted me with this +circumstance; he mentioned that he and the Colonel had dined together +at Bays’s on the day previous, and that the Colonel seemed to be in the +highest spirits. High spirits about what? This news put Laura in a sad +perplexity. Should she write and tell him to get his letters from +Brussels? She would in five minutes have found some other pretext for +writing to Colonel Newcome, had not her husband sternly cautioned the +young woman to leave the matter alone. + +The more readily perhaps because he had quarrelled with his nephew Sir +Barnes, Thomas Newcome went to visit his brother Hobson and his +sister-in-law; bent on showing that there was no division between him +and this branch of his family. And you may suppose that the admirable +woman just named had a fine occasion for her virtuous conversational +powers in discoursing upon the painful event which had just happened to +Sir Barnes. When we fail, how our friends cry out for us! Mrs. Hobson’s +homilies must have been awful. How that outraged virtue must have +groaned and lamented, gathered its children about its knees, wept over +them and washed them; gone into sackcloth and ashes and tied up the +knocker; confabulated with its spiritual adviser; uttered commonplaces +to its husband; and bored the whole house! The punishment of +worldliness and vanity, the evil of marrying out of one’s station, how +these points must have been explained and enlarged on! Surely the +Peerage was taken off the drawing-room table and removed to papa’s +study, where it could not open, as it used naturally once, to Highgate, +Baron, or Farintosh, Marquis of, being shut behind wires and closely +jammed in on an upper shelf between Blackstone’s Commentaries and the +Farmer’s Magazine! The breaking of the engagement with the Marquis of +Farintosh was known in Bryanstone Square; and you may be sure +interpreted by Mrs. Hobson in the light the most disadvantageous to +Ethel Newcome. A young nobleman—with grief and pain Ethel’s aunt must +own the fact—a young man of notoriously dissipated habits but of great +wealth and rank, had been pursued by the unhappy Lady Kew—Mrs. Hobson +would not say by her _niece_, that were _too_ dreadful—had been +pursued, and followed, and hunted down in the most notorious manner, +and finally made to propose! Let Ethel’s _conduct_ and _punishment_ be +a warning to my dearest girls, and let them bless _Heaven_ they have +parents who are not worldly! After all the trouble and pains, Mrs. +Hobson did not say _disgrace_, the Marquis takes _the very first +pretext_ to break off the match, and leaves the unfortunate girl for +ever! + +And now we have to tell of the hardest blow which fell upon poor Ethel, +and this was that her good uncle Thomas Newcome believed the charges +against her. He was willing enough to listen now to anything which was +said against that branch of the family. With such a traitor, +double-dealer, dastard as Barnes at its head, what could the rest of +the race be? When the Colonel offered to endow Ethel and Clive with +every shilling he had in the world, had not Barnes, the arch-traitor, +temporised and told him falsehoods, and hesitated about throwing him +off until the Marquis had declared himself? Yes. The girl he and poor +Clive loved so was ruined by her artful relatives, was unworthy of his +affection and his boy’s, was to be banished, like her worthless +brother, out of his regard for ever. And the man she had chosen in +preference to his Clive!—a roue, a libertine, whose extravagances and +dissipations were the talk of every club, who had no wit, nor talents, +not even constancy (for had he not taken the first opportunity to throw +her off?) to recommend him—only a great title and a fortune wherewith +to bribe her! For shame, for shame! Her engagement to this man was a +blot upon her—the rupture only a just punishment and humiliation. Poor +unhappy girl! let her take care of her wretched brother’s abandoned +children, give up the world, and amend her life. + +This was the sentence Thomas Newcome delivered: a righteous and +tender-hearted man, as we know, but judging in this case wrongly, and +bearing much too hardly, as we who know her better must think, upon +one who had her faults certainly, but whose errors were not all of her +own making. Who set her on the path she walked in? It was her parents’ +hands which led her, and her parents’ voices which commanded her to +accept the temptation set before her. What did she know of the +character of the man selected to be her husband? Those who should have +known better brought him to her, and vouched for him. Noble, unhappy +young creature! are you the first of your sisterhood who has been +bidden to traffic your beauty, to crush and slay your honest natural +affections, to sell your truth and your life for rank and title? But +the Judge who sees not the outward acts merely, but their causes, and +views not the wrong alone, but the temptations, struggles, ignorance of +erring creatures, we know has a different code to ours—to ours, who +fall upon the fallen, who fawn upon the prosperous so, who administer +our praises and punishments so prematurely, who now strike so hard, +and, anon, spare so shamelessly. + +Our stay with our hospitable friends at Rosebury was perforce coming to +a close, for indeed weeks after weeks had passed since we had been +under their pleasant roof; and in spite of dearest Ethel’s +remonstrances it was clear that dearest Laura must take her farewell. +In these last days, besides the visits which daily took place between +one and other, the young messenger was put in ceaseless requisition, +and his donkey must have been worn off his little legs with trotting to +and fro between the two houses, Laura was quite anxious and hurt at not +hearing from the Colonel; it was a shame that he did not have over his +letters from Belgium and answer that one which she had honoured him by +writing. By some information, received who knows how? our host was +aware of the intrigue which Mrs. Pendennis was carrying on; and his +little wife almost as much interested in it as my own. She whispered to +me in her kind way that she would give a guinea, that she would, to see +a certain couple made happy together; that they were born for one +another, that they were; she was for having me go off to fetch Clive: +but who was I to act as Hymen’s messenger, or to interpose in such +delicate family affairs? + +All this while Sir Barnes Newcome, Bart., remained absent in London, +attending to his banking duties there, and pursuing the dismal +inquiries which ended, in the ensuing Michaelmas term, in the famous +suit of Newcome _v_. Lord Highgate. Ethel, pursuing the plan which she +had laid down for herself from the first, took entire charge of his +children and house: Lady Anne returned to her own family: never indeed +having been of much use in her son’s dismal household. My wife talked +to me of course about her pursuits and amusements at Newcome, in the +ancestral hall which we have mentioned. The children played and ate +their dinner (mine often partook of his infantine mutton, in company +with little Clara and the poor young heir of Newcome) in the room which +had been called my lady’s own, and in which her husband had locked her, +forgetting that the conservatories were open, through which the hapless +woman had fled. Next to this was the baronial library, a side of which +was fitted with the gloomy books from Clapham, which old Mrs. Newcome +had amassed; rows of tracts, and missionary magazines, and dingy quarto +volumes of worldly travel and history which that lady had admitted into +her collection. + +Almost on the last day of our stay at Rosebury, the two young ladies +bethought them of paying a visit to the neighbouring town of Newcome, +to that old Mrs. Mason who has been mentioned in a foregoing page in +some yet earlier chapter of our history. She was very old now, very +faithful to the recollections of her own early time, and oblivious of +yesterday. Thanks to Colonel Newcome’s bounty, she had lived in comfort +for many a long year past; and he was as much her boy now as in those +early days of which we have given but an outline. There were Clive’s +pictures of himself and his father over her little mantelpiece, near +which she sat in comfort and warmth by the winter fire which his bounty +supplied. + +Mrs. Mason remembered Miss Newcome, prompted thereto by the hints of +her little maid, who was much younger, and had a more faithful memory +than her mistress. Why, Sarah Mason would have forgotten the pheasants +whose very tails decorated the chimney-glass, had not Keziah, the maid, +reminded her that the young lady was the donor. Then she recollected +her benefactor, and asked after her father, the Baronet; and wondered, +for her part, why her boy, the Colonel, was not made baronet, and why +his brother had the property? Her father was a very good man; though +Mrs. Mason had heard he was not much liked in those parts. “Dead and +gone, was he, poor man?” (This came in reply to a hint from Keziah, the +attendant, bawled in the old lady’s ears, who was very deaf.) “Well, +well, we must all go; and if we were all good, like the Colonel, what +was the use of staying? I hope his wife will be good. I am sure such a +good man deserves one,” added Mrs. Mason. + +The ladies thought the old woman doting, led thereto by the remark of +Keziah, the maid, that Mrs. Mason have a lost her memory. And she asked +who the other bonny lady was, and Ethel told her that Mrs. Pendennis +was a friend of the Colonel’s and Clive’s. + +“Oh, Clive’s friend! Well, she was a pretty lady, and he was a dear +pretty boy. He drew those pictures; and he took off me in my cap, with +my old cat and all—my poor old cat that’s buried this ever so long +ago.” + +“She has had a letter from the Colonel, miss,” cries out Keziah. +“Haven’t you had a letter from the Colonel, mum? It came only +yesterday.” And Keziah takes out the letter and shows it to the ladies. +They read as follows:— + +“London, Feb. 12, 184-. + +“My Dear Old Mason—I have just heard from a friend of mine who has been +staying in your neighbourhood, that you are well and happy, and that +you have been making inquiries after _your young scapegrace_, Tom +Newcome, who is well and happy too, and who proposes to be _happier +still_ before any very long time is over. + +“The letter which was written to me about you was sent to me _in +Belgium_, at Brussels, where I have been living—a town near the place +where the famous _Battle of Waterloo_ was fought; and as I had run away +from Waterloo it _followed me to England_. + +“I cannot come to Newcome just now to shake my dear old friend and +nurse _by the hand_. I have business in London; and there are those of +my name _living in Newcome_ who would not be very happy to see me and +mine. + +“But I promise you a visit before very long, and Clive will come with +me; and when we come I shall introduce a new friend to you, a very +pretty little _daughter-in-law_, whom you must promise to love very +much. She is a _Scotch lassie_, niece of my oldest friend, James +Binnie, Esquire, of the Bengal Civil Service, who will give her a +_pretty bit of siller_, and her present name is Miss Rosa Mackenzie. + +“We shall send you a _wedding cake_ soon, and a new gown for Keziah (to +whom remember me), and when I am gone, my grandchildren after me will +hear what a dear friend you were to your affectionate Thomas Newcome.” + +Keziah must have thought that there was something between Clive and my +wife, for when Laura had read the letter she laid it down on the table, +and sitting down by it, and hiding her face in her hands, burst into +tears. + +Ethel looked steadily at the two pictures of Clive and his father. Then +she put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Come, my dear,” she said, +“it is growing late, and I must go back to my children.” And she +saluted Mrs. Mason and her maid in a very stately manner, and left +them, leading my wife away, who was still exceedingly overcome. + +We could not stay long at Rosebury after that. When Madame de +Moncontour heard the news, the good lady cried too. Mrs. Pendennis’s +emotion was renewed as we passed the gates of Newcome Park on our way +to the railroad. + + + + +CHAPTER LXII. +Mr. and Mrs. Clive Newcome + + +The friendship between Ethel and Laura, which the last narrated +sentimental occurrences had so much increased, subsists very little +impaired up to the present day. A lady with many domestic interests and +increasing family, etc. etc., cannot be supposed to cultivate female +intimacies out of doors with that ardour and eagerness which young +spinsters exhibit in their intercourse; but Laura, whose kind heart +first led her to sympathise with her young friend in the latter’s days +of distress and misfortune, has professed ever since a growing esteem +for Ethel Newcome, and says, that the trials and perhaps grief which +the young lady now had to undergo have brought out the noblest +qualities of her disposition. She is a very different person from the +giddy and worldly girl who compelled our admiration of late in the days +of her triumphant youthful beauty, of her wayward generous humour, of +her frivolities and her flirtations. + +Did Ethel shed tears in secret over the marriage which had caused +Laura’s gentle eyes to overflow? We might divine the girl’s grief, but +we respected it. The subject was never mentioned by the ladies between +themselves, and even in her most intimate communications with her +husband that gentleman is bound to say his wife maintained a tender +reserve upon the point, nor cared to speculate upon a subject which her +friend held sacred. I could not for my part but acquiesce in this +reticence; and, if Ethel felt regret and remorse, admire the dignity of +her silence, and the sweet composure of her now changed and saddened +demeanour. + +The interchange of letters between the two friends was constant, and in +these the younger lady described at length the duties, occupations, and +pleasures of her new life. She had quite broken with the world, and +devoted herself entirely to the nurture and education of her brother’s +orphan children. She educated herself in order to teach them. Her +letters contain droll yet touching confessions of her own ignorance and +her determination to overcome it. There was no lack of masters of all +kinds in Newcome. She set herself to work like a schoolgirl. The little +piano in the room near the conservatory was thumped by Aunt Ethel until +it became quite obedient to her, and yielded the sweetest music under +her fingers. When she came to pay us a visit at Fairoaks some two years +afterwards she played for our dancing children (our third is named +Ethel, our second Helen, after one still more dear), and we were in +admiration of her skill. There must have been the labour of many lonely +nights when her little charges were at rest, and she and her sad +thoughts sat up together, before she overcame the difficulties of the +instrument so as to be able to soothe herself and to charm and delight +her children. + +When the divorce was pronounced, which came in due form, though we know +that Lady Highgate was not much happier than the luckless Lady Clara +Newcome had been, Ethel’s dread was lest Sir Barnes should marry again, +and by introducing a new mistress into his house should deprive her of +the care of her children. + +Miss Newcome judged her brother rightly in that he would try to marry, +but a noble young lady to whom he offered himself rejected him, to his +surprise and indignation, for a beggarly clergyman with a small living, +on which she elected to starve; and the wealthy daughter of a +neighbouring manufacturer whom he next proposed to honour with his +gracious hand, fled from him with horror to the arms of her father, +wondering how such a man as that should ever dare to propose marriage +to an honest girl. Sir Barnes Newcome was much surprised at this +outbreak of anger; he thought himself a very ill-used and unfortunate +man, a victim of most cruel persecutions, which we may be sure did not +improve his temper or tend to the happiness of his circle at home. +Peevishness, and selfish rage, quarrels with servants and governesses, +and other domestic disquiet, Ethel had of course to bear from her +brother, but not actual personal ill-usage. The fiery temper of former +days was subdued in her, but the haughty resolution remained, which was +more than a match for her brother’s cowardly tyranny: besides, she was +the mistress of sixty thousand pounds, and by many wily hints and +piteous appeals to his sister Sir Barnes sought to secure this +desirable sum of money for his poor dear unfortunate children. + +He professed to think that she was ruining herself for her younger +brothers, whose expenses the young lady was defraying, this one at +college, that in the army, and whose maintenance he thought might be +amply defrayed out of their own little fortunes and his mother’s +jointure: and, by ingeniously proving that a vast number of his +household expenses were personal to Miss Newcome and would never have +been incurred but for her residence in his house, he subtracted for his +own benefit no inconsiderable portion of her income. Thus the +carriage-horses were hers, for what need had he, a miserable bachelor, +of anything more than a riding-horse and a brougham? A certain number +of the domestics were hers, and as he could get no scoundrel of his own +to stay with him, he took Miss Newcome’s servants. He would have had +her pay the coals which burned in his grate, and the taxes due to our +sovereign lady the Queen; but in truth, at the end of the year, with +her domestic bounties and her charities round about Newcome, which +daily increased as she became acquainted with her indigent neighbours, +Miss Ethel, the heiress, was as poor as many poorer persons. + +Her charities increased daily with her means of knowing the people +round about her. She gave much time to them and thought; visited from +house to house, without ostentation; was awestricken by that spectacle +of the poverty which we have with us always, of which the sight rebukes +our selfish griefs into silence, the thought compels us to charity, +humility, and devotion. The priests of our various creeds, who +elsewhere are doing battle together continually, lay down their arms in +its presence and kneel before it; subjugated by that overpowering +master. Death, never dying out; hunger always crying; and children born +to it day after day,—our young London lady, flying from the splendours +and follies in which her life had been past, found herself in the +presence of these; threading darkling alleys which swarmed with +wretched life; sitting by naked beds, whither by God’s blessing she was +sometimes enabled to carry a little comfort and consolation; or whence +she came heart-stricken by the overpowering misery, or touched by the +patient resignation of the new friends to whom fate had directed her. +And here she met the priest upon his shrift, the homely missionary +bearing his words of consolation, the quiet curate pacing his round; +and was known to all these, and enabled now and again to help their +people in trouble. “Oh! what good there is in this woman!” my wife +would say to me, as she laid one of Miss Ethel’s letters aside; “who +would have thought this was the girl of your glaring London ballroom? +If she has had grief to bear, how it has chastened and improved her!” + +And now I have to confess that all this time, whilst Ethel Newcome has +been growing in grace with my wife, poor Clive has been lapsing sadly +out of favour. She has no patience with Clive. She drubs her little +foot when his name is mentioned and turns the subject. Whither are all +the tears and pities fled now? Mrs. Laura has transferred all her +regard to Ethel, and when that lady’s ex-suitor writes to his old +friend, or other news is had of him, Laura flies out in her usual +tirades against the world, the horrid wicked selfish world, which +spoils everybody who comes near it. What has Clive done, in vain his +apologist asks, that an old friend should be so angry with him? + +She is not angry with him—not she. She only does not care about him. +She wishes him no manner of harm—not the least, only she has lost all +interest in him. And the Colonel too, the poor good old Colonel, was +actually in Mrs. Pendennis’ black books, and when he sent her the +Brussels veil which we have heard of, she did not think it was a +bargain at all—not particularly pretty, in fact, rather dear at the +money. When we met Mr. and Mrs. Clive Newcome in London, whither they +came a few months after their marriage, and where Rosey appeared as +pretty, happy, good-humoured a little blushing bride as eyes need +behold, Mrs. Pendennis’s reception of her was quite a curiosity of +decorum. “I, not receive her well?” cried Laura. “How on earth would +you have me receive her? I talked to her about everything, and she only +answered yes or no. I showed her the children, and she did not seem to +care. Her only conversation was about millinery and Brussels balls, and +about her dress at the drawing-room. The drawing-room! What business +has she with such follies?” + +The fact is, that the drawing-room was Tom Newcome’s affair, not his +son’s, who was heartily ashamed of the figure he cut in that astounding +costume, which English private gentlemen are made to sport when they +bend the knee before their gracious Sovereign. + +Warrington roasted poor Clive upon the occasion, and complimented him +with his usual gravity, until the young fellow blushed and his father +somewhat testily signified to our friend that his irony was not +agreeable. “I suppose,” says the Colonel, with great hauteur, “that +there is nothing ridiculous in an English gentleman entertaining +feelings of loyalty and testifying his respect to his Queen: and I +presume that Her Majesty knows best, and has a right to order in what +dress her subjects shall appear before her and I don’t think it’s kind +of you, George, I say, I don’t think it’s kind of you to quiz my boy +for doing his duty to his Queen and to his father too, sir,—for it was +at my request that Clive went, and we went together, sir—to the levee +and then to the drawing-room afterwards with Rosey, who was presented +by the lady of my old friend, Sir George Tufto, a lady of rank herself, +and the wife of as brave an officer as ever drew a sword.” + +Warrington stammered an apology for his levity, but no explanations +were satisfactory, and it was clear George had wounded the feelings of +our dear simple old friend. + +After Clive’s marriage, which was performed at Brussels, Uncle James +and the lady, his sister, whom we have sometimes flippantly ventured to +call the Campaigner, went off to perform that journey to Scotland which +James had meditated for ten years past; and, now little Rosey was made +happy for life, to renew acquaintance with little Josey. The Colonel +and his son and daughter-in-law came to London, not to the bachelor +quarters, where we have seen them, but to an hotel, which they occupied +until their new house could be provided for them, a sumptuous mansion +in the Tyburnian district, and one which became people of their +station. + +We have been informed already what the Colonel’s income was, and have +the gratification of knowing that it was very considerable. The simple +gentleman who would dine off a crust, and wear a coat for ten years, +desired that his children should have the best of everything: ordered +about upholsterers, painters, carriage-makers, in his splendid Indian +way; presented pretty Rosey with brilliant jewels for her introduction +at Court, and was made happy by the sight of the blooming young +creature decked in these magnificences, and admired by all his little +circle. The old boys, the old generals, the old colonels, the old +qui-his from the club, came and paid her their homage; the directors’ +ladies, and the generals’ ladies, called upon her, and feasted her at +vast banquets served on sumptuous plate. Newcome purchased plate and +gave banquets in return for these hospitalities. Mrs. Clive had a neat +close carriage for evenings, and a splendid barouche to drive in the +Park. It was pleasant to see this equipage at four o’clock of an +afternoon, driving up to Bays’s, with Rosey most gorgeously attired +reclining within; and to behold the stately grace of the old gentleman +as he stepped out to welcome his daughter-in-law, and the bow he made +before he entered her carriage. Then they would drive round the Park; +round and round and round; and the old generals, and the old colonels, +and old fogies, and their ladies and daughters, would nod and smile out +of _their_ carriages as they crossed each other upon this charming +career of pleasure. + +I confess that a dinner at the Colonel’s, now he appeared in all his +magnificence, was awfully slow. No peaches could look fresher than +Rosey’s cheeks,—no damask was fairer than her pretty little shoulders. +No one, I am sure, could be happier than she, but she did not impart +her happiness to her friends; and replied chiefly by smiles to the +conversation of the gentlemen at her side. It is true that these were +for the most part elderly dignitaries, distinguished military officers +with blue-black whiskers, retired old Indian judges, and the like, +occupied with their victuals, and generally careless to please. But +that solemn happiness of the Colonel, who shall depict it:—that look of +affection with which he greeted his daughter as she entered, flounced +to the waist, twinkling with innumerable jewels, holding a dainty +pocket-handkerchief, with smiling eyes, dimpled cheeks, and golden +ringlets! He would take her hand, or follow her about from group to +group, exchanging precious observations about the weather, the Park, +the exhibition, nay, the opera, for the old man actually went to the +opera with his little girl, and solemnly snoozed by her side in a white +waistcoat. + +Very likely this was the happiest period of Thomas Newcome’s life. No +woman (save one perhaps fifty years ago) had ever seemed so fond of him +as that little girl. What pride he had in her, and what care he took of +her! If she was a little ailing, what anxiety and hurrying for doctors! +What droll letters came from James Binnie, and how they laughed over +them: with what respectful attention he acquainted Mrs. Mack with +everything that took place: with what enthusiasm that Campaigner +replied! Josey’s husband called a special blessing upon his head in the +church at Musselburgh; and little Jo herself sent a tinful of Scotch +bun to her darling sister, with a request from her husband that he +might have a few shares in the famous Indian Company. + +The Company was in a highly flourishing condition, as you may suppose, +when one of its directors, who at the same time was one of the +honestest men alive, thought it was his duty to live in the splendour +in which we now behold him. Many wealthy City men did homage to him. +His brother Hobson, though the Colonel had quarrelled with the chief of +the firm, yet remained on amiable terms with Thomas Newcome, and shared +and returned his banquets for a while. Charles Honeyman we may be sure +was present at many of them, and smirked a blessing over the plenteous +meal. The Colonel’s influence was such with Mr. Sherrick that he +pleaded Charles’s cause with that gentleman, and actually brought to a +successful termination that little love-affair in which we have seen +Miss Sherrick and Charles engaged. Mr. Sherrick was not disposed to +part with much money during his lifetime—indeed, he proved to Colonel +Newcome that he was not so rich as the world supposed him. But, by the +Colonel’s interest, the chaplaincy of Boggley Wollah was procured for +the Rev. C. Honeyman, who now forms the delight of that flourishing +station. + +All this while we have said little about Clive, who in truth was +somehow in the background in this flourishing Newcome group. To please +the best father in the world; the kindest old friend who endowed his +niece with the best part of his savings; to settle that question about +marriage and have an end of it;—Clive Newcome had taken a pretty and +fond young girl, who respected and admired him beyond all men, and who +heartily desired to make him happy. To do as much would not his father +have stripped his coat from his back,—have put his head under +Juggernaut’s chariot-wheel, have sacrificed any ease, comfort, or +pleasure for the youngster’s benefit? One great passion he had had and +closed the account of it: a worldly ambitious girl—how foolishly +worshipped and passionately beloved no matter—had played with him for +years; had flung him away when a dissolute suitor with a great fortune +and title had offered himself. Was he to whine and despair because a +jilt had fooled him? He had too much pride and courage for any such +submission; he would accept the lot in life which was offered to him, +no undesirable one surely; he would fulfil the wish of his father’s +heart, and cheer his kind declining years. In this way the marriage was +brought about. It was but a whisper to Rosey in the drawing-room, a +start and a blush from the little girl as he took the little willing +hand, a kiss for her from her delighted old father-in-law, a twinkle in +good old James’s eyes, and double embrace from the Campaigner as she +stood over them in a benedictory attitude;—expressing her surprise at +an event for which she had been jockeying ever since she set eyes on +young Newcome; and calling upon Heaven to bless her children. So, as a +good thing when it is to be done had best be done quickly, these worthy +folks went off almost straightway to a clergyman, and were married out +of hand—to the astonishment of Captains Hoby and Goby when they came to +hear of the event. Well, my gallant young painter and friend of my +boyhood! if my wife chooses to be angry at your marriage, shall her +husband not wish you happy? + +Suppose we had married our first loves, others of us, were we the +happier now? Ask Mr. Pendennis, who sulked in his tents when his +Costigan, his Briseis, was ravished from him. Ask poor George +Warrington, who had his own way, Heaven help him! There was no need why +Clive should turn monk because number one refused him; and, that +charmer removed, why he should not take to his heart number two. I am +bound to say, that when I expressed these opinions to Mrs. Laura, she +was more angry and provoked than ever. + +It is in the nature of such a simple soul as Thomas Newcome, to see but +one side of a question, and having once fixed Ethel’s worldliness in +his mind, and her brother’s treason, to allow no argument of advocates +of the other side to shake his displeasure. Hence the one or two +appeals which Laura ventured to make on behalf of her friend, were +checked by the good Colonel with a stern negation. If Ethel was not +guiltless, she could not make him see at least that she was not guilty. +He dashed away all excuses and palliations. Exasperated as he was, he +persisted in regarding the poor girl’s conduct in its most unfavourable +light. “She was rejected, and deservedly rejected, by the Marquis of +Farintosh,” he broke out to me once, who was not indeed authorised to +tell all I knew regarding the story; “the whole town knows it; all the +clubs ring with it. I blush, sir, to think that my brother’s child +should have brought such a stain upon our name.” In vain, I told him +that my wife, who knew all the circumstances much better, judged Miss +Newcome far more favourably, and indeed greatly esteemed and loved her. +“Pshaw! sir,” breaks out the indignant Colonel, “your wife is an +innocent creature, who does not know the world as we men of experience +do,—as I do, sir;” and would have no more of the discussion. There is +no doubt about it, there was a coolness between my old friend’s father +and us. + +As for Barnes Newcome, we gave up that worthy, and the Colonel showed +him no mercy. He recalled words used by Warrington, which I have +recorded in a former page, and vowed that he only watched for an +opportunity to crush the miserable reptile. He hated Barnes as a +loathsome traitor, coward, and criminal; he made no secret of his +opinion; and Clive, with the remembrance of former injuries, of +dreadful heart-pangs; the inheritor of his father’s blood, his honesty +of nature, and his impetuous enmity against wrong; shared to the full +his sire’s antipathy against his cousin, and publicly expressed his +scorn and contempt for him. About Ethel he would not speak. “Perhaps +what you say, Pen, is true,” he said. “I hope it is. Pray God it is.” +But his quivering lips and fierce countenance, when her name was +mentioned or her defence attempted, showed that he too had come to +think ill of her. “As for her brother, as for that scoundrel,” he would +say, clenching his fist, “if ever I can punish him I will. I shouldn’t +have the soul of a dog, if ever I forgot the wrongs that have been done +me by that vagabond. Forgiveness? Pshaw! Are you dangling to sermons, +Pen, at your wife’s leading-strings? Are you preaching that cant? There +are some injuries that no honest man should forgive, and I shall be a +rogue on the day I shake hands with that villain.” + +“Clive has adopted the Iroquois ethics,” says George Warrington, +smoking his pipe sententiously, “rather than those which are at present +received among us. I am not sure that something is not to be said, as +against the Eastern, upon the Western, or Tomahawk, or Ojibbeway side +of the question. I should not like,” he added, “to be in a vendetta or +feud, and to have you, Clive, and the old Colonel engaged against me.” + +“I would rather,” I said, “for my part, have half a dozen such enemies +as Clive and the Colonel, than one like Barnes. You never know where or +when that villain may hit you.” And before a very short period was +over, Sir Barnes Newcome, Bart., hit his two hostile kinsmen such a +blow, as one might expect from such a quarter. + + + + +CHAPTER LXIII. +Mrs. Clive at Home + + +Clive and his father did not think fit to conceal their opinions +regarding their kinsman, Barnes Newcome, and uttered them in many +public places when Sir Barnes’s conduct was brought into question, we +may be sure that their talk came to the Baronet’s ears, and did not +improve his already angry feeling towards those gentlemen. For a while +they had the best of the attack. The Colonel routed Barnes out of his +accustomed club at Bays’s; where also the gallant Sir George Tufto +expressed himself pretty openly with respect to the poor Baronet’s want +of courage: the Colonel had bullied and browbeaten Barnes in the +parlour of his own bank, and the story was naturally well known in the +City; where it certainly was not pleasant for Sir Barnes, as he walked +to ’Change, to meet sometimes the scowls of the angry man of war, his +uncle, striding down to the offices of the Bundelcund Bank, and armed +with that terrible bamboo cane. + +But though his wife had undeniably run away after notorious +ill-treatment from her husband; though he had shown two white feathers +in those unpleasant little affairs with his uncle and cousin; though +Sir Barnes Newcome was certainly neither amiable nor popular in the +City of London, his reputation as a most intelligent man of business +still stood; the credit of his house was deservedly high, and people +banked with him, and traded with him, in spite of faithless wives and +hostile colonels. + +When the outbreak between Colonel Newcome and his nephew took place, it +may be remembered that Mr. Hobson Newcome, the other partner of the +firm of Hobson Brothers, waited upon Colonel Newcome, as one of the +principal English directors of the B. B. C., and hoped that although +private differences would, of course, oblige Thomas Newcome to cease +all personal dealings with the bank of Hobson, the affairs of the +Company in which he was interested ought not to suffer on this account; +and that the Indian firm should continue dealing with Hobsons on the +same footing as before. Mr. Hobson Newcome represented to the Colonel, +in his jolly frank way, that whatever happened between the latter and +his nephew Barnes, Thomas Newcome had still one friend in the house; +that the transactions between it and the Indian Company were mutually +advantageous; finally, that the manager of the Indian bank might +continue to do business with Hobsons as before. So the B. B. C. sent +its consignments to Hobson Brothers, and drew its bills, which were +duly honoured by that firm. + +More than one of Colonel Newcome’s City acquaintances, among them his +agent, Mr. Jolly, and his ingenuous friend, Mr. Sherrick, especially, +hinted to Thomas Newcome to be very cautious in his dealings with +Hobson Brothers, and keep a special care lest that house should play +him an evil turn. They both told him that Barnes Newcome had said more +than once, in answer to reports of the Colonel’s own speeches against +Barnes. “I know that hot-headed, blundering Indian uncle of mine is +furious against me, on account of an absurd private affair and +misunderstanding, which he is too obstinate to see in the proper light. +What is my return for the abuse and rant which he lavishes against me? +I cannot forget that he is my grandfather’s son, an old man, utterly +ignorant both of society and business here; and as he is interested in +this Indian Banking Company, which must be preciously conducted when it +appointed him as the guardian and overseer of its affairs in England, I +do my very best to serve the Company, and I can tell you, its +blundering, muddleheaded managers, black and white, owe no little to +the assistance which they have had from our house. If they don’t like +us, why do they go on dealing with us? We don’t want them and their +bills. We were a leading house fifty years before they were born, and +shall continue to be so long after they come to an end.” Such was +Barnes’s case, as stated by himself. It was not a very bad one, or very +unfairly stated, considering the advocate. I believe he has always +persisted in thinking that he never did his uncle any wrong. + +Mr. Jolly and Mr. Sherrick, then, both entreated Thomas Newcome to use +his best endeavours, and bring the connexion of the B. B. C. and Hobson +Brothers to a speedy end. But Jolly was an interested party; he and his +friends would have had the agency of the B. B. C., and the profits +thereof, which Hobsons had taken from them. Mr. Sherrick was an outside +practitioner, a guerilla amongst regular merchants. The opinions of one +and the other, though submitted by Thomas Newcome duly to his +co-partners, the managers and London board of directors of the +Bundelcund Banking Company, were overruled by that assembly. + +They had their establishment and apartments in the City; they had their +clerks and messengers, their managers’ room and board-room, their +meetings, where no doubt great quantities of letters were read, vast +ledgers produced; where Tom Newcome was voted into the chair, and voted +out with thanks; where speeches were made, and the affairs of the B. B. +C. properly discussed. These subjects are mysterious, terrifying, +unknown to me. I cannot pretend to describe them. Fred Bayham, I +remember, used to be great in his knowledge of the affairs of the +Bundelcund Banking Company. He talked of cotton, wool, copper, opium, +indigo, Singapore, Manilla, China, Calcutta, Australia, with prodigious +eloquence and fluency. His conversation was about millions. The most +astounding paragraphs used to appear in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, +regarding the annual dinner at Blackwall, which the directors gave, and +to which he, and George, and I, as friends of the court, were invited. +What orations were uttered, what flowing bumpers emptied in the praise +of this great Company; what quantities of turtle and punch did Fred +devour at its expense! Colonel Newcome was the kindly old chairman at +these banquets; the prince, his son, taking but a modest part in the +ceremonies, and sitting with us, his old cronies. + +All the gentlemen connected with the board, all those with whom the B. +B. C. traded in London, paid Thomas Newcome extraordinary respect. His +character for wealth was deservedly great, and of course multiplied by +the tongue of Rumour. F. B. knew to a few millions of rupees, more or +less, what the Colonel possessed, and what Clive would inherit. Thomas +Newcome’s distinguished military services, his high bearing, lofty +courtesy, simple but touching garrulity;—for the honest man talked much +more now than he had been accustomed to do in former days, and was not +insensible to the flattery which his wealth brought him,—his reputation +as a keen man of business, who had made his own fortune by operations +equally prudent and spirited, and who might make the fortunes of +hundreds of other people, brought the worthy Colonel a number of +friends, and I promise you that the loudest huzzahs greeted his health +when it was proposed at the Blackwall dinners. At the second annual +dinner after Clive’s marriage some friends presented Mrs. Clive Newcome +with a fine testimonial. There was a superb silver cocoa-nut tree, +whereof the leaves were dexterously arranged for holding candle and +pickles; under the cocoa-nut was an Indian prince on a camel, giving +his hand to a cavalry officer on horseback—a howitzer, a plough, a +loom, a bale of cotton, on which were the East India Company’s arms, a +Brahmin, Britannia, and Commerce with a cornucopia were grouped round +the principal figures: and if you would see a noble account of this +chaste and elegant specimen of British art, you are referred to the +pages of the _Pall Mall Gazette_ of that year, as well as to Fred +Bayham’s noble speech in the course of the evening, when it was +exhibited. The East and its wars, and its heroes, Assaye and +Seringapatam (“and Lord Lake and Laswaree too,” calls out the Colonel +greatly elated), tiger-hunting, palanquins, Juggernaut, elephants, the +burning of widows—all passed before us in F. B.’s splendid oration. He +spoke of the product of the Indian forest, the palm-tree, the cocoa-nut +tree, the banyan-tree. Palms the Colonel had already brought back with +him, the palms of valour, won in the field of war (cheers). Cocoa-nut +trees he had never seen, though he had heard wonders related regarding +the milky contents of their fruit. Here at any rate was one tree of the +kind, under the branches of which he humbly trusted often to +repose—and, if he might be so bold as to carry on the Eastern metaphor, +he would say, knowing the excellence of the Colonel’s claret and the +splendour of his hospitality, that he would prefer a cocoa-nut day at +the Colonel’s to a banyan day anywhere else. Whilst F. B.’s speech went +on, I remember J. J. eyeing the trophy, and the queer expression of his +shrewd face. The health of British Artists was drunk a propos of this +splendid specimen of their skill, and poor J. J. Ridley, Esq., A.R.A., +had scarce a word to say in return. He and Clive sat by one another, +the latter very silent and gloomy. When J. J. and I met in the world, +we talked about our friend, and it was easy for both of us to see that +neither was satisfied with Clive’s condition. + +The fine house in Tyburnia was completed by this time, as gorgeous as +money could make it. How different it was from the old Fitzroy Square +mansion with its ramshackle furniture, and spoils of brokers’ shops, +and Tottenham Court Road odds and ends! An Oxford Street upholsterer +had been let loose in the yet virgin chambers; and that inventive +genius had decorated them with all the wonders his fancy could devise. +Roses and cupids quivered on the ceilings, up to which golden +arabesques crawled from the walls; your face (handsome or otherwise) +was reflected by countless looking-glasses, so multiplied and arranged +as, as it were, to carry you into the next street. You trod on velvet, +pausing with respect in the centre of the carpet, where Rosey’s cypher +was worked in the sweet flowers which bear her name. What delightful +crooked legs the chairs had! What corner cupboards there were filled +with Dresden gimcracks, which it was a part of this little woman’s +business in life to purchase! What etageres, and bonbonnieres, and +chiffonnieres! What awfully bad pastels there were on the walls! What +frightful Boucher and Lancret shepherds and shepherdesses leered over +the portieres! What velvet-bound volumes, mother-of-pearl albums, +inkstands representing beasts of the field, prie-dieu chairs, and +wonderful knick-knacks I can recollect! There was the most magnificent +piano, though Rosey seldom sang any of her six songs now; and when she +kept her couch at a certain most interesting period, the good Colonel, +ever anxious to procure amusement for his darling, asked whether she +would not like a barrel-organ grinding fifty or sixty favourite pieces, +which a bearer could turn? And he mentioned how Windus, of their +regiment, who loved music exceedingly, had a very fine instrument of +this kind out to Barrackpore in the year 1810, and relays of barrels by +each ship with all the new tunes from Europe. The Testimonial took its +place in the centre of Mrs. Clive’s table, surrounded by satellites of +plate. The delectable parties were constantly gathered together, the +grand barouche rolling in the Park, or stopping at the principal shops. +Little Rosey bloomed in millinery, and was still the smiling little pet +of her father-in-law, and poor Clive, in the midst of all these +splendours, was gaunt, and sad, and silent; listless at most times, +bitter and savage at others, pleased only when he was out of the +society which bored him, and in the company of George and J. J., the +simple friends of his youth. + +His careworn look and altered appearance mollified my wife towards +him—who had almost taken him again into favour. But she did not care +for Mrs. Clive, and the Colonel, somehow, grew cool towards us, and to +look askance upon the little band of Clive’s friends. It seemed as if +there were two parties in the house. There was Clive’s set—J. J., the +shrewd, silent little painter; Warrington, the cynic; and the author of +the present biography, who was, I believe, supposed to give himself +contemptuous airs; and to have become very high and mighty since his +marriage. Then there was the great, numerous, and eminently respectable +set, whose names were all registered in little Rosey’s little +visiting-book, and to whose houses she drove round, duly delivering the +cards of Mr. and Mrs. Clive Newcome, and Colonel Newcome;—the generals +and colonels, the judges and the fogies. The only man who kept well +with both sides of the house was F. Bayham, Esq., who, having got into +clover, remained in the enjoyment of that welcome pasture; who really +loved Clive and the Colonel too, and had a hundred pleasant things and +funny stories (the droll old creature!) to tell to the little lady for +whom we others could scarcely find a word. The old friends of the +student-days were not forgotten, but they did not seem to get on in the +new house. The Miss Gandishes came to one of Mrs. Clive’s balls, still +in blue crape, still with ringlets on their wizened old foreheads, +accompanying papa, with his shirt-collars turned down—who gazed in mute +wonder on the splendid scene. Warrington actually asked Miss Gandish to +dance, making woeful blunders, however, in the quadrille, while Clive, +with something like one of his old smiles on his face, took out Miss +Zoe Gandish, her sister. We made Gandish overeat and overdrink himself +in the supper-room, and Clive cheered him by ordering a full length of +Mrs. Clive Newcome from his distinguished pencil. Never was seen a +grander exhibition of white satin and jewels. Smee, R.A., was furious +at the preference shown to his rival. + +We had Sandy M’Collop, too, at the party, who had returned from Rome, +with his red beard, and his picture of the murder of the Red Comyn, +which made but a dim effect in the Octagon Room of the Royal Academy, +where the bleeding agonies of the dying warrior were veiled in an +unkind twilight. On Sandy and his brethren little Rosey looked rather +coldly. She tossed up her little head in conversation with me, and gave +me to understand that this party was only an _omnium gatherum_, not one +of the select parties, from which Heaven defend us. “We are Poins, and +Nym, and Pistol,” growled out George Warrington, as he strode away to +finish the evening in Clive’s painting- and smoking-room. “Now Prince +Hal is married, and shares the paternal throne, his Princess is ashamed +of his brigand associates of former days.” She came and looked at us +with a feeble little smile, as we sat smoking, and let the daylight in +on us from the open door, and hinted to Mr. Clive that it was time to +go to bed. + +So Clive Newcome lay in a bed of down and tossed and tumbled there. He +went to fine dinners, and sat silent over them; rode fine horses, and +black Care jumped up behind the moody horseman. He was cut off in a +great measure from the friends of his youth, or saw them by a kind of +stealth and sufferance; was a very lonely, poor fellow, I am afraid, +now that people were testimonialising his wife, and many an old comrade +growling at his haughtiness and prosperity. + +In former days, when his good father recognised the difference which +fate, and time, and temper, had set between him and his son, we have +seen with what a gentle acquiescence the old man submitted to his +inevitable fortune, and how humbly he bore that stroke of separation +which afflicted the boy lightly enough, but caused the loving sire so +much pain. Then there was no bitterness between them, in spite of the +fatal division; but now, it seemed as if there was anger on Thomas +Newcome’s part, because, though come together again, they were not +united, though with every outward appliance of happiness Clive was not +happy. What young man on earth could look for more? a sweet young wife, +a handsome home, of which the only encumbrance was an old father, who +would give his last drop of blood in his son’s behalf. And it was to +bring about this end that Thomas Newcome had toiled and had amassed a +fortune. Could not Clive, with his talents and education, go down once +or twice a week to the City and take a decent part in the business by +which his wealth was secured? He appeared at the various board-rooms +and City conclaves, yawned at the meetings, and drew figures on the +blotting-paper of the Company; had no interest in its transactions, no +heart in its affairs; went away and galloped his horse alone; or +returned to his painting-room, put on his old velvet jacket, and worked +with his palettes and brushes. Palettes and brushes! Could he not give +up these toys when he was called to a much higher station in the world? +Could he not go talk with Rosey;—drive with Rosey, kind little soul, +whose whole desire was to make him happy? Such thoughts as these, no +doubt, darkened the Colonel’s mind, and deepened the furrows round his +old eyes. So it is, we judge men by our own standards; judge our +nearest and dearest often wrong. + +Many and many a time did Clive try and talk with the little Rosey, who +chirped and prattled so gaily to his father. Many a time would she come +and sit by his easel, and try her little powers to charm him, bring him +little tales about their acquaintances, stories about this ball and +that concert, practise artless smiles upon him, gentle little +bouderies, tears, perhaps, followed by caresses and reconciliation. At +the end of which he would return to his cigar; and she, with a sigh and +a heavy heart, to the good old man who had bidden her to go and talk +with him. He used to feel that his father had sent her; the thought +came across him in their conversations, and straightway his heart would +shut up and his face grew gloomy. They were not made to mate with one +another. This was the truth; the shoe was a very pretty little shoe, +but Clive’s foot was too big for it. + +Just before the testimonial, Mr. Clive was in constant attendance at +home, and very careful and kind and happy with his wife, and the whole +family party went very agreeably. Doctors were in constant attendance +at Mrs. Clive Newcome’s door; prodigious care was taken by the good +Colonel in wrapping her and in putting her little feet on sofas, and in +leading her to her carriage. The Campaigner came over in immense flurry +from Edinburgh (where Uncle James was now very comfortably lodged in +Picardy Place with the most agreeable society round about him), and all +this circle was in a word very close and happy and intimate; but woe is +me, Thomas Newcome’s fondest hopes were disappointed this time: his +little grandson lived but to see the light and leave it: and sadly, +sadly, those preparations were put away, those poor little robes and +caps, those delicate muslins and cambrics over which many a care had +been forgotten, many a fond prayer thought, if not uttered. Poor little +Rosey! she felt the grief very keenly; but she rallied from it very +soon. In a very few months, her cheeks were blooming and dimpling with +smiles again, and she was telling us how her party was an _omnium +gatherum_. + +The Campaigner had ere this returned to the scene of her northern +exploits; not, I believe, entirely of the worthy woman’s own free will. +Assuming the command of the household, whilst her daughter kept her +sofa, Mrs. Mackenzie had set that establishment into uproar and mutiny. +She had offended the butler, outraged the housekeeper, wounded the +sensibilities of the footmen, insulted the doctor, and trampled on the +inmost corns of the nurse. It was surprising what a change appeared in +the Campaigner’s conduct, and how little, in former days, Colonel +Newcome had known her. What the Emperor Napoleon the First said +respecting our Russian enemies, might be applied to this lady, +Grattez-la, and she appeared a Tartar. Clive and his father had a +little comfort and conversation in conspiring against her. The old man +never dared to try, but was pleased with the younger’s spirit and +gallantry in the series of final actions which, commencing over poor +little Rosey’s prostrate body in the dressing-room, were continued in +the drawing-room, resumed with terrible vigour on the enemy’s part in +the dining-room, and ended, to the triumph of the whole establishment, +at the outside of the hall-door. + +When the routed Tartar force had fled back to its native north, Rosey +made a confession, which Clive told me afterwards, bursting with bitter +laughter. “You and papa seem to be very much agitated,” she said. +(Rosey called the Colonel papa in the absence of the Campaigner.) “I do +not mind it a bit, except just at first, when it made me a little +nervous. Mamma used always to be so; she used to scold and scold all +day, both me and Josey, in Scotland, till grandmamma sent her away; and +then in Fitzroy Square, and then in Brussels, she used to box my ears, +and go into such tantrums; and I think,” adds Rosey, with one of her +sweetest smiles, “she had quarrelled with Uncle James before she came +to us.” + +“She used to box Rosey’s ears,” roars out poor Clive, “and go into such +tantrums, in Fitzroy Square and Brussels afterwards, and the pair would +come down with their arms round each other’s waists, smirking and +smiling as if they had done nothing but kiss each other all their +mortal lives! This is what we know about women—this is what we get, and +find years afterwards, when we think we have married a smiling, artless +young creature! Are you all such hypocrites, Mrs. Pendennis?” and he +pulled his mustachios in his wrath. + +“Poor Clive!” says Laura, very kindly. “You would not have had her tell +tales of her mother, would you?” + +“Oh, of course not,” breaks out Clive; “that is what you all say, and +so you are hypocrites out of sheer virtue.” + +It was the first time Laura had called him Clive for many a day. She +was becoming reconciled to him. We had our own opinion about the young +fellow’s marriage. + +And, to sum up all, upon a casual rencontre with the young gentleman in +question, whom we saw descending from a hansom at the steps of the +Flag, Pall Mall, I opined that dark thoughts of Hoby had entered into +Clive Newcome’s mind. Othello-like, he scowled after that unconscious +Cassio as the other passed into the club in his lacquered boots. + + + + +CHAPTER LXIV. +Absit Omen + + +At the first of the Blackwall festivals, Hobson Newcome was present, in +spite of the quarrel which had taken place between his elder brother +and the chief of the firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcome. But it was +the individual Barnes and the individual Thomas who had had a +difference together; the Bundelcund Bank was not at variance with its +chief house of commission in London; no man drank prosperity to the B. +B. C., upon occasion of this festival, with greater fervour than Hobson +Newcome, and the manner in which he just slightly alluded, in his own +little speech of thanks, to the notorious differences between Colonel +Newcome and his nephew, praying that these might cease some day, and, +meanwhile, that the confidence between the great Indian establishment +and its London agents might never diminish, was appreciated and admired +by six-and-thirty gentlemen, all brimful of claret and enthusiasm, and +in that happy state of mind in which men appreciate and admire +everything. + +At the second dinner, when the testimonial was presented, Hobson was +not present. Nor did his name figure amongst those engraven on the +trunk of Mr. Newcome’s allegorical silver cocoa-nut tree. As we +travelled homewards in the omnibus, Fred Bayham noticed the +circumstance to me. “I have looked over the list of names,” says he, +“not merely that on the trunk, sir, but the printed list; it was rolled +up and placed in one of the nests on the top of the tree. Why is +Hobson’s name not there?—Ha! it mislikes me, Pendennis.” + +F. B., who was now very great about City affairs, discoursed about +stocks and companies with immense learning, and gave me to understand +that he had transacted one or two little operations in Capel Court on +his own account, with great present, and still larger prospective, +advantages to himself. It is a fact that Mr. Ridley was paid, and that +F. B.’s costume, though still eccentric, was comfortable, cleanly, and +variegated. He occupied the apartments once tenanted by the amiable +Honeyman. He lived in ease and comfort there. “You don’t suppose,” says +he, “that the wretched stipend I draw from the _Pall Mall Gazette_ +enables me to maintain this kind of thing? F. B., sir, has a station in +the world; F. B. moves among moneyers and City nobs, and eats cabobs +with wealthy nabobs. He may marry, sir, and settle in life.” We +cordially wished every worldly prosperity to the brave F. B. + +Happening to descry him one day in the Park, I remarked that his +countenance wore an ominous and tragic appearance, which seemed to +deepen as he neared me. I thought he had been toying affably with a +nursery-maid the moment before, who stood with some of her little +charges watching the yachts upon the Serpentine. Howbeit, espying my +approach, F. B. strode away from the maiden and her innocent +companions, and advanced to greet his old acquaintance, enveloping his +face with shades of funereal gloom. + +“Yon were the children of my good friend Colonel Huckaback of the +Bombay Marines! Alas! unconscious of their doom, the little infants +play. I was watching them at their sports. There is a pleasing young +woman in attendance upon the poor children. They were sailing their +little boats upon the Serpentine; racing and laughing, and making +merry; and as I looked on, Master Hastings Huckaback’s boat went down! +_Absit omen_, Pendennis! I was moved by the circumstance. F. B. hopes +that the child’s father’s argosy may not meet with shipwreck!” + +“You mean the little yellow-faced man whom we met at Colonel +Newcome’s?” says Mr. Pendennis. + +“I do, sir,” growled F. B. “You know that he is a brother director with +our Colonel in the Bundelcund Bank?” + +“Gracious Heavens!” I cried, in sincere anxiety, “nothin has happened, +I hope, to the Bundelcund Bank?” + +“No,” answers the other, “nothing has happened, the good ship is safe, +sir, as yet. But she has narrowly escaped a great danger, Pendennis,” +cries F. B., gripping my arm with great energy, “there was a traitor in +her crew—she has weathered the storm nobly—who would have sent her on +the rocks, sir, who would have scuttled her at midnight.” + +“Pray drop your nautical metaphors, and tell me what you mean,” cries +F. B.’s companion, and Bayham continued his narration. + +“Were you in the least conversant with City affairs,” he said, “or did +you deign to visit the spot where merchants mostly congregate, you +would have heard the story, which was over the whole City yesterday, +and spread dismay from Threadneedle Street to Leadenhall. The story is, +that the firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcome, yesterday refused +acceptance of thirty thousand pounds’ worth of bills of the Bundelcund +Banking Company of India. + +“The news came like a thunderclap upon the London Board of Directors, +who had received no notice of the intentions of Hobson Brothers, and +caused a dreadful panic amongst the shareholders of the concern. The +board-room was besieged by colonels and captains, widows and orphans; +within an hour after protest of bills were taken up, and you will see, +in the City article of the _Globe_ this very evening, an announcement +that henceforward the house of Baines and Jolly, of Job Court, will +meet engagements of the Bundelcund Banking Company of India, being +provided with ample funds to do honour to every possible liability of +that Company. But the shares fell, sir, in consequence of the panic. I +hope they will rally. I trust and believe they will rally. For our good +Colonel’s sake and that of his friends, for the sake of the innocent +children sporting by the Serpentine yonder. + +“I had my suspicions when they gave that testimonial,” said F. B. “In +my experience of life, sir, I always feel rather shy about +testimonials, and when a party gets one, somehow look out to hear of +his smashing the next month. _Absit omen!_ I will say again. I like not +the going down of yonder little yacht.” + +The _Globe_ sure enough contained a paragraph that evening announcing +the occurrence which Mr. Bayham had described, and the temporary panic +which it had occasioned, and containing an advertisement stating that +Messrs. Baines and Jolly would henceforth act as agents of the Indian +Company. Legal proceedings were presently threatened by the solicitors +of the Company against the banking firm which had caused so much +mischief. Mr. Hobson Newcome was absent abroad when the circumstance +took place, and it was known that the protest of the bills was solely +attributable to his nephew and partner. But after the break between the +two firms, there was a rupture between Hobson’s family and Colonel +Newcome. The exasperated Colonel vowed that his brother and his nephew +were traitors alike, and would have no further dealings with one or the +other. Even poor innocent Sam Newcome, coming up to London from Oxford, +where he had been plucked, and offering a hand to Clive, was frowned +away by our Colonel, who spoke in terms of great displeasure to his son +for taking the least notice of the young traitor. + +Our Colonel was changed, changed in his heart, changed in his whole +demeanour towards the world, and above all towards his son, for whom he +had made so many kind sacrifices in his old days. We have said how, +ever since Clive’s marriage, a tacit strife had been growing up between +father and son. The boy’s evident unhappiness was like a reproach to +his father. His very silence angered the old man. His want of +confidence daily chafed and annoyed him. At the head of a large +fortune, which he rightly persisted in spending, he felt angry with +himself because he could not enjoy it, angry with his son, who should +have helped him in the administration of his new estate, and who was +but a listless, useless member of the little confederacy, a living +protest against all the schemes of the good man’s past life. The +catastrophe in the City again brought father and son together somewhat, +and the vindictiveness of both was roused by Barnes’s treason. Time was +when the Colonel himself would have viewed his kinsman more charitably, +but fate and circumstance had angered that originally friendly and +gentle disposition; hate and suspicion had mastered him, and if it +cannot be said that his new life had changed him, at least it had +brought out faults for which there had hitherto been no occasion, and +qualities latent before. Do we know ourselves, or what good or evil +circumstance may bring from us? Did Cain know, as he and his younger +brother played round their mother’s knee, that the little hand which +caressed Abel should one day grow larger, and seize a brand to slay +him? Thrice fortunate he, to whom circumstance is made easy: whom fate +visits with gentle trial, and kindly Heaven keeps out of temptation. + +In the stage which the family feud now reached, and which the +biographer of the Newcomes is bound to describe, there is one gentle +moralist who gives her sentence decidedly against Clive’s father; +whilst on the other hand a rough philosopher and friend of mine, whose +opinions used to have some weight with me, stoutly declares that they +were right. “War and justice are good things,” says George Warrington, +rattling his clenched fist on the table. “I maintain them, and the +common sense of the world maintains them, against the preaching of all +the Honeymans that ever puled from the pulpit. I have not the least +objection in life to a rogue being hung. When a scoundrel is whipped I +am pleased, and say, serve him right. If any gentleman will horsewhip +Sir Barnes Newcome, Baronet, I shall not be shocked, but, on the +contrary, go home and order an extra mutton-chop for dinner.” + +“Ah! revenge is wrong, Pen,” pleads the other counsellor. + +“Let alone that the wisest and best of all Judges has condemned it. It +blackens the hearts of men. It distorts their views of right. It sets +them to devise evil. It causes them to think unjustly of others. It is +not the noblest return for injury, not even the bravest way of meeting +it. The greatest courage is to bear persecution, not to answer when you +are reviled, and when wrong has been done you to forgive. I am sorry +for what you call the Colonel’s triumph and his enemy’s humiliation. +Let Barnes be as odious as you will, he ought never to have humiliated +Ethel’s brother; but he is weak. Other gentlemen as well are weak, Mr. +Pen, although you are so much cleverer than women. I have no patience +with the Colonel, and I beg you to tell him, whether he asks you or not +that he has lost my good graces, and that I for one will not huzzah at +what his friends and flatterers call his triumphs, and that I don’t +think in this instance he has acted like the dear Colonel, and the good +Colonel, and the good Christian that I once thought him.” + +We must now tell what the Colonel and Clive had been doing, and what +caused two such different opinions respecting their conduct from the +two critics just named. The refusal of the London Banking House to +accept the bills of the Great Indian Company of course affected very +much the credit of that Company in this country. Sedative announcements +were issued by the Directors in London; brilliant accounts of the +Company’s affairs abroad were published; proof incontrovertible was +given that the B. B. C. was never in so flourishing a state as at that +time when Hobson Brothers had refused its drafts; there could be no +question that the Company had received a severe wound and was deeply if +not vitally injured by the conduct of the London firm. + +The propensity to sell out became quite epidemic amongst the +shareholders. Everybody was anxious to realise. Why, out of the thirty +names inscribed on poor Mrs. Clive’s cocoa-nut tree no less than twenty +deserters might be mentioned, or at least who would desert could they +find an opportunity of doing so with arms and baggage. Wrathfully the +good Colonel scratched the names of those faithless ones out of his +daughter’s visiting-book: haughtily he met them in the street; to +desert the B. B. C. at the hour of peril was, in his idea, like +applying for leave of absence on the eve of an action. He would not see +that the question was not one of sentiment at all, but of chances and +arithmetic; he would not hear with patience of men quitting the ship, +as he called it. “They may go, sir,” says he, “but let them never more +be officers of mine.” With scorn and indignation he paid off one or two +timid friends, who were anxious to fly, and purchased their shares out +of his own pocket. But his purse was not long enough for this kind of +amusement. What money he had was invested in the Company already, and +his name further pledged for meeting the engagements from which their +late London bankers had withdrawn. + +Those gentlemen, in the meanwhile, spoke of their differences with the +Indian Bank as quite natural, and laughed at the absurd charges of +personal hostility which poor Thomas Newcome publicly preferred. “Here +is a hot-headed old Indian dragoon,” says Sir Barnes, “who knows no +more about business than I do about cavalry tactics or Hindostanee; who +gets into a partnership along with other dragoons and Indian wiseacres, +with some uncommonly wily old native practitioners; and they pay great +dividends, and they set up a bank. Of course we will do these people’s +business as long as we are covered, but I have always told their +manager that we would run no risks whatever, and close the account the +very moment it did not suit us to keep it: and so we parted company six +weeks ago, since when there has been a panic in the Company, a panic +which has been increased by Colonel Newcome’s absurd swagger and folly. +He says I am his enemy; enemy indeed! So I am in private life, but what +has that to do with business? In business, begad, there are no friends +and no enemies at all. I leave all my sentiment on the other side of +Temple Bar.” + +So Thomas Newcome, and Clive the son of Thomas, had wrath in their +hearts against Barnes, their kinsman, and desired to be revenged upon +him, and were eager after his undoing, and longed for an opportunity +when they might meet him and overcome him, and put him to shame. + +When men are in this frame of mind, a certain personage is said always +to be at hand to help them and give them occasion for indulging in +their pretty little passion. What is sheer hate seems to the individual +entertaining the sentiment so like indignant virtue, that he often +indulges in the propensity to the full, nay, lauds himself for the +exercise of it. I am sure if Thomas Newcome in his present desire for +retaliation against Barnes, had known the real nature of his sentiments +towards that worthy, his conduct would have been different, and we +should have heard of no such active hostilities as ensued. + + + + +CHAPTER LXV. +In which Mrs. Clive comes into her Fortune + + +Speaking of the affairs of B. B. C., Sir Barnes Newcome always took +care to maintain his candid surprise relating to the proceedings of +that Company. He set about evil reports against it! He endeavour to do +it a wrong—absurd! If a friend were to ask him (and it was quite +curious what a number did manage to ask him) whether he thought the +Company was an advantageous investment, of course he would give an +answer. He could not say conscientiously he thought so—never once had +said so—in the time of their connexion, which had been formed solely +with a view of obliging his amiable uncle. It was a quarrelsome +Company; a dragoon Company; a Company of gentlemen accustomed to +gunpowder, and fed on mulligatawny. He, forsooth, be hostile to it! +There were some Companies that required no enemies at all, and would be +pretty sure to go to the deuce their own way. + +Thus, and with this amiable candour, spake Barnes, about a commercial +speculation, the merits of which he had a right to canvass as well as +any other citizen. As for Uncle Hobson, his conduct was characterised +by a timidity which one would scarcely have expected from a gentleman +of his florid, jolly countenance, active habits, and generally manly +demeanour. He kept away from the cocoa-nut feast, as we have seen: he +protested privily to the Colonel that his private goodwill continued +undiminished but he was deeply grieved at the B. B. C. affair, which +took place while he was on the Continent—confound the Continent, my +wife would go—and which was entirely without his cognisance. The +Colonel received his brother’s excuses, first with awful bows and +ceremony, and finally with laughter. “My good Hobson,” said he, with +the most insufferable kindness, “of course you intended to be friendly; +of course the affair was done without your knowledge. We understand +that sort of thing. London bankers have no hearts—for these last fifty +years past that I have known you and your brother, and my amiable +nephew, the present commanding officer, has there been anything in your +conduct that has led me to suppose you had?” and herewith Colonel +Newcome burst out into a laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh to hear. +Worthy Hobson took his hat, and walked away, brushing it round and +round, and looking very confused. The Colonel strode after him +downstairs, and made him an awful bow at the hall door. Never again did +Hobson Newcome set foot in that Tyburnian mansion. + +During the whole of that season of the testimonial the cocoa-nut +figured in an extraordinary number of banquets. The Colonel’s +hospitalities were more profuse than ever, and Mrs. Clive’s toilettes +more brilliant. Clive, in his confidential conversations with his +friends, was very dismal and gloomy. When I asked City news of our +well-informed friend F. B., I am sorry to say, his countenance became +funereal. The B. B. C. shares, which had been at an immense premium +twelve months since, were now slowly falling, falling. + +“I wish,” said Mr. Sherrick to me, “the Colonel would realise, even +now, like that Mr. Ratray who has just come out of the ship, and +brought a hundred thousand pounds with him.” + +“Come out of the ship! You little know the Colonel, Mr. Sherrick, if +you think he will ever do that.” + +Mr. Ratray, though he had returned to Europe, gave the most cheering +accounts of the B. B. C. It was in the most flourishing state. Shares +sure to get up again. He had sold out entirely on account of his liver. +Must come home—the doctor said so. + +Some months afterwards, another director, Mr. Hedges, came home. Both +of these gentlemen, as we know, entertained the fashionable world, got +seats in Parliament, purchased places in the country, and were greatly +respected. Mr. Hedges came out, but his wealthy partner, Mr. M’Gaspey, +entered into the B. B. C. The entry of Mr. M’Gaspey into the affairs of +the Company did not seem to produce very great excitement in England. +The shares slowly fell. However, there was a prodigious indigo crop. +The London manager was in perfect good-humour. In spite of this and +that, of defections, of unpleasantries, of unfavourable whispers, and +doubtful friends—Thomas Newcome kept his head high, and his face was +always kind and smiling, except when certain family enemies were +mentioned, and he frowned like Jove in anger. + +We have seen how very fond little Rosey was of her mamma, of her uncle, +James Binnie, and now of her papa, as she affectionately styled Thomas +Newcome. This affection, I am sure, the two gentlemen returned with all +their hearts, and but that they were much too generous and +simple-minded to entertain such a feeling, it may be wondered that the +two good old boys were not a little jealous of one another. Howbeit it +does not appear that they entertained such a feeling; at least it never +interrupted the kindly friendship between them, and Clive was regarded +in the light of a son by both of them, and each contented himself with +his moiety of the smiling little girl’s affection. + +As long as they were with her, the truth is, little Mrs. Clive was very +fond of people, very docile, obedient, easily pleased, brisk, kind, and +good-humoured. She charmed her two old friends with little songs, +little smiles,—little kind offices, little caresses; and having +administered Thomas Newcome’s cigar to him in the daintiest, prettiest +way, she would trip off to drive with James Binnie, or sit at his +dinner, if he was indisposed, and be as gay, neat-handed, watchful, and +attentive a child as any old gentleman could desire. + +She did not seem to be very sorry to part with mamma, a want of feeling +which that lady bitterly deplored in her subsequent conversation with +her friends about Mrs. Clive Newcome. Possibly there were reasons why +Rosey should not be very much vexed at quitting mamma; but surely she +might have dropped a little tear as she took leave of kind, good old +James Binnie. Not she. The gentleman’s voice faltered, but hers did not +in the least. She kissed him on the face, all smiles, blushes, and +happiness, and tripped into the railway carriage with her husband and +father-in-law, leaving the poor old uncle very sad. Our women said, I +know not why, that little Rosey had no heart at all. Women are +accustomed to give such opinions respecting the wives of their newly +married friends. I am bound to add (and I do so during Mr. Clive +Newcome’s absence from England, otherwise I should not like to venture +upon the statement), that some men concur with the ladies’ opinion of +Mrs. Clive. For instance, Captains Goby and Hoby declare that her +treatment of the latter, her encouragement, and desertion of him when +Clive made his proposals, were shameful. + +At this time Rosey was in a pupillary state. A good, obedient little +girl, her duty was to obey the wishes of her dear mamma. How show her +sense of virtue and obedience better than by promptly and cheerfully +obeying mamma, and at the orders of that experienced Campaigner, giving +up Bobby Hoby, and going to England to a fine house, to be presented at +Court, to have all sorts of pleasure with a handsome young husband and +a kind father-in-law by her side? No wonder Rosey was not in a very +active state of grief at parting from Uncle James. He strove to console +himself with these considerations when he had returned to the empty +house, where she had danced, and smiled, and warbled; and he looked at +the chair she sat in; and at the great mirror which had so often +reflected her fresh pretty face;—the great callous mirror, which now +only framed upon its shining sheet the turban, and the ringlets, and +the plump person, and the resolute smile of the old Campaigner. + +After that parting with her uncle at the Brussels railway, Rosey never +again beheld him. He passed into the Campaigner’s keeping, from which +alone he was rescued by the summons of pallid death. He met that +summons like a philosopher; rejected rather testily all the mortuary +consolations which his nephew-in-law, Josey’s husband, thought proper +to bring to his bedside; and uttered opinions which scandalised that +divine. But as he left Mrs. M’Craw only 500 pounds, thrice that sum to +his sister, and the remainder of his property to his beloved niece, +Rosa Mackenzie, now Rosa Newcome, let us trust that Mr. M’Craw, hurt +and angry at the ill-favour shown to his wife, his third young wife, +his best-beloved Josey, at the impatience with which the deceased had +always received his, Mr. M’Craw’s, own sermons;—let us hope, I say, +that the reverend gentleman was mistaken in his views respecting the +present position of Mr. James Binnie’s soul; and that Heaven may have +some regions yet accessible to James, which Mr. M’Craw’s intellect has +not yet explored. Look, gentlemen! Does a week pass without the +announcement of the discovery of a new comet in the sky, a new star in +the heaven, twinkling dimly out of a yet farther distance, and only now +becoming visible to human ken though existent for ever and ever? So let +us hope divine truths may be shining, and regions of light and love +extant, which Geneva glasses cannot yet perceive, and are beyond the +focus of Roman telescopes. + +I think Clive and the Colonel were more affected by the news of James’s +death than Rosey, concerning whose wonderful strength of mind good +Thomas Newcome discoursed to my Laura and me, when, fancying that my +friend’s wife needed comfort and consolation, Mrs. Pendennis went to +visit her. “Of course we shall have no more parties this year,” sighed +Rosey. She looked very pretty in her black dress. Clive, in his hearty +way, said a hundred kind feeling things about the departed friend. +Thomas Newcome’s recollections of him, and regret, were no less tender +and sincere. “See,” says he, “how that dear child’s sense of duty makes +her hide her feelings! Her grief is most deep, but she wears a calm +countenance. I see her looking sad in private, but I no sooner speak +than she smiles.” “I think,” said Laura, as we came away, “that Colonel +Newcome performs all the courtship part in the marriage, and Clive, +poor Clive, though he spoke very nobly and generously about Mr. Binnie, +I am sure it is not his old friend’s death merely, which makes him so +unhappy.” + +Poor Clive, by right of his wife, was now rich Clive; the little lady +having inherited from her kind relative no inconsiderable sum of money. +In a very early part of this story, mention has been made of a small +sum producing one hundred pounds a year, which Clive’s father had made +over to the lad when he sent him from India. This little sum Mr. Clive +had settled upon his wife before his marriage, being indeed all he had +of his own; for the famous bank shares which his father presented to +him, were only made over formally when the young man came to London +after his marriage, and at the paternal request and order appeared as a +most inefficient director of the B. B. C. Now Mrs. Newcome, of her +inheritance, possessed not only B. B. C. shares, but moneys in bank, +and shares in East India Stock, so that Clive in the right of his wife +had a seat in the assembly of East India shareholders, and a voice in +the election of directors of that famous company. I promise you Mrs. +Clive was a personage of no little importance. She carried her little +head with an aplomb and gravity which amused some of us. F. B. bent his +most respectfully down before her; she sent him on messages, and +deigned to ask him to dinner. He once more wore a cheerful countenance; +the clouds which gathered o’er the sun of Newcome were in the bosom of +the ocean buried, Bayham said, by James Binnie’s brilliant behaviour to +his niece. + +Clive was a proprietor of East India Stock, and had a vote in electing +the directors of that Company; and who so fit to be a director of his +affairs as Thomas Newcome, Esq., Companion of the Bath, and so long a +distinguished officer in its army? To hold this position of director, +used, up to very late days, to be the natural ambition of many East +Indian gentlemen. Colonel Newcome had often thought of offering himself +as a candidate, and now openly placed himself on the lists, and +publicly announced his intention. His interest was rather powerful +through the Indian bank, of which he was a director, and many of the +shareholders of which were proprietors of the East India Company. To +have a director of the B. B. C. also a member of the parliament in +Leadenhall Street, would naturally be beneficial to the former +institution. Thomas Newcome’s prospectuses were issued accordingly, and +his canvass received with tolerable favour. + +Within a very short time another candidate appeared in the field—a +retired Bombay lawyer, of considerable repute and large means—and at +the head of this gentleman’s committee appeared the names of Hobson +Brothers and Newcome, very formidable personages at the East India +House, with which the bank of Hobson Brothers have had dealings for +half a century past, and where the old lady, who founded or +consolidated that family, had had three stars before her own venerable +name, which had descended upon her son Sir Brian, and her grandson, Sir +Barnes. + +War was thus openly declared between Thomas Newcome and his nephew. The +canvass on both sides was very hot and eager. The number of promises +was pretty equal. The election was not to come off yet for a while; for +aspirants to the honourable office of director used to announce their +wishes years before they could be fulfilled, and returned again and +again to the contest before they finally won it. Howbeit, the Colonel’s +prospects were very fair, and a prodigious indigo crop came in to +favour the B. B. C., with the most brilliant report from the board at +Calcutta. The shares, still somewhat sluggish, rose again, the +Colonel’s hopes with them, and the courage of gentlemen at home who had +invested their money in the transaction. + +We were sitting one day round the Colonel’s dinner-table; it was not +one of the cocoa-nut-tree days; that emblem was locked up in the +butler’s pantry, and only beheld the lamps on occasions of state. It +was a snug family party in the early part of the year, when scarcely +anybody was in town; only George Warrington, and F. B., and Mr. and +Mrs. Pendennis; and the ladies having retired, we were having such a +talk as we used to enjoy in quiet old days, before marriages and cares +and divisions had separated us. + +F. B. led the conversation. The Colonel received his remarks with great +gravity, and thought him an instructive personage. Others considered +him rather as amusing than instructive, and so his eloquence was +generally welcome. The canvass for the directorship was talked over. +The improved affairs of a certain great Banking Company, which shall be +nameless, but one which F. B. would take the liberty to state, would, +in his opinion, for ever unite the mother country to our great Indian +possessions;—the prosperity of this great Company was enthusiastically +drunk by Mr. Bayham in some of the very best claret. The conduct of the +enemies of that Company was characterised in terms of bitter, but not +undeserved, satire. F. B. rather liked to air his oratory, and +neglected few opportunities for making speeches after dinners. + +The Colonel admired his voice and sentiments not the less, perhaps, +because the latter were highly laudatory of the good man. And not from +interest, at least, as far as he himself knew—not from any mean or +selfish motives, did F. B. speak. He called Colonel Newcome his friend, +his benefactor: kissed the hem of his garment: he wished fervently that +he could have been the Colonel’s son: he expressed, repeatedly, a +desire that some one would speak ill of the Colonel, so that he, F. B., +might have the opportunity of polishing that individual off in about +two seconds. He covered the Colonel with all his heart; nor is any +gentleman proof altogether against this constant regard and devotion +from another. + +The Colonel used to wag his head wisely, and say Mr. Bayham’s +suggestions were often exceedingly valuable, as indeed the fact was, +though his conduct was no more of a piece with his opinions than those +of some other folks occasionally are. + +“What the Colonel ought to do, sir, to help him in the direction,” says +F. B., “is to get into Parliament. The House of Commons would aid him +into the Court of Directors, and the Court of Directors would help him +in the House of Commons.” + +“Most wisely said,” says Warrington. + +The Colonel declined. “I have long had the House of Commons in my eye,” +he said; “but not for me. I wanted my boy to go there. It would be a +proud day for me if I could see him there.” + +“I can’t speak,” says Clive, from his end of the table. “I don’t +understand about parties, like F. B. here.” + +“I believe I do know a thing or two,” Mr. Bayham here interposes. + +“And politics do not interest me in the least,” Clive sighs out, +drawing pictures with his fork on his napkin, and not heeding the +other’s interruption. + +“I wish I knew what would interest him,” his father whispers to me, who +happened to be at his side. “He never cares to be out of his +painting-room; and he doesn’t seem to be very happy even in there. I +wish to God, Pen, I knew what had come over the boy.” I thought I knew; +but what was the use of telling, now there was no remedy? + +“A dissolution is expected every day,” continued F. B. “The papers are +full of it. Ministers cannot go on with this majority—cannot possibly +go on, sir. I have it on the best authority; and men who are anxious +about their seats are writing to their constituents, or are subscribing +at missionary meetings, or are gone down to lecturing at Athenæums, and +that sort of thing.” + +Here Warrington burst out into a laughter much louder than the occasion +of the speech of F. B. seemed to warrant; and the Colonel, turning +round with some dignity, asked the cause of George’s amusement. + +“What do you think your darling, Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, has been +doing during the recess?” cries Warrington. “I had a letter this +morning, from my liberal and punctual employer, Thomas Potts, Esquire, +of the _Newcome Independent_, who states, in language scarcely +respectful, that Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome is trying to come the +religious dodge, as Mr. Potts calls it. He professes to be stricken +down by grief on account of late family circumstances; wears black, and +puts on the most piteous aspect, and asks ministers of various +denominations to tea with him; and the last announcement is the most +stupendous of all. Stop, I have it in my greatcoat;” and, ringing the +bell, George orders a servant to bring him a newspaper from his +great-coat pocket. “Here it is, actually in print,” Warrington +continues, and reads to us:—“‘Newcome Athenæum. 1, for the benefit of +the Newcome Orphan Children’s Home, and 2, for the benefit of the +Newcome Soup Association, without distinction of denomination. Sir +Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., proposes to give two lectures, on Friday +the 23rd, and Friday the 30th, instant. No. 1, The Poetry of Childhood: +Doctor Watts, Mrs. Barbauld, Jane Taylor, No. 2, The Poetry of +Womanhood, and the Affections: Mrs. Hemans, L. E. L. Threepence will be +charged at the doors, which will go to the use of the above two +admirable Societies.’ Potts wants me to go down and hear him. He has an +eye to business. He has had a quarrel with Sir Barnes, and wants me to +go down and hear him, and smash him, he kindly says. Let us go down, +Clive. You shall draw your cousin as you have drawn his villainous +little mug a hundred times before; and I will do the smashing part, and +we will have some fun out of the transaction.” + +“Besides, Florac will be in the country; going to Rosebury is a journey +worth the taking, I can tell you; and we have old Mrs. Mason to go and +see, who sighs after you, Colonel. My wife went to see her,” remarks +Mr. Pendennis, “and——” + +“And Miss Newcome, I know,” says the Colonel. + +“She is away at Brighton, with her little charges, for sea air. My wife +heard from her to-day.” + +“Oh, indeed. Mrs. Pendennis corresponds with her?” says our host, +darkling under his eyebrows; and, at this moment, my neighbour, F. B., +is kind enough to scrunch my foot under the table with the weight of +his heel, as much as to warn me, by an appeal to my own corns, to avoid +treading on so delicate a subject in that house. “Yes,” said I, in +spite, perhaps in consequence, of this interruption. “My wife does +correspond with Miss Ethel, who is a noble creature, and whom those who +know her know how to love and admire. She is very much changed since +you knew her, Colonel Newcome; since the misfortunes in Sir Barnes’s +family, and the differences between you and him. Very much changed and +very much improved. Ask my wife about her, who knows her most +intimately, and hears from her constantly.” + +“Very likely, very likely,” cried the Colonel, hurriedly, “I hope she +is improved, with all my heart. I am sure there was room for it. +Gentlemen, shall we go up to the ladies and have some coffee?” And +herewith the colloquy ended, and the party ascended to the +drawing-room. + +The party ascended to the drawing-room, where no doubt both the ladies +were pleased by the invasion which ended their talk. My wife and the +Colonel talked apart, and I saw the latter looking gloomy, and the +former pleading very eagerly, and using a great deal of action, as the +little hands are wont to do, when the mistress’s heart is very much +moved. I was sure she was pleading Ethel’s cause with her uncle. + +So indeed she was. And Mr. George, too, knew what her thoughts were. +“Look at her!” he said to me. “Don’t you see what she is doing? She +believes in that girl whom you all said Clive took a fancy to before he +married his present little placid wife; a nice little simple creature, +who is worth a dozen Ethels.” + +“Simple certainly,” says Mr. P., with a shrug of the shoulders. + +“A simpleton of twenty is better than a roue of twenty. It is better +not to have thought at all, than to have thought such things as must go +through a girl’s mind whose life is passed in jilting and being jilted; +whose eyes, as soon as they are opened, are turned to the main chance, +and are taught to leer at earl, to languish at a marquis, and to grow +blind before a commoner. I don’t know much about fashionable life. +Heaven help us (you young Brummell! I see the reproach in your face!) +Why, sir, it absolutely appears to me as if this little hop-o’-my-thumb +of a creature has begun to give herself airs since her marriage and her +carriage. Do you know, I rather thought she patronised me? Are all +women spoiled by their contact with the world, and their bloom rubbed +off in the market? I know one who seems to me to remain pure! to be +sure, I only know her, and this little person, and Mrs. Flanagan our +laundress, and my sisters at home, who don’t count. But that Miss +Newcome to whom once you introduced me? Oh, the cockatrice! only that +poison don’t affect your wife, the other would kill her. I hope the +Colonel will not believe a word which Laura says.” And my wife’s +_tête-à-tête_ with our host coming to an end about this time, Mr. +Warrington in high spirits goes up to the ladies, recapitulates the +news of Barnes’s lecture, recites “How doth the little busy bee,” and +gives a quasi-satirical comment upon that well-known poem, which +bewilders Mrs. Clive, until, set on by the laughter of the rest of the +audience, she laughs very freely at that odd man, and calls him “you +droll satirical creature you!” and says “she never was so much amused +in her life. Were you, Mrs. Pendennis?” + +Meanwhile Clive, who has been sitting apart moodily biting his nails, +not listening to F. B.’s remarks, has broken into a laugh once or +twice, and gone to a writing-book, on which, whilst George is still +disserting, Clive is drawing. + +At the end of the other’s speech, F. B. goes up to the draughtsman, +looks over his shoulder, makes one or two violent efforts as of inward +convulsion, and finally explodes in an enormous guffaw. “It’s capital! +By Jove, it’s capital! Sir Barnes would never dare to face his +constituents with that picture of him hung up in Newcome!” + +And F. B. holds up the drawing, at which we all laugh except Laura. As +for the Colonel, he paces up and down the room, holding the sketch +close to his eyes, holding it away from him, patting it, clapping his +son delightedly on the shoulder. “Capital! capital! We’ll have the +picture printed, by Jove, sir; show vice its own image; and shame the +viper in his own nest, sir. That’s what we will.” + +Mrs. Pendennis came away with rather a heavy heart from this party. She +chose to interest herself about the right or wrong of her friends; and +her mind was disturbed by the Colonel’s vindictive spirit. On the +subsequent day we had occasion to visit our friend J. J. (who was +completing the sweetest little picture, No. 263 in the Exhibition, +“Portrait of a Lady and Child”), and we found that Clive had been with +the painter that morning likewise; and that J. J. was acquainted with +his scheme. That he did not approve of it we could read in the artist’s +grave countenance. “Nor does Clive approve of it either!” cried Ridley, +with greater eagerness than he usually displayed, and more openness +than he was accustomed to exhibit in judging unfavourably of his +friends. + +“Among them they have taken him away from his art,” Ridley said. “They +don’t understand him when he talks about it; they despise him for +pursuing it. Why should I wonder at that? my parents despised it too, +and my father was not a grand gentleman like the Colonel, Mrs. +Pendennis. Ah! why did the Colonel ever grow rich? Why had not Clive to +work for his bread as have? He would have done something that was +worthy of him then; now his time must be spent in dancing attendance at +balls land operas, and yawning at City board-rooms. They call that +business: they think he is idling when he comes here, poor fellow! As +if life was long enough for our art; and the best labour we can give, +good enough for it! He went away groaning this morning, and quite +saddened in spirits. The Colonel wants to set up himself for +Parliament, or to set Clive up; but he says he won’t. I hope he won’t; +do not you, Mrs. Pendennis?” + +The painter turned as he spoke; and the bright northern light which +fell upon the sitter’s head was intercepted, and lighted up his own as +he addressed us. Out of that bright light looked his pale thoughtful +face, and long locks and eager brown eyes. The palette on his arm was a +great shield painted of many colours: he carried his mall-stick and a +sheaf of brushes along with the weapons of his glorious but harmless +war. With these he achieves conquests, wherein none are wounded save +the envious: with that he shelters him against how much idleness, +ambition, temptations! Occupied over that consoling work, idle thoughts +cannot gain mastery over him: selfish wishes or desires are kept at +bay. Art is truth: and truth is religion: and its study and practice a +daily work of pious duty. What are the world’s struggles, brawls, +successes, to that calm recluse pursuing his calling? See, twinkling in +the darkness round his chamber, numberless beautiful trophies of the +graceful victories which he has won:—sweet flowers of fancy reared by +him:—kind shapes of beauty which he has devised and moulded. The world +enters into the artist’s studio, and scornfully bids him a price for +his genius, or makes dull pretence to admire it. What know you of his +art? You cannot read the alphabet of that sacred book, good old Thomas +Newcome! What can you tell of its glories, joys, secrets, consolations? +Between his two best-beloved mistresses, poor Clive’s luckless father +somehow interposes; and with sorrowful, even angry protests. In place +of Art the Colonel brings him a ledger; and in lieu of first love, +shows him Rosey. + +No wonder that Clive hangs his head; rebels sometimes, desponds always: +he has positively determined to refuse to stand for Newcome, Ridley +says. Laura is glad of his refusal, and begins to think of him once +more as of the Clive of old days. + + + + +CHAPTER LXVI. +In which the Colonel and the Newcome Athenæum are both lectured + + +At breakfast with his family, on the morning after the little +entertainment to which we were bidden, in the last chapter, Colonel +Newcome was full of the projected invasion of Barnes’s territories, and +delighted to think that there was an opportunity of at last humiliating +that rascal. + +“Clive does not think he is a rascal at all, papa,” cries Rosey, from +behind her tea-urn; “that is, you said you thought papa judged him too +harshly; you know you did, this morning!” And from her husband’s angry +glances, she flies to his father’s for protection. Those were even +fiercer than Clive’s. Revenge flashed from beneath Thomas Newcome’s +grizzled eyebrows, and glanced in the direction where Clive sat. Then +the Colonel’s face flushed up, and he cast his eyes down towards his +tea-cup, which he lifted with a trembling hand. The father and son +loved each other so, that each was afraid of the other. A war between +two such men is dreadful; pretty little pink-faced Rosey, in a sweet +little morning cap and ribbons, her pretty little fingers twinkling +with a score of rings, sat simpering before her silver tea-urn, which +reflected her pretty little pink baby face. Little artless creature! +what did she know of the dreadful wounds which her little words +inflicted in the one generous breast and the other? + +“My boy’s heart is gone from me,” thinks poor Thomas Newcome; “our +family is insulted, our enterprises ruined, by that traitor, and my son +is not even angry! he does not care for the success of our plans—for +the honour of our name even; I make him a position of which any young +man in England might be proud, and Clive scarcely deigns to accept it.” + +“My wife appeals to my father,” thinks poor Clive; “it is from him she +asks counsel, and not from me. Be it about the ribbon in her cap, or +any other transaction in our lives, she takes her colour from his +opinion, and goes to him for advice, and I have to wait till it is +given, and conform myself to it. If I differ from the dear old father, +I wound him; if I yield up my opinion, as I do always, it is with a bad +grace, and I wound him still. With the best intentions in the world, +what a slave’s life it is that he has made for me!” + +“How interested you are in your papers!” resumes the sprightly nosey. +“What can you find in those horrid politics?” Both gentlemen are +looking at their papers with all their might, and no doubt cannot see +one single word which those brilliant and witty leading articles +contain. + +“Clive is like you, Rosey,” says the Colonel, laying his paper down, +“and does not care for politics.” + +“He only cares for pictures, papa,” says Mrs. Clive. “He would not +drive with me yesterday in the Park, but spent hours in his room, while +you were toiling in the City, poor papa!—spent hours painting a horrid +beggar-man dressed up as a monk. And this morning, he got up quite +early, quite early, and has been out ever so long, and only came in for +breakfast just now! just before the bell rung.” + +“I like a ride before breakfast,” says Clive. + +“A ride! I know where you have been, sir! He goes away morning after +morning, to that little Mr. Ridley’s—his chums, papa, and he comes back +with his hands all over horrid paint. He did this morning; you know you +did, Clive.” + +“I did not keep any one waiting, Rosa,” says Clive. “I like to have two +or three hours at my painting when I can spare time.” Indeed, the poor +fellow used so to run away of summer meetings for Ridley’s +instructions, and gallop home again, so as to be in time for the family +meal. + +“Yes,” cries Rosey, tossing up the cap and ribbons, “he gets up so +early in the morning, that at night he falls asleep after dinner; very +pleasant and polite, isn’t he, papa?” + +“I am up betimes too, my dear,” says the Colonel (many and many a time +he must have heard Clive as he left the house); “I have a great many +letters to write, affairs of the greatest importance to examine and +conduct. Mr. Betts from the City is often with me for hours before I +come down to your breakfast-table. A man who has the affairs of such a +great bank as ours to look to, must be up with the lark. We are all +early risers in India.” + +“You dear kind papa!” says little Rosey, with unfeigned admiration; and +she puts out one of the plump white little jewelled hands, and pats the +lean brown paw of the Colonel which is nearest to her. + +“Is Ridley’s picture getting on well, Clive?” asks the Colonel, trying +to interest himself about Ridley and his picture. + +“Very well; it is beautiful; he has sold it for a great price; they +must make him an Academician next year,” replies Clive. + +“A most industrious and meritorious young man; he deserves every honour +that may happen to him,” says the old soldier. “Rosa, my dear, it is +time that you should ask Mr. Ridley to dinner, and Mr. Smee, and some +of those gentlemen. We will drive this afternoon and see your +portrait.” + +“Clive does not go to sleep after dinner when Mr. Ridley comes here,” +cries Rosa. + +“No; I think it is my turn then,” says the Colonel, with a glance of +kindness. The anger has disappeared from under his brows; at that +moment the menaced battle is postponed. + +“And yet I know that it must come,” says poor Clive, telling me the +story as he hangs on my arm, and we pace through the Park. “The Colonel +and I are walking on a mine, and that poor little wife of mine is +perpetually flinging little shells to fire it. I sometimes wish it were +blown up, and I were done for, Pen. I don’t think my widow would break +her heart about me. No; I have no right to say that; it’s a shame to +say that; she tries her very best to please me, poor little dear. It’s +the fault of my temper, perhaps, that she can’t. But they neither +understand me, don’t you see? the Colonel can’t help thinking I am a +degraded being, because I am fond of painting. Still, dear old boy, he +patronises Ridley; a man of genius, whom those sentries ought to +salute, by Jove, sir, when he passes. Ridley patronised by an old +officer of Indian dragoons, a little bit of a Rosey, and a fellow who +is not fit to lay his palette for him! I want sometimes to ask J. J.’s +pardon, after the Colonel has been talking to him in his confounded +condescending way, uttering some awful bosh about the fine arts. Rosey +follows him, and trips round J. J.’s studio, and pretends to admire, +and says, ‘How soft; how sweet!’ recalling some of mamma-in-law’s +dreadful expressions, which make me shudder when I hear them. If my +poor old father had a confidant into whose arm he could hook his own, +and whom he could pester with his family griefs as I do you, the dear +old boy would have his dreary story to tell too. I hate banks, bankers, +Bundelcund, indigo, cotton, and the whole business. I go to that +confounded board, and never hear one syllable that the fellows are +talking about. I sit there because he wishes me to sit there; don’t you +think he sees that my heart is out of the business; that I would rather +be at home in my painting-room? We don’t understand each other, but we +feel each other, as it were by instinct. Each thinks in his own way, +but knows what the other is thinking. We fight mute battles, don’t you +see, and, our thoughts, though we don’t express them, are perceptible +to one another, and come out from our eyes, or pass out from us +somehow, and meet, and fight, and strike, and wound.” + +Of course Clive’s confidant saw how sore and unhappy the poor fellow +was, and commiserated his fatal but natural condition. The little ills +of life are the hardest to bear, as we all very well know. What would +the possession of a hundred thousand a year, or fame, and the applause +of one’s countrymen, or the loveliest and best-beloved woman,—of any +glory, and happiness, or good-fortune avail to a gentleman, for +instance, who was allowed to enjoy them only with the condition of +wearing a shoe with a couple of nails or sharp pebbles inside it? All +fame and happiness would disappear, and plunge down that shoe. All life +would rankle round those little nails. I strove, by such philosophic +sedatives as confidants are wont to apply on these occasions, to soothe +my poor friend’s anger and pain; and I dare say the little nails hurt +the patient just as much as before. + +Clive pursued his lugubrious talk through the Park, and continued it as +far as the modest-furnished house which we then occupied in the Pimlico +region. It so happened that the Colonel and Mrs. Clive also called upon +us that day, and found this culprit in Laura’s drawing-room, when they +entered it, descending out of that splendid barouche in which we have +already shown Mrs. Clive to the public. + +“He has not been here for months before; nor have you Rosa; nor have +you, Colonel; though we have smothered our indignation, and been to +dine with you, and to call, ever so many times!” cries Laura. + +The Colonel pleaded his business engagements; Rosa, that little woman +of the world, had a thousand calls to make, and who knows how much to +do? since she came out. She had been to fetch papa, at Bays’s, and the +porter had told the Colonel that Mr. Clive and Mr. Pendennis had just +left the club together. + +“Clive scarcely ever drives with me,” says Rosa; “papa almost always +does.” + +“Rosey’s is such a swell carriage, that I feel ashamed,” says Clive. + +“I don’t understand you young men. I don’t see why you need be ashamed +to go on the Course with your wife in her carriage, Clive,” remarks the +Colonel. + +“The Course! the Course is at Calcutta, papa!” cries Rosey. “_We_ drive +in the Park.” + +“We have a park at Barrackpore too, my dear,” says papa. + +“And he calls his grooms saices! He said he was going to send away a +saice for being tipsy, and I did not know in the least what he could +mean, Laura!” + +“Mr. Newcome! you must go and drive on the Course with Rosa now; and +the Colonel must sit and talk with me, whom he has not been to see for +such a long time.” Clive presently went off in state by Rosey’s side, +and then Laura showed Colonel Newcome his beautiful white Cashmere +shawl round a successor of that little person who had first been +wrapped in that web, now a stout young gentleman whose noise could be +clearly heard in the upper regions. + +“I wish you could come down with us, Arthur, upon our electioneering +visit.” + +“That of which you were talking last night? Are you bent upon it?” + +“Yes, I am determined on it.” + +Laura heard a child’s cry at this moment, and left the room with a +parting glance at her husband, who in fact had talked over the matter +with Mrs. Pendennis, and agreed with her in opinion. + +As the Colonel had opened the question, I ventured to make a respectful +remonstrance against the scheme. Vindictiveness on the part of a man so +simple and generous, so fair and noble in all his dealings as Thomas +Newcome, appeared in my mind unworthy of him. Surely his kinsman had +sorrow and humiliation enough already at home. Barnes’s further +punishment, we thought, might be left to time, to remorse, to the Judge +of right and wrong; Who better understands than we can do, our causes +and temptations towards evil actions, Who reserves the sentence for His +own tribunal. But when angered, the best of us mistake our own motives, +as we do those of the enemy who inflames us. What may be private +revenge, we take to be indignant virtue and just revolt against wrong. +The Colonel would not hear of counsels of moderation, such as I bore +him from a sweet Christian pleader. “Remorse!” he cried out with a +laugh, “that villain will never feel it until he is tied up and whipped +at the cart’s tail! Time change that rogue! Unless he is wholesomely +punished, he will grow a greater scoundrel every year. I am inclined to +think, sir,” says he, his honest brows darkling as he looked towards +me, “that you too are spoiled by this wicked world, and these +heartless, fashionable, fine people. You wish to live well with the +enemy, and with us too, Pendennis. It can’t be. He who is not with us +is against us. I very much fear, sir, that the women, the women, you +understand, have been talking you over. Do not let us speak any more +about this subject, for I don’t wish that my son, and my son’s old +friend, should have a quarrel.” His face became red, his voice quivered +with agitation, and he looked with glances which I was pained to behold +in those kind old eyes: not because his wrath and suspicion visited +myself, but because an impartial witness, nay, a friend to Thomas +Newcome in that family quarrel, I grieved to think that a generous +heart was led astray, and to see a good man do wrong. So with no more +thanks for his interference than a man usually gets who meddles in +domestic strifes, the present luckless advocate ceased pleading. + +To be sure, the Colonel and Clive had other advisers, who did not take +the peaceful side. George Warrington was one of these; he was for war +_à l’outrance_ with Barnes Newcome; for keeping no terms with such a +villain. He found a pleasure in hunting him, and whipping him. “Barnes +ought to be punished,” George said, “for his poor wife’s misfortune; it +was Barnes’s infernal cruelty, wickedness, selfishness, which had +driven her into misery and wrong.” Mr. Warrington went down to Newcome, +and was present at that lecture whereof mention has been made in a +previous chapter. I am afraid his behaviour was very indecorous; he +laughed at the pathetic allusions of the respected Member for Newcome; +he sneered at the sublime passages; he wrote an awful critique in the +_Newcome Independent_ two days after, whereof the irony was so subtle, +that half the readers of the paper mistook his grave scorn for respect, +and his gibes for praise. + +Clive, his father, and Frederick Bayham, their faithful aide-de-camp, +were at Newcome likewise when Sir Barnes’s oration was delivered. At +first it was given out at Newcome that the Colonel visited the place +for the purpose of seeing his dear old friend and pensioner, Mrs. +Mason, who was now not long to enjoy his bounty, and so old, as +scarcely to know her benefactor. Only after her sleep, or when the sun +warmed her and the old wine with which he supplied her, was the good +old woman able to recognise her Colonel. She mingled father and son +together in her mind. A lady who now often came in to her, thought she +was wandering in her talk, when the poor old woman spoke of a visit she +had had from her boy; and then the attendant told Miss Newcome that +such a visit had actually taken place, and that but yesterday Clive and +his father had been in that room, and occupied the chair where she sat. +“The young lady was taken quite ill, and seemed ready to faint almost,” +Mrs. Mason’s servant and spokeswoman told Colonel Newcome when that +gentleman arrived shortly after Ethel’s departure, to see his old +nurse. “Indeed! he was very sorry.” The maid told many stories about +Miss Newcome’s goodness and charity; how she was constantly visiting +the poor now; how she was for ever engaged in good works for the young, +the sick, and the aged. She had had a dreadful misfortune in love; she +was going to be married to a young marquis; richer even than Prince de +Moncontour down at Rosebury; but it was all broke off on account of +that dreadful affair at the Hall. + +Was she very good to the poor? did she come often to see her +grandfather’s old friend? it was no more than she ought “to do,” +Colonel Newcome said; without, however, thinking fit to tell his +informant that he had himself met his niece Ethel, five minutes before +he had entered Mrs. Mason’s door. + +The poor thing was in discourse with Mr. Harris, the surgeon, and +talking (as best she might, for no doubt the news which she had just +heard had agitated her), talking about blankets, and arrowroot, wine, +and medicaments for her poor, when she saw her uncle coming towards +her. She tottered a step or two forwards to meet him; held both her +hands out, and called his name; but he looked her sternly in the face, +took off his hat and bowed, and passed on. He did not think fit to +mention the meeting even to his son, Clive; but we may be sure Mr. +Harris, the surgeon, spoke of the circumstance that night after the +lecture, at the club, where a crowd of gentlemen were gathered +together, smoking their cigars, and enjoying themselves according to +their custom, and discussing Sir Barnes Newcome’s performance. + +According to established usage in such cases, our esteemed +representative was received by the committee of the Newcome Athenæum, +assembled in their committee-room, and thence marshalled by the +chairman and vice-chairman to his rostrum in the lecture-hall, round +about which the magnates of the institution and the notabilities of the +town were rallied on this public occasion. The Baronet came in some +state from his own house, arriving at Newcome in his carriage with four +horses, accompanied by my lady his mother, and Miss Ethel his beautiful +sister, who now was mistress at the Hall. His little girl was +brought—five years old now; she sate on her aunt’s knee, and slept +during a greater part of the performance. A fine bustle, we may be +sure, was made on the introduction of these personages to their +reserved seats on the platform, where they sate encompassed by others +of the great ladies of Newcome, to whom they and the lecturer were +especially gracious at this season. Was not Parliament about to be +dissolved, and were not the folks at Newcome Park particularly civil at +that interesting period? So Barnes Newcome mounts his pulpit, bows +round to the crowded assembly in acknowledgment of their buzz of +applause or recognition, passes his lily-white pocket-handkerchief +across his thin lips, and dashes off into his lecture about Mrs. Hemans +and the poetry of the affections. A public man, a commercial man as we +well know, yet his heart is in his home, and his joy in his affections; +the presence of this immense assembly here this evening; of the +industrious capitalists; of the intelligent middle class; of the pride +and mainstay of England, the operatives of Newcome; these, surrounded +by their wives and their children (a graceful bow to the bonnets to the +right of the platform), show that they too have hearts to feel, and +homes to cherish; that they, too, feel the love of women, the innocence +of children, the love of song! Our lecturer then makes a distinction +between man’s poetry and woman’s poetry, charging considerably in +favour of the latter. We show that to appeal to the affections is after +all the true office of the bard; to decorate the homely threshold, to +wreathe flowers round the domestic hearth, the delightful duty of the +Christian singer. We glance at Mrs. Hemans’s biography, and state where +she was born, and under what circumstances she must have at first, etc. +etc. Is this a correct account of Sir Barnes Newcome’s lecture? I was +not present, and did not read the report. Very likely the above may be +a reminiscence of that mock lecture which Warrington delivered in +anticipation of the Baronet’s oration. + +After he had read for about five minutes, it was remarked the Baronet +suddenly stopped and became exceedingly confused over his manuscript: +betaking himself to his auxiliary glass of water before he resumed his +discourse, which for a long time was languid, low, and disturbed in +tone. This period of disturbance, no doubt, must have occurred when Sir +Barnes saw before him F. Bayham and Warrington seated in the +amphitheatre; and, by the side of those fierce scornful countenances, +Clive Newcome’s pale face. + +Clive Newcome was not looking at Barnes. His eyes were fixed upon the +lady seated not far from the lecturer—upon Ethel, with her arm round +her little niece’s shoulder, and her thick black ringlets drooping down +over a face paler than Clive’s own. + +Of course she knew that Clive was present. She was aware of him as she +entered the hall; saw him at the very first moment; saw nothing but +him, I dare say, though her eyes were shut and her head was turned now +towards her mother, and now bent down on the little niece’s golden +curls. And the past and its dear histories, and youth and its hopes and +passions, and tones and looks for ever echoing in the heart, and +present in the memory—these, no doubt, poor Clive saw and heard as he +looked across the great gulf of time, and parting, and grief, and +beheld the woman he had loved for many years. There she sits; the same, +but changed: as gone from him as if she were dead; departed indeed into +another sphere, and entered into a kind of death. If there is no love +more in yonder heart, it is but a corpse unburied. Strew round it the +flowers of youth. Wash it with tears of passion. Wrap it and envelop it +with fond devotion. Break heart, and fling yourself on the bier, and +kiss her cold lips and press her hand! It falls back dead on the cold +breast again. The beautiful lips have never a blush or a smile. Cover +them and lay them in the ground, and so take thy hatband off, good +friend, and go to thy business. Do you suppose you are the only man who +has had to attend such a funeral? You will find some men smiling and at +work the day after. Some come to the grave now and again out of the +world, and say a brief prayer, and a “God bless her!” With some men, +she gone, and her viduous mansion your heart to let, her successor, the +new occupant, poking in all the drawers and corners, and cupboards of +the tenement, finds her miniature and some of her dusty old letters +hidden away somewhere, and says—Was this the face he admired so? Why, +allowing even for the painter’s flattery, it is quite ordinary, and the +eyes certainly do not look straight. Are these the letters you thought +so charming? Well, upon my word, I never read anything more commonplace +in my life! See, here’s a line half blotted out. Oh, I suppose she was +crying then—some of her tears, idle tears—Hark, there is Barnes +Newcome’s eloquence still plapping on like water from a cistern—and our +thoughts, where have they wandered? far away from the lecture—as far +away as Clive’s almost. And now the fountain ceases to trickle; the +mouth from which issued that cool and limpid flux ceases to smile; the +figure is seen to bow and retire; a buzz, a hum, a whisper, a scuffle, +a meeting of bonnets and wagging of feathers and rustling of silks +ensues. “Thank you! delightful, I am sure!” “I really was quite +overcome;” “Excellent;” “So much obliged,” are rapid phrases heard +amongst the polite on the platform. While down below, “Yaw! quite +enough of _that;_” “Mary Jane, cover your throat up, and don’t kitch +cold, and don’t push me, please, sir;” “’Arry! coom along and ’av’ a +pint a ale,” etc., are the remarks heard, or perhaps not heard, by +Clive Newcome, as he watches at the private entrance of the Athenæum, +where Sir Barnes’s carriage is waiting with its flaming lamps, and +domestics in state liveries. One of them comes out of the building +bearing the little girl in his arms, and lays her in the carriage. Then +Sir Barnes, and Lady Anne, and the Mayor; then Ethel issues forth, and +as she passes under the lamps, beholds Clive’s face as pale and sad as +her own. + +Shall we go visit the lodge-gates of Newcome Park the moon shining on +their carving? Is there any pleasure in walking by miles of grey +paling, and endless palisades of firs? Oh, you fool, what do you hope +to see behind that curtain? Absurd fugitive, whither would you run? Can +you burst the tether of fate: and is not poor dear little Rosey +Mackenzie sitting yonder waiting for you by the stake? Go home, sir; +and don’t catch cold. So Mr. Clive returns to the King’s Arms, and goes +up to his bedroom, and he hears Mr. F. Bayham’s deep voice as he passes +by the Boscawen Room, where the Jolly Britons are as usual assembled. + + + + +CHAPTER LXVII. +Newcome and Liberty + + +We have said that the Baronet’s lecture was discussed in the midnight +senate assembled at the King’s Arms, where Mr. Tom Potts showed the +orator no mercy. The senate of the King’s Arms was hostile to Sir +Barnes Newcome. Many other Newcomites besides were savage and inclined +to revolt against the representative of their borough. As these +patriots met over their cups, and over the bumper of friendship uttered +the sentiments of freedom, they had often asked of one another, where +should a man be found to rid Newcome of its dictator? Generous hearts +writhed under the oppression: patriotic eyes scowled when Barnes +Newcome went by: with fine satire, Tom Potts at Brown the hatter’s +shop, who made the hats for Sir Barnes Newcome’s domestics, proposed to +take one of the beavers—a gold-laced one with a cockade and a cord—and +set it up in the market-place and bid all Newcome come bow to it, as to +the hat of Gessler. “Don’t you think, Potts,” says F. Bayham, who of +course was admitted into the King’s Arms club, and ornamented that +assembly by his presence and discourse, “Don’t you think the Colonel +would make a good William Tell to combat against that Gessler?” Ha! +Proposal received with acclamation—eagerly adopted by Charles Tucker, +Esq., Attorney-at-Law, who would not have the slightest objection to +conduct Colonel Newcome’s, or any other gentleman’s electioneering +business in Newcome or elsewhere. + +Like those three gentlemen in the plays and pictures of William Tell, +who conspire under the moon, calling upon liberty and resolving to +elect Tell as their especial champion—like Arnold, Melchthal, and +Werner—Tom Potts, Fred Bayham, and Charles Tucker, Esqs., conspired +round a punch-bowl, and determined that Thomas Newcome should be +requested to free his country. A deputation from the electors of +Newcome, that is to say, these very gentlemen waited on the Colonel in +his apartment the very next morning, and set before him the state of +the borough; Barnes Newcome’s tyranny, under which it groaned; and the +yearning of all honest men to be free from that usurpation. Thomas +Newcome received the deputation with great solemnity and politeness, +crossed his legs, folded his arms, smoked his cheroot, and listened +moat decorously, as now Potts, now Tucker, expounded to him; Bayham +giving the benefit of his emphatic “hear, hear,” to their statements, +and explaining dubious phrases to the Colonel in the most affable +manner. + +Whatever the conspirators had to say against Barnes, Colonel Newcome +was only too ready to believe. He had made up his mind that that +criminal ought to be punished and exposed. The lawyer’s covert +innuendoes, who was ready to insinuate any amount of evil against +Barnes which could safely be uttered, were by no means strong enough +for Thomas Newcome. “‘Sharp practice! exceedingly alive to his own +interests—reported violence of temper and tenacity of money’—say +swindling at once, sir—say falsehood and rapacity—say cruelty and +avarice,” cries the Colonel. “I believe, upon my honour and conscience, +that unfortunate young man to be guilty of every one of those crimes.” + +Mr. Bayham remarks to Mr. Potts that our friend the Colonel, when he +does utter an opinion, takes care that there shall be no mistake about +it. + +“And I took care there should be no mistake before I uttered it at all, +Bayham!” cries F. B.’s patron. “As long as I was in any doubt about +this young man, I gave the criminal the benefit of it, as a man who +admires our glorious constitution should do, and kept my own counsel, +sir.” + +“At least,” remarks Mr. Tucker, “enough is proven to show that Sir +Barnes Newcome Newcome, Baronet, is scarce a fit person to represent +this great borough in Parliament.” + +“Represent Newcome in Parliament! It is a disgrace to that noble +institution the English House of Commons, that Barnes Newcome should +sit in it. A man whose word you cannot trust; a man stained with every +private crime. What right has he to sit in the assembly of the +legislators of the land, sir?” cries the Colonel, waving his hand as if +addressing a chamber of deputies. + +“You are for upholding the House of Commons?” inquires the lawyer. + +“Of course, sir, of course.” + +“And for increasing the franchise, Colonel Newcome, I should hope?” +continues Mr. Tucker. + +“Every man who can read and write ought to have a vote, sir; that is my +opinion!” cries the Colonel. + +“He’s a Liberal to the backbone,” says Potts to Tucker. + +“To the backbone!” responds Tucker to Potts. “The Colonel will do for +us, Potts.” + +“We want such a man, Tucker; the _Independent_ has been crying out for +such a man for years past. We ought to have a Liberal as second +representative of this great town—not a sneaking half-and-half +Ministerialist like Sir Barnes, a fellow with one leg in the Carlton +and the other in Brookes’s. Old Mr. Bunce we can’t touch. His place is +safe; he is a good man of business: we can’t meddle with Mr. Bunce—I +know that, who know the feeling of the country pretty well.” + +“Pretty well! Better than any man in Newcome, Potts!” cries Mr. Tucker. + +“But a good man like the Colonel,—a good Liberal like the Colonel,—a +man who goes in for household suffrage——” + +“Certainly, gentlemen.” + +“And the general great Liberal principles—we know, of course—such a man +would assuredly have a chance against Sir Barnes Newcome at the coming +election! could we find such a man! a real friend of the people!” + +“I know a friend of the people if ever there was one,” F. Bayham +interposes. + +“A man of wealth, station, experience; a man who has fought for his +country; a man who is beloved in this place as you are, Colonel +Newcome: for your goodness is known, sir—_You_ are not ashamed of your +origin, and there is not a Newcomite old or young, but knows how +admirably good you have been to your old friend, Mrs.—Mrs. +What-d’-you-call’-em.” + +“Mrs. Mason,” from F. B. + +“Mrs. Mason. If such a man as you, sir, would consent to put himself in +nomination at the next election, every true Liberal in this place would +rush to support you; and crush the oligarchy who rides over the +liberties of this borough!” + +“Something of this sort, gentlemen, I own to you had crossed my mind,” +Thomas Newcome remarked. “When I saw that disgrace to my name, and the +name of my father’s birthplace, representing the borough in Parliament, +I thought for the credit of the town and the family, the Member for +Newcome at least might be an honest man. I am an old soldier; have +passed all my life in India; and am little conversant with affairs at +home” (cries of “You are, you are”). “I hoped that my son, Mr. Clive +Newcome, might have been found qualified to contest this borough +against his unworthy cousin, and possibly to sit as your representative +in Parliament. The wealth I have had the good fortune to amass will +descend to him naturally, and at no very distant period of time, for I +am nearly seventy years of age, gentlemen.” + +The gentlemen are astonished at this statement. + +“But,” resumed the Colonel; “my son Clive, as my friend Bayham knows, +and to my own regret and mortification, as I don’t care to confess to +you, declares he has no interest or desire in politics, or for public +distinction—prefers his own pursuits—and even these I fear do not +absorb him—declines the offer which I made him, to present himself in +opposition to Sir Barnes Newcome. It becomes men in a certain station, +as I think, to assert that station; and though a few years back I never +should have thought of public life at all, and proposed to end my days +in quiet as a retired dragoon officer, since—since it has pleased +Heaven to increase very greatly my pecuniary means, to place me, as a +director and manager of an important banking company, in a station of +great public responsibility, I and my brother-directors have thought it +but right that one of us should sit in Parliament, if possible, and I +am not a man to shirk from that or from any other duty.” + +“Colonel, will you attend a meeting of electors which we will call, and +say as much to them and as well?” cries Mr. Potts. “Shall I put an +announcement in my paper to the effect that you are ready to come +forward?” + +“I am prepared to do so, my good sir.” + +And presently this solemn palaver ended. + +Besides the critical article upon the Baronet’s lecture, of which Mr. +Warrington was the author, there appeared in the leading columns of the +ensuing number of Mr. Potts’ _Independent_, some remarks of a very +smashing or hostile nature, against the Member for Newcome. “This +gentleman has shown such talent in the lecturing business,” the +_Independent_ said, “that it is a great pity he should not withdraw +himself from politics, and cultivate what all Newcome knows are the +arts which he understands best; namely, poetry and the domestic +affections. The performance of our talented representative last night +was so pathetic as to bring tears into the eyes of several of our fair +friends. We have heard, but never believed until now, that Sir Barnes +Newcome possessed such a genius _for making women cry_. Last week we +had the talented Miss Noakes, from Slowcome, reading Milton to us; how +far superior was the eloquence of Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., +even to that of the celebrated jestress! Bets were freely offered in +the room last night that Sir Barnes would _beat any woman_,—bets which +were not taken, as we scarcely need say, so well do our citizens +appreciate the character of our excellent, our admirable +representative.—Let the Baronet stick to his lectures, and let Newcome +relieve him of his political occupations. He is not fit for them, he is +too sentimental a man for us; the men of Newcome want a sound practical +person; the Liberals of Newcome have a desire to be represented. When +we elected Sir Barnes, he talked liberally enough, and we thought he +would do, but you see the honourable Baronet is so poetical! we ought +to have known that, and not to have believed him. Let us have a +straightforward gentleman. If not a man of words, at least let us have +a practical man. If not a man of eloquence, one at any rate whose word +we can trust, and we can’t trust Sir Barnes Newcome’s; we have tried +him, and we can’t really. Last night when the ladies were crying, we +could not for the souls of us help laughing. We hope we know how to +conduct ourselves as gentlemen. We trust we did not interrupt the +harmony of the evening; but Sir Barnes Newcome, prating about children +and virtue, and affection and poetry, this is really too strong. + +“The _Independent_, faithful to its name, and ever actuated by +principles of honour, has been, as our thousands of readers know, +disposed to give Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., a fair trial. When +he came forward after his father’s death, we believed in his pledges +and promises, as a retrencher and reformer, and we stuck by him. Is +there any man in Newcome, except, perhaps, our twaddling old +contemporary the _Sentinel_, who believes in Sir B. N. any more? We say +no, and we now give the readers of the _Independent_, and the electors +of this borough, fair notice, that when the dissolution of Parliament +takes place, a good man, a true man, a man of experience, no dangerous +Radical, or brawling tap orator—Mr. Hicks’s friends well understand +whom we mean—but a gentleman of Liberal principles, well-won wealth, +and deserved station and honour, will ask the electors of Newcome +whether they are, or are not discontented with their present unworthy +Member. The _Independent_ for one, says, we know good men of your +family, we know in it men who would do honour to any name; but you, Sir +Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., we trust no more.” + +In the electioneering matter, which had occasioned my unlucky +interference, and that subsequent little coolness upon the good +Colonel’s part, Clive Newcome had himself shown that the scheme was not +to his liking; had then submitted as his custom was: and doing so with +a bad grace, as also was to be expected, had got little thanks for his +obedience. Thomas Newcome was hurt at his son’s faint-heartedness, and +of course little Rosey was displeased at his hanging back. He set off +in his father’s train, a silent, unwilling partisan. Thomas Newcome had +the leisure to survey Clive’s glum face opposite to him during the +whole of their journey, and to chew his mustachios, and brood upon his +wrath and wrongs. His life had been a sacrifice for that boy! What +darling schemes had he not formed in his behalf, and how superciliously +did Clive meet his projects! The Colonel could not see the harm of +which he had himself been the author. Had he not done everything in +mortal’s power for his son’s happiness, and how many young men in +England were there with such advantages as this moody, discontented, +spoiled boy? As Clive backed out of the contest, of course his father +urged it only the more vehemently. Clive slunk away from committees and +canvassing, and lounged about the Newcome manufactories, whilst his +father, with anger and bitterness in his heart, remained at the post of +honour, as he called it, bent upon overcoming his enemy and carrying +his point against Barnes Newcome. “If Paris will not fight, sir,” the +Colonel said, with a sad look following his son, “Priam must.” Good old +Priam believed his cause to be a perfectly just one, and that duty and +his honour called upon him to draw the sword. So there was difference +between Thomas Newcome and Clive his son. I protest it is with pain and +reluctance I have to write that the good old man was in error—that +there was a wrong-doer, and that Atticus was he. + +Atticus, be it remembered, thought himself compelled by the very best +motives. Thomas Newcome, the Indian banker, was at war with Barnes, the +English banker. The latter had commenced the hostilities by a sudden +and cowardly act of treason. There were private wrongs to envenom the +contest, but it was the mercantile quarrel on which the Colonel chose +to set his declaration of war. Barnes’s first dastardly blow had +occasioned it, and his uncle was determined to carry it through. This I +have said was also George Warrington’s judgment, who, in the ensuing +struggle between Sir Barnes and his uncle, acted as a very warm and +efficient partisan of the latter. “Kinsmanship!” says George, “what has +old Tom Newcome ever had from his kinsman but cowardice and treachery? +If Barnes had held up his finger, the young one might have been happy; +if he could have effected it, the Colonel and his bank would have been +ruined. I am for war, and for seeing the old boy in Parliament. He +knows no more about politics than I do about dancing the polka; but +there are five hundred wiseacres in that assembly who know no more than +he does, and an honest man taking his seat there, in place of a +confounded little rogue, at least makes a change for the better.” + +I dare say Thomas Newcome, Esq. would by no means have concurred in the +above estimate of his political knowledge, and thought himself as well +informed as another. He used to speak with the greatest gravity about +our constitution as the pride and envy of the world, though he +surprised you as much by the latitudinarian reforms, which he was eager +to press forward, as by the most singular old Tory opinions which he +advocated on other occasions. He was for having every man to vote; +every poor man to labour short time and get high wages; every poor +curate to be paid double or treble; every bishop to be docked of his +salary, and dismissed from the House of Lords. But he was a staunch +admirer of that assembly, and a supporter of the rights of the Crown. +He was for sweeping off taxes from the poor, and as money must be +raised to carry on government, he opined that the rich should pay. He +uttered all these opinions with the greatest gravity and emphasis, +before a large assembly of electors, and others convened in the Newcome +Town Hall, amid the roars of applause of the non-electors, and the +bewilderment and consternation of Mr. Potts, of the _Independent_, who +had represented the Colonel in his paper as a safe and steady reformer. +Of course the _Sentinel_ showed him up as a most dangerous radical, a +sepoy republican, and so forth, to the wrath and indignation of Colonel +Newcome. He a republican! he scorned the name! He would die as he had +bled many a time for his sovereign. He an enemy of our beloved Church! +He esteemed and honoured it, as he hated and abhorred the superstitions +of Rome. (Yells, from the Irish in the crowd.) He an enemy of the House +of Lords! He held it to be the safeguard of the constitution and the +legitimate prize of our most illustrious, naval, military, +and—and—legal heroes (ironical cheers). He repelled with scorn the +dastard attacks of the journal which had assailed him; he asked, laying +his hands on his heart, if as a gentleman, an officer bearing Her +Majesty’s commission, he could be guilty of a desire to subvert her +empire and to insult the dignity of her crown? + +After this second speech at the Town Hall, it was asserted by a +considerable party in Newcome, that Old Tom (as the mob familiarly +called him) was a Tory, while an equal number averred that he was a +Radical. Mr. Potts tried to reconcile his statements, a work in which I +should think the talented editor of the _Independent_ had no little +difficulty. “He knows nothing about it,” poor Clive said with a sigh; +“his politics are all sentiment and kindness; he will have the poor man +paid double wages, and does not remember that the employer would be +ruined: you have heard him, Pen, talking in this way at his own table, +but when he comes out armed _cap-à-pied_, and careers against windmills +in public, don’t you see that as Don Quixote’s son I had rather the +dear brave old gentleman was at home?” + +So this _fainéant_ took but little part in the electioneering doings, +holding moodily aloof from the meetings, and councils, and +public-houses, where his father’s partisans were assembled. + + + + +CHAPTER LXVIII. +A Letter and a Reconciliation + + +Miss Ethel Newcome to Mrs. Pendennis: + +“Dearest Laura,—I have not written to you for many weeks past. There +have been some things too trivial, and some too sad, to write about; +some things I know I shall write of if I begin, and yet that I know I +had best leave; for of what good is looking to the past now? Why vex +you or myself by reverting to it? Does not every day bring its own duty +and task, and are these not enough to occupy one? What a fright you +must have had with my little goddaughter! Thank heaven she is well now, +and restored to you. You and your husband I know do not think it +essential, but I do, _most essential_, and am very grateful that she +was taken to church before her illness. + +“Is Mr. Pendennis proceeding with his canvass? I try and avoid a +certain subject, but it _will_ come. You know who is canvassing against +us here. My poor uncle has met with very considerable success amongst +the lower classes. He makes them rambling speeches at which my brother +and his friends laugh, but which the people applaud. I saw him only +yesterday, on the balcony of the King’s Arms, speaking to a great mob, +who were cheering vociferously below. I had met him before. He would +not even stop and give his Ethel of old days his hand. I would have +given him I don’t know what, for one kiss, for one kind word; but he +passed on and would not answer me. He thinks me—what the world thinks +me, worldly and heartless; what I _was_. But at least, dear Laura, you +know that I always truly loved _him_, and do now, although he is our +enemy, though he believes and utters the most cruel things against +Barnes, though he says that Barnes Newcome, my father’s son, my +brother, Laura, is not an honest man. Hard, selfish, worldly, I own my +poor brother to be, and pray Heaven to amend him; but dishonest! and to +be so maligned by the person one loves best in the world! This is a +hard trial. I pray a proud heart may be bettered by it. + +“And I have seen my cousin; once at a lecture which poor Barnes gave, +and who seemed very much disturbed on perceiving Clive; once afterwards +at good old Mrs. Mason’s, whom I have always continued to visit for +uncle’s sake. The poor old woman, whose wits are very nearly gone, held +both our hands, and asked when we were going to be married? and +laughed, poor old thing! I cried out to her that Mr. Clive had a wife +at home, a young dear wife, I said. He gave a dreadful sort of laugh, +and turned away into the window. He looks terribly ill, pale, and +oldened. + +“I asked him a great deal about his wife, whom I remember a very +pretty, sweet-looking girl indeed, at my Aunt Hobson’s, but with a not +agreeable mother as I thought then. He answered me by monosyllables, +appeared as though he would speak, and then became silent. I am pained, +and yet glad that I saw him, I said, not very distinctly, I dare say, +that I hoped the difference between Barnes and uncle would not +extinguish his regard for mamma and me, who have always loved him; when +I said loved him, he give one of his bitter laughs again; and so he did +when I said I hoped his wife was well. You never would tell me much +about Mrs. Newcome; and I fear she does not make my cousin happy. And +yet this marriage was of my uncle’s making: another of the unfortunate +marriages in our family. I am glad that I paused in time, before the +commission of that sin; I strive my best, and to amend my temper, my +inexperience, my shortcomings, and try to be the mother of my poor +brother’s children. But Barnes has never forgiven me my refusal of Lord +Farintosh. He is of the world still, Laura. Nor must we deal too +harshly with people of his nature, who cannot perhaps comprehend a +world beyond. I remember in old days, when we were travelling on the +Rhine, in the happiest days of my whole life, I used to hear Clive and +his friend Mr. Ridley, talk of art and of nature in a way that I could +not understand at first, but came to comprehend better as my cousin +taught me; and since then, I see pictures, landscapes, and flowers, +with quite different eyes, and beautiful secrets as it were, of which I +had no idea before. The secret of all secrets, the secret of the other +life, and the better world beyond ours, may not this be unrevealed to +some? I pray for them all, dearest Laura, for those nearest and dearest +to me, that the truth may lighten their darkness, and Heaven’s great +mercy defend them in the perils and dangers of their night. + +“My boy at Sandhurst has done very well indeed; and Egbert, I am happy +to say, thinks of taking orders; he has been very moderate at College. +Not so Alfred; but the Guards are a sadly dangerous school for a young +man; I have promised to pay his debts, and he is to exchange into the +line. Mamma is coming to us at Christmas with Alice; my sister is very +pretty indeed, I think, and I am rejoiced she is to marry young Mr. +Mumford, who has a tolerable living, and who has been attached to her +ever since he was a boy at Rugby School. + +“Little Barnes comes on bravely with his Latin; and Mr. Whitestock, _a +most excellent and valuable_ person in this place, where there is so +much Romanism and Dissent, speaks highly of him. Little Clara is so +like her unhappy mother in a thousand ways and actions, that I am +shocked often; and see my brother starting back and turning his head +away, as if suddenly wounded. I have heard the most deplorable accounts +of Lord and Lady Highgate. Oh, dearest friend and sister!-save you, I +think I scarce know any one that is happy in the world: I trust you may +continue so-you who impart your goodness and kindness to all who come +near you-you in whose sweet serene happiness I am thankful to be +allowed to repose sometimes. You are the island in the desert, Laura! +and the birds sing there, and the fountain flows; and we come and +repose by you for a little while, and to-morrow the march begins again, +and the toil, and the struggle, and the desert. Good-bye, fountain! +Whisper kisses to my dearest little ones from their affectionate Aunt +Ethel. + +“A friend of his, a Mr. Warrington, has spoken against us several times +with extraordinary ability, as Barnes owns. Do you know Mr. W.? He +wrote a dreadful article in the _Independent_, about the last poor +lecture, which was indeed sad, sentimental, commonplace: and the +critique is terribly comical. I could not help laughing, remembering +some passages in it, when Barnes mentioned it: and my brother became so +angry! They have put up a dreadful caricature of B. in Newcome: and my +brother says he did it, but I hope not. It is very droll, though: he +used to make them very funnily. I am glad he has spirits for it. +Good-bye again.—E. N.” + +“He says he did it!” cries Mr. Pendennis, laying the letter down. +“Barnes Newcome would scarcely caricature himself, my dear?” + +“‘He’ often means—means Clive—I think,” says Mrs. Pendennis, in an +offhand manner. + +“Oh! he means Clive, does he, Laura?” + +“Yes—and you mean goose, Mr. Pendennis!” that saucy lady replies. + +It must have been about the very time when this letter was written, +that a critical conversation occurred between Clive and his father, of +which the lad did not inform me until much later days; as was the +case—the reader has been more than once begged to believe—with many +other portions of this biography. + +One night the Colonel, having come home from a round of electioneering +visits, not half satisfied with himself; exceedingly annoyed (much more +than he cared to own) with the impudence of some rude fellows at the +public-houses, who had interrupted his fine speeches with odious +hiccups and familiar jeers, was seated brooding over his cheroot by the +chimney-fire; friend F. B. (of whose companionship his patron was +occasionally tired) finding much better amusement with the Jolly +Britons in the Boscawen Room below. The Colonel, as an electioneering +business, had made his appearance in the club. But that ancient Roman +warrior had frightened those simple Britons. His manners were too awful +for them: so were Clive’s, who visited them also under Mr. Pott’s +introduction; but the two gentlemen, each being full of care and +personal annoyance at the time, acted like wet blankets upon the +Britons—whereas F. B. warmed them and cheered them, affably partook of +their meals with them, and graciously shared their cups. So the Colonel +was alone, listening to the far-off roar of the Britons’ choruses by an +expiring fire, as he sate by a glass of cold negus and the ashes of his +cigar. + +I dare say he may have been thinking that his fire was well-nigh +out,—his cup of the dregs, his pipe little more now than dust and +ashes—when Clive, candle in hand, came into their sitting-room. + +As each saw the other’s face, it was so very sad and worn and pale, +that the young man started back; and the elder, with quite the +tenderness of old days, cried, “God bless me, my boy, how ill you look! +Come and warm yourself—look, the fire’s out. Have something, Clivy!” + +For months past they had not had a really kind word. The tender old +voice smote upon Clive, and he burst into sudden tears. They rained +upon his father’s trembling old brown hand, and stooped down and kissed +it. + +“You look very ill too, father,” says Clive. + +“Ill? not I!” cries the father, still keeping the boy’s hand under both +his own on the mantelpiece. “Such a battered old fellow as I am has a +right to look the worse for wear; but you, boy; why do you look so +pale?” + +“I have seen a ghost, father,” Clive answered. Thomas, however, looked +alarmed and inquisitive as though the boy was wandering in his mind. + +“The ghost of my youth, father, the ghost of my happiness, and the best +days of my life,” groaned out the young man. “I saw Ethel to-day. I +went to see Sarah Mason, and she was there.” + +“I had seen her, but I did not speak of her,” said the father. “I +thought it was best not to mention her to you, my poor boy. And are—are +you fond of her still, Clive?” + +“Still! once means always in these things, father, doesn’t it? Once +means to-day, and yesterday, and forever and ever.” + +“Nay, my boy, you mustn’t talk to me so, or even to yourself so. You +have the dearest little wife at home, a dear little wife and child.” + +“You had a son, and have been kind enough to him, God knows. _You_ had +a wife: but that doesn’t prevent other—other thoughts. Do you know you +never spoke twice in your life about my mother? You didn’t care for +her.” + +“I—I did my duty by her; I denied her nothing. I scarcely ever had a +word with her, and I did my best to make her happy,” interposed the +Colonel. + +“I know, but your heart was with the other. So is mine. It’s fatal; it +runs in the family, father.” + +The boy looked so ineffably wretched that the father’s heart melted +still more. “I did my best, Clive,” the Colonel gasped out. “I went to +that villain Barnes and offered him to settle every shilling I was +worth on you—I did—you didn’t know that—I’d kill myself for your sake, +Clivy. What’s an old fellow worth living for? I can live upon a crust +and a cigar. I don’t care about a carriage, and only go in it to please +Rosey. I wanted to give up all for you, but he played me false, that +scoundrel cheated us both; he did, and so did Ethel.” + +“No, sir; I may have thought so in my rage once, but I know better now. +She was the victim and not the agent. Did Madame de Florac play _you_ +false when she married her husband? It was her fate, and she underwent +it. We all bow to it, we are in the track and the car passes over us. +You know it does, father.” The Colonel was a fatalist: he had often +advanced this Oriental creed in his simple discourses with his son and +Clive’s friends. + +“Besides,” Clive went on, “Ethel does not care for me. She received me +to-day quite coldly, and held her hand out as if we had only parted +last year. I suppose she likes that marquis who jilted her—God bless +her! How shall we know what wins the hearts of women? She has mine. +There was my Fate. Praise be to Allah! It is over.” + +“But there’s that villain who injured you. His isn’t over yet,” cried +the Colonel, clenching his trembling hand. + +“Ah, father! Let us leave him to Allah too! Suppose Madame de Florac +had a brother who insulted you. You know you wouldn’t have revenged +yourself. You would have wounded her in striking him.” + +“You called out Barnes yourself, boy,” cried the father. + +“That was for another cause, and not for my quarrel. And how do you +know I intended to fire? By Jove, I was so miserable then that an ounce +of lead would have done me little harm!” + +The father saw the son’s mind more clearly than he had ever done +hitherto. They had scarcely ever talked upon that subject which the +Colonel found was so deeply fixed in Clive’s heart. He thought of his +own early days, and how he had suffered, and beheld his son before him +racked with the same cruel pangs of enduring grief. And he began to own +that he had pressed him too hastily in his marriage; and to make an +allowance for an unhappiness of which he had in part been the cause. + +“Mashallah! Clive, my boy,” said the old man, “what is done is done.” + +“Let us break up our camp before this place, and not go to war with +Barnes, father,” said Clive. “Let us have peace—and forgive him if we +can.” + +“And retreat before this scoundrel, Clive?” + +“What is a victory over such a fellow? One gives a chimney-sweep the +wall, father.” + +“I say again—What is done is done. I have promised to meet him at the +hustings, and I will. I think it is best: and you are right: and you +act like a high-minded gentleman—and my dear old boy—not to meddle in +the quarrel—though I didn’t think so—and the difference gave me a great +deal of pain—and so did what Pendennis said—and I’m wrong—and thank God +I am wrong—and God bless you, my own boy!” the Colonel cried out in a +burst of emotion; and the two went to their bedrooms together, and were +happier as they shook hands at the doors of their adjoining chambers +than they had been for many a long day and year. + + + + +CHAPTER LXIX. +The Election + + +Having thus given his challenge, reconnoitred the enemy, and pledged +himself to do battle at the ensuing election, our Colonel took leave of +the town of Newcome, and returned to his banking affairs in London. His +departure was as that of a great public personage; the gentlemen of the +Committee followed him obsequiously down to the train. “Quick,” bawls +out Mr. Potts to Mr. Brown, the station-master, “Quick, Mr. Brown, a +carriage for Colonel Newcome!” Half a dozen hats are taken off as he +enters into the carriage, F. Bayham and his servant after him, with +portfolios, umbrellas, shawls, despatch-boxes. Clive was not there to +act as his father’s aide-de-camp. After their conversation together the +young man had returned to Mrs. Clive and his other duties in life. + +It has been said that Mr. Pendennis was in the country, engaged in a +pursuit exactly similar to that which occupied Colonel Newcome. The +menaced dissolution of Parliament did not take place so soon as we +expected. The Ministry still hung together, and by consequence, Sir +Barnes Newcome kept the seat in the House of Commons, from which his +elder kinsman was eager to oust him. Away from London, and having but +few correspondents, save on affairs of business, I heard little of +Clive and the Colonel, save an occasional puff of one of Colonel +Newcome’s entertainments in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, to which journal +F. Bayham still condescended to contribute; and a satisfactory +announcement in a certain part of that paper, that on such a day, in +Hyde Park Gardens, Mrs. Clive Newcome had presented her husband with a +son. Clive wrote to me presently, to inform me of the circumstance, +stating at the same time, with but moderate gratification on his own +part, that the Campaigner, Mrs. Newcome’s mamma, had upon this second +occasion made a second lodgment in her daughter’s house and bedchamber, +and showed herself affably disposed to forget the little unpleasantries +which had clouded over the sunshine of her former visit. + +Laura, with a smile of some humour, said she thought now would be the +time when, if Clive could be spared from his bank, he might pay us that +visit at Fairoaks which had been due so long, and hinted that change of +air and a temporary absence from Mrs. Mackenzie might be agreeable to +my old friend. + +It was, on the contrary, Mr. Pendennis’s opinion that his wife artfully +chose that period of time when little Rosey was, perforce, kept at home +and occupied with her delightful maternal duties, to invite Clive to +see us. Mrs. Laura frankly owned that she liked our Clive better +without his wife than with her, and never ceased to regret that pretty +Rosey had not bestowed her little hand upon Captain Hoby, as she had +been very well disposed at one time to do. Against all marriages of +interest this sentimental Laura never failed to utter indignant +protests; and Clive’s had been a marriage of interest, a marriage made +up by the old people, a marriage which the young man had only yielded +out of good-nature and obedience. She would apostrophise her +unconscious young ones, and inform those innocent babies that _they_ +should never be made to marry except for love, never—an announcement +which was received with perfect indifference by little Arthur on his +rocking-horse, and little Helen smiling and crowing in her mother’s +lap. + +So Clive came down to us, careworn in appearance, but very pleased and +happy, he said, to stay for a while with the friends of his youth. We +showed him our modest rural lions; we got him such sport and company as +our quiet neighbourhood afforded, we gave him fishing in the Brawl, and +Laura in her pony-chaise drove him to Baymouth, and to Clavering Park +and town, and visit the famous cathedral at Chatteris, where she was +pleased to recount certain incidents of her husband’s youth. + +Clive laughed at my wife’s stories; he pleased himself in our home; he +played with our children, with whom he had became a great favourite; he +was happier, he told me with a sigh, than he had been for many a day. +His gentle hostess echoed the sigh of the poor young fellow. She was +sure that his pleasure was only transitory, and was convinced that many +deep cares weighed upon his mind. + +Ere long my old schoolfellow made me sundry confessions, which showed +that Laura’s surmises were correct. About his domestic affairs he did +not treat much; the little boy was said to be a very fine little boy; +the ladies had taken entire possession of him. “I can’t stand Mrs. +Mackenzie any longer, I own,” says Clive; “but how resist a wife at +such a moment? Rosa was sure she would die, unless her mother came to +her, and of course we invited Mrs. Mack. This time she is all smiles +and politeness with the Colonel: the last quarrel is laid upon me, and +in so far I am easy, as the old folks get on pretty well together.” To +me, considering these things, it was clear that Mr. Clive Newcome was +but a very secondary personage indeed in his father’s new fine house +which he inhabited, and in which the poor Colonel had hoped they were +to live such a happy family. + +But it was about Clive Newcome’s pecuniary affairs that I felt the most +disquiet when he came to explain these to me. The Colonel’s capital and +that considerable sum which Mrs. Clive had inherited from her good old +uncle, were all involved in a common stock, of which Colonel Newcome +took the management. “The governor understands business so well, you +see,” says Clive; “is a most remarkable head for accounts: he must have +inherited that from my grandfather, you know, who made his own fortune: +all the Newcomes are good at accounts, except me, a poor useless devil +who knows nothing but to paint a picture, and who can’t even do that.” +He cuts off the head of a thistle as he speaks, bites his tawny +mustachios, plunges his hands into his pockets and his soul into +reverie. + +“You don’t mean to say,” asks Mr. Pendennis, “that your wife’s fortune +has not been settled upon herself?” + +“Of course it has been settled upon herself; that is, it is entirely +her own—you know the Colonel has managed all the business, he +understands it better than we do.” + +“Do you say that your wife’s money is not vested in the hands of +trustees, and for her benefit?” + +“My father is one of the trustees. I tell you he manages the whole +thing. What is his property is mine and ever has been; and I might draw +upon him as much as I liked: and you know it’s five times as great as +my wife’s. What is his is ours, and what is ours is his, of course; for +instance, the India Stock, which poor Uncle James left, that now stands +in the Colonel’s name. He wants to be a Director: he will be at the +next election—he must have a certain quantity of India Stock, don’t you +see?” + +“My dear fellow, is there then no settlement made upon your wife at +all?” + +“You needn’t look so frightened,” says Clive. “I made a settlement on +her: with all my worldly goods I did her endow three thousand three +hundred and thirty-three pounds six and eightpence, which my father +sent over from India to my uncle, years ago, when I came home.” + +I might well indeed be aghast at this news, and had yet further +intelligence from Clive, which by no means contributed to lessen my +anxiety. This worthy old Colonel, who fancied himself to be so clever a +man of business, chose to conduct it in utter ignorance and defiance of +law. If anything happened to the Bundelcund Bank, it was clear that not +only every shilling of his own property, but every farthing bequeathed +to Rosa Mackenzie would be lost; only his retiring pension, which was +luckily considerable, and the hundred pounds a year which Clive had +settled on his wife, would be saved out of the ruin. + +And now Clive confided to me his own serious doubts and misgivings +regarding the prosperity of the Bank itself. He did not know why, but +he could not help fancying that things were going wrong. Those partners +who had come home, having sold out of the Bank, and living in England +so splendidly, why had they quitted it? The Colonel said it was a proof +of the prosperity of the company, that so many gentlemen were enriched +who had taken shares in it. “But when I asked my father,” Clive +continued, “why he did not himself withdraw, the dear old Colonel’s +countenance fell: he told me such things were not to be done every day; +and ended, as usual, by saying that I do not understand anything about +business. No more I do: that is the truth. I hate the whole concern, +Pen! I hate that great tawdry house in which we live; and those +fearfully stupid parties:—Oh, how I wish we were back in Fitzroy +Square! But who can recall bygones, Arthur; or wrong steps in life? We +must make the best of to-day, and to-morrow must take care of itself. +‘Poor little child!’ I could not help thinking, as I took it crying in +my arms the other day, ‘what has life in store for you, my poor weeping +baby?’ My mother-in-law cried out that I should drop the baby, and that +only the Colonel knew how to hold it. My wife called from her bed; the +nurse dashed up and scolded me; and they drove me out of the room +amongst them. By Jove, Pen, I laugh when some of my friends +congratulate me on my good fortune! I am not quite the father of my own +child, nor the husband of my own wife, nor even the master of my own +easel. I am managed for, don’t you see? boarded, lodged, and done for. +And here is the man they call happy. Happy! Oh!!! Why had I not your +strength of mind; and why did I ever leave my art, my mistress?” + +And herewith the poor lad fell to chopping thistles again; and quitted +Fairoaks shortly, leaving his friends there very much disquieted about +his prospects, actual and future. + +The expected dissolution of Parliament came at length. All the country +papers in England teemed with electioneering addresses; and the country +was in a flutter with particoloured ribbons. Colonel Thomas Newcome, +pursuant to his promise, offered himself to the independent electors of +Newcome in the Liberal journal of the family town, whilst Sir Barnes +Newcome, Bart., addressed himself to his old and tried friends, and +called upon the friends of the constitution to rally round him, in the +Conservative print. The addresses of our friend were sent to us at +Fairoaks by the Colonel’s indefatigable aide-de-camp, Mr. Frederick +Bayham. During the period which had elapsed since the Colonel’s last +canvassing visit and the issuing of the writs now daily expected for +the new Parliament, many things of great importance had occurred in +Thomas Newcome’s family—events which were kept secret from his +biographer, who was, at this period also, pretty entirely occupied with +his own affairs. These, however, are not the present subject of this +history, which has Newcome for its business, and the parties engaged in +the family quarrel there. + +There were four candidates in the field for the representation of that +borough. That old and tried member of Parliament, Mr. Bunce, was +considered to be secure; and the Baronet’s seat was thought to be +pretty safe on account of his influence in the place. Nevertheless, +Thomas Newcome’s supporters were confident for their champion, and that +when the parties came to the poll, the extreme Liberals of the borough +would divide their votes between him and the fourth candidate, the +uncompromising Radical, Mr. Barker. + +In due time the Colonel and his staff arrived at Newcome, and resumed +the active canvass which they had commenced some months previously. +Clive was not in his father’s suite this time, nor Mr. Warrington, +whose engagements took him elsewhere. The lawyer, the editor of the +_Independent_, and F. B., were the Colonel’s chief men. His +headquarters (which F. B. liked very well) were at the hotel where we +last saw him, and whence issuing with his aide-de-camp at his heels, +the Colonel went round to canvass personally, according to his promise, +every free and independent elector of the borough. Barnes too was +canvassing eagerly on his side, and was most affable and active; the +two parties would often meet nose to nose in the same street, and their +retainers exchange looks of defiance. With Mr. Potts of the +_Independent_, a big man, on his left; with Mr. Frederick, a still +bigger man, on his right; his own trusty bamboo cane in his hand, +before which poor Barnes had shrunk abashed ere now, Colonel Newcome +had commonly the best of these street encounters, and frowned his +nephew Barnes, and Barnes’s staff, off the pavement. With the +non-electors the Colonel was a decided favourite; the boys invariably +hurrayed him; whereas they jeered and uttered ironical cries after poor +Barnes, asking, “Who beat his wife? Who drove his children to the +workhouse?” and other unkind personal questions. The man upon whom the +libertine Barnes had inflicted so cruel an injury in his early days, +was now the Baronet’s bitterest enemy. He assailed him with curses and +threats when they met, and leagued his brother-workmen against him. The +wretched Sir Barnes owned with contrition that the sins of his youth +pursued him; his enemy scoffed at the idea of Barnes’s repentance; he +was not moved at the grief, the punishment in his own family, the +humiliation and remorse which the repentant prodigal piteously pleaded. +No man was louder in his cries of _mea culpa_ than Barnes: no man +professed a more edifying repentance. He was hat in hand to every +black-coat, established or dissenting. Repentance was to his interest, +to be sure, but yet let us hope it was sincere. There is some +hypocrisy, of which one does not like even to entertain the thought; +especially that awful falsehood which trades with divine truth, and +takes the name of Heaven in vain. + +The Roebuck Inn at Newcome stands in the market-place, directly facing +the King’s Arms, where, as we know, Colonel Newcome and uncompromising +toleration held their headquarters. Immense banners of blue and yellow +floated from every window of the King’s Arms, and decorated the balcony +from which the Colonel and the assistants were in the habit of +addressing the multitude. Fiddlers and trumpeters, arrayed in his +colours, paraded the town and enlivened it with their melodious +strains. Other trumpeters and fiddlers, bearing the true-blue cockades +and colours of Sir Barnes Newcome, Bart., would encounter the Colonel’s +musicians, on which occasions of meeting, it is to be feared, small +harmony was produced. They banged each other with their brazen +instruments. The warlike drummers thumped each other’s heads in lieu of +the professional sheepskin. The townboys and street-blackguards +rejoiced in these combats, and exhibited their valour on one side or +the other. The Colonel had to pay a long bill for broken brass when he +settled the little accounts of the election. + +In after times, F. B. was pleased to describe the circumstances of a +contest in which he bore a most distinguished part. It was F. B.’s +opinion that his private eloquence brought over many waverers to the +Colonel’s side, and converted numbers of the benighted followers of Sir +Barnes Newcome. Bayham’s voice was indeed magnificent, and could be +heard from the King’s Arm’s balcony above the shout and roar of the +multitude, the gongs and bugles of the opposition bands. He was +untiring in his oratory—undaunted in the presence of the crowds below. +He was immensely popular, F. B. Whether he laid his hand upon his broad +chest, took off his hat and waved it, or pressed his blue and yellow +ribbons to his bosom, the crowd shouted, “Hurra: silence! bravo! Bayham +for ever!” “They would have carried me in triumph,” said F. B.; “if I +had but the necessary qualification I might be member for Newcome this +day or any other I chose.” + +I am afraid in this conduct of the Colonel’s election Mr. Bayham +resorted to acts of which his principal certainly would disapprove, and +engaged auxiliaries whose alliance was scarcely creditable. Whose was +the hand which flung the potato which struck Sir Barnes Newcome, Bart., +on the nose as he was haranguing the people from the Roebuck? How came +it that whenever Sir Barnes and his friends essayed to speak, such an +awful yelling and groaning took place in the crowd below, that the +words of those feeble orators were inaudible? Who smashed all the front +windows of the Roebuck? Colonel Newcome had not words to express his +indignation at proceedings so unfair. When Sir Barnes and staff were +hustled in the market-place and most outrageously shoved, jeered, and +jolted, the Colonel from the King’s Arms organised a rapid sally, which +he himself headed with his bamboo cane; cut out Sir Barnes and his +followers from the hands of the mob, and addressed those ruffians in a +noble speech, of which bamboo-cane—Englishman—shame—fair-play, were the +most emphatic expressions. The mob cheered Old Tom as they called +him—they made way for Sir Barnes, who shrunk pale and shuddering back +into his hotel again—who always persisted in saying that that old +villain of a dragoon had planned both the assault and the rescue. + +“When the dregs of the people—the scum of the rabble, sir, banded +together by the myrmidons of Sir Barnes Newcome, attacked us at the +King’s Arms, and smashed ninety-six pounds’ worth of glass at one +volley, besides knocking off the gold unicorn head and the tail of the +British lion; it was fine, sir,” F. B. said, “to see how the Colonel +came forward, and the coolness of the old boy in the midst of the +action. He stood there in front, sir, with his old hat off, never so +much as once bobbing his old head, and I think he spoke rather better +under fire than he did when there was no danger. Between ourselves, he +ain’t much of a speaker, the old Colonel; he hems and haws, and repeats +himself a good deal. He hasn’t the gift of natural eloquence which some +men have, Pendennis. You should have heard my speech, sir, on the +Thursday in the Town Hall—that was something like a speech. Potts was +jealous of it, and always reported me most shamefully.” + +In spite of his respectful behaviour to the gentlemen in black coats, +his soup-tickets and his flannel-tickets, his own pathetic lectures and +his sedulous attendance at other folk’s sermons, poor Barnes could not +keep up his credit with the serious interest at Newcome, and the +meeting-houses and their respective pastors and frequenters turned +their backs upon him. The case against him was too flagrant: his enemy, +the factory-man, worked it with an extraordinary skill, malice, and +pertinacity. Not a single man, woman, or child in Newcome but was made +acquainted with Sir Barnes’s early peccadillo. Ribald ballads were +howled through the streets describing his sin, and his deserved +punishment. For very shame, the reverend dissenting gentlemen were +obliged to refrain from voting for him; such as ventured, believing in +the sincerity of his repentance, to give him their voices, were yelled +away from the polling-places. A very great number who would have been +his friends, were compelled to bow to decency and public opinion, and +supported the Colonel. + +Hooted away from the hustings, and the public places whence the rival +candidates addressed the free and independent electors, this wretched +and persecuted Sir Barnes invited his friends and supporters to meet +him at the Athenæum Room—scene of his previous eloquent performances. +But, though this apartment was defended by tickets, the people burst +into it; and Nemesis, in the shape of the persevering factory-man, +appeared before the scared Sir Barnes and his puzzled committee. The +man stood up and bearded the pale Baronet. He had a good cause, and was +in truth a far better master of debate than our banking friend, being a +great speaker amongst his brother-operatives, by whom political +questions are discussed, and the conduct of political men examined, +with a ceaseless interest and with an ardour and eloquence which are +often unknown in what is called superior society. This man and his +friends round about him fiercely silenced the clamour of “Turn him +out,” with which his first appearance was assailed by Sir Barnes’s +hangers-on. He said, in the name of justice he would speak up; if they +were fathers of families and loved their wives and daughters he dared +them to refuse him a hearing. Did they love their wives and their +children? it was a shame that they should take such a man as that +yonder for their representative in Parliament. But the greatest +sensation he made was when, in the middle of his speech, after +inveighing against Barnes’s cruelty and parental ingratitude, he asked, +“Where were Barnes’s children?” and actually thrust forward two, to the +amazement of the committee and the ghastly astonishment of the guilty +Baronet himself. + +“Look at them,” says the man: “they are almost in rags, they have to +put up with scanty and hard food; contrast them with his other +children, whom you see lording in gilt carriages, robed in purple and +fine linen, and scattering mud from their wheels over us humble people +as we walk the streets; ignorance and starvation is good enough for +these, for those others nothing can be too fine or too dear. What can a +factory-girl expect from such a fine, high-bred, white-handed, +aristocratic gentleman as Sir Barnes Newcome, Baronet, but to be +cajoled, and seduced, and deserted, and left to starve! When she has +served my lord’s pleasure, her natural fate is to be turned into the +street; let her go and rot there and her children beg in the gutter. + +“This is the most shameful imposture,” gasps out Sir Barnes, “these +children are not—are not——” + +The man interrupted him with a bitter laugh. “No,” he says; “they are +not his; that’s true enough, friends. It’s Tom Martin’s girl and boy, a +precious pair of lazy little scamps. But, at least he _thought_ they +were his children. See how much he knows about them! He hasn’t seen his +children for years; he would have left them and their mother to starve, +and did, but for shame and fear. The old man, his father, pensioned +them, and he hasn’t the heart to stop their wages now. Men of Newcome, +will you have this man to represent you in Parliament?” And the crowd +roared “No;” and Barnes and his shamefaced committee slunk out of the +place, and no wonder the dissenting clerical gentlemen were shy of +voting for him. + +A brilliant and picturesque diversion in Colonel Newcome’s favour was +due to the inventive genius of his faithful aide-de-camp, F. B. On the +polling-day, as the carriages full of voters came up to the +market-place, there appeared nigh to the booths an open barouche, +covered all over with ribbon, and containing Frederick Bayham, Esq., +profusely decorated with the Colonel’s colours, and a very old woman +and her female attendant, who were similarly ornamented. It was good +old Mrs. Mason, who was pleased with the drive and the sunshine, though +she scarcely understood the meaning of the turmoil, with her maid by +her side, delighted to wear such ribbons, and sit in such a post of +honour. Rising up in the carriage, F. B. took off his hat, bade his men +of brass be silent, who were accustomed to bray “See the Conquering +Hero come,” whenever the Colonel, or Mr. Bayham, his brilliant +aide-de-camp, made their appearance;—bidding, we say, the musicians and +the universe to be silent, F. B. rose, and made the citizens of Newcome +a splendid speech. Good old unconscious Mrs. Mason was the theme of it, +and the Colonel’s virtues and faithful gratitude in tending her. “She +was his father’s old friend. She was Sir Barnes Newcome’s grandfather’s +old friend. She had lived for more than forty years at Sir Barnes +Newcome’s door, and how often had he been to see her? Did he go every +week? No. Every month? No. Every year? No. Never in the whole course of +his life had he set his foot into her doors!” (Loud yells, and cries of +‘Shame!’) “Never had he done her one single act of kindness. Whereas +for years and years past, when he was away in India, heroically +fighting the battles of his country, when he was distinguishing himself +at Assaye, and—and—Mulligatawny, and Seringapatam, in the hottest of +the fight and the fiercest of the danger, in the most terrible moment +of the conflict, and the crowning glory of the victory, the good, the +brave, the kind old Colonel,—why should he say Colonel? why should he +not say Old Tom at once?” (immense roars of applause) “always +remembered his dear old nurse and friend. Look at that shawl, boys, +which she has got on! My belief is that Colonel Newcome took that shawl +in single combat, and on horseback, from the prime minister of Tippoo +Sahib.” (Immense cheers and cries of ‘Bravo, Bayham!’) “Look at that +brooch the dear old thing wears!” (he kissed her hand whilst so +apostrophising her). “Tom Newcome never brags about his military +achievements, he is the most modest as well as the bravest man in the +world. What if I were to tell you that he cut that brooch from the +throat of an Indian rajah? He’s man enough to do it.” (‘He is! he is!’ +from all parts of the crowd.) “What, you want to take the horses out, +do you?” (to the crowd, who were removing those quadrupeds). “I ain’t +agoing to prevent you; I expected as much of you. Men of Newcome, I +expected as much of you, for I know you! Sit still, old lady; don’t be +frightened, ma’am: they are only going to pull you to the King’s Arms, +and show you to the Colonel.” + +This, indeed, was the direction in which the mob (whether inflamed by +spontaneous enthusiasm, or excited by cunning agents placed amongst the +populace by F. B., I cannot say), now took the barouche and its three +occupants. With a myriad roar and shout the carriage was dragged up in +front of the King’s Arms, from the balconies of which a most +satisfactory account of the polling was already placarded. The extra +noise and shouting brought out the Colonel, who looked at first with +curiosity at the advancing procession, and then, as he caught sight of +Sarah Mason, with a blush and a bow of his kind old head. + +“Look at him, boys!” cried the enraptured F. B., pointing up to the old +man. “Look at him; the dear old boy! Isn’t he an old trump? which will +you have for your Member, Barnes Newcome or Old Tom?” + +And as might be supposed, an immense shout of “Old Tom!” arose from the +multitude; in the midst of which, blushing and bowing still, the +Colonel went back to his committee-room: and the bands played “See the +Conquering Hero” louder than ever; and poor Barnes in the course of his +duty having to come out upon his balcony at the Roebuck opposite, was +saluted with a yell as vociferous as the cheer for the Colonel had +been; and old Mrs. Mason asked what the noise was about; and after +making several vain efforts, in dumb show, to the crowd, Barnes slunk +back into his hole again as pale as the turnip which was flung at his +head: and the horses were brought, and Mrs. Mason driven home; and the +day of election came to an end. + +Reasons of personal gratitude, as we have stated already, prevented His +Highness the Prince de Moncontour from taking a part in this family +contest. His brethren of the House of Higg, however, very much to +Florac’s gratification, gave their second votes to Colonel Newcome, +carrying with them a very great number of electors: we know that in the +present Parliament, Mr. Higg and Mr. Bunce sit for the borough of +Newcome. Having had monetary transactions with Sir Barnes Newcome, and +entered largely into railway speculations with him, the Messrs. Higg +had found reason to quarrel with the Baronet; accuse him of sharp +practices to the present day, and have long stories to tell which do +not concern us about Sir Barnes’s stratagems, grasping, and extortion. +They their following, deserting Sir Barnes, whom they had supported in +previous elections, voted for the Colonel, although some of the +opinions of that gentleman were rather too extreme for such sober +persons. + +Not exactly knowing what his politics were when he commenced the +canvass, I can’t say to what opinions the poor Colonel did not find +himself committed by the time when the election was over. The worthy +gentleman felt himself not a little humiliated by what he had to say +and to unsay, by having to answer questions, and submit to +familiarities, to shake hands which, to say truth, he did not care for +grasping at all. His habits were aristocratic; his education had been +military; the kindest and simplest soul alive, he yet disliked all +familiarity, and expected from common people the sort of deference +which he had received from his men in the regiment. The contest +saddened and mortified him; he felt that he was using wrong means to +obtain an end that perhaps was not right (for so his secret conscience +must have told him); he was derogating from his own honour in tampering +with political opinions, submitting to familiarities, condescending to +stand by whilst his agents solicited vulgar suffrages or uttered +claptraps about retrenchment and reform. “I felt I was wrong,” he said +to me, in after days, “though _I_ was too proud to own my error in +those times, and you and your good wife and my boy were right in +protesting against that mad election.” Indeed, though we little knew +what events were speedily to happen, Laura and I felt very little +satisfaction when the result of the Newcome election was made known to +us, and we found Sir Barnes Newcome third, and Col. Thomas Newcome +second upon the poll. + +Ethel was absent with her children at Brighton. She was glad, she +wrote, not to have been at home during the election. Mr. and Mrs. C. +were at Brighton, too. Ethel had seen Mrs. C. and her child once or +twice. It was a very fine child. “My brother came down to us,” she +wrote, “after all was over. He is furious against M. de Moncontour, +who, he says, persuaded the Whigs to vote against him, and turned the +election.” + + + + +CHAPTER LXX. +Chiltern Hundreds + + +We shall say no more regarding Thomas Newcome’s political doings; his +speeches against Barnes, and the Baronet’s replies. The nephew was +beaten by his stout old uncle. + +In due time the _Gazette_ announced that Thomas Newcome, Esq., was +returned as one of the Members of Parliament for the borough of +Newcome; and after triumphant dinners, speeches, and rejoicings, the +Member came back to his family in London, and to his affairs in that +city. + +The good Colonel appeared to be by no means elated by his victory. He +would not allow that he was wrong in engaging in that family war, of +which we have just seen the issue; though it may be that his secret +remorse on this account in part occasioned his disquiet. But there were +other reasons, which his family not long afterwards came to understand, +for the gloom and low spirits which now oppressed the head of their +home. + +It was observed (that is, if simple little Rosey took the trouble to +observe) that the entertainments at the Colonel’s mansion were more +frequent and splendid even than before; the silver cocoa-nut tree was +constantly in requisition, and around it were assembled many new +guests, who had not formerly been used to sit under those branches. Mr. +Sherrick and his wife appeared at those parties, at which the +proprietor of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel made himself perfectly familiar. +Sherrick cut jokes with the master of the house, which the latter +received with a very grave acquiescence; he ordered the servants about, +addressing the butler as “Old Corkscrew,” and bidding the footman, whom +he loved to call by his Christian name, to “look alive.” He called the +Colonel “Newcome” sometimes, and facetiously speculated upon the degree +of relationship subsisting between them now that his daughter was +married to Clive’s uncle, the Colonel’s brother-in-law. Though I dare +say Clive did not much relish receiving news of his aunt, Sherrick was +sure to bring such intelligence when it reached him; and announced, in +due time, the birth of a little cousin at Boggley Wollah, whom the fond +parents designed to name “Thomas Newcome Honeyman.” + +A dreadful panic and ghastly terror seized poor Clive on occasion which +he described to me afterwards. Going out from home one day with his +father, he beheld a wine-merchant’s cart, from which hampers were +carried down the area gate into the lower regions of Colonel Newcome’s +house. “Sherrick and Co., Wine Merchants, Walpole Street,” was painted +upon the vehicle. + +“Good heavens! sir, do you get your wine from _him?_” Clive cried out +to his father, remembering Honeyman’s provisions in early times. The +Colonel, looking very gloomy and turning red, said, “Yes, he bought +wine from Sherrick, who had been very good-natured and serviceable; and +who—and who, you know, is our connexion now.” When informed of the +circumstance by Clive, I too, as I confess, thought the incident +alarming. + +Then Clive, with a laugh, told me of a grand battle which had taken +place in consequence of Mrs. Mackenzie’s behaviour to the +wine-merchant’s wife. The Campaigner had treated this very kind and +harmless, but vulgar woman, with extreme _hauteur_—had talked loud +during her singing—the beauty of which, to say truth, time had +considerably impaired—had made contemptuous observations regarding her +upon more than one occasion. At length the Colonel broke out in great +wrath against Mrs. Mackenzie—bade her to respect that lady as one of +his guests—and, if she did not like the company which assembled at his +house, hinted to her that there were many thousand other houses in +London where she could find a lodging. For the sake of her grandchild, +and her adored child, the Campaigner took no notice of this hint; and +declined to remove from the quarter which she had occupied ever since +she had become a grandmamma. + +I myself dined once or twice with my old friends, under the shadow of +the pickle-bearing cocoa-nut tree; and could not but remark a change of +personages in the society assembled. The manager of the City branch of +the B. B. C. was always present—an ominous-looking man, whose whispers +and compliments seemed to make poor Clive, at his end of the table, +very melancholy. With the City manager came the City manager’s friends, +whose jokes passed gaily round, and who kept the conversation to +themselves. Once I had the happiness to meet Mr. Ratray, who had +returned, filled with rupees from the Indian Bank; who told us many +anecdotes of the splendour of Rummun Loll at Calcutta, who complimented +the Colonel on his fine house and grand dinners with sinister +good-humour. Those compliments did not seem to please our poor friend; +that familiarity choked him. A brisk little chattering attorney, very +intimate with Sherrick, with a wife of dubious gentility, was another +constant guest. He enlivened the table by his jokes, and recounted +choice stories about the aristocracy, with certain members of whom the +little man seemed very familiar. He knew to a shilling how much this +lord owed—and how much the creditors allowed to that marquis. He had +been concerned with such and such a nobleman, who was now in the +Queen’s Bench. He spoke of their lordships affably and without their +titles—calling upon “Louisa, my dear,” his wife, to testify to the day +when Viscount Tagrag dined with them, and Earl Bareacres sent them the +pheasants. F. B., as sombre and downcast as his hosts now seemed to be, +informed me demurely that the attorney was a member of one of the most +eminent firms in the City—that he had been engaged in procuring the +Colonel’s parliamentary title for him—and in various important matters +appertaining to the B. B. C.; but my knowledge of the world and the law +was sufficient to make me aware that this gentleman belonged to a +well-known firm of money-lending solicitors, and I trembled to see such +a person in the home of our good Colonel. Where were the generals and +the judges? Where were the fogies and their respectable ladies? Stupid +they were, and dull their company; but better a stalled ox in their +society, than Mr. Campion’s jokes over Mr. Sherrick’s wines. + +After the little rebuke administered by Colonel Newcome, Mrs. Mackenzie +abstained from overt hostilities against any guests of her daughter’s +father-in-law; and contented herself by assuming grand and +princess-like airs in the company of the new ladies. They flattered her +and poor little Rosa intensely. The latter liked their company, no +doubt. To a man of the world looking on, who has seen the men and +morals of many cities, it was curious, almost pathetic, to watch that +poor little innocent creature fresh and smiling, attired in bright +colours and a thousand gewgaws, simpering in the midst of these +darkling people—practising her little arts and coquetries, with such a +court round about her. An unconscious little maid, with rich and rare +gems sparkling on all her fingers, and bright gold rings as many as +belonged to the late Old Woman of Banbury Cross—still she smiled and +prattled innocently before these banditti—I thought of Zerlina and the +Brigands, in Fra Diavolo. + +Walking away with F. B. from one of these parties of the Colonel’s, and +seriously alarmed at what I had observed there, I demanded of Bayham +whether my conjectures were not correct, that some misfortune overhung +our old friend’s house? At first Bayham denied stoutly or pretended +ignorance; but at length, having reached the Haunt together, which I +had not visited since I was a married man, we entered that place of +entertainment, and were greeted by its old landlady and waitress, and +accommodated with a quiet parlour. And here F. B., after groaning and +sighing—after solacing himself with a prodigious quantity of bitter +beer—fairly burst out, and, with tears in his eyes, made a full and sad +confession respecting this unlucky Bundelcund Banking Company. The +shares had been going lower and lower, so that there was no sale now +for them at all. To meet the liabilities, the directors must have +undergone the greatest sacrifices. He did know—he did not like to think +what the Colonel’s personal losses were. The respectable solicitors of +the Company had retired, long since, after having secured payment of a +most respectable bill; and had given place to the firm of dubious +law-agents of whom I had that evening seen a partner. How the retiring +partners from India had been allowed to withdraw, and to bring fortunes +along with them, was a mystery to Mr. Frederick Bayham. The great +Indian millionnaire was in his, F. B.’s eyes, “a confounded +mahogany-coloured heathen humbug.” These fine parties which the Colonel +was giving, and that fine carriage which was always flaunting about the +Park with poor Mrs. Clive and the Campaigner, and the nurse and the +baby, were, in F. B.’s opinion, all decoys and shams. He did not mean +to say that the meals were not paid, and that the Colonel had to +plunder for his horses’ corn; but he knew that Sherrick, and the +attorney, and the manager, insisted upon the necessity of giving these +parties, and keeping up this state and grandeur, and opined that it was +at the special instance of these advisers that the Colonel had +contested the borough for which he was now returned. “Do you know how +much that contest cost?” asks F. B. “The sum, sir, was awful! and we +have ever so much of it to pay. I came up twice myself from Newcome to +Campion and Sherrick about it. I betray no secrets—F. B., sir, would +die a thousand deaths before he would tell the secrets of his +benefactor!—But, Pendennis, you understand a thing or two. You know +what o’clock it is, and so does yours truly, F. B., who drinks your +health. _I_ know the taste of Sherrick’s wine well enough. F. B., sir, +fears the Greeks and all the gifts they bring. Confound his +Amontillado! I had rather drink this honest malt and hops all my life +than ever see a drop of his abominable sherry. Golden? F. B. believes +it _is_ golden—and a precious deal dearer than gold too”—and herewith, +ringing the bell, my friend asked for a second pint of the just-named +and cheaper fluid. + +I have of late had to recount portions of my dear old friend’s history +which must needs be told, and over which the writer does not like to +dwell. If Thomas Newcome’s opulence was unpleasant to describe, and to +contrast with the bright goodness and simplicity I remembered in former +days, how much more painful is that part of his story to which we are +now come perforce, and which the acute reader of novels has, no doubt, +long foreseen? Yes, sir or madam, you are quite right in the opinion +which you have held all along regarding that Bundelcund Banking +Company, in which our Colonel has invested every rupee he possesses, +_Solvuntur rupees_, etc. I disdain, for the most part, the tricks and +surprises of the novelist’s art. Knowing, from the very beginning of +our story, what was the issue of this Bundelcund Banking concern, I +have scarce had patience to keep my counsel about it; and whenever I +have had occasion to mention the Company, have scarcely been able to +refrain from breaking out into fierce diatribes against that +complicated, enormous, outrageous swindle. It was one of many similar +cheats which have been successfully practised upon the simple folks, +civilian and military, who toil and struggle—who fight with sun and +enemy—who pass years of long exile and gallant endurance in the service +of our empire in India. Agency houses after agency houses have been +established, and have flourished in splendour and magnificence, and +have paid fabulous dividends—and have enormously enriched two or three +wary speculators—and then have burst in bankruptcy, involving widows, +orphans, and countless simple people who trusted their all to the +keeping of these unworthy treasurers. + +The failure of the Bundelcund Bank which we now have to record, was one +only of many similar schemes ending in ruin. About the time when Thomas +Newcome was chaired as Member of Parliament for the borough of which he +bore the name, the great Indian merchant who was at the head of the +Bundelcund Banking Company’s affairs at Calcutta, suddenly died of +cholera at his palace at Barackpore. He had been giving of late a +series of the most splendid banquets with which Indian prince ever +entertained a Calcutta society. The greatest and proudest personages of +that aristocratic city had attended his feasts. The fairest Calcutta +beauties had danced in his halls. Did not poor F. B. transfer from the +columns of the _Bengal Hurkaru_ to the _Pall Mall Gazette_ the most +astounding descriptions of those Asiatic Nights Entertainments, of +which the very grandest was to come off on the night when cholera +seized Rummun Loll in its grip? There was to have been a masquerade +outvying all European masquerades in splendour. The two rival queens of +the Calcutta society were to have appeared each with her court around +her. Young civilians at the College, and young ensigns fresh landed, +had gone into awful expenses and borrowed money at interest from the B. +B. C. and other banking companies, in order to appear with befitting +splendour as knights and noblemen of Henrietta Maria’s Court (Henrietta +Maria, wife of Hastings Hicks, Esq., Sudder Dewanee Adawlut), or as +princes and warriors surrounding the palanquin of Lalla Rookh (the +lovely wife of Hon. Cornwallis Bobus, Member of Council): all these +splendours were there. As carriage after carriage drove up from +Calcutta, they were met at Rummun Loll’s gate by ghastly weeping +servants, who announced their master’s demise. + +On the next day the Bank at Calcutta was closed, and the day after, +when heavy bills were presented which must be paid, although by this +time Rummun Loll was not only dead but buried, and his widows howling +over his grave, it was announced throughout Calcutta that but 800 +rupees were left in the treasury of the B. B. C. to meet engagements to +the amount of four lakhs then immediately due, and sixty days +afterwards the shutters were closed at No. 175 Lothbury, the London +offices of the B. B. C. of India, and 35,000 pounds worth of their +bills refused by their agents, Messrs. Baines, Jolly and Co., of Fog +Court. + +When the accounts of that ghastly bankruptcy arrived from Calcutta, it +was found, of course, that the merchant-prince Rummun Loll owed the B. +B. C. twenty-five lakhs of rupees, the value of which was scarcely even +represented by his respectable signature. It was found that one of the +auditors of the bank, the generally esteemed Charley Conder (a capital +fellow, famous for his good dinners, and for playing low-comedy +characters at the Chowringhee Theatre), was indebted to the bank in +90,000 pounds; and also it was discovered that the revered Baptist +Bellman, Chief Registrar of the Calcutta Tape and Sealing-Wax Office (a +most valuable and powerful amateur preacher who had converted two +natives, and whose serious soirées were thronged at Calcutta), had +helped himself to 73,000 pounds more, for which he settled in the +Bankruptcy Court before he resumed his duties in his own. In justice to +Mr. Bellman, it must be said that he could have had no idea of the +catastrophe impending over the B. B. C. For, only three weeks before +that great bank closed its doors, Mr. Bellman, as guardian of the +children of his widowed sister Mrs. Green, had sold the whole of the +late Colonel’s property out of Company’s paper and invested it in the +bank, which gave a high interest, and with bills of which, drawn upon +their London correspondents, he had accommodated Mrs. Colonel Green +when she took her departure for Europe with her numerous little family +on board the Burrumpooter. + +And now you have the explanation of the title of this chapter, and know +wherefore Thomas Newcome never sat in Parliament. Where are our dear +old friends now? Where are Rosey’s chariots and horses? Where her +jewels and gewgaws? Bills are up in the fine new house. Swarms of +Hebrew gentlemen with their hats on are walking about the +drawing-rooms, peering into the bedrooms, weighing and poising the poor +old silver cocoa-nut tree, eyeing the plate and crystal, thumbing the +damask of the curtains, and inspecting ottomans, mirrors, and a hundred +articles of splendid trumpery. There is Rosey’s boudoir which her +father-in-law loved to ornament—there is Clive’s studio with a hundred +sketches—there is the Colonel’s bare room at the top of the house, with +his little iron bedstead and ship’s drawers, and a camel trunk or two +which have accompanied him on many an Indian march, and his old +regulation sword, and that one which the native officers of his +regiment gave him when he bade them farewell. I can fancy the brokers’ +faces as they look over this camp wardrobe, and that the uniforms will +not fetch much in Holywell Street. There is the old one still, and that +new one which he ordered and wore when poor little Rosey was presented +at court. I had not the heart to examine their plunder, and go amongst +those wreckers. F. B. used to attend the sale regularly, and report its +proceedings to us with eyes full of tears. “A fellow laughed at me,” +says F. B., “because when I came into the dear old drawing-room I took +my hat off. I told him that if he dared say another word I would knock +him down.” I think F. B. may be pardoned in this instance for emulating +the office of auctioneer. Where are you, pretty Rosey and poor little +helpless baby? Where are you, dear Clive—gallant young friend of my +youth? Ah! it is a sad story—a melancholy page to pen! Let us pass it +over quickly—I love not to think of my friend in pain. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXI. +In which Mrs. Clive Newcome’s Carriage is ordered + + +All the friends of the Newcome family, of course, knew the disaster +which had befallen the good Colonel, and I was aware, for my own part, +that not only his own, but almost the whole of Rosa Newcome’s property +was involved in the common ruin. Some proposals of temporary relief +were made to our friends from more quarters than one, but were +thankfully rejected—and we were led to hope that the Colonel, having +still his pension secured to him, which the law could not touch, might +live comfortably enough the retirement to which, of course, he would +betake himself, when the melancholy proceedings consequent on the +bankruptcy were brought to an end. It was shown that he had been +egregiously duped in the transaction—that his credulity had cost him +and his family a large fortune—that he had given up every penny which +belonged to him—that there could not be any sort of stain upon his +honest reputation. The judge before whom he appeared spoke with feeling +and regard of the unhappy gentleman—the lawyer who examined him +respected the grief and fall of that simple old man. Thomas Newcome +took a little room near the court where his affairs and the affairs of +the company were adjudged—lived with a frugality which never was +difficult to him—And once when perchance I met him in the City, avoided +me, with a bow and courtesy that was quite humble, though proud and +somehow inexpressibly touching to me. Fred Bayham was the only person +whom he admitted. Fred always faithfully insisted upon attending him in +and out of court. J. J. came to me immediately after he heard of the +disaster, eager to place all his savings at the service of his friends. +Laura and I came to London, and were urgent with similar offers. Our +good friend declined to see any of us. F. B., again, with tears +trickling on his rough cheeks, and a break in his voice, told me he +feared that affairs must be very bad indeed, for the Colonel absolutely +denied himself a cheroot to smoke. Laura drove to his lodgings and took +him a box, which was held up to him as he came to open the door to my +wife’s knock by our smiling little boy, He patted the child on his +golden head and kissed him. My wife wished he would have done as much +for her—but he would not—though she owned she kissed his hand. He drew +it across his eyes and thanked her in a very calm and stately +manner—but he did not invite her within the threshold of his door, +saying simply, that such a room was not a fit place to receive a lady, +“as you ought to know very well, Mrs. Smith,” he said to the landlady, +who had accompanied my wife up the stairs. “He will eat scarcely +anything,” the woman told us, “his meals come down untouched; his +candles are burning all night, almost, as he sits poring over his +papers.” + +“He was bent—he who used to walk so uprightly,” Laura said. He seemed +to have grown many years older, and was, indeed, quite a decrepit old +man. + +“I am glad they have left Clive out of the bankruptcy,” the Colonel +said to Bayham; it was almost the only time when his voice exhibited +any emotion. “It was very kind of them to leave out Clive, poor boy, +and I have thanked the lawyers in court.” Those gentlemen, and the +judge himself, were very much moved at this act of gratitude. The judge +made a very feeling speech to the Colonel when he came up for his +certificate. He passed very different comments on the conduct of the +Manager of the Bank, when that person appeared for examination. He +wished that the law had power to deal with those gentlemen who had come +home with large fortunes from India, realised but a few years before +the bankruptcy. Those gentlemen had known how to take care of +themselves very well; and as for the Manager, is not his wife giving +elegant balls at her elegant house at Cheltenham at this very day? + +What weighed most upon the Colonel’s mind, F. B. imagined, was the +thought that he had been the means of inducing many poor friends to +embark their money in this luckless speculation. Take J. J.’s money +after he had persuaded old Ridley to place 200 pounds in Indian shares! +Good God, he and his family should rather perish than he would touch a +farthing of it! Many fierce words were uttered to him by Mrs. +Mackenzie, for instance—by her angry daughter at Musselburgh—Josey’s +husband, by Mr. Smee, R.A., and two or three Indian officers, friends +of his own, who had entered into the speculation on his recommendation. +These rebukes Thomas Newcome bore with an affecting meekness, as his +faithful F. B. described to me, striving with many oaths and much +loudness to carry off his own emotion. But what moved the Colonel most +of all, was a letter which came at this time from Honeyman in India, +saying that he was doing well—that of course he knew of his +benefactor’s misfortune, and that he sent a remittance which, _D. V._, +should be annual, in payment of his debt to the Colonel, and his good +sister at Brighton. “On receipt of this letter,” said F. B., “the old +man was fairly beaten—the letter, with the bill in it, dropped out of +his hands. He clasped them together, shaking in every limb, and his +head dropped down on his breast as he said, ‘I thank my God Almighty +for this!’ and he sent the cheque off to Mrs. Honeyman by the post that +night, sir, every shilling of it; and he passed his old arm under +mine—and we went out to Tom’s Coffee-House, and he ate some dinner the +first time for ever so long, and drank a couple of glasses of port +wine, and F. B. stood it, sir, and would stand his heart’s blood that +dear old boy.” + +It was on a Monday morning that those melancholy shutters were seen +over the offices of the Bundelcund Bank in Lothbury, which were not to +come down until the rooms were handed over to some other, and, let us +trust, more fortunate speculators. The Indian bills had arrived, and +been protested in the City on the previous Saturday. The Campaigner and +Mrs. Rosey had arranged a little party to the theatre that evening, and +the gallant Captain Goby had agreed to quit the delights of the Flag +Club, in order to accompany the ladies. Neither of them knew what was +happening in the City, or could account otherwise than by the common +domestic causes, for Clive’s gloomy despondency and his father’s sad +reserve. Clive had not been in the City on this day. He had spent it, +as usual, in his studio, _boudé_ by his wife, and not disturbed by the +messroom raillery of the Campaigner. They had dined early, in order to +be in time for the theatre. Goby entertained them with the latest jokes +from the smoking-room at the Flag, and was in his turn amused by the +brilliant plans for the season which Rosey and her mamma sketched out +the entertainments which Mrs. Clive proposed to give, the ball—she was +dying for a masked ball just such a one as that was described in the +_Pall Mall Gazette_ of last week, out of that paper with the droll +title, the _Bengal Hurkaru_, which the merchant-prince, the head of the +bank, you know, in India, had given at Calcutta. “We must have a ball, +too,” says Mrs. Mackenzie; “society demands it of you.” “Of course it +does,” echoes Captain Goby, and he bethought him of a brilliant circle +of young fellows from the Flag, whom he would bring in splendid uniform +to dance with the pretty Mrs. Clive Newcome. + +After the dinner—they little knew it was to be their last in that fine +house—the ladies retired to give their parting kiss to baby—a parting +look to the toilettes, with which they proposed to fascinate the +inhabitants of the pit and the public boxes at the Olympic. Goby made +vigorous play with the claret-bottle during the brief interval of +potation allowed to him; he, too, little deeming that he should never +drink bumper there again; Clive looking on with the melancholy and +silent acquiescence which had, of late, been his part in the household. +The carriage was announced—the ladies came down—pretty capotes on the +lovely Campaigner, Goby vowed, looking as young and as handsome as her +daughter, by Jove, and the ball door was opened to admit the two +gentlemen and ladies to their carriage, when, as they were about to +step in, a hansom cab drove up rapidly, in which was perceived Thomas +Newcome’s anxious face. He got out of the vehicle—his own carriage +making way for him—the ladies still on the steps. “Oh, the play! I +forgot,” said the Colonel. + +“Of course we are going to the play, papa,” cries little Rosey, with a +gay little tap of her hand. + +“I think you had better not,” Colonel Newcome said gravely. + +“Indeed my darling child has set her heart upon it, and I would not +have her disappointed for the world in her situation,” cries the +Campaigner, tossing up her head. + +The Colonel for reply bade his coachman drive to the stables, and come +for further orders; and, turning to his daughter’s guest, expressed to +Captain Goby his regret that the proposed party could not take place on +that evening, as he had matter of very great importance to communicate +to his family. On hearing these news, and understanding that his +further company was not desirable, the Captain, a man of great presence +of mind, arrested the hansom cabman, who was about to take his +departure, and who blithely, knowing the Club and its inmates full +well, carried off the jolly Captain to finish his evening at the Flag. + +“Has it come, father?” said Clive with a sure prescience, looking in +his father’s face. + +The father took and grasped the hand which his son held out. “Let us go +back into the dining-room,” he said. They entered it, and he filled +himself a glass of wine out of the bottle still standing amidst the +dessert. He bade the butler retire, who was lingering about the room +and sideboard, and only wanted to know whether his master would have +dinner, that was all. And, this gentleman having withdrawn, Colonel +Newcome finished his glass of sherry and broke a biscuit; the +Campaigner assuming an attitude of surprise and indignation, whilst +Rosey had leisure to remark that papa looked very ill, and that +something must have happened. + +The Colonel took both her hands and drew her towards him and kissed +her, whilst Rosey’s mamma, flouncing down on a chair, beat a tattoo +upon the tablecloth with her fan. “Something has happened, my love,” +the Colonel said very sadly; “you must show all your strength of mind, +for a great misfortune has befallen us.” + +“Good heavens, Colonel, what is it? don’t frighten my beloved child,” +cries the Campaigner, rushing towards her darling, and enveloping her +in her robust arms. “What can have happened, don’t agitate this darling +child, sir,” and she looked indignantly towards the poor Colonel. + +“We have received the very worst news from Calcutta, a confirmation of +the news by the last mail, Clivey, my boy.” + +“It is no news to me. I have always been expecting it, father,” says +Clive, holding down his head. + +“Expecting what? What have you been keeping back from us? In what have +you been deceiving us, Colonel Newcome?” shrieks the Campaigner; and +Rosa, crying out, “Oh, mamma, mamma!” begins to whimper. + +“The chief of the bank in India is dead,” the Colonel went on. “He has +left its affairs in worse than disorder. We are, I fear, ruined, Mrs. +Mackenzie.” And the Colonel went on to tell how the bank could not open +on Monday morning, and its bills to a great amount had already been +protested in the City that day. + +Rosey did not understand half these news, or comprehend the calamity +which was to follow; but Mrs. Mackenzie, rustling in great wrath, made +a speech, of which the anger gathered as he proceeded; in which she +vowed and protested that her money, which the Colonel, she did not know +from _what motives_, had induced her to subscribe, should not be +sacrificed, and that have it she would, the bank shut or not, the next +Monday morning—that her daughter had a fortune of her own which her +poor dear brother James should have divided and would have divided much +more fairly, had he not been wrongly influenced—she would not say by +whom, and she commanded Colonel Newcome upon that _instant_, if he was, +as he always pretended to be, an _honourable_ man, to give an account +of her blessed darling’s property, and to pay back her own, every +sixpence of it. She would not lend it for an hour longer, and to see +that that dear blessed child now sleeping unconsciously upstairs, and +his dear brothers and sisters who might follow, for Rosey was a young +woman, a poor innocent creature, too young to be married, and never +would have been married had she listened to her mamma’s advice. She +demanded that the baby, and all succeeding babies, should have their +_rights_, and should be looked to by their grandmother, if their +father’s father was so _unkind_, and so _wicked_, and so _unnatural_, +as to give their money to rogues, and deprive them of their just bread. + +Rosey began to cry more loudly than ever during the utterance of +mamma’s sermon, so loudly that Clive peevishly cried out, “Hold your +tongue,” on which the Campaigner, clutching her daughter to her breast +again, turned on her son-in-law, and abused him as she had abused his +father before him, calling out that they were both in a conspiracy to +defraud her child, and the little darling upstairs of its bread, and +she would speak, yes, she would, and no power should prevent her, and +her money she would have on Monday, as sure as her poor dear husband, +Captain Mackenzie, was dead, and she never would have been _cheated_ +so, yes, _cheated_, if he had been alive. + +At the word “cheated” Clive broke out with an execration—the poor +Colonel with a groan of despair—the widow’s storm continued, and above +that howling tempest of words rose Mrs. Clive’s piping scream, who went +off into downright hysterics at last, in which she was encouraged by +her mother, and in which she gasped out frantic ejaculations regarding +baby; dear, darling, ruined baby, and so forth. + +The sorrow-stricken Colonel had to quell the women’s tongues and shrill +anger, and his son’s wrathful replies, who could not bear the weight of +Mrs. Mackenzie upon him; and it was not until these three were allayed, +that Thomas Newcome was able to continue his sad story, to explain what +had happened, and what the actual state of the case was, and to oblige +the terror-stricken women at length to hear something like reason. + +He then had to tell them, to their dismay, that he would inevitably be +declared a bankrupt in the ensuing week; that the whole of his property +in that house, as elsewhere, would be seized and sold for the +creditors’ benefit; and that his daughter had best immediately leave a +home where she would be certainly subject to humiliation and annoyance. +“I would have Clive, my boy, take you out of the country, and—and +return to me when I have need of him, and shall send for him,” the +father said fondly in reply to a rebellious look on his son’s face. “I +would have you quit this house as soon as possible. Why not to-night? +The law blood-hound may be upon us ere an hour is over—at this moment +for what I know.” + +At that moment the door-bell was heard to ring, and the women gave a +scream apiece, as if the bailiffs were actually coming to take +possession. Rosey went off in quite a series of screams, peevishly +repressed by her husband, and always encouraged by mamma, who called +her son-in-law an unfeeling wretch. It must be confessed that Mrs. +Clive Newcome did not exhibit much strength of mind, or comfort her +husband much at a moment when he needed consolation. + +From angry rebellion and fierce remonstrance, this pair of women now +passed to an extreme terror and desire for instantaneous flight. They +would go that moment—they would wrap the blessed child up in its +shawls—and nurse should take it anywhere—anywhere, poor neglected +thing. “My trunks,” cries Mrs. Mackenzie, “you know are ready packed—I +am sure it is not the treatment which I have received—it is nothing but +my _duty_ and my _religion_—and the protection which I owe to this +blessed unprotected—yes, _unprotected_, and _robbed_, and _cheated_, +darling child—which have made me stay a _single day_ in this house. I +never thought I should have been _robbed_ in it, or my darlings with +their fine fortunes flung naked on the world. If my Mac was here, you +never had dared to have done this, Colonel Newcome—no, never. He had +his faults—Mackenzie had—but he would never have robbed his own +children! Come away, Rosey, my blessed love, come let us pack your +things, and let us go and _hide_ our _heads_ in sorrow somewhere. Ah! +didn’t I tell you to beware of all _painters_, and that Clarence was a +true gentleman, and loved you with all his heart, and would never have +cheated you out of your money, for which I will have justice as sure as +there is justice in England.” + +During this outburst the Colonel sat utterly scared and silent, +supporting his poor head between his hands. When the harem had departed +he turned sadly to his son. Clive did not believe that his father was a +cheat and a rogue. No, thank God! The two men embraced with tender +cordiality and almost happy emotion on the one side and the other. +Never for one moment could Clive think his dear old father meant +wrong—though the speculations were unfortunate in which he had +engaged—though Clive had not liked them; it was a relief to his mind +that they were now come to an end; they should all be happier now, +thank God! those clouds of distrust being removed. Clive felt not one +moment’s doubt but that they should be able to meet fortune with a +brave face; and that happier, much happier days were in store for him +than ever they had known since the period of this confounded +prosperity. + +“Here’s a good end to it,” says Clive, with flashing eyes and a flushed +face, “and here’s a good health till to-morrow, father!” and he filled +into two glasses the wine still remaining in the flask. “Good-bye to +our fortune, and bad luck go with her—I puff the prostitute away—_Si +celeres quatit pennas_, you remember what we used to say at Grey +Friars—_resigno quæ dedit, et mea virtute me involvo, probamque +pauperiem sine dote quæro_.” And he pledged his father, who drank his +wine, his hand shaking as he raised the glass to his lips, and his kind +voice trembling as he uttered the well-known old school words, with an +emotion that was as sacred as a prayer. Once more, and with hearts full +of love, the two men embraced. Clive’s voice would tremble now if he +told the story, as it did when he spoke it to me in happier times, one +calm summer evening when we sat together and talked of dear old days. + +Thomas Newcome explained to his son the plan, which, to his mind, as he +came away from the City after the day’s misfortunes, he thought it was +best to pursue. The women and the child were clearly best out of the +way. “And you too, my boy, must be on duty with them until I send for +you, which I will do if your presence can be of the least service to +me, or is called for by—by—our honour,” said the old man with a drop in +his voice. “You must obey me in this, dear Clive, as you have done in +everything, and been a good and dear, and obedient son to me. God +pardon me for having trusted to my own simple old brains too much, and +not to you who know so much better. You will obey me this once more, my +boy—you will promise me this?” and the old man as he spoke took Clive’s +hand in both his, and fondly caressed it. + +Then with a shaking hand he took out of his pocket his old purse with +the steel rings, which he had worn for many and many a long year. Clive +remembered it, and his father’s face how it would beam with delight, +when he used to take that very purse out in Clive’s boyish days and tip +him just after he left school. “Here are some notes and some gold,” he +said. “It is Rosey’s, honestly, Clive dear, her half-year’s dividend, +for which you will give an order, please, to Sherrick. He has been very +kind and good, Sherrick. All the servants were providentially paid last +week—there are only the outstanding week’s bills out—we shall manage to +meet those, I dare say. And you will see that Rosey only takes away +such clothes for herself and her baby as are actually necessary, won’t +you, dear? the plain things, you know—none of the fineries—they may be +packed in a petara or two, and you will take them with you—but the +pomps and vanities, you know, we will leave behind—the pearls and +bracelets, and the plate, and all that rubbish—and I will make an +inventory of them to-morrow when you are gone, and give them up, every +rupee’s worth, sir, every anna, by Jove, to the creditors.” + +The darkness had fallen by this time, and the obsequious butler entered +to light the dining-room lamps. “You have been a very good and kind +servant to us, Martin,” says the Colonel, making him a low bow. “I +should like to shake you by the hand. We must part company now, and I +have no doubt you and your fellow servants will find good places, all +of you, as you merit, Martin—as you merit. Great losses have fallen +upon our family—we are ruined, sir—we are ruined! The great Bundelcund +Banking Company has stopped payment in India, and our branch here must +stop on Monday. Thank my friends downstairs for their kindness to me +and my family.” Martin bowed in silence with great respect. He and his +comrades in the servants’-hall had been expecting this catastrophe, +quite as long as the Colonel himself who thought he had kept his +affairs so profoundly secret. + +Clive went up into his women’s apartments, looking with but little +regret, I dare say, round those cheerless nuptial chambers with all +their gaudy fittings; the fine looking-glasses, in which poor Rosey’s +little person had been reflected; the silken curtains under which he +had lain by the poor child’s side, wakeful and lonely. Here he found +his child’s nurse, and his wife, and wife’s mother, busily engaged with +a multiplicity of boxes; with flounces, feathers, fal-lals, and finery, +which they were stowing away in this trunk and that; while the baby lay +on its little pink pillow breathing softly, a little pearly fist placed +close to its mouth. The aspect of the tawdry vanities scattered here +and there chafed and annoyed the young man. He kicked the robes over +with his foot. When Mrs. Mackenzie interposed with loud ejaculations, +he sternly bade her to be silent, and not wake the child. His words +were not to be questioned when he spoke in that manner. “You will take +nothing with you, Rosey, but what is strictly necessary—only two or +three of your plainest dresses, and what is required for the boy. What +is in this trunk?” Mrs. Mackenzie stepped forward and declared, and the +nurse vowed upon her honour, and the lady’s-maid asserted really now +upon honour too, that there was nothing but what was most strictly +necessary in that trunk, to which affidavits, when Clive applied to his +wife, she gave a rather timid assent. + +“Where are the keys of that trunk?” Upon Mrs. Mackenzie’s exclamation +of “What nonsense!” Clive, putting his foot upon the flimsy oil-covered +box, vowed he would kick the lid off unless it was instantly opened. +Obeying this grim summons, the fluttering women produced the keys, and +the black box was opened before him. + +The box was found to contain a number of objects which Clive pronounced +to be by no means necessary to his wife’s and child’s existence. +Trinket-boxes and favourite little gimcracks, chains, rings and pearl +necklaces, the tiara poor Rosey had worn at court—the feathers and the +gorgeous train which had decorated the little person—all these were +found packed away in this one receptacle; and in another box, I am +sorry to say, were the silver forks and spoons (the butler wisely +judging that the rich and splendid electrotype ware might as well be +left behind)—all the silver forks, spoons, and ladles, and our poor old +friend the cocoa-nut tree, which these female robbers would have +carried out of the premises. + +Mr. Clive Newcome burst out into fierce laughter when he saw the +cocoa-nut tree; he laughed so loud that baby woke, and his +mother-in-law called him a brute, and the nurse ran to give its +accustomed quietus to the little screaming infant. Rosey’s eyes poured +forth a torrent of little protests, and she would have cried yet more +loudly than the other baby, had not her husband, again fiercely +checking her, sworn with a dreadful oath, that unless she told him the +whole truth, “By heavens she should leave the house with nothing but +what covered her.” Even the Campaigner could not make head against +Clive’s stern resolution; and the incipient insurrection of the maids +and the mistresses was quelled by his spirit. The lady’s-maid, a +flighty creature, received her wages and took her leave: but the nurse +could not find it in her heart to quit her little nursling so suddenly, +and accompanied Clive’s household in the journey upon which those poor +folks were bound. What stolen goods were finally discovered when the +family reached foreign parts were found in Mrs. Mackenzie’s trunks, not +in her daughter’s: a silver filigree basket, a few teaspoons, baby’s +gold coral, and a costly crimson velvet-bound copy of the Hon. Miss +Grimstone’s Church Service, to which articles, having thus appropriated +them, Mrs. Mackenzie henceforward laid claim as her own. + +So when the packing was done a cab was called to receive the modest +trunks of this fugitive family—the coachman was bidden to put his +horses to again, and for the last time poor Rosey Newcome sate in her +own carriage, to which the Colonel conducted her with his courtly old +bow, kissing the baby as it slept once more unconscious in its nurse’s +embrace, and bestowing a very grave and polite parting salute upon the +Campaigner. + +Then Clive and his father entered a cab on which the trunks were borne, +and they drove to the Tower Stairs, where the ship lay which was to +convey them out of England; and, during that journey, no doubt, they +talked over their altered prospects, and I am sure Clive’s father +blessed his son fondly, and committed him and his family to a good +God’s gracious keeping, and thought of him with sacred love when they +had parted, and Thomas Newcome had returned to his lonely house to +watch and to think of his ruined fortunes, and to pray that he might +have courage under them; that he might bear his own fate honourably; +and that a gentle one might be dealt to those beloved beings for whom +his life had been sacrificed in vain. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXII. +Belisarius + + +When the sale of Colonel Newcome’s effects took place, a friend of the +family bought in for a few shillings those two swords which had hung, +as we have said, in the good man’s chamber, and for which no single +broker present had the heart to bid. The head of Clive’s father, +painted by himself, which had always kept its place in the young man’s +studio, together with a lot of his oil-sketchings, easels, and painting +apparatus, were purchased by the faithful J. J., who kept them until +his friend should return to London and reclaim them, and who showed the +most generous solicitude in Clive’s behalf. J. J. was elected of the +Royal Academy this year, and Clive, it was evident, was working hard at +the profession which he had always loved; for he sent over three +pictures to the Academy, and I never knew man more mortified than the +affectionate J. J., when two of these unlucky pieces were rejected by +the committee for the year. One pretty little piece, called “The +Stranded Boat,” got a fair place on the Exhibition walls, and, you may +be sure, was loudly praised by a certain critic in the _Pall Mall +Gazette_. The picture was sold on the first day of the exhibition at +the price of twenty-five pounds, which the artist demanded; and when +the kind J. J. wrote to inform his friend of this satisfactory +circumstance, and to say that he held the money at Clive’s disposal, +the latter replied with many expressions of sincere gratitude, at the +same time begging him directly to forward the money, with our old +friend Thomas Newcome’s love, to Mrs. Sarah Mason, at Newcome. But J. +J. never informed his friend that he himself was the purchaser of the +picture; nor was Clive made acquainted with the fact until some time +afterwards, when he found it hanging in Ridley’s studio. + +I have said that we none of us were aware at this time what was the +real state of Colonel Newcome’s finances, and hoped that, after giving +up every shilling of his property which was confiscated to the +creditors of the Bank, he had still, from his retiring pension and +military allowances, at least enough reputably to maintain him. On one +occasion, having business in the City, I there met Mr. Sherrick. +Affairs had been going ill with that gentleman—he had been let in +terribly, he informed me, by Lord Levant’s insolvency—having had large +money transactions with his lordship. “There’s none of them so good as +old Newcome,” Mr. Sherrick said with a sigh; “that was a good one—that +was an honest man if ever I saw one—with no more guile, and no more +idea of business than a baby. Why didn’t he take my advice, poor old +cove?—he might be comfortable now. Why did he sell away that annuity, +Pendennis? I got it done for him when nobody else perhaps could have +got it done for him—for the security ain’t worth twopence if Newcome +wasn’t an honest man;—but I know he is, and would rather starve and eat +the nails off his fingers than not keep his word, the old trump. And +when he came to me, a good two months before the smash of the Bank, +which I knew it, sir, and saw that it must come—when he came and raised +three thousand pounds to meet them d—d electioneering bills, having to +pay lawyers, commission, premium, life-insurance—you know the whole +game, Mr. P.—I as good as went down on my knees to him—I did—at the +North and South American Coffee-house, where he was to meet the party +about the money, and said, ‘Colonel, don’t raise it—I tell you, let it +stand over—let it go in along with the bankruptcy that’s a-coming,’—but +he wouldn’t—he went on like an old Bengal tiger, roaring about his +honour; he paid the bills every shilling—infernal long bills they were, +and it’s my belief that, at this minute, he ain’t got fifty pounds a +year of his own to spend. I would send him back my commission—I would +by Jove—only times is so bad, and that rascal Levant let me in. It went +to my heart to take the old cock’s money—but it’s gone—that and ever so +much more—and Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel too, Mr. P. Hang that young +Levant.” + +Squeezing my hand after this speech, Sherrick ran across the street +after some other capitalist who was entering the Diddlesex Insurance +Office, and left me very much grieved and dismayed at finding that my +worst fears in regard to Thomas Newcome were confirmed. Should we +confer with his wealthy family respecting the Colonel’s impoverished +condition? Was his brother Hobson Newcome aware of it? As for Sir +Barnes, the quarrel between him and his uncle had been too fierce to +admit of hopes of relief from that quarter. Barnes had been put to very +heavy expenses in the first contested election; had come forward again +immediately on his uncle’s resignation, but again had been beaten by a +more liberal candidate, his quondam former friend, Mr. Higg—who +formally declared against Sir Barnes, and who drove him finally out of +the representation of Newcome. From this gentleman it was vain of +course for Colonel Newcome’s friends to expect relief. + +How to aid him? He was proud—past work—nearly seventy years old. “Oh, +why did those cruel Academicians refuse Clive’s pictures?” cries Laura. +“I have no patience with them—had the pictures been exhibited I know +who might have bought them—but that is vain now. He would suspect at +once, and send her money away. Oh, Pen! why, why didn’t he come when I +wrote that letter to Brussels?” + +From persons so poorly endowed with money as ourselves, any help, but +of the merest temporary nature, was out of the question. We knew our +friends too well not to know that they would disdain to receive it. It +was agreed between me and Laura that at any rate I should go and see +Clive. Our friends indeed were at a very short distance from us, and, +having exiled themselves from England, could yet see its coasts from +their windows upon any clear day. Boulogne was their present +abiding-place—refuge of how many thousands of other unfortunate +Britons—and to this friendly port I betook myself speedily, having the +address of Colonel Newcome. His quarters were in a quiet grass-grown +old street of the Old Town. None of the family were at home when I +called. There was indeed no servant to answer the bell, but the +good-natured French domestic of a neighbouring lodger told me that the +young monsieur went out every day to make his designs, and that I +should probably find the elder gentleman upon the rampart, where he was +in the custom of going every day. I strolled along by those pretty old +walks and bastions, under the pleasant trees which shadow them, and the +grey old gabled houses from which you look down upon the gay new city, +and the busy port, and the piers stretching into the shining sea, +dotted with a hundred white sails or black smoking steamers, and +bounded by the friendly lines of the bright English shore. There are +few prospects more charming than the familiar view from those old +French walls—few places where young children may play, and ruminating +old age repose more pleasantly than on those peaceful rampart gardens. + +I found our dear old friend seated on one of the benches, a newspaper +on his knees, and by his side a red-cheeked little French lass, upon +whose lap Thomas Newcome the younger lay sleeping. The Colonel’s face +flushed up when he saw me. As he advanced a step or two towards me I +could see that he trembled in his walk. His hair had grown almost quite +white. He looked now to be more than his age—he whose carriage last +year had been so erect, whose figure had been so straight and manly. I +was very much moved at meeting him, and at seeing the sad traces which +pain and grief had left in the countenance of the dear old man. + +“So you are come to see me, my good young friend,” cried the Colonel, +with a trembling voice. “It is very, very kind of you. Is not this a +pretty drawing-room to receive our friends in? We have not many of them +now; Boy and I come and sit here for hours every day. Hasn’t he grown a +fine boy? He can say several words now, sir, and can walk surprisingly +well. Soon he will be able to walk with his grandfather, and then Marie +will not have the trouble to wait upon either of us.” He repeated this +sentiment in his pretty old French, and turning with a bow to Marie. +The girl said monsieur knew very well that she did not desire better +than to come out with baby; that it was better than staying at home, +pardieu; and, the clock striking at this moment, she rose up with her +child, crying out that it was time to return or madame would scold. + +“Mrs. Mackenzie has rather a short temper,” the Colonel said with a +gentle smile. “Poor thing, she has had a great deal to bear in +consequence, Pen, of my imprudence. I am glad you never took shares in +our bank. I should not be so glad to see you as I am now, if I had +brought losses upon you as I have upon so many of my friends.” I, for +my part, trembled to hear the good old man was under the domination of +the Campaigner. + +“Bayham sends me the paper regularly; he is a very kind faithful +creature. How glad I am that he has got a snug berth in the City! His +company really prospers, I am happy to think, unlike some companies you +know of, Pen. I have read your two speeches, sir, and Clive and I liked +them very much. The poor boy works all day at his pictures. You know he +has sold one at the exhibition, which has given us a great deal of +heart—and he has completed two or three more—and I am sitting to him +now for—what do you think, sir? for Belisarius. Will you give +Belisarius and the Obolus kind word?” + +“My dear, dear old friend,” I said in great emotion, “if you will do me +the kindness to take my Obolus or to use my services in any way, you +will give me more pleasure than ever I had from your generous bounties +in old days. Look, sir, I wear the watch which you gave me when you +went to India. Did you not tell me then to look over Clive and serve +him if I could? Can’t I serve him now?” and I went on further in this +strain, asseverating with great warmth and truth that my wife’s +affection and my own were most sincere for both of them, and that our +pride would be to be able to help such dear friends. + +The Colonel said I had a good heart, and my wife had, though—though—he +did not finish this sentence, but I could interpret it without need of +its completion. My wife and the two ladies of Colonel Newcome’s family +never could be friends, however much my poor Laura tried to be intimate +with these women. Her very efforts at intimacy caused a frigidity and +hauteur which Laura could not overcome. Little Rosey and her mother set +us down as two aristocratic personages; nor for our parts were we very +much disturbed at this opinion of the Campaigner and little Rosa. + +I talked with the Colonel for half an hour or more about his affairs, +which indeed were very gloomy, and Clive’s prospects, of which he +strove to present as cheering a view as possible. He was obliged to +confirm the news which Sherrick had given me, and to own, in fact, that +all his pension was swallowed up by a payment of interest and life +insurance for sums which he had been compelled to borrow. How could he +do otherwise than meet his engagements? Thank God, he had Clive’s full +approval for what he had done—had communicated the circumstance to his +son almost immediately after it took place, and that was a comfort to +him—an immense comfort. “For the women are very angry,” said the poor +Colonel; “you see they do not understand the laws of honour, at least +as we understand them: and perhaps I was wrong in hiding the truth as I +certainly did from Mrs. Mackenzie, but I acted for the best—I hoped +against hope that some chance might turn in our favour. God knows, I +had a hard task enough in wearing a cheerful face for months, and in +following my little Rosa about to her parties and balls; but poor Mrs. +Mackenzie has a right to be angry, only I wish my little girl did not +side with her mother so entirely, for the loss of her affection gives +me great pain.” + +So it was as I suspected. The Campaigner ruled over this family, and +added to all their distresses by her intolerable presence and tyranny. +“Why, sir,” I ventured to ask, “if, as I gather from you—and I +remember,” I added with a laugh, “certain battles-royal which Clive +described to me in old days—if you and the Campai—Mrs. Mackenzie do not +agree, why should she continue to live with you, when you would all be +so much happier apart?” + +“She has a right to live in the house,” says the Colonel; “It is I who +have no right in it. I am a poor old pensioner, don’t you see, +subsisting on Rosey’s bounty? We live on the hundred a year, secured to +her at her marriage, and Mrs. Mackenzie has her forty pounds of pension +which she adds to the common stock. It is I who have made away with +every shilling of Rosey’s 17,000 pounds, God help me, and with 1500 +pounds of her mother’s. They put their little means together, and they +keep us—me and Clive. What can we do for a living? Great God! What can +we do? Why, I am so useless that even when my poor boy earned 25 pounds +for his picture, I felt we were bound to send it to Sarah Mason, and +you may fancy when this came to Mrs. Mackenzie’s ears, what a life my +boy and I led. I have never spoken of these things to any mortal soul—I +even don’t speak of them with Clive—but seeing your kind and honest +face has made me talk—you must pardon my garrulity—I am growing old, +Arthur. This poverty and these quarrels have beaten my spirit +down—there, I shall talk on this subject no more. I wish, sir, I could +ask you to dine with us, but”—and here he smiled—“we must get the leave +of the higher powers.” + +I was determined, in spite of prohibitions and Campaigners, to see my +old friend Clive, and insisted on walking back with the Colonel to his +lodgings, at the door of which we met Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter. +Rosa blushed up a little—looked at her mamma—and then greeted me with a +hand and a curtsey. The Campaigner also saluted me in a majestic but +amicable manner, made no objection even to my entering her apartments +and seeing _the condition to which they were reduced:_ this phrase was +uttered with particular emphasis and a significant look towards the +Colonel, who bowed his meek head and preceded me into the lodgings, +which were in truth very homely, pretty, and comfortable. The +Campaigner was an excellent manager—restless, bothering, brushing +perpetually. Such fugitive gimcracks as they had brought away with them +decorated the little salon. Mrs. Mackenzie, who took the entire +command, even pressed me to dine and partake, if so fashionable a +gentleman would _condescend_ to partake, of a humble exile’s fare. No +fare was perhaps very pleasant to me in company with that woman, but I +wanted to see my dear old Clive, and gladly accepted his voluble +mother-in-law’s not disinterested hospitality. She beckoned the Colonel +aside; whispered to him, putting something into his hand; on which he +took his hat and went away. Then Rosey was dismissed upon some other +pretext, and I had the felicity to be left alone with Mrs. Captain +Mackenzie. + +She instantly improved the occasion; and with great eagerness and +volubility entered into her statement of the present affairs and +position of this unfortunate family. She described darling Rosey’s +delicate state, poor thing—nursed with tenderness and in the lap of +luxury—brought up with every delicacy and the fondest mother—never +knowing in the least how to take care of herself, and likely to fall +down and perish unless the kind Campaigner were by to prop and protect +her. She was in delicate health—very delicate—ordered cod-liver oil by +the doctor. Heaven knows how he could be paid for those expensive +medicines out of the pittance to which the _imprudence_—the most +culpable and designing _imprudence_, and _extravagance_, and _folly_ of +Colonel Newcome had reduced them! Looking out from the window as she +spoke I saw—we both saw—the dear old gentleman sadly advancing towards +the house, a parcel in his hand. Seeing his near approach, and that our +interview was likely to come to an end, Mrs. Mackenzie rapidly +whispered to me that she knew I had a good heart—that I had been +blessed by Providence with a fine fortune, which I knew how to keep +better than _some_ folks—and that if, as no doubt was my intention—for +with what other but a charitable view could I have come to see +them?—“and most generous and noble was it of you to come, and I always +thought it of you, Mr. Pendennis, whatever _other_ people said to the +contrary—if I proposed to give them relief, which was most needful—and +for which a _mother’s blessings_ would follow me—let it be to her, the +Campaigner, that my loan should be confided—for as for the Colonel, he +is not fit to be trusted with a shilling, and has already flung away +_immense sums_ upon some old woman he keeps in the country, leaving his +darling Rosey without the actual necessaries of life. + +The woman’s greed and rapacity—the flattery with which she chose to +belabour me at dinner, so choked and disgusted me, that I could hardly +swallow the meal, though my poor old friend had been sent out to +purchase a pâté from the pastrycook’s for my especial refection. Clive +was not at the dinner. He seldom returned till late at night on +sketching days. Neither his wife nor his mother-in-law seemed much to +miss him; and seeing that the Campaigner engrossed the entire share of +the conversation, and proposed not to leave me for five minutes alone +with the Colonel, I took leave rather speedily of my entertainers, +leaving a message for Clive, and a prayer that he would come and see me +at my hotel. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIII. +In which Belisarius returns from Exile + + +I was sitting in the dusk in my room at Hotel des Bains, when the +visitor for whom I hoped made his appearance in the person of Clive, +with his broad shoulders, and broad hat, and a shaggy beard, which he +had thought fit in his quality of painter to assume. Our greeting it +need not be said was warm; and our talk, which extended far into the +night, very friendly and confidential. If I make my readers confidants +in Mr. Clive’s private affairs, I ask my friend’s pardon for narrating +his history in their behoof. The world had gone very ill with my poor +Clive, and I do not think that the pecuniary losses which had visited +him and his father afflicted him near so sorely as the state of his +home. In a pique with the woman he loved, and from that generous +weakness which formed part of his character, and which led him to +acquiesce in most wishes of his good father, the young man had +gratified the darling desire of the Colonel’s heart, and taken the wife +whom his two old friends brought to him. Rosey, who was also, as we +have shown, of a very obedient and ductile nature, had acquiesced +gladly enough in her mamma’s opinion, that she was in love with the +rich and handsome young Clive, and accepted him for better or worse. So +undoubtedly would this good child have accepted Captain Hoby, her +previous adorer, have smilingly promised fidelity to the Captain at +church, and have made a very good, happy, and sufficient little wife +for that officer,—had not mamma commanded her to jilt him. What wonder +that these elders should wish to see their two dear young ones united? +They began with suitable age, money, good temper, and parents’ +blessings. It is not the first time that, with all these excellent +helps to prosperity and happiness, a marriage has turned out +unfortunately—a pretty, tight ship gone to wreck that set forth on its +voyage with cheers from the shore, and every prospect of fair wind and +fine weather. + +We have before quoted poor Clive’s simile of the shoes with which his +good old father provided him—as pretty a little pair of shoes as need +be—only they did not fit the wearer. If they pinched him at first, how +they blistered and tortured him now! If Clive was gloomy and +discontented even when the honeymoon had scarce waned, and he and his +family sat at home in state and splendour under the boughs of the +famous silver cocoa-nut tree, what was the young man’s condition now in +poverty, when they had no love along with a scant dinner of herbs; when +his mother-in-law grudged each morsel which his poor old father +ate—when a vulgar, coarse-minded woman pursued with brutal sarcasm and +deadly rancour one of the tenderest and noblest gentlemen in the +world—when an ailing wife, always under some one’s domination, received +him with helpless hysterical cries and reproaches—when a coarse female +tyrant, stupid, obstinate, utterly unable to comprehend the son’s +kindly genius, or the father’s gentle spirit, bullied over both, using +the intolerable undeniable advantage which her actual wrongs gave her +to tyrannise over these two wretched men! He had never heard the last +of that money which they had sent to Mrs. Mason, Clive said. When the +knowledge of the fact came to the Campaigner’s ears, she raised such a +storm as almost killed the poor Colonel, and drove his son half mad. +She seized the howling infant, vowing that its unnatural father and +grandfather were bent upon starving it—she consoled and sent Rosey into +hysterics—she took the outlawed parson to whose church they went, and +the choice society of bankrupt captains, captains’ ladies, fugitive +stockbrokers’ wives, and dingy frequenters of billiard-rooms, and +refugees from the Bench, into her councils; and in her daily visits +amongst these personages, and her walks on the pier, whither she +trudged with poor Rosey in her train, Mrs. Mackenzie made known her own +wrongs and her daughter’s—showed how the Colonel, having robbed and +cheated them previously, was now living upon them; insomuch that Mrs. +Bolter, the levanting auctioneer’s wife, would not make the poor old +man a bow when she met him—that Mrs. Captain Kitely, whose husband had +lain for seven years past in Boulogne gaol ordered her son to cut +Clive; and when, the child being sick, the poor old Colonel went for +arrowroot to the chemist’s, young Snooks, the apothecary’s assistant, +refused to allow him to take the powder away without previously +depositing the money. + +He had no money, Thomas Newcome. He gave up every farthing. After +having impoverished all around him, he had no right, he said, to touch +a sixpence of the wretched pittance remaining to them—he had even given +up his cigar, the poor old man, the companion and comforter of forty +years. He was “not fit to be trusted with money,” Mrs. Mackenzie said, +and the good man owned as he ate his scanty crust, and bowed his noble +old head in silence under that cowardly persecution. + +And this, at the end of threescore and seven or eight years, was to be +the close of a life which had been spent in freedom and splendour, and +kindness and honour; this the reward of the noblest heart that ever +beat—the tomb and prison of a gallant warrior who had ridden in twenty +battles—whose course through life had been a bounty wherever it had +passed—whose name had been followed by blessings, and whose career was +to end here—here—in a mean room, in a mean alley of a foreign town—a +low furious woman standing over him and stabbing the kind defenceless +heart with killing insult and daily outrage! + +As we sat together in the dark, Clive told me this wretched story, +which was wrung from him with a passionate emotion that I could not but +keenly share. He wondered the old man lived, Clive said. Some of the +women’s taunts and gibes, as he could see, struck his father so that he +gasped and started back as if some one had lashed him with a whip. “He +would make away with himself,” said poor Clive, “but he deems this is +his punishment, and that he must bear it as long as it pleases God. He +does not care for his own losses, as far as they concern himself: but +these reproaches of Mrs. Mackenzie, and some things which were said to +him in the Bankruptcy Court, by one or two widows of old friends, who +were induced through his representations, to take shares in that +infernal bank, have affected him dreadfully. I hear him lying awake and +groaning at night, God bless him. Great God! what can I do—what can I +do?” burst out the young man in a dreadful paroxysm of grief. “I have +tried to get lessons—I went to London on the deck of a steamer, and +took a lot of drawings with me—tried +picture-dealers—pawnbrokers—Jews—Moss, whom you may remember at +Gandish’s, and who gave me for forty-two drawings, eighteen pounds. I +brought the money back to Boulogne. It was enough to pay the doctor, +and bury our last poor little dead baby. _Tenez_, Pen, you must give me +some supper: I have had nothing all day but a _pain de deux sous;_ I +can’t stand it at home. My heart’s almost broken—you must give me some +money, Pen, old boy. I know you will. I thought of writing to you, but +I wanted to support myself, you see. When I went to London with the +drawings I tried George’s chambers, but he was in the country, I saw +Crackthorpe on the street in Oxford Street, but I could not face him, +and bolted down Hanway Yard. I tried, and I could not ask him, and I +got the 18 pounds from Moss that day, and came home with it.” + +Give him money? of course I would give him money—my dear old friend! +And, as an alternative and a wholesome shock to check that burst of +passion and grief in which the poor fellow indulged, I thought fit to +break into a very fierce and angry invective on my own part, which +served to disguise the extreme feeling of pain and pity that I did not +somehow choose to exhibit. I rated Clive soundly, and taxed him with +unfriendliness and ingratitude for not having sooner applied to friends +who would think shame of themselves whilst he was in need. Whatever he +wanted was his as much as mine. I could not understand how the +necessity of the family should, in truth, be so extreme as he described +it, for after all many a poor family lived upon very much less; but I +uttered none of these objections, checking them with the thought that +Clive, on his first arrival at Boulogne, entirely ignorant of the +practice of economy, might have imprudently engaged in expenses which +had reduced him to this present destitution.* + +* I did not know at the time that Mrs. Mackenzie had taken entire +superintendence of the family treasury—and that this exemplary woman +was putting away, as she had done previously, sundry little sums to +meet rainy days. + + +I took the liberty of asking about debts, and of these Clive gave me to +understand there were none—at least none of his or his father’s +contracting. “If we were too proud to borrow, and I think we were +wrong, Pen, my dear old boy—I think we were wrong now—at least, we were +too proud to owe. My colourman takes his bill out in drawings, and I +think owes me a trifle. He got me some lessons at fifty sous a ticket—a +pound the ten—from an economical swell who has taken a château here, +and has two flunkeys in livery. He has four daughters, who take +advantage of the lessons, and screws ten per cent upon the poor +colourman’s pencils and drawing-paper. It’s pleasant work to give the +lessons to the children; and to be patronised by the swell; and not +expensive to him, is it, Pen? But I don’t mind that, if I could but get +lessons enough: for, you see, besides our expenses here, we must have +some more money, and the dear old governor would die outright if poor +old Sarah Mason did not get her 50 pounds a year.” + +And now there arrived a plentiful supper, and a bottle of good wine, of +which the giver was not sorry to partake after the meagre dinner at +three o’clock, to which I had been invited by the Campaigner; and it +was midnight when I walked back with my friend to his house in the +upper town; and all the stars of heaven were shining cheerily; and my +dear Clive’s face wore an expression of happiness, such as I remembered +in old days, as we shook hands and parted with a “God bless you.” + +To Clive’s friend, revolving these things in his mind, as he lay in one +of those most snug and comfortable beds at the excellent Hotel des +Bains, it appeared that this town of Boulogne was a very bad market for +the artist’s talents; and that he had to bring them to London, where a +score of old friends would assuredly be ready to help him. And if the +Colonel, too, could be got away from the domination of the Campaigner, +I felt certain that the dear old gentleman could but profit by his +leave of absence. My wife and I at this time inhabited a spacious old +house in Queens Square, Westminster, where there was plenty of room for +father and son. I knew that Laura would be delighted to welcome these +guests—may the wife of every worthy gentleman who reads these pages be +as ready to receive her husband’s friends. It was the state of Rosa’s +health, and the Campaigner’s authority and permission, about which I +was in doubt, and whether this lady’s two slaves would be allowed to go +away. + +These cogitations kept the present biographer long awake, and he did +not breakfast next day until an hour before noon. I had the coffee-room +to myself by chance, and my meal was not yet ended when the waiter +announced a lady to visit Mr. Pendennis, and Mrs. Mackenzie made her +appearance. No signs of care or poverty were visible in the attire or +countenance of the buxom widow. A handsome bonnet, decorated within +with a profusion of poppies, bluebells; and ears of corn; a jewel on +her forehead, not costly, but splendid in appearance, and glittering +artfully over that central spot from which her wavy chestnut hair +parted to cluster in ringlets round her ample cheeks; a handsome India +shawl, smart gloves, a rich silk dress, a neat parasol of blue with +pale yellow lining, a multiplicity of glittering rinks, and a very +splendid gold watch and chain, which I remembered in former days as +hanging round poor Rosey’s white neck;—all these adornments set off the +widow’s person, so that you might have thought her a wealthy +capitalist’s lady, and never could have supposed that she was a poor, +cheated, ruined, robbed, unfortunate Campaigner. + +Nothing could be more gracious than the _accueil_ of this lady. She +paid me many handsome compliments about my literary work—asked most +affectionately for dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear children—and then, +as I expected, coming to business, contrasted the happiness and genteel +position of my wife and family with the misery and wrongs of her own +blessed child and grandson. She never could call that child by the +odious name which he received at his baptism. _I_ knew what bitter +reasons she had to dislike the name of Thomas Newcome. + +She again rapidly enumerated the wrongs she had received at the hands +of that gentleman; mentioned the vast sums of money out of which she +and her soul’s darling had been tricked by that poor muddle-headed +creature, to say no worse of him; and described finally their present +pressing need. The doctors, the burial, Rosey’s delicate condition, the +cost of sweetbreads, calf’s-foot jelly, and cod-liver oil, were again +passed in a rapid calculation before me; and she ended her speech by +expressing her gratification that I had attended to her advice of the +previous day, and not given Clive Newcome a direct loan; that the +family wanted it, the Campaigner called upon Heaven to witness; that +Clive and his absurd poor father would fling guineas out of the window +was a fact equally certain; the rest of the argument was obvious, +namely, that Mr. Pendennis should administer a donation to herself. + +I had brought but a small sum of money in my pocket-book, though Mrs. +Mackenzie, intimate with bankers, and having, thank Heaven, in spite of +all her misfortunes, the utmost confidence of _all_ her tradesmen, +hinted a perfect willingness on her part to accept an order upon her +friends, Hobson Brothers of London. + +This direct thrust I gently and smilingly parried by asking Mrs. +Mackenzie whether she supposed a gentleman who had just paid an +electioneering bill, and had, at the best of times, but a very small +income, might sometimes not be in a condition to draw satisfactorily +upon Messrs. Hobson or any other bankers? Her countenance fell at this +remark, nor was her cheerfulness much improved by the tender of one of +the two bank-notes which then happened to be in my possession. I said +that I had a use for the remaining note, and that it would not be more +than sufficient to pay my hotel bill, and the expenses of my party back +to London. + +My party? I had here to divulge, with some little trepidation, the plan +which I had been making overnight; to explain how I thought that +Clive’s great talents were wasted at Boulogne, and could only find a +proper market in London; how I was pretty certain, through my +connection with booksellers, to find some advantageous employment for +him, and would have done so months ago had I known the state of the +case; but I had believed, until within a very few days since, that the +Colonel, in spite of his bankruptcy, was still in the enjoyment of +considerable military pensions. + +This statement, of course, elicited from the widow a number of remarks +not complimentary to my dear old Colonel. He might have kept his +pensions had he not been a fool—he was a baby about money +matters—misled himself and everybody—was a log in the house, etc. etc. +etc. + +I suggested that his annuities might possibly be put into some more +satisfactory shape—that I had trustworthy lawyers with whom I would put +him in communication—that he had best come to London to see to these +matters—and that my wife had a large house where she would most gladly +entertain the two gentlemen. + +This I said with some reasonable dread—fearing, in the first place, her +refusal; in the second, her acceptance of the invitation, with a +proposal, as our house was large, to come herself and inhabit it for a +while. Had I not seen that Campaigner arrive for a month at poor James +Binnie’s house in Fitzroy Square, and stay there for many years? Was I +not aware that when she once set her foot in a gentleman’s +establishment, terrific battles must ensue before she could be +dislodged? Had she not once been routed by Clive? and was she not now +in command and possession? Do I not, finally, know something of the +world; and have I not a weak, easy temper? I protest it was with terror +that I awaited the widow’s possible answer to my proposal. + +To my great relief, she expressed the utmost approval of both my plans. +I was uncommonly kind, she was sure, to interest myself about the two +gentlemen, and for her blessed Rosa’s sake, a fond mother thanked me. +It was most advisable that he should earn some money by that horrid +profession which he had chosen to adopt—_trade, she_ called it. She was +clearly anxious get rid both of father and son, and agreed that the +sooner they went the better. + +We walked back arm-in-arm to the Colonel’s quarters in the Old Town, +Mrs. Mackenzie, in the course of our walk, doing me the honour to +introduce me by name to several dingy acquaintances, whom we met +sauntering up the street, and imparting to me, as each moved away, the +pecuniary cause of his temporary residence in Boulogne. Spite of +Rosey’s delicate state of health, Mrs. Mackenzie did not hesitate to +break the news to her of the gentlemen’s probable departure, abruptly +and eagerly, as if the intelligence was likely to please her:—and it +did, rather than otherwise. The young woman, being in the habit of +letting mamma judge for her, continued it in this instance; and whether +her husband stayed or went, seemed to be equally content or apathetic. +“And is it not most kind and generous of dear Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis to +propose to receive Mr. Newcome and the Colonel?” This opportunity for +gratitude being pointed out to Rosey, she acquiesced in it +straightway—it was very kind of me, Rosey was sure. “And don’t you ask +after dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear children—you poor dear suffering +darling child?” Rosey, who had neglected this inquiry, immediately +hoped Mrs. Pendennis and the children were well. The overpowering +mother had taken utter possession of this poor little thing. Rosey’s +eyes followed the Campaigner about, and appealed to her at all moments. +She sat under Mrs. Mackenzie as a bird before a boa-constrictor, +doomed—fluttering—fascinated—scared and fawning as a whipt spaniel +before a keeper. + +The Colonel was on his accustomed bench on the rampart at this sunny +hour. I repaired thither, and found the old gentleman seated by his +grandson, who lay, as yesterday, on the little bonne’s lap, one of his +little purple hands closed round the grandfather’s finger. “Hush!” says +the good man, lifting up his other finger to his moustache, as I +approached, “Boy’s asleep. Il est bien joli quand il dort—le Boy, +n’est-ce pas, Marie?” The maid believed monsieur well—the boy was a +little angel. “This maid is a most trustworthy, valuable person, +Pendennis,” the Colonel said, with much gravity. + +The boa-constrictor had fascinated him, too—the lash of that woman at +home had cowed that helpless, gentle, noble spirit. As I looked at the +head so upright and manly, now so beautiful and resigned—the year of +his past life seemed to pass before me somehow in a flash of thought. I +could fancy the accursed tyranny—the dumb acquiescence—the brutal +jeer—the helpless remorse—the sleepless nights of pain and +recollection—the gentle heart lacerated with deadly stabs—and the +impotent hope. I own I burst into a sob at the sight, and thought of +the noble suffering creature, and hid my face, and turned away. + +He sprang up, releasing his hand from the child’s, and placing it, the +kind shaking hand, on my shoulder. “What is it, Arthur—my dear boy?” he +said, looking wistfully in my face. “No bad news from home, my dear? +Laura and the children well?” + +The emotion was mastered in a moment, I put his arm under mine, and as +we slowly sauntered up and down the sunny walk of the old rampart, I +told him how I had come with special commands from Laura to bring him +for a while to stay with us, and to settle his business, which I was +sure had been wofully mismanaged, and to see whether we could not find +the means of getting some little out of the wreck of the property for +the boy yonder. + +At first Colonel Newcome would not hear of quitting Boulogne, where +Rosey would miss him—he was sure she would want him—but before the +ladies of his family, to whom we presently returned, Thomas Newcome’s +resolution was quickly recalled. He agreed to go, and Clive coming in +at this time was put in possession of our plan and gladly acquiesced in +it. On that very evening I came with a carriage to conduct my two +friends to the steamboat. Their little packets were made and ready. +There was no pretence of grief at parting on the women’s side, but +Marie, the little maid, with Boy in her arms, cried sadly; and Clive +heartily embraced the child; and the Colonel, going back to give it one +more kiss, drew out of his neckcloth a little gold brooch which he +wore, and which, trembling, he put into Marie’s hand, bidding her take +good care of Boy till his return. + +“She is a good girl—a most faithful, attached girl, Arthur, do you +see,” the kind old gentleman said; “and I had no money to give her—no, +not one single rupee.” + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIV. +In which Clive begins the World + + +We are ending our history, and yet poor Clive is but beginning the +world. He has to earn the bread which he eats henceforth; and, as I saw +his labours, his trials, and his disappointments, I could not but +compare his calling with my own. + +The drawbacks and penalties attendant upon our profession are taken +into full account, as we well know, by literary men, and their friends. +Our poverty, hardships, and disappointments are set forth with great +emphasis, and often with too great truth by those who speak of us; but +there are advantages belonging to our trade which are passed over, I +think, by some of those who exercise it and describe it, and for which, +in striking the balance of our accounts, we are not always duly +thankful. We have no patron, so to speak—we sit in ante-chambers no +more, waiting the present of a few guineas from my lord, in return for +a fulsome dedication. We sell our wares to the book-purveyor, between +whom and us there is no greater obligation than between him and his +paper-maker or printer. In the great towns in our country immense +stores of books are provided for us, with librarians to class them, +kind attendants to wait upon us, and comfortable appliances for study. +We require scarce any capital wherewith to exercise our trade. What +other so-called learned profession is equally fortunate? A doctor, for +example, after carefully and expensively educating himself, must invest +in house and furniture, horses, carriage, and menservants, before the +public patient will think of calling him in. I am told that such +gentlemen have to coax and wheedle dowagers, to humour hypochondriacs, +to practise a score of little subsidiary arts in order to make that of +healing profitable. How many many hundreds of pounds has a barrister to +sink upon his stock-in-trade before his returns are available? There +are the costly charges of university education—the costly chambers in +the Inn of Court—the clerk and his maintenance—the inevitable travels +on circuit—certain expenses all to be defrayed before the possible +client makes his appearance, and the chance of fame or competency +arrives. The prizes are great, to be sure, in the law, but what a +prodigious sum the lottery-ticket costs! If a man of letters cannot +win, neither does he risk so much. Let us speak of our trade as we find +it, and not be too eager in calling out for public compassion. + +The artists, for the most part, do not cry out their woes as loudly as +some gentlemen of the literary fraternity, and yet I think the life of +many of them is harder; their chances even more precarious, and the +conditions of their profession less independent and agreeable than +ours. I have watched Smee, Esq., R.A., flattering and fawning, and at +the same time boasting and swaggering, poor fellow, in order to secure +a sitter. I have listened to a Manchester magnate talking about fine +arts before one of J. J.’s pictures, assuming the airs of a painter, +and laying down the most absurd laws respecting the art. I have seen +poor Tomkins bowing a rich amateur through a private view, and noted +the eager smiles on Tomkins’ face at the amateur’s slightest joke, the +sickly twinkle of hope in his eyes as Amateur stopped before his own +picture. I have been ushered by Chipstone’s black servant through hall +after hall peopled with plaster gods and heroes, into Chipstone’s own +magnificent studio, where he sat longing vainly for an order, and +justly dreading his landlord’s call for the rent. And, seeing how +severely these gentlemen were taxed in their profession, I have been +grateful for my own more fortunate one, which necessitates cringing to +no patron; which calls for no keeping up of appearances; and which +requires no stock-in-trade save the workman’s industry, his best +ability, and a dozen sheets of paper. + +Having to turn with all his might to his new profession, Clive Newcome, +one of the proudest men alive, chose to revolt and to be restive at +almost every stage of his training. He had a natural genius for his +art, and had acquired in his desultory way a very considerable skill. +His drawing was better than his painting (an opinion which, were my +friend present, he of course would utterly contradict); his designs and +sketches were far superior to his finished compositions. His friends, +presuming to judge of this artist’s qualifications, ventured to counsel +him accordingly, and were thanked for their pains in the usual manner. +We had in the first place to bully and browbeat Clive most fiercely, +before he would take fitting lodgings for the execution of those +designs which we had in view for him. “Why should I take expensive +lodgings?” says Clive, slapping his fist on the table. “I am a pauper, +and can scarcely afford to live in a garret. Why should you pay me for +drawing your portrait and Laura’s and the children? What the deuce does +Warrington want with the effigy of his old mug? You don’t want them a +bit—you only want to give me money.—It would be much more honest of me +to take the money at once and own that I am a beggar; and I tell you +what, Pen, the only money which I feel I come honestly by, is that +which is paid me by a little printseller in Long Acre who buys my +drawings, one with another, at fourteen shillings apiece, and out of +whom I can earn pretty nearly two hundred a year. I am doing Coaches +for him, sir, and Charges of Cavalry; the public like the Mail Coaches +best—on a dark paper—the horses and miles picked out white—yellow +dust—cobalt distance, and the guard and coachman of course in +vermilion. That’s what a gentleman can get his bread by—portraits, +pooh! it’s disguised beggary, Crackthorpe, and a half-dozen men of his +regiment came, like good fellows as they are, and sent me five pounds +apiece for their heads, but I tell you I am ashamed to take the money.” +Such used to be the tenor of Clive Newcome’s conversation as he strode +up and down our room after dinner, pulling his moustache, and dashing +his long yellow hair off his gaunt face. + +When Clive was inducted into the new lodgings at which his friends +counselled him to hang up his ensign, the dear old Colonel accompanied +his son, parting with a sincere regret from our little ones at home, to +whom he became greatly endeared during his visit to us, and who always +hailed him when he came to see us with smiles and caresses and sweet +infantile welcome. On that day when he went away, Laura went up and +kissed him with tears in her eyes. “You know how long I have been +wanting to do it,” this lady said to her husband. Indeed I cannot +describe the behaviour of the old man during his stay with us, his +gentle gratitude, his sweet simplicity and kindness, his thoughtful +courtesy. There was not a servant in our little household but was eager +to wait upon him. Laura’s maid was as tender-hearted at his departure +as her mistress. He was ailing for a short time, when our cook +performed prodigies of puddings and jellies to suit his palate. The +youth who held the offices of butler and valet in our establishment—a +lazy and greedy youth whom Martha scolded in vain—would jump up and +leave his supper to carry a message to our Colonel. My heart is full as +I remember the kind words which he said to me at parting, and as I +think that we were the means of giving a little comfort to that +stricken and gentle soul. + +Whilst the Colonel and his son stayed with us, letters of course passed +between Clive and his family at Boulogne, but my wife remarked that the +receipt of those letters appeared to give our friend but little +pleasure. They were read in a minute, and he would toss them over to +his father, or thrust them into his pocket with a gloomy face. “Don’t +you see,” groans out Clive to me one evening, “that Rosa scarcely +writes the letters, or if she does, that her mother is standing over +her? That woman is the Nemesis of our life, Pen. How can I pay her off? +Great God! how can I pay her off?” And so having spoken, his head fell +between his hands, and as I watched him I saw a ghastly domestic +picture before me of helpless pain, humiliating discord, stupid +tyranny. + +What, I say again, are the so-called great ills of life compared to +these small ones? + +The Colonel accompanied Clive to the lodgings which we had found for +the young artist, in a quarter not far removed from the old house in +Fitzroy Square, where some happy years of his youth had been spent. +When sitters came to Clive—as at first they did in some numbers, many +of his early friends being anxious to do him a service—the old +gentleman was extraordinarily cheered and comforted. We could see by +his face that affairs were going on well at the studio. He showed us +the rooms which Rosey and the boy were to occupy. He prattled to our +children and their mother, who was never tired of hearing him, about +his grandson. He filled up the future nursery with a hundred little +knick-knacks of his own contriving; and with wonderful cheap bargains, +which he bought in his walks about Tottenham Court Road. He pasted a +most elaborate book of prints and sketches for Boy. It was astonishing +what notice Boy already took of pictures. He would have all the genius +of his father. Would he had had a better grandfather than the foolish +old man who had ruined all belonging to him! + +However much they like each other, men in the London world see their +friends but seldom. The place is so vast that even next door is +distant; the calls of business, society, pleasure, so multifarious that +mere friendship can get or give but an occasional shake of the hand in +the hurried moments of passage. Men must live their lives; and are +perforce selfish, but not unfriendly. At a great need you know where to +look for your friend, and he that he is secure of you. So I went very +little to Howland Street, where Clive now lived; very seldom to Lamb +Court, where my dear old friend Warrington still sate in his old +chambers, though our meetings were none the less cordial when they +occurred, and our trust in one another always the same. Some folks say +the world is heartless: he who says so either prates commonplaces (the +most likely and charitable suggestion), or is heartless himself, or is +most singular and unfortunate in having made no friends. Many such a +reasonable mortal cannot have: our nature, I think, not sufficing for +that sort of polygamy. How many persons would you have to deplore your +death; or whose death would you wish to deplore? Could our hearts let +in such a harem of dear friendships, the mere changes and recurrences +of grief and mourning would be intolerable, and tax our lives beyond +their value. In a word, we carry our own burthen in the world; push and +struggle along on our own affairs; are pinched by our own shoes—though +Heaven forbid we should not stop and forget ourselves sometimes, when a +friend cries out in his distress, or we can help a poor stricken +wanderer in his way. As for good women—these, my worthy reader, are +different from us—the nature of these is to love, and to do kind +offices, and devise untiring charities:—so I would have you to know, +that, though Mr. Pendennis was _parcus suorum cultor et infrequens_, +Mrs. Laura found plenty of time to go from Westminster to Bloomsbury; +and to pay visits to her Colonel and her Clive, both of whom she had +got to love with all her heart again, now misfortune was on them; and +both of whom returned her kindness with an affection blessing the +bestower and the receiver; and making the husband proud and thankful +whose wife had earned such a noble regard. What is the dearest praise +of all to a man? his own—or that you should love those whom he loves? I +see Laura Pendennis ever constant and tender and pure, ever ministering +in her sacred office of kindness—bestowing love and followed by +blessings. Which would I have, think you; that priceless crown +hymeneal, or the glory of a Tenth Edition? + +Clive and his father had found not only a model friend in the lady +above mentioned, but a perfect prize landlady in their happy lodgings. +In her house, besides those apartments which Mr. Newcome had originally +engaged, were rooms just sufficient to accommodate his wife, child, and +servant, when they should come to him, with a very snug little upper +chamber for the Colonel, close by Boy’s nursery, where he liked best to +be. “And if there is not room for the Campaigner, as you call her,” +says Mrs. Laura, with a shrug of her shoulders, “why, I am very sorry, +but Clive must try and bear her absence as well as possible. After all, +my dear Pen, you know he is married to Rosa and not to her mamma; and +so, and so I think it will be quite best that they shall have their +_ménage_ as before.” + +The cheapness of the lodgings which the prize landlady let, the +quantity of neat new furniture which she put in, the consultations +which she had with my wife regarding these supplies, were quite +singular to me. “Have you pawned your diamonds, you reckless little +person, in order to supply all this upholstery?” “No, sir, I have not +pawned my diamonds,” Mrs. Laura answers; and I was left to think (if I +thought on the matter at all) that the landlady’s own benevolence had +provided these good things for Clive. For the wife of Laura’s husband +was perforce poor; and she asked me for no more money at this time than +at any other. + +At first, in spite of his grumbling, Clive’s affairs looked so +prosperous, and so many sitters came to him from amongst his old +friends, that I was half inclined to believe with the Colonel and my +wife, that he was a prodigious genius, and that his good fortune would +go on increasing. Laura was for having Rosey return to her husband. +Every wife ought to be with her husband. J. J. shook his head about the +prosperity. “Let us see whether the Academy will have his pictures this +year, and what a place they will give him,” said Ridley. To do him +justice, Clive thought far more humbly of his compositions than Ridley +did. Not a little touching was it to us, who had known the young men in +former days, to see them in their changed positions. It was Ridley, +whose genius and industry had put him in the rank of a patron—Ridley, +the good industrious apprentice, who had won the prize of his art—and +not one of his many admirers saluted his talent and success with such a +hearty recognition as Clive, whose generous soul knew no envy, and who +always fired and kindled at the success of his friends. + +When Mr. Clive used to go over to Boulogne from time to time to pay his +dutiful visits to his wife, the Colonel did not accompany his son, but, +during the latter’s absence, would dine with Mrs. Pendennis. + +Though the preparations were complete in Howland Street, and Clive +dutifully went over to Boulogne, Mrs. Pendennis remarked that he seemed +still to hesitate about bringing his wife to London. + +Upon this Mr. Pendennis observed that some gentlemen were not +particularly anxious about the society of their wives, and that this +pair were perhaps better apart. Upon which Mrs. Pendennis, drubbing on +the ground with a little foot, said, “Nonsense, for shame, Arthur! How +can you speak so flippantly? Did he not swear before Heaven to love and +cherish her, never to leave her, sir? Is not his _duty_ his _duty_, +sir?” (a most emphatic stamp of the foot). “Is she not his for better, +or for worse?” + +“Including the Campaigner, my dear?” says Mr. P. + +“Don’t laugh, sir! She _must_ come to him. There is no room in Howland +Street for Mrs. Mackenzie.” + +“You artful scheming creature! We have some spare rooms. Suppose we ask +Mrs. Mackenzie to come and live with us, my dear? and we could then +have the benefit of the garrison anecdotes, and mess jocularities of +your favourite, Captain Goby.” + +“I could never bear the horrid man!” cried Mrs. Pendennis. And how can +I tell why she disliked him? + +Everything being now ready for the reception of Clive’s little family, +we counselled our friend to go over to Boulogne, and bring back his +wife and child, and then to make some final stipulation with the +Campaigner. He saw, as well as we, that the presence and tyranny of +that fatal woman destroyed his father’s health and spirits—that the old +man knew no peace or comfort in her neighbourhood, and was actually +hastening to his grave under that dreadful and unremitting persecution. +Mrs. Mackenzie made Clive scarcely less wretched than his father—she +governed his household—took away his weak wife’s allegiance and +affection from him—and caused the wretchedness of every single person +round about her. They ought to live apart. If she was too poor to +subsist upon her widow’s pension, which, in truth, was but a very small +pittance, let Clive give up to her, say, the half of his wife’s income +of one hundred pounds a year. His prospects and present means of +earning money were such that he might afford to do without that portion +of his income; at any rate, he and his father would be cheaply ransomed +at that price from their imprisonment to this intolerable person. “Go, +Clive,” said his counsellors, “and bring back your wife and child, and +let us all be happy together.” For, you see, those advisers opined that +if we had written over to Mrs. Newcome—“Come”—she would have come with +the Campaigner in her suite. + +Vowing that he would behave like a man of courage—and we knew that +Clive had shown himself to be such in two or three previous +battles—Clive crossed the water to bring back his little Rosey. Our +good Colonel agreed to dine at our house during the days of his son’s +absence. I have said how beloved he was by young and old there—and he +was kind enough to say afterwards, that no woman had made him so happy +as Laura. We did not tell him—I know not from what reticence—that we +had advised Clive to offer a bribe of fifty pounds a year to Mrs. +Mackenzie; until about a fortnight after Clive’s absence, and a week +after his return, when news came that poor old Mrs. Mason was dead at +Newcome, whereupon we informed the Colonel that he had another +pensioner now in the Campaigner. + +Colonel Newcome was thankful that his dear old friend had gone out of +the world in comfort and without pain. She had made a will long since, +leaving all her goods and chattels to Thomas Newcome—but having no +money to give, the Colonel handed over these to the old lady’s faithful +attendant, Keziah. + +Although many of the Colonel’s old friends had parted from him or +quarrelled with him in consequence of the ill success of the B. B. C., +there were two old ladies who yet remained faithful to him—Miss Cann, +namely, and honest little Miss Honeyman of Brighton, who, when she +heard of the return to London of her nephew and brother-in-law, made a +railway journey to the metropolis (being the first time she ever +engaged in that kind of travelling), rustled into Clive’s apartments in +Howland Street in her neatest silks, and looking not a day older than +on that when we last beheld her; and after briskly scolding the young +man for permitting his father to enter into money affairs—of which the +poor dear Colonel was as ignorant as a baby—she gave them both to +understand that she had a little sum at her banker’s at their +disposal—and besought the Colonel to remember that her house was his, +and that she should be proud and happy to receive him as soon and as +often and for as long a time as he would honour her with his company. +“Is not my house full of your presents”—cried the stout little old +lady—“have I not reason to be grateful to all the Newcomes—yes, to all +the Newcomes;—for Miss Ethel and her family have come to me every year +for months, and I don’t quarrel with them, and I won’t, although you +do, sir? Is not this shawl—are not these jewels that I wear,” she +continued, pointing to those well-known ornaments, “my dear Colonel’s +gift? Did you not relieve my brother Charles in this country and +procure for him his place in India? Yes, my dear friend—and though you +have been imprudent in money matters, my obligations towards you, and +my gratitude, and my affection are always the same.” Thus Miss Honeyman +spoke, with somewhat of a quivering voice at the end of her little +oration, but with exceeding state and dignity—for she believed that her +investment of two hundred pounds in that unlucky B. B. C., which failed +for half a million, was a sum of considerable importance, and gave her +a right to express her opinion to the Managers. + +Clive came back from Boulogne in a week, as we have said—but he came +back without his wife, much to our alarm, and looked so exceedingly +fierce and glum when we demanded the reason of his return without his +family, that we saw wars and battles had taken place, and thought that +in this last continental campaign the Campaigner had been too much for +her friend. + +The Colonel, to whom Clive communicated, though with us the poor lad +held his tongue, told my wife what had happened:—not all the battles; +which no doubt raged at breakfast, dinner, supper, during the week of +Clive’s visit to Boulogne,—but the upshot of these engagements. Rosey, +not unwilling in her first private talk with her husband to come to +England with him and the boy, showed herself irresolute on the second +day at breakfast, when the fire was opened on both sides; cried at +dinner when fierce assaults took place, in which Clive had the +advantage; slept soundly, but besought him to be very firm, and met the +enemy at breakfast with a quaking heart; cried all that day during +which, pretty well without cease, the engagement lasted; and when Clive +might have conquered and brought her off, but the weather was windy and +the sea was rough, and he was pronounced a brute to venture on it with +a wife in Rosey’s situation. + +Behind that “situation” the widow shielded herself. She clung to her +adored child, and from that bulwark discharged abuse and satire at +Clive and his father. He could not rout her out of her position. Having +had the advantage on the first two or three days, on the four last he +was beaten, and lost ground in each action. Rosey found that in her +situation she could not part from her darling mamma. The Campaigner for +her part averred that she might be reduced to beggary; that she might +be robbed of her last farthing and swindled and cheated; that she might +see her daughter’s fortune flung away by unprincipled adventurers, and +her blessed child left without even the comforts of life; but desert +her in such a situation, she never would—no, never! Was not dear Rosa’s +health already impaired by the various shocks which she had undergone? +Did she not require every comfort, every attendance? Monster! ask the +doctor! She would stay with her darling child in spite of insult and +rudeness and vulgarity. (Rosey’s father was a King’s officer, not a +Company’s officer, thank God!) She would stay as long at least as +Rosey’s situation continued, at Boulogne, if not in London, but with +her child. They might refuse to send her money, having robbed her of +all her own, but she would pawn her gown off her back for her child. +Whimpers from Rosey—cries of “Mamma, mamma, compose +yourself,”—convulsive sobs—clenched knuckles—flashing eyes—embraces +rapidly clutched—laughs—stamps—snorts—from the dishevelled Campaigner; +grinding teeth—livid fury and repeated breakages of the third +commandment by Clive—I can fancy the whole scene. He returned to London +without his wife, and when she came she brought Mrs. Mackenzie with +her. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXV. +Founder’s Day at the Grey Friars + + +Rosey came, bringing discord and wretchedness with her to her husband, +and the sentence of death or exile to his dear old father, all of which +we foresaw—all of which Clive’s friends would have longed to +prevent—all of which were inevitable under the circumstances. Clive’s +domestic affairs were often talked over by our little set. Warrington +and F. B. knew of his unhappiness. We three had strongly opined that +the women being together at Boulogne, should stay there and live there, +Clive sending them over pecuniary aid as his means permitted. “They +must hate each other pretty well by this time,” growls George +Warrington. “Why on earth should they not part?” “What a woman that +Mrs. Mackenzie is!” cries F. B. “What an infernal tartar and catamaran! +She who was so uncommonly smiling and soft-spoken, and such a fine +woman, by jingo! What puzzles all women are!” F. B. sighed, and drowned +further reflection in beer. + +On the other side, and most strongly advocating Rosey’s return to +Clive, was Mrs. Laura Pendennis; with certain arguments for which she +had chapter and verse, and against which we of the separatist party had +no appeal. “Did he marry her only for the days of her prosperity?” +asked Laura. “Is it right, is it manly, that he should leave her now +she is unhappy—poor little creature—no woman had ever more need of +protection; and who should be her natural guardian save her husband? +Surely, Arthur, you forget—have you forgotten them yourself, sir?—the +solemn vows which Clive made at the altar. Is he not bound to his wife +to keep only unto her so long as they both shall live, to love and +comfort her, honour her, and keep her in sickness and health?” + +“To keep her, yes—but not to keep the Campaigner,” cries Mr. Pendennis. +“It is a moral bigamy, Laura, which you advocate, you wicked, immoral +young woman!” + +But Laura, though she smiled at this notion, would not be put off from +her first proposition. Turning to Clive, who was with us, talking over +his doleful family circumstances, she took his hand, and pleaded the +cause of right and religion with sweet artless fervour. She agreed with +us that it was a hard lot for Clive to bear. So much the nobler the +task, and the fulfilment of duty in enduring it. A few months too would +put an end to his trials. When his child was born Mrs. Mackenzie would +take her departure. It would even be Clive’s duty to separate from her +then, as it now was to humour his wife in her delicate condition, and +to soothe the poor soul who had had a great deal of ill-health, of +misfortune, of domestic calamity to wear and shatter her. Clive +acquiesced with a groan, but—with a touching and generous resignation +as we both thought. “She is right, Pen,” he said, “I think your wife is +always right. I will try, Laura, and bear my part, God help me! I will +do my duty and strive my best to soothe and gratify my poor dear little +woman. They will be making caps and things, and will not interrupt me +in my studio. Of nights I can go to Clipstone Street and work at the +Life. There’s nothing like the Life, Pen. So you see I shan’t be much +at home except at meal-times, when by nature I shall have my mouth +full, and no opportunity of quarrelling with poor Mrs. Mac.” So he went +home, followed and cheered by the love and pity of my dear wife, and +determined stoutly to bear this heavy yoke which fate had put on him. + +To do Mrs. Mackenzie justice, that lady backed up with all her might +the statement which my wife had put forward, with a view of soothing +poor Clive, viz., that the residence of his mother-in-law in his house +was only to be temporary. “Temporary!” cries Mrs. Mac (who was kind +enough to make a call on Mrs. Pendennis, and treat that lady to a piece +of her mind). “Do you suppose, madam, that it could be otherwise? Do +you suppose that worlds would induce me to stay in a house where I have +received such _treatment;_ where, after I and my daughter had been +robbed of every shilling of our fortune, where we are daily insulted by +Colonel Newcome and his son? Do you suppose, ma’am, that I do not know +that Clive’s friends hate me, and give themselves airs and look down +upon my darling child, and try and make differences between my sweet +Rosa and me—Rosa who might have been dead, or might have been starving, +but that her dear mother came to her rescue? No, I would never stay. I +loathe every day that I remain in the house—I would rather beg my +bread—I would rather sweep the streets and starve—though, thank God, I +have my pension as the widow of an officer in Her Majesty’s Service, +and I can live upon that—and of _that_ Colonel Newcome _cannot_ rob me; +and when my darling love needs a mother’s care no longer, I will leave +her. I will shake the dust off my feet and leave that house. I will—And +Mr. Newcome’s friends may then sneer at me and abuse me, and blacken my +darling child’s heart towards me if they choose. And I thank you, Mrs. +Pendennis, for all your _kindness_ towards my daughter’s family, and +for the furniture which you have sent into the house, and for the +_trouble_ you have taken about our family arrangements. It was for this +I took the liberty of calling upon you, and I wish you a very good +morning.” So speaking, the Campaigner left my wife; and Mrs. Pendennis +enacted the pleasing scene with great spirit to her husband afterwards, +concluding the whole with a splendid curtsey and toss of the head, such +as Mrs. Mackenzie performed as her parting salute. + +Our dear Colonel had fled before. He had acquiesced humbly with the +decree of fate; and, lonely, old and beaten, marched honestly on the +path of duty. It was a great blessing, he wrote to us, to him to think +that in happier days and during many years he had been enabled to +benefit his kind and excellent relative, Miss Honeyman. He could +thankfully receive her hospitality now, and claim the kindness and +shelter which this old friend gave him. No one could be more anxious to +make him comfortable. The air of Brighton did him the greatest good; he +had found some old friends, some old Bengalees there, with whom he +enjoyed himself greatly, etc. How much did we, who knew his noble +spirit, believe of this story? To us Heaven had awarded health, +happiness, competence, loving children, united hearts, and modest +prosperity. To yonder good man, whose long life shone with +benefactions, and whose career was but kindness and honour, fate +decreed poverty, disappointment, separation, a lonely old age. We bowed +our heads, humiliated at the contrast of his lot and ours; and prayed +Heaven to enable us to bear our present good fortune meekly, and our +evil days, if they should come, with such a resignation as this good +Christian showed. + +I forgot to say that our attempts to better Thomas Newcome’s money +affairs were quite in vain, the Colonel insisting upon paying over +every shilling of his military allowances and retiring pension to the +parties from whom he had borrowed money previous to his bankruptcy. +“Ah! what a good man that is,” says Mr. Sherrick with tears in his +eyes, “what a noble fellow, sir! He would die rather than not pay every +farthing over. He’d starve, sir, that he would. The money ain’t mine, +sir, or if it was do you think I’d take it from the poor old boy? No, +sir; by Jove! I honour and reverence him more now he ain’t got a +shilling in his pocket, than ever I did when we thought he was +a-rolling in money.” + +My wife made one or two efforts at Samaritan visits in Howland Street, +but was received by Mrs. Clive with such a faint welcome, and by the +Campaigner with so grim a countenance, so many sneers, innuendoes, +insults almost, that Laura’s charity was beaten back, and she ceased to +press good offices thus thanklessly received. If Clive came to visit +us, as he very rarely did, after an official question or two regarding +the health of his wife and child, no further mention was made of his +family affairs. His painting, he said, was getting on tolerably well; +he had work, scantily paid it is true, but work sufficient. He was +reserved, uncommunicative, unlike the frank Clive of former times, and +oppressed by his circumstances, as it was easy to see. I did not press +the confidence which he was unwilling to offer, and thought best to +respect his silence. I had a thousand affairs of my own; who has not in +London? If you die to-morrow, your dearest friend will feel for you a +hearty pang of sorrow, and go to his business as usual. I could divine, +but would not care to describe, the life which my poor Clive was now +leading; the vulgar misery, the sordid home, the cheerless toil, and +lack of friendly companionship which darkened his kind soul. I was glad +Clive’s father was away. The Colonel wrote to us twice or thrice; could +it be three months ago?—bless me, how time flies! He was happy, he +wrote, with Miss Honeyman, who took the best care of him. + +Mention has been made once or twice in the course of this history of +the Grey Friars school,—where the Colonel and Clive and I had been +brought up,—an ancient foundation of the time of James I., still +subsisting in the heart of London city. The death-day of the founder of +the place is still kept solemnly by Cistercians. In their chapel, where +assemble the boys of the school, and the fourscore old men of the +Hospital, the founder’s tomb stands, a huge edifice: emblazoned with +heraldic decorations and clumsy carved allegories. There is an old +Hall, a beautiful specimen of the architecture of James’s time; an old +Hall? many old halls; old staircases, passages, old chambers decorated +with old portraits, walking in the midst of which we walk as it were in +the early seventeenth century. To others than Cistercians, Grey Friars +is a dreary place possibly. Nevertheless, the pupils educated there +love to revisit it; and the oldest of us grow young again for an hour +or two as we come back into those scenes of childhood. + +The custom of the school is, that on the 12th of December, the +Founder’s Day, the head gown-boy shall recite a Latin oration, in +praise of _Fundatoris Nostri_, and upon other subjects; and a goodly +company of old Cistercians is generally brought together to attend this +oration: after which we go to chapel and hear a sermon; after which we +adjourn to a great dinner, where old condisciples meet, old toasts are +given, and speeches are made. Before marching from the oration-hall to +chapel, the stewards of the day’s dinner, according to old-fashioned +rite, have wands put into their hands, walk to church at the head of +the procession, and sit there in places of honour. The boys are already +in their seats, with smug fresh faces, and shining white collars; the +old black-gowned pensioners are on their benches; the chapel is +lighted, and Founder’s Tomb, with its grotesque carvings, monsters, +heraldries, darkles and shines with the most wonderful shadows and +lights. There he lies, Fundator Noster, in his ruff and gown, awaiting +the great Examination Day. We oldsters, be we ever so old, become boys +again as we look at that familiar old tomb, and think how the seats are +altered since we were here, and how the doctor—not the present doctor, +the doctor of our time—used to sit yonder, and his awful eye used to +frighten us shuddering boys, on whom it lighted; and how the boy next +us _would_ kick our shins during service time, and how the monitor +would cane us afterwards because our shins were kicked. Yonder sit +forty cherry-cheeked boys, thinking about home and holidays to-morrow. +Yonder sit some threescore old gentlemen pensioners of the hospital, +listening to the prayers and the psalms. You hear them coughing feebly +in the twilight,—the old reverend blackgowns. Is Codd Ajax alive, you +wonder?—the Cistercian lads called these old gentlemen Codds, I know +not wherefore—I know not wherefore—but is old Codd Ajax alive, I +wonder? or Codd Soldier? or kind old Codd Gentleman, or has the grave +closed over them? A plenty of candles lights up this chapel, and this +scene of age and youth, and early memories, and pompous death. How +solemn the well-remembered prayers are, here uttered again in the place +wherein childhood we used to hear them! How beautiful and decorous the +rite; how noble the ancient words of the supplications which the priest +utters, and to which generations of fresh children and troops of bygone +seniors have cried Amen! under those arches! The service for Founder’s +Day is a special one; one of the psalms selected being the +thirty-seventh, and we hear— + +23. The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord: and he delighteth +in his way. +24. Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the Lord +upholdeth him with his hand. +25. I have been young, and now am old: yet have I not seen the +righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread. + + +As we came to this verse, I chanced to look up from my book towards the +swarm of black-coated pensioners: and amongst them—amongst them—sate +Thomas Newcome. + +His dear old head was bent down over his prayer-book—there was no +mistaking him. He wore the black gown of the pensioners of the Hospital +of Grey Friars. His order of the Bath was on his breast. He stood there +amongst the poor brethren, uttering the responses to the psalm. The +steps of this good man had been ordered him hither by Heaven’s decree: +to this almshouse! Here it was ordained that a life all love, and +kindness, and honour, should end! I heard no more of prayers, and +psalms, and sermon, after that. How dared I to be in a place of mark, +and he, he yonder among the poor? Oh, pardon, you noble soul! I ask +forgiveness of you for being of a world that has so treated you—you my +better, you the honest, and gentle, and good! I thought the service +would never end, or the organist’s voluntaries, or the preacher’s +homily. + +The organ played us out of chapel at length, and I waited in the +ante-chapel until the pensioners took their turn to quit it. My dear, +dear old friend! I ran to him with a warmth and eagerness of +recognition which no doubt showed themselves in my face and accents, as +my heart was moved at the sight of him. His own face flushed up when he +saw me, and his hand shook in mine. “I have found a home, Arthur,” said +he. “Don’t you remember before I went to India, when we came to see the +old Grey Friars, and visited Captain Scarsdale in his room?—a poor +brother like me—an old Peninsular man. Scarsdale is gone now, sir, and +is where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest; and +I thought then, when we saw him,—here would be a place for an old +fellow when his career was over, to hang his sword up; to humble his +soul, and to wait thankfully for the end. Arthur. My good friend, Lord +H., who is a Cistercian like ourselves, and has just been appointed a +governor, gave me his first nomination. Don’t be agitated, Arthur my +boy, I am very happy. I have good quarters, good food, good light and +fire, and good friends; blessed be God! my dear kind young friend—my +boy’s friend; you have always been so, sir; and I take it uncommonly +kind of you, and I thank God for you, sir. Why, sir, I am as happy as +the day is long.” He uttered words to this effect as he walked through +the courts of the building towards his room, which in truth I found +neat and comfortable, with a brisk fire crackling on the hearth; a +little tea-table laid out, a Bible and spectacles by the side of it, +and over the mantelpiece a drawing of his grandson by Clive. + +“You may come and see me here, sir, whenever you like, and so may your +dear wife and little ones, tell Laura, with my love;—but you must not +stay now. You must go back to your dinner.” In vain I pleaded that I +had no stomach for it. He gave me a look, which seemed to say he +desired to be alone, and I had to respect that order and leave him. + +Of course I came to him on the very next day; though not with my wife +and children, who were in truth absent in the country at Rosebury, +where they were to pass the Christmas holidays; and where, this +school-dinner over, I was to join them. On my second visit to Grey +Friars my good friend entered more at length into the reasons why he +had assumed the Poor Brother’s gown; and I cannot say but that I +acquiesced in his reasons, and admired that noble humility and +contentedness of which he gave me an example. + +“That which had caused him most grief and pain,” he said, “in the issue +of that unfortunate bank, was the thought that poor friends of his had +been induced by his representations to invest their little capital in +that speculation. Good Miss Honeyman, for instance, meaning no harm, +and in all respects a most honest and kindly-disposed old lady, had +nevertheless alluded more than once to the fact that her money had been +thrown away; and these allusions, sir, made her hospitality somewhat +hard to bear,” said the Colonel. “At home—at poor Clivey’s, I mean—it +was even worse,” he continued; “Mrs. Mackenzie for months past, by her +complaints, and—and her conduct, has made my son and me so +miserable—that flight before her, and into any refuge, was the best +course. She too does not mean ill, Pen. Do not waste any of your oaths +upon that poor woman,” he added, holding up his finger, and smiling +sadly. “She thinks I deceived her, though Heaven knows it was myself I +deceived. She has great influence over Rosa. Very few persons can +resist that violent and headstrong woman, sir. I could not bear her +reproaches, or my poor sick daughter, whom her mother leads almost +entirely now, and it was with all this grief on my mind, that, as I was +walking one day upon Brighton cliff, I met my schoolfellow, my Lord +H——, who has ever been a good friend of mine—and who told me how he had +just been appointed a governor of Grey Friars. He asked me to dine with +him on the next day, and would take no refusal. He knew of my pecuniary +misfortunes, of course—and showed himself most noble and liberal in his +offers of help. I was very much touched by his goodness, Pen,—and made +a clean breast of it to his lordship; who at first would not hear of my +coming to this place—and offered me out of the purse of an old +brother-schoolfellow and an old brother soldier as much—as much as +should last me my time. Wasn’t it noble of him, Arthur? God bless him! +There are good men in the world, sir, there are true friends, as I have +found in these later days. Do you know, sir”—here the old man’s eyes +twinkled,—“that Fred Bayham fixed up that bookcase yonder—and brought +me my little boy’s picture to hang up? Boy and Clive will come and see +me soon.” + +“Do you mean they do not come?” I cried. + +“They don’t know I am here, sir,” said the Colonel, with a sweet, kind +smile. “They think I am visiting his lordship in Scotland. Ah! they are +good people! When we had had a talk downstairs over our bottle of +claret—where my old commander-in-chief would not hear of my plan—we +went upstairs to her ladyship, who saw that her husband was disturbed, +and asked the reason. I dare say it was the good claret that made me +speak, sir; for I told her that I and her husband had had a dispute and +that I would take her ladyship for umpire. And then I told her the +story over, that I had paid away every rupee to the creditors, and +mortgaged my pensions and retiring allowances for the same end, that I +was a burden upon Clivey, who had enough, poor boy, to keep his own +family, and his wife’s mother, whom my imprudence had +impoverished,—that here was an honourable asylum which my friend could +procure for me, and was not that better than to drain his purse? She +was very much moved, sir—she is a very kind lady, though she passed for +being very proud and haughty in India—so wrongly are people judged. And +Lord H. said, in his rough way, ‘that, by Jove, if Tom Newcome took a +thing into his obstinate old head no one could drive it out.’ And so,” +said the Colonel, with his sad smile, “I _had_ my own way. Lady H. was +good enough to come and see me the very next day—and do you know, Pen, +she invited me to go and live with them for the rest of my life—made me +the most generous, the most delicate offers. But I knew I was right, +and held my own. I am too old to work, Arthur: and better here whilst I +am to stay, than elsewhere. Look! all this furniture came from H. +House—and that wardrobe is full of linen, which she sent me. She has +been twice to see me, and every officer in this hospital is as +courteous to me as if I had my fine house.” + +I thought of the psalm we had heard on the previous evening, and turned +to it in the opened Bible, and pointed to the verse, “Though he fall, +he shall not be utterly cast down: for the Lord upholdeth him.” Thomas +Newcome seeing my occupation, laid a kind, trembling hand on my +shoulder; and then, putting on his glasses, with a smile bent over the +volume. And who that saw him then, and knew him and loved him as I +did—who would not have humbled his own heart, and breathed his inward +prayer, confessing and adoring the Divine Will, which ordains these +trials, these triumphs, these humiliations, these blest griefs, this +crowning Love? + +I had the happiness of bringing Clive and his little boy to Thomas +Newcome that evening; and heard the child’s cry of recognition and +surprise, and the old man calling the boy’s name, as I closed the door +upon that meeting; and by the night’s mail I went down to Newcome, to +the friends with whom my own family was already staying. + +Of course, my conscience-keeper at Rosebury was anxious to know about +the school-dinner, and all the speeches made, and the guests assembled +there; but she soon ceased to inquire about these when I came to give +her the news of the discovery of our dear old friend in the habit of a +Poor Brother of Grey Friars. She was very glad to hear that Clive and +his little son had been reunited to the Colonel; and appeared to +imagine at first, that there was some wonderful merit upon my part in +bringing the three together. + +“Well—no great merit, Pen, as you _will_ put it,” says the Confessor; +“but it was kindly thought, sir—and I like my husband when he is kind +best; and don’t wonder at your having made a stupid speech at the +dinner, as you say you did, when you had this other subject to think +of. That is a beautiful psalm, Pen, and those verses which you were +reading when you saw him, especially beautiful.” + +“But in the presence of eighty old gentlemen, who have all come to +decay, and have all had to beg their bread in a manner, don’t you think +the clergyman might choose some other psalm?” asks Mr. Pendennis. + +“They were not forsaken _utterly_, Arthur,” says Mrs. Laura, gravely: +but rather declines to argue the point raised by me; namely, that the +selection of that especial thirty-seventh psalm was not complimentary +to those decayed old gentlemen. + +“_All_ the psalms are good, sir,” she says, “and this one, of course, +is included,” and thus the discussion closed. + +I then fell to a description of Howland Street, and poor Clive, whom I +had found there over his work. A dubious maid scanned my appearance +rather eagerly when I asked to see him. I found a picture-dealer +chaffering with him over a bundle of sketches, and his little boy, +already pencil in hand, lying in one corner of the room, the sun +playing about his yellow hair. The child looked languid and pale, the +father worn and ill. When the dealer at length took his bargains away, +I gradually broke my errand to Clive, and told him from whence I had +just come. + +He had thought his father in Scotland with Lord H.: and was immensely +moved with the news which I brought. + +“I haven’t written to him for a month. It’s not pleasant the letters I +have to write, Pen, and I can’t make them pleasant. Up, Tommykin, and +put on your cap.” Tommykin jumps up. “Put on your cap, and tell them to +take off your pinafore, tell grandmamma——” + +At that name Tommykin begins to cry. + +“Look at that!” says Clive, commencing to speak in the French language, +which the child interrupts by calling out in that tongue. “I speak also +French, papa.” + +“Well, my child! You will like to come out with papa, and Betsy can +dress you.” He flings off his own paint-stained shooting-jacket as he +talks, takes a frock-coat out of a carved wardrobe, and a hat from a +helmet on the shelf. He is no longer the handsome splendid boy of old +times. Can that be Clive, with that haggard face and slouched +handkerchief? “I am not the dandy I was, Pen,” he says bitterly. + +A little voice is heard crying overhead—and giving a kind of gasp the +wretched father stops in some indifferent speech he was trying to make. +“I can’t help myself,” he groans out; “my wife is so ill, she can’t +attend to the child. Mrs. Mackenzie manages the house for me—and—here! +Tommy, Tommy! papa is coming!” Tommy has been crying again; and +flinging open the studio door, Clive calls out, and dashes upstairs. + +I hear scuffling, stamping, loud voices, poor Tommy’s scared little +pipe—Clive’s fierce objurgations, and the Campaigner’s voice barking +out—“Do, sir, do! with my child suffering in the next room. Behave like +a brute to me, do. He shall not go! He shall not have the hat”—“He +shall”—“Ah—ah!” A scream is heard. It is Clive tearing a child’s hat +out of the Campaigner’s hands, with which, and a flushed face, he +presently rushes downstairs, bearing little Tommy on his shoulder. + +“You see what I am come to, Pen,” he says with a heartbroken voice, +trying, with hands all of a tremble, to tie the hat on the boy’s head. +He laughs bitterly at the ill success of his endeavours. “Oh, you silly +papa!” laughs Tommy, too. + +The door is flung open, and the red-faced Campaigner appears. Her face +is mottled with wrath, her bandeaux of hair are disarranged upon her +forehead, the ornaments of her cap, cheap, and dirty, and numerous, +only give her a wilder appearance. She is in a large and dingy wrapper, +very different from the lady who had presented herself a few months +back to my wife—how different from the smiling Mrs. Mackenzie of old +days! + +“He shall not go out of a winter day, sir,” she breaks out. “I have his +mother’s orders, whom you are _killing_. Mr. Pendennis!” She starts, +perceiving me for the first time, and her breast heaves, and she +prepares for combat, and looks at me over her shoulder. + +“You and his father are the best judges upon this point, ma’am,” said +Mr. Pendennis, with a bow. + +“The child is delicate, sir,” cries Mrs. Mackenzie; “and this winter——” + +“Enough of this,” says Clive with a stamp, and passes through her guard +with Tommy, and we descend the stairs, and at length are in the free +street. Was it not best not to describe at full length this portion of +poor Clive’s history? + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVI. +Christmas at Rosebury + + +We have known our friend Florac under two aristocratic names, and might +now salute him by a third, to which he was entitled, although neither +he nor his wife ever chose to assume it. His father was lately dead, +and M. Paul de Florac might sign himself Duc d’Ivry if he chose, but he +was indifferent as to the matter, and his wife’s friends indignant at +the idea that their kinswoman, after having been a Princess, should +descend to the rank of a mere Duchess. So Prince and Princess these +good folks remained, being exceptions to that order, inasmuch as their +friends could certainly put their trust in them. + +On his father’s death Florac went to Paris, to settle the affairs of +the paternal succession; and, having been for some time absent in his +native country, returned to Rosebury for the winter, to resume that +sport of which he was a distinguished amateur. He hunted in black +during the ensuing season; and, indeed, henceforth laid aside his +splendid attire and his _allures_ as a young man. His waist expanded, +or was no longer confined by the cestus which had given it a shape. +When he laid aside his black, his whiskers, too, went into a sort of +half-mourning, and appeared in grey. “I make myself old, my friend,” he +said, pathetically; “I have no more neither twenty years nor forty.” He +went to Rosebury Church no more; but, with great order and sobriety, +drove every Sunday to the neighbouring Catholic chapel at C—— Castle. +We had an ecclesiastic or two to dine with us at Rosebury, one of whom +I inclined to think was Florac’s director. + +A reason, perhaps, for Paul’s altered demeanour, was the presence of +his mother at Rosebury. No politeness or respect could be greater than +Paul’s towards the Countess. Had she been a sovereign princess, Madame +de Florac could not have been treated with more profound courtesy than +she now received from her son. I think the humble-minded lady could +have dispensed with some of his attentions; but Paul was a personage +who demonstrated all his sentiments, and performed his various parts in +life with the greatest vigour. As a man of pleasure, for instance, what +more active roué than he? As a _jeune homme_, who could be younger, and +for a longer time? As a country gentleman, or an _homme d’affaires_, he +insisted upon dressing each character with the most rigid accuracy, and +an exactitude that reminded one somewhat of Bouffé, or Ferville, at the +play. I wonder whether, when is he quite old, he will think proper to +wear a pigtail, like his old father? At any rate, that was a good part +which the kind fellow was now acting, of reverence towards his widowed +mother, and affectionate respect for her declining days. He not only +felt these amiable sentiments, but he imparted them to his friends most +freely, as his wont was. He used to weep freely,—quite unrestrained by +the presence of the domestics, as English sentiment would be:—and when +Madame de Florac quitted the room after dinner, would squeeze my hand +and tell me with streaming eyes, that his mother was an angel. “Her +life has been but a long trial, my friend,” he would say. “Shall not I, +who have caused her to shed so many tears, endeavour to dry some?” Of +course the friends who liked him best encouraged him in an intention so +pious. + +The reader has already been made acquainted with this lady by the +letters of hers, which came into my possession some time after the +events which I am at present narrating: my wife, through our kind +friend, Colonel Newcome, had also had the honour of an introduction to +Madame de Florac at Paris; and, on coming to Rosebury for the Christmas +holidays, I found Laura and the children greatly in favour with the +good Countess. She treated her son’s wife with a perfect though distant +courtesy. She was thankful to Madame de Moncontour for the latter’s +great goodness to her son. Familiar with but very few persons, she +could scarcely be intimate with her homely daughter-in-law. Madame de +Moncontour stood in the greatest awe of her; and, to do that good lady +justice, admired and reverenced Paul’s mother with all her simple +heart. In truth, I think almost every one had a certain awe of Madame +de Florac, except children, who came to her trustingly, and, as it +were, by instinct. The habitual melancholy of her eyes vanished as they +lighted upon young faces and infantile smiles. A sweet love beamed out +of her countenance: an angelic smile shone over her face, as she bent +towards them and caressed them. Her demeanour then, nay, her looks and +ways at other times;—a certain gracious sadness, a sympathy with all +grief, and pity for all pain; a gentle heart, yearning towards all +children; and, for her own especially, feeling a love that was almost +an anguish: in the affairs of the common world only a dignified +acquiescence, as if her place was not in it, and her thoughts were in +her Home elsewhere;—these qualities, which we had seen exemplified in +another life, Laura and her husband watched in Madame de Florac, and we +loved her because she was like our mother. I see in such women, the +good and pure, the patient and faithful, the tried and meek, the +followers of Him whose earthly life was divinely sad and tender. + +But, good as she was to us and to all, Ethel Newcome was the French +lady’s greatest favourite. A bond of extreme tenderness and affection +united these two. The elder friend made constant visits to the younger +at Newcome; and when Miss Newcome, as she frequently did, came to +Rosebury, we used to see that they preferred to be alone; divining and +respecting the sympathy which brought those two faithful hearts +together. I can imagine now the two tall forms slowly pacing the garden +walks, or turning, as they lighted on the young ones in their play. +What was their talk! I never asked it. Perhaps Ethel never said what +was in her heart, though, be sure, the other knew it. Though the grief +of those they love is untold, women hear it; as they soothe it with +unspoken consolations. To see the elder lady embrace her friend as they +parted was something holy—a sort of saintlike salutation. + +Consulting the person from whom I had no secrets, we had thought best +at first not to mention to our friends the place and position in which +we had found our dear Colonel; at least to wait for a fitting +opportunity on which we might break the news to those who held him in +such affection. I told how Clive was hard at work, and hoped the best +for him. Good-natured Madame de Moncontour was easily satisfied with my +replies to her questions concerning our friend. Ethel only asked if he +and her uncle were well, and once or twice made inquiries respecting +Rosa and her child. And now it was that my wife told me, what I need no +longer keep secret, of Ethel’s extreme anxiety to serve her distressed +relatives, and how she, Laura, had already acted as Miss Newcome’s +almoner in furnishing and hiring those apartments, which Ethel believed +were occupied by Clive and his father, and wife and child. And my wife +further informed me with what deep grief Ethel had heard of her uncle’s +misfortune, and how, but that she feared to offend his pride, she +longed to give him assistance. She had even ventured to offer to send +him pecuniary help; but the Colonel (who never mentioned the +circumstance to me or any other of his friends), in a kind but very cold +letter, had declined to be beholden to his niece for help. + +So I may have remained some days at Rosebury, and the real position of +the two Newcomes was unknown to our friends there. Christmas Eve was +come, and, according to a long-standing promise, Ethel Newcome and her +two children had arrived from the Park, which dreary mansion, since his +double defeat, Sir Barnes scarcely ever visited. Christmas was come, +and Rosebury hall was decorated with holly. Florac did his best to +welcome his friends, and strove to make the meeting gay, though in +truth it was rather melancholy. The children, however, were happy: and +they had pleasure enough, in the school festival, in the distribution +of cloaks and blankets to the poor, and in Madame de Moncontour’s +gardens, delightful and beautiful though the winter was there. + +It was only a family meeting, Madame de Florac’s widowhood not +permitting her presence in large companies. Paul sate at his table +between his mother and Mrs. Pendennis; Mr. Pendennis opposite to him, +with Ethel and Madame de Moncontour on each side. The four children +were placed between these personages, on whom Madame de Florac looked +with her tender glances, and to whose little wants the kindest of hosts +ministered with uncommon good-nature and affection. He was very +soft-hearted about children. “Pourquoi n’en avons-nous pas, Jeanne? He! +quoi n’en avons-nous pas?” he said, addressing his wife by her +Christian name. The poor little lady looked kindly at her husband, and +then gave a sigh, and turned and heaped cake upon the plate of the +child next to her. No mamma or Aunt Ethel could interpose. It was a +very light wholesome cake. Brown made it on purpose for the children, +“the little darlings!” cries the Princess. + +The children were very happy at being allowed to sit up so late to +dinner, at all the kindly amusements of the day, at the holly and +mistletoe clustering round the lamps—the mistletoe, under which the +gallant Florac, skilled in all British usages, vowed he would have his +privilege. But the mistletoe was clustered round the lamp, the lamp was +over the centre of the great round table—the innocent gratification +which he proposed to himself was denied to M. Paul. + +In the greatest excitement and good-humour, our host at the dessert +made us _des speech_. He carried a toast to the charming Ethel, another +to the charming Mistriss Laura, another to his good fren’, his brave +frren’, his ’appy fren’, Pendennis—’appy as possessor of such a wife, +’appy as writer of works destined to the immortality, etc. etc. The +little children round about clapped their happy little hands, and +laughed and crowed in chorus. And now the nursery and its guardians +were about to retreat, when Florac said he had yet a speech, yet a +toast—and he bade the butler pour wine into every one’s glass—yet a +toast—and he carried it to the health of our dear friends, of Clive and +his father,—the good, the brave Colonel! “We who are happy,” says he, +“shall we not think of those who are good? We who love each other, +shall we not remember those whom we all love?” He spoke with very great +tenderness and feeling. “Ma bonne mere, thou too shalt drink this +toast!” he said, taking his mother’s hand, and kissing it. She returned +his caress gently, and tasted the wine with her pale lips. Ethel’s head +bent in silence over her glass; and, as for Laura, need I say what +happened to her! When the ladies went away my heart was opened to my +friend Florac, and I told him where and how I had left my dear Clive’s +father. + +The Frenchman’s emotion on hearing this tale was such that I have loved +him ever since. Clive in want! Why had he not sent to his friend? +Grands Dieux! Clive who had helped him in his greatest distress! +Clive’s father, ce _preux chevalier, ce parfait gentilhomme!_ In a +hundred rapid exclamations Florac exhibited his sympathy, asking of +Fate, why such men as he and I were sitting surrounded by +splendours—before golden vases crowned with flowers—with valets to kiss +our feet—(those were merely figures of speech in which Paul expressed +his prosperity)—whilst our friend the Colonel, so much better than we, +spent his last days in poverty, and alone. + +I liked Florac none the less, I own, because that one of the conditions +of the Colonel’s present life, which appeared the hardest to most +people, affected Florac but little. To be a Pensioner of an Ancient +Institution? Why not? Might not a man retire without shame to the +Invalides at the close of his campaigns, and, had not Fortune conquered +our old friend, and age and disaster overcome him? It never once +entered Thomas Newcome’s head; nor Clive’s, nor Florac’s, nor his +mother’s, that the Colonel demeaned himself at all by accepting that +bounty; and I recollect Warrington sharing our sentiment and trowling +out those noble lines of the old poet:— + +“His golden locks time hath to silver turned; + O time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! +His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurned, + But spurned in vain; youth waneth by encreasing. +Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen. +Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. + +“His helmet now shall make a hive for bees, + And lovers’ songs be turned to holy psalms; +A man at arms must now serve on his knees, + And feed on prayers, which are old age’s alms.” + + +These, I say, respected our friend, whatever was the coat he wore; +whereas, among the Colonel’s own kinsfolk, dire was the dismay, and +indignation even, which they expressed when they came to hear of this, +what they were pleased to call degradation to their family. Clive’s +dear mother-in-law made outcries over the good old man as over a +pauper, and inquired of Heaven, what she had done that her blessed +child should have a mendicant for a father? And Mrs. Hobson, in +subsequent confidential communication with the writer of these memoirs, +improved the occasion religiously as her wont was; referred the matter +to Heaven too, and thought fit to assume that the celestial powers had +decreed this _humiliation_, this _dreadful trial_ for the Newcome +family, as a warning to them all that they should not be too much +puffed up with prosperity, nor set their affections too much upon +things of this earth. Had they not already received _one_ chastisement +in Barnes’s punishment, and Lady Clara’s awful falling away? They had +taught her a lesson, which the Colonel’s _lamentable errors_ had +_confirmed_,—the vanity of trusting in all earthly grandeurs! Thus it +was this worthy woman plumed herself, as it were, on her relative’s +misfortunes; and was pleased to think the latter were designed for the +special warning and advantage of her private family. But Mrs. Hobson’s +philosophy is only mentioned by the way. Our story, which is drawing to +its close, has to busy itself with other members of the house of The +Newcomes. + +My talk with Florac lasted for some time: at its close, when we went to +join the ladies in the drawing-room, we found Ethel cloaked and +shawled, and prepared for her departure with her young ones, who were +already asleep. The little festival was over, and had ended in +melancholy—even in weeping. Our hostess sate in her accustomed seat by +her lamp and her worktable; but, neglecting her needle, she was having +perpetual recourse to her pocket-handkerchief, and uttering +ejaculations of pity between the intervals of her gushes of tears. +Madame de Florac was in her usual place, her head cast downwards, and +her hands folded. My wife was at her side, a grave commiseration +showing itself in Laura’s countenance, whilst I read a yet deeper +sadness in Ethel’s pale face. Miss Newcome’s carriage had been +announced; the attendants had already carried the young ones asleep to +the vehicle; and she was in the act of taking leave. We looked round at +this disturbed party, guessing very likely what the subject of their +talk had been, to which, however, Miss Ethel did not allude: but, +announcing that she had intended to depart without disturbing the two +gentlemen, she bade us farewell and good night. “I wish I could say a +merry Christmas,” she added gravely, “but none of us, I fear, can hope +for that.” It was evident that Laura had told the last chapter of the +Colonel’s story. + +Madame de Florac rose up and embraced Miss Newcome, and, that farewell +over, she sank back on the sofa exhausted, and with such an expression +of affliction in her countenance, that my wife ran eagerly towards her. +“It is nothing, my dear,” she said, giving a cold hand to the younger +lady, and sate silent for a few moments, during which we heard Florac’s +voice without crying Adieu! and the wheels of Miss Newcome’s carriage +when it drove away. + +Our host entered a moment afterwards; and remarking, as Laura had done, +his mother’s pallor and look of anguish, went up and spoke to her with +the utmost tenderness and anxiety. + +She gave her hand to her son, and a faint blush rose up out of the past +as it were, and trembled upon her wan cheek. “He was the first friend I +ever had in the world, Paul,” she said “the first and the best. He +shall not want, shall he, my son?” + +No signs of that emotion in which her daughter-in-law had been +indulging were as yet visible in Madame de Florac’s eyes, but, as she +spoke, holding her son’s hand in hers, the tears at length overflowed, +and with a sob, her head fell forwards. The impetuous Frenchman flung +himself on his knees before his mother, uttered a hundred words of love +and respect for her, and with tears and sobs of his own called God to +witness that their friend should never want. And so this mother and son +embraced each other, and clung together in a sacred union of love, +before which we who had been admitted as spectators of that scene, +stood hushed and respectful. + +That night Laura told me, how, when the ladies left us, the talk had +been entirely about the Colonel and Clive. Madame de Florac had spoken +especially, and much more freely than was her wont. She had told many +reminiscences of Thomas Newcome, and his early days; how her father +taught him mathematics when they were quite poor, and living in their +dear little cottage at Blackheath; how handsome he was then, with +bright eyes, and long black hair flowing over his shoulders; how +military glory was his boyish passion, and he was for ever talking of +India, and the famous deeds of Clive and Lawrence. His favourite book +was a history of India—the history of Orme. “He read it, and I read it +also, my daughter,” the French lady said, turning to Ethel; “ah! I may +say so after so many years.” + +Ethel remembered the book as belonging to her grandmother, and now in +the library at Newcome. Doubtless the same sympathy which caused me to +speak about Thomas Newcome that evening, impelled my wife likewise. She +told her friends, as I had told Florac, all the Colonel’s story; and it +was while these good women were under the impression of the melancholy +history, that Florac and his guest found them. + +Retired to our rooms, Laura and I talked on the same subject until the +clock tolled Christmas, and the neighbouring church bells rang out a +jubilation. And, looking out into the quiet night, where the stars were +keenly shining, we committed ourselves to rest with humbled hearts; +praying, for all those we loved, a blessing of peace and goodwill. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVII. +The Shortest and Happiest in the Whole History + + +In the ensuing Christmas morning I chanced to rise betimes, and +entering my dressing-room, opened the windows and looked out on the +soft landscape, over which mists were still lying; whilst the serene +sky above, and the lawns and leafless woods in the foreground near, +were still pink with sunrise. The grey had not even left the west yet, +and I could see a star or two twinkling there, to vanish with that +twilight. + +As I looked out, I saw the not very distant lodge-gate open after a +brief parley, and a lady on horseback, followed by a servant, rode +rapidly up to the house. This early visitor was no other than Miss +Ethel Newcome. The young lady espied me immediately. “Come down; come +down to me this moment, Mr. Pendennis,” she cried out. I hastened down +to her, supposing rightly that news of importance had brought her to +Rosebury so early. + +The news were of importance indeed. “Look here!” she said, “read this;” +and she took a paper from the pocket of her habit. “When I went home +last night, after Madame de Florac had been talking to us about Orme’s +India, I took the volumes from the bookcase and found this paper. It is +in my grandmother’s—Mrs. Newcome’s—handwriting; I know it quite well, +it is dated on the very day of her death. She had been writing and +reading in her study on that very night; I have often heard papa speak +of the circumstance. Look and read. You are a lawyer, Mr. Pendennis; +tell me about this paper.” + +I seized it eagerly, and cast my eyes over it; but having read it, my +countenance fell. + +“My dear Miss Newcome, it is not worth a penny,” I was obliged to own. + +“Yes, it is, sir, to honest people!” she cried out. “My brother and +uncle will respect it as Mrs. Newcome’s dying wish. They _must_ respect +it.” + +The paper in question was a letter in ink that had grown yellow from +time, and was addressed by the late Mrs. Newcome, to “my dear Mr. +Luce.” + +“That was her solicitor, my solicitor still,” interposes Miss Ethel. + +“THE HERMITAGE, March 14, 182-. + + +“My Dear Mr. Luce” (the defunct lady wrote)—“My late husband’s grandson +has been staying with me lately, and is a most pleasing, handsome, and +engaging little boy. He bears a strong likeness to his grandfather, I +think; and though he has no claims upon me, and I know is sufficiently +provided for by his father Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, C.B., of the +East India Company’s Service, I am sure my late dear husband will be +pleased that I should leave his grandson, Clive Newcome, a token of +_peace and goodwill;_ and I can do so with the more readiness, as it +has pleased Heaven greatly to increase my means since my husband was +called away hence. + +“I desire to bequeath a sum equal to that which Mr. Newcome willed to my +eldest son, Brian Newcome, Esq., to Mr. Newcome’s grandson, Clive +Newcome; and furthermore, that a token of my esteem and affection, a +ring, or a piece of plate, of the value of one £100, be given to +Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Newcome, my stepson, whose excellent conduct +_for many years_, and whose repeated acts of gallantry in the _service +of his sovereign_, have long obliterated the just feelings of +displeasure with which I could not but view his early _disobedience and +misbehaviour_, before he quitted England against my will, and entered +the military service. + +“I beg you to prepare immediately a codicil to my will providing for +the above bequests; and desire that the amount of these legacies should +be taken from the property bequeathed to my eldest son. You will be so +good as to prepare the necessary document, and bring it with you when +you come on Saturday, to + +yours very truly, +“Sophia Alethea Newcome. + + +“Tuesday night.” + +I gave back the paper with a sigh to the finder. “It is but a wish of +Mrs. Newcome, my dear Miss Ethel,” I said. “Pardon me, if I say, I +think I know your elder brother too well to supposes that he will +fulfil it.” + +“He _will_ fulfil it, sir, I am sure he will,” Miss Newcome said, in a +haughty manner. “He would do as much without being asked, I am certain +he would, did he know the depth of my dear uncle’s misfortune. Barnes +is in London now, and——” + +“And you will write to him? I know what the answer will be.” + +“I will go to him this very day, Mr. Pendennis! I will go to my dear, +dear uncle. I cannot bear to think of him in that place,” cried the +young lady, the tears starting into her honest eyes. “It was the will +of Heaven. Oh, God be thanked for it! Had we found my grandmamma’s +letter earlier, Barnes would have paid the legacy immediately, and the +money would have gone in that dreadful bankruptcy. I will go to Barnes +to-day. Will you come with me? Won’t you come to your old friends? We +may be at his—at Clive’s house this evening; and oh, praise be to God! +there need be no more want in his family.” + +“My dear friend, I will go with you round the world on such an errand,” +I said, kissing her hand. How beautiful she looked; the generous colour +rose in her face, her voice thrilled with happiness. The music of +Christmas church bells leaped up at this moment with joyful +gratulations; the face of the old house, before which we stood talking, +shone out in the morning sun. + +“You will come I thank you! I must run and tell Madame de Florac,” +cried the happy young lady, and we entered the house together. “How +came you to be kissing Ethel’s hand, sir; and what is the meaning of +this early visit?” asks Mrs. Laura, as soon as I had returned to my own +apartments. + +“Martha, get me a carpet-bag! I am going to London in an hour,” cries +Mr. Pendennis. If I had kissed Ethel’s hand just now, delighted at the +news which she brought to me, was not one a thousand times dearer to +me, as happy as her friend? I know who prayed with a thankful heart +that day as we sped, in the almost solitary train, towards London. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVIII. +In which the Author goes on a Pleasant Errand + + +Before I parted with Miss Newcome at the station, she made me promise +to see her on the morrow at an early hour at her brother’s house; and +having bidden her farewell and repaired to my own solitary residence, +which presented but a dreary aspect on that festive day, I thought I +would pay Howland Street a visit; and, if invited, eat my Christmas +dinner with Clive. + +I found my friend at home, and at work still, in spite of the day. He +had promised a pair of pictures to a dealer for the morrow. “He pays me +pretty well, and I want all the money he will give me, Pen,” the +painter said, rubbing on at his canvas. “I am pretty easy in my mind +since I have become acquainted with a virtuous dealer. I sell myself to +him, body and soul, for some half-dozen pounds a week. I know I can get +my money, and he is regularly supplied with his pictures. But for +Rosey’s illness we might carry on well enough.” + +Rosey’s illness? I was sorry to hear of that: and poor Clive, entering +into particulars, told me how he had spent upon doctors rather more +than a fourth of his year’s earnings. “There is a solemn fellow, to +whom the women have taken a fancy, who lives but a few doors off in +Gower Street; and who, for his last sixteen visits, has taken sixteen +pounds sixteen shillings out of my pocket, and as if guineas grew +there, with the most admirable gravity. He talks the fashions to my +mother-in-law. My poor wife hangs on every word he says. Look! There is +his carriage coming up now! and there is his fee, confound him!” says +Clive, casting a rueful look towards a little packet lying upon the +mantelpiece, by the side of that skinned figure in plaster of Paris +which we have seen in most studios. + +I looked out of window and saw a certain Fashionable Doctor tripping +out of his chariot; that Ladies’ Delight, who has subsequently migrated +from Bloomsbury to Belgravia; and who has his polite foot now in a +thousand nurseries and boudoirs. What Confessors were in old times, +Quackenboss and his like are in our Protestant country. What secrets +they know! into what mystic chambers do they not enter! I suppose the +Campaigner made a special toilette to receive her fashionable friend, +for that lady attired in considerable splendour, and with the precious +jewel on her head, which I remembered at Boulogne, came into the studio +two minutes after the Doctor’s visit was announced, and made him a low +curtsey. I cannot describe the overpowering civilities of that woman. + +Clive was very gracious and humble to her. He adopted a lively air in +addressing her—“Must work, you know, Christmas Day and all—for the +owner of the pictures will call for them in the morning. Bring me a +good report about Rosey, Mrs. Mackenzie, please—and if you will have +the kindness to look by the _écorché_ there, you will see that little +packet which I have left for you.” Mrs. Mack, advancing, took the +money. “I thought that plaster of Paris figure was not the only +_écorché_ in the room.” + +“I want you to stay to dinner. You must stay, Pen, please,” cried +Clive; “and be civil to her, will you? My dear old father is coming to +dine here. They fancy that he has lodgings at the other end of the +town, and that his brothers do something for him. Not a word about Grey +Friars. It might agitate Rosa, you know. Ah! isn’t he noble, the dear +old boy! and isn’t it fine to see him in that place?” Clive worked on +as he talked, using up the last remnant of the light of Christmas Day, +and was cleaning his palette and brushes, when Mrs. Mackenzie returned +to us. + +Darling Rosey was very delicate, but Doctor Quackenboss was going to +give her the very same medicine which had done the charming young +Duchess of Clackmannanshire so much good, and he was not in the least +disquiet. + +On this I cut into the conversation with anecdotes concerning the +family of the Duchess of Clackmannanshire, remembering early days, when +it used to be my sport to entertain the Campaigner with anecdotes of +the aristocracy, about whose proceedings she still maintained a +laudable curiosity. Indeed, one of few the books escaped out of the +wreck of Tyburn Gardens was a Peerage, now a well-worn volume, much +read by Rosa and her mother. + +The anecdotes were very politely received—perhaps it was the season +which made Mrs. Mack and her son-in-law on more than ordinarily good +terms. When, turning to the Campaigner, Clive said he wished that she +could persuade me to stay to dinner, she acquiesced graciously and at +once in that proposal, and vowed that her daughter would be delighted +if I could condescend to eat their _humble_ fare. “It is not such a +dinner as you _have_ seen at her house, with six side-dishes, two +flanks, that splendid epergne, and the silver dishes top and bottom; +but such as my Rosey _has_ she offers with a willing _heart_,” cries +the Campaigner. + +“And Tom may sit to dinner, mayn’t he, grandmamma?” asks Clive, in a +humble voice. + +“Oh, if you wish it, sir.” + +“His grandfather will like to sit by him,” said Clive. “I will go out +and meet him; he comes through Guildford Street and Russell Square,” +says Clive. “Will you walk, Pen?” + +“Oh, pray don’t let us detain you,” says Mrs. Mackenzie, with a toss of +her head: and when she retreated Clive whispered that she would not +want me; for she looked to the roasting of the beef and the making of +the pudding and the mince-pie. + +“I thought she might have a finger in it,” I said; and we set forth to +meet the dear old father, who presently came, walking very slowly, +along the line by which we expected him. His stick trembled as it fell +on the pavement: so did his voice, as he called out Clive’s name: so +did his hand, as he stretched it to me. His body was bent, and feeble. +Twenty years had not weakened him so much as the last score of months. +I walked by the side of my two friends as they went onwards, linked +lovingly together. How I longed for the morrow, and hoped they might be +united once more! Thomas Newcome’s voice, once so grave, went up to a +treble, and became almost childish, as he asked after Boy. His white +hair hung over his collar. I could see it by the gas under which we +walked—and Clive’s great back and arm, as his father leaned on it, and +his brave face turned towards the old man. Oh, Barnes Newcome, Barnes +Newcome! Be an honest man for once, and help your kinsfolk! thought I. + +The Christmas meal went off in a friendly manner enough. The +Campaigner’s eyes were everywhere: it was evident that the little maid +who served the dinner, and had cooked a portion of it under their keen +supervision, cowered under them, as well as other folks. Mrs. Mack did +not make more than ten allusions to former splendours during the +entertainment, or half as many apologies to me for sitting down to a +table very different from that to which I was _accustomed_. Good, +faithful F. Bayham was the only other guest. He complimented the +mince-pies, so that Mrs. Mackenzie owned she had made them. The Colonel +was very silent, but he tried to feed Boy, and was only once or twice +sternly corrected by the Campaigner. Boy, in the best little words he +could muster, asked why grandpapa wore a black cloak? Clive nudged my +foot under the table. The secret of the Poor Brothership was very +nearly out. The Colonel blushed, and with great presence of mind said +he wore a cloak to keep him warm in winter. + +Rosey did not say much. She had grown lean and languid: the light of +her eyes had gone out: all her pretty freshness had faded. She ate +scarce anything, though her mother pressed her eagerly, and whispered +loudly that a woman in her situation ought to strengthen herself. Poor +Rosey was always in a situation. + +When the cloth was withdrawn, the Colonel bending his head said, “Thank +God for what we have received,” so reverently, and with an accent so +touching, that Fred Bayham’s big eyes as he turned towards the old man +filled up with tears. When his mother and grandmother rose to go away, +poor little Boy cried to stay longer, and the Colonel would have meekly +interposed, but the domineering Campaigner cried, “Nonsense, let him go +to bed!” and flounced him out of the room: and nobody appealed against +that sentence. Then we three remained, and strove to talk as cheerfully +as we might, speaking now of old times, and presently of new. Without +the slightest affectation, Thomas Newcome told us that his life was +comfortable, and that he was happy in it. He wished that many others of +the old gentlemen, he said, were as contented as himself, but some of +them grumbled sadly, he owned and quarrelled with their +bread-and-butter. He, for his part, had everything he could desire: all +the officers of the Establishment were most kind to him; an excellent +physician came to him when wanted; a most attentive woman waited on +him. “And if I wear a black gown,” said he, “is not that uniform as +good as another, and if we have to go to church every day, at which +some of the Poor Brothers grumble, I think an old fellow can’t do +better; and I can say my prayers with a thankful heart, Clivey my boy, +and should be quite happy but for my—for my past imprudence, God +forgive me. Think of Bayham here coming to our chapel to-day!—he often +comes—that was very right, sir—very right.” + +Clive, filling a glass of wine, looked at F. B. with eyes that said God +bless you. F. B. gulped down another bumper. “It is almost a merry +Christmas,” said I; “and oh, I hope it will be a happy New Year!” + +Shortly after nine o’clock the Colonel rose to depart, saying he must +be “in barracks” by ten; and Clive and F. B. went a part of the way +with him. I would have followed them, but he whispered me to stay and +talk to Mrs. Mack, for Heaven’s sake, and that he would be back ere +long. So I went and took tea with the two ladies; and as we drank it, +Mrs. Mackenzie took occasion to tell me she did not know what amount of +income the Colonel had from his _wealthy brother_, but that _they_ +never received any benefit from it; and again she computed to me all +the sums, principal and interest, which ought at that moment to belong +to her darling Rosey. Rosey now and again made a feeble remark. She did +not seem pleased or sorry when her husband came in; and presently, +dropping me a little curtsey, went to bed under charge of the +Campaigner. So Bayham and I and Clive retired to the studio, where +smoking was allowed, and where we brought that Christmas day to an end. + +At the appointed time on the next forenoon I called upon Miss Newcome +at her brother’s house. Sir Barnes Newcome was quitting his own door as +I entered it, and he eyed me with such a severe countenance, as made me +augur but ill of the business upon which I came. The expression of +Ethel’s face was scarcely more cheering: she was standing at the +window, sternly looking at Sir Barnes, who yet lingered at his own +threshold, having some altercation with his cab-boy ere he mounted his +vehicle to drive into the City. + +Miss Newcome was very pale when she advanced and gave me her hand. I +looked with some alarm into her face, and inquired what news? + +“It is as you expected, Mr. Pendennis,” she said—“not as I did. My +brother is averse to making restitution. He just now parted from me in +some anger. But it does not matter; the restitution must be made, if +not by Barnes, by one of our family—must it not?” + +“God bless you for a noble creature, my dear, dear Miss Newcome!” was +all I could say. + +“For doing what is right? Ought I not to do it? I am the eldest of our +family after Barnes: I am the richest after him. Our father left all +his younger children the very sum of money which Mrs. Newcome here +devises to Clive; and you know, besides, I have all my grandmother’s, +Lady Kew’s, property. Why, I don’t think I could sleep if this act of +justice were not done. Will you come with me to my lawyer’s? He and my +brother Barnes are trustees of my property; and I have been thinking, +dear Mr. Pendennis—and you are very good to be so kind, and to express +so kind an opinion of me, and you and Laura have always, always been +the best friends to me”—(she says this, taking one of my hands and +placing her other hand over it)—“I have been thinking, you know, that +this transfer had better be made through Mr. Luce, you understand, and +as coming from the _family_, and then I need not appear in it at all, +you see; and—and my dear good uncle’s pride need not be wounded.” She +fairly gave way to tears as she spoke—and for me, I longed to kiss the +hem of her robe, or anything else she would let me embrace, I was so +happy, and so touched by the simple demeanour and affection of the +noble young lady. + +“Dear Ethel,” I said, “did I not say I would go to the end of the world +with you—and won’t I go to Lincoln’s Inn?” + +A cab was straightway sent for, and in another half-hour we were in the +presence of the courtly little old Mr. Luce in his chambers in +Lincoln’s Inn Fields. + +He knew the late Mrs. Newcome’s handwriting at once. He remembered +having seen the little boy at the Hermitage, had talked with Mr. +Newcome regarding his son in India, and had even encouraged Mrs. +Newcome in her idea of leaving some token of goodwill to the latter. “I +was to have dined with your grandmamma on the Saturday, with my poor +wife. Why, bless my soul! I remember the circumstance perfectly well, +my dear young lady. There can’t be a doubt about the letter, but of +course the bequest is no bequest at all, and Colonel Newcome has +behaved so ill to your brother that I suppose Sir Barnes will not go +out of his way to benefit the Colonel.” + +“What would you do, Mr. Luce?” asks the young lady. + +“H’m! And pray why should I tell you what I should do under the +circumstances?” replied the little lawyer. “Upon my word, Miss Newcome, +I think I should leave matters as they stand. Sir Barnes and I, you are +aware, are not the very best of friends—as your father’s, your +grandmother’s old friend and adviser, your own too, my dear young lady, +I and Sir Barnes Newcome remain on civil terms. But neither is over +much pleased with the other, to say the truth; and, at any rate, I +cannot be accused—nor can any one else that I know of—of being a very +warm partisan of your brother’s. But candidly, were his case mine—had I +a relation who had called me unpleasant names, and threatened me I +don’t know with what, with sword and pistol—who had put me to five or +six thousand pounds’ expense in contesting an election which I had +lost,—I should give him, I think, no more than the law obliged me to +give him; and that, my dear Miss Newcome, is not one farthing.” + +“I am very glad you say so,” said Miss Newcome, rather to my +astonishment. + +“Of course, my dear young lady; and so you need not be alarmed at +showing your brother this document. Is not that the point about which +you came to consult me? You wished that I should prepare him for the +awful disclosure, did you not? You know, perhaps, that he does not like +to part with his money, and thought the appearance of this note might +agitate him? It has been a long time coming to its address, but nothing +can be done, don’t you see? and be sure Sir Barnes Newcome will not be +the least agitated when I tell him its contents.” + +“I mean I am very glad you think my brother is not called upon to obey +Mrs. Newcome’s wishes, because I need not think so hardly of him as I +was disposed to do,” Miss Newcome said. “I showed him the paper this +morning, and he repelled it with scorn; and not kind words passed +between us, Mr. Luce, and unkind thoughts remained in my mind. But if +he, you think, is justified, it is I who have been in the wrong for +saying that he was self—for upbraiding him as I own I did.” + +“You called him selfish!—You had words with him! Such things have +happened before, my dear Miss Newcome, in the best-regulated families.” + +“But if he is not wrong, sir, holding his opinions, surely I should be +wrong, sir, with mine, not to do as my conscience tells me; and having +found this paper only yesterday at Newcome, in the library there, in +one of my grandmother’s books, I consulted with this gentleman, the +husband of my dearest friend, Mrs. Pendennis—the most intimate friend +of my uncle and cousin Clive; and I wish, and I desire and insist, that +my share of what my poor father left us girls should be given to my +cousin, Mr. Clive Newcome, in accordance with my grandmother’s dying +wishes.” + +“My dear, you gave away your portion to your brothers and sisters ever +so long ago!” cried the lawyer. + +“I desire, sir, that six thousand pounds may be given to my cousin,” +Miss Newcome said, blushing deeply. “My dear uncle, the best man in the +world, whom I love with all my heart, sir, is in the most dreadful +poverty. Do you know where he is, sir? My dear, kind, generous +uncle!”—and, kindling as she spoke, and with eyes beaming a bright +kindness, and flushing cheeks, and a voice that thrilled to the heart +of those two who heard her, Miss Newcome went on to tell of her uncle’s +and cousin’s misfortunes, and of her wish, under God, to relieve them. +I see before me now the figure of the noble girl as she speaks; the +pleased little old lawyer, bobbing his white head, looking up at her +with his twinkling eyes—patting his knees, patting his snuff-box—as he +sits before his tapes and his deeds, surrounded by a great background +of tin boxes. + +“And I understand you want this money paid as coming from the family, +and not from Miss Newcome?” says Mr. Luce. + +“Coming from the family—exactly,” answers Miss Newcome. + +Mr. Luce rose up from his old chair—his worn-out old horsehair +chair—where he had sat for half a century and listened to many a +speaker, very different from this one. “Mr. Pendennis,” he said, “I +envy you your journey along with this young lady. I envy you the good +news you are going to carry to your friends—and, Miss Newcome, as I am +an old—old gentleman who have known your family these sixty years, and +saw your father in his long-clothes, may I tell you how heartily and +sincerely I—I love and respect you, my dear? When should you wish Mr. +Clive Newcome to have his legacy?” + +“I think I should like Mr. Pendennis to have it this instant, Mr. Luce, +please,” said the young lady—and her veil dropped over her face as she +bent her head down, and clasped her hands together for a moment, as if +she was praying. + +Mr. Luce laughed at her impetuosity; but said that if she was bent upon +having the money, it was at her instant service; and before we left the +room, Mr. Luce prepared a letter, addressed to Clive Newcome, Esquire, +in which he stated, that amongst the books of the late Mrs. Newcome a +paper had only just been found, of which a copy was enclosed, and that +the family of the late Sir Brian Newcome, desirous to do honour to the +wishes of the late Mrs. Newcome, had placed the sum of 6000 pounds at +the bank of Messrs. H. W——, at the disposal of Mr. Clive Newcome, of +whom Mr. Luce had the honour to sign himself the most obedient servant, +etc. And, the letter approved and copied, Mr. Luce said Mr. Pendennis +might be the postman thereof; if Miss Newcome so willed it; and, with +this document in my pocket, I quitted the lawyer’s chambers, with my +good and beautiful young companion. + +Our cab had been waiting several hours in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and I +asked Miss Ethel whither I now should conduct her? + +“Where is Grey Friars?” she said. “Mayn’t I go to see my uncle?” + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIX. +In which Old Friends come together + + +We made the descent of Snowhill, we passed by the miry pens of +Smithfield; we travel through the street of St. John, and presently +reach the ancient gateway, in Cistercian Square, where lies the old +Hospital of Grey Friars. I passed through the gate, my fair young +companion on my arm, and made my way to the rooms occupied by brother +Newcome. + +As we traversed the court the Poor Brothers were coming from dinner. A +couple of score, or more, of old gentlemen in black gowns, issued from +the door of their refectory, and separated over the court, betaking +themselves to their chambers. Ethel’s arm trembled under mine as she +looked at one and another, expecting to behold her dear uncle’s +familiar features. But he was not among the brethren. We went to his +chamber, of which the door was open: a female attendant was arranging +the room; she told us Colonel Newcome was out for the day, and thus our +journey had been made in vain. + +Ethel went round the apartment and surveyed its simple decorations; she +looked at the pictures of Clive and his boy; the two sabres crossed +over the mantelpiece, the Bible laid on the table, by the old latticed +window. She walked slowly up to the humble bed, and sat down on a chair +near it. No doubt her heart prayed for him who slept there; she turned +round where his black pensioner’s cloak was hanging on the wall, and +lifted up the homely garment, and kissed it. The servant looked on +admiring, I should think, her melancholy and her gracious beauty. I +whispered to the woman that the young lady was the Colonel’s niece. “He +has a son who comes here, and is very handsome, too,” said the +attendant. + +The two women spoke together for a while. “Oh, miss!” cried the elder +and humbler, evidently astonished at some gratuity which Miss Newcome +bestowed upon her, “I didn’t want this to be good to him. Everybody +here loves him for himself; and I would sit up for him for weeks—that I +would.” + +My companion took a pencil from her bag, and wrote “Ethel” on a piece +of paper, and laid the paper on the Bible. Darkness had again fallen by +this time, feeble lights were twinkling in the chamber windows of the +Poor Brethren as we issued into the courts;—feeble lights illumining a +dim, grey, melancholy old scene. Many a career, once bright, was +flickering out here in the darkness; many a night was closing in. We +went away silently from that quiet place; and in another minute were in +the flare and din and tumult of London. + +“The Colonel is most likely gone to Clive’s,” I said. Would not Miss +Newcome follow him thither? We consulted whether she should go. She +took heart and said yes. “Drive, cabman, to Howland Street!” The horse +was, no doubt, tired, for the journey seemed extraordinarily long; I +think neither of us spoke a word on the way. + +I ran upstairs to prepare our friends for the visit. Clive, his wife, +his father, and his mother-in-law were seated by a dim light in Mrs. +Clive’s sitting-room. Rosey on the sofa, as usual; the little boy on +his grandfather’s knees. + +I hardly made a bow to the ladies, so eager was I to communicate with +Colonel Newcome. “I have just been to your quarters at Grey Friars, +sir,” said I. “That is——” + +“You have been to the Hospital, sir! You need not be ashamed to mention +it, as Colonel Newcome is not ashamed _to go there_,” cried out the +Campaigner. “Pray speak in your own language, Clive, unless there is +something _not fit_ for ladies to hear.” Clive was growling out to me +in German that there had just been a terrible scene, his father having, +a quarter of an hour previously, let slip the secret about Grey Friars. + +“Say at once, Clive!” the Campaigner cried, rising in her might, and +extending a great strong arm over her helpless child, “that Colonel +Newcome owns that he has gone to live as a pauper in a hospital! He who +has squandered his own money. He who has squandered my money. He who +has squandered the money of that darling helpless child—compose +yourself, Rosey my love!—has completed the disgrace of the family, by +his present mean and unworthy—yes, I say, mean and _unworthy_ and +_degraded_ conduct. Oh, my child, my blessed child! to think that your +husband’s father should have come to a _workhouse!_” Whilst this +maternal agony bursts over her, Rosa, on the sofa, bleats and whimpers +amongst the faded chintz cushions. + +I took Clive’s hand, which was cast up to his head striking his +forehead with mad impotent rage, whilst this fiend of a woman lashed +his good father. The veins of his great fist were swollen, his whole +body was throbbing and trembling with the helpless pain under which he +writhed. “Colonel Newcome’s friends, ma’am,”, I said, “think very +differently from you; and that he is a better judge than you, or any +one else, of his own honour. We all, who loved him in his prosperity, +love and respect him more than ever for the manner in which he bears +his misfortune. Do you suppose that his noble friend, the Earl of H——, +would have counselled him to a step unworthy of a gentleman; that the +Prince de Moncontour would applaud his conduct as he does, if he did +not think it admirable?” I can hardly say with what scorn I used this +argument, or what depth of contempt I felt for the woman whom I knew it +would influence. “And at this minute,” I added, “I have come from +visiting the Gray Friars with one of the Colonel’s relatives, whose +love and respect for him is boundless; who longs to be reconciled to +him, and who is waiting below, eager to shake his hand, and embrace +Clive’s wife.” + +“Who is that?” says the Colonel, looking gently up, as he pats Boy’s +head. + +“Who is it, Pen?” says Clive. I said in a low voice, “Ethel;” and +starting up and crying “Ethel! Ethel!” he ran from the room. + +Little Mrs. Rosa started up too on her sofa, clutching hold of the +table-cover with her lean hand, and the two red spots on her cheeks +burning more fiercely than ever. I could see what passion was beating +in that poor little heart. “Heaven help us! what a resting-place had +friends and parents prepared for it! for shame!” + +“Miss Newcome, is it? My darling Rosa, get on your shawl!” cried the +Campaigner, a grim smile lighting her face. + +“It is Ethel; Ethel is my niece. I used to love her when she was quite +a little girl,” says the Colonel, patting Boy on the head; “and she is +a very good, beautiful little child—a very good child.” The torture had +been too much for that kind old heart: there were times when Thomas +Newcome passed beyond it. What still maddened Clive, excited his father +no more; the pain yonder woman inflicted, only felled and stupefied +him. + +As the door opened, the little white-headed child trotted forward +towards the visitor, and Ethel entered on Clive’s arm, who was as +haggard and pale as death. Little Boy, looking up at the stately lady, +still followed beside her, as she approached her uncle, who remained +sitting, his head bent to the ground. His thoughts were elsewhere. +Indeed he was following the child, and about to caress it again. + +“Here is a friend, father!” says Clive, laying a hand on the old man’s +shoulder. “It is I, Ethel, uncle!” the young lady said, taking his +hand; and kneeling down between his knees, she flung her arms round +him, and kissed him, and wept on his shoulder. + +His consciousness had quite returned ere an instant was over. He +embraced her with the warmth of his old affection, uttering many brief +words of love, kindness, and tenderness, such as men speak when +strongly moved. + +The little boy had come wondering up to the chair whilst this embrace +took place, and Clive’s tall figure bent over the three. Rosa’s eyes +were not good to look at, as she stared at the group with a ghastly +smile. Mrs. Mackenzie surveyed the scene in haughty state, from behind +the sofa cushions. She tried to take one of Rosa’s lean hot hands. The +poor child tore it away, leaving her rings behind her; lifted her hands +to her face: and cried, cried as if her little heart would break. Ah +me! what a story was there! what an outburst of pent-up feeling! what a +passion of pain! The ring had fallen to the ground; the little boy +crept towards it, and picked it up, and came towards his mother, fixing +on her his large wondering eyes. “Mamma crying. Mamma’s ring!” he said, +holding up the circle of gold. With more feeling than I had ever seen +her exhibit, she clasped the boy in her wasted arms. Great Heaven! what +passion, jealousy, grief, despair, were tearing and trying all these +hearts, that but for fate might have been happy? + +Clive went round, and with the utmost sweetness and tenderness hanging +round his child and wife, soothed her with words of consolation, that +in truth I scarce heard, being ashamed almost of being present at this +sudden scene. No one, however, took notice of the witnesses; and even +Mrs. Mackenzie’s voice was silent for the moment. I dare say Clive’s +words were incoherent; but women have more presence of mind; and now +Ethel, with a noble grace which I cannot attempt to describe, going up +to Rosa, seated herself by her, spoke of her long grief at the +differences between her dearest uncle and herself; of her early days, +when he had been as a father to her; of her wish, her hope that Rosa +should love her as a sister; and of her belief that better days and +happiness were in store for them all. And she spoke to the mother about +her boy so beautiful and intelligent, and told her how she had brought +up her brother’s children, and hoped that this one too would call her +Aunt Ethel. She would not stay now, might she come again? Would Rosa +come to her with her little boy? Would he kiss her? He did so with a +very good grace; but when Ethel at parting embraced the child’s mother, +Rosa’s face wore a smile ghastly to look at, and the lips that touched +Ethel’s cheeks, were quite white. + +“I shall come and see you again to-morrow, uncle, may I not? I saw your +room to-day, sir, and your housekeeper; such a nice old lady, and your +black gown. And you shall put it on to-morrow, and walk with me, and +show me the beautiful old buildings of that old hospital. And I shall +come and make tea for you, the housekeeper says I may. Will you come +down with me to my carriage? No, Mr. Pendennis must come;” and she +quitted the room, beckoning me after her. “You will speak to Clive now, +won’t you?” she said, “and come to me this evening, and tell me all +before you go to bed?” I went back, anxious in truth to the messenger +of good tidings to my dear old friends. + +Brief as my absence had been, Mrs. Mackenzie had taken advantage of +that moment again to outrage Clive and his father, and to announce that +Rosa might go to see this Miss Newcome, whom people respected because +she was rich, but whom _she_ would never visit; no, never! “An +insolent, proud, impertinent thing! Does she take me for a housemaid?” +Mrs. Mackenzie had inquired. + +“Am I dust to be trampled beneath her feet? Am I a dog that she can’t +throw me a word?” Her arms were stretched out, and she was making this +inquiry as to her own canine qualities as I re-entered the room, and +remembered that Ethel had never once addressed a single word to Mrs. +Mackenzie in the course of her visit. + +I affected not to perceive the incident, and presently said that I +wanted to speak to Clive in his studio. Knowing that I had brought my +friend one or two commissions for drawings, Mrs. Mackenzie was civil to +me, and did not object to our colloquies. + +“Will you come too, and smoke a pipe, father?” says Clive. + +“_Of course_ your father intends to stay to _dinner?_” says the +Campaigner, with a scornful toss of her head. Clive groaned out as we +were on the stair, “that he could not bear this much longer, by heavens +he could not.” + +“Give the Colonel his pipe, Clive,” said I. “Now, sir, down with you in +the sitter’s chair, and smoke the sweetest cheroot you ever smoked in +your life! My dear, dear old Clive! you need not bear with the +Campaigner any longer; you may go to bed without this nightmare +to-night if you like; you may have your father back under your roof +again.” + +“My dear Arthur! I must be back at ten, sir, back at ten, military +time; drum beats; no—bell tolls at ten, and gates close;” and he +laughed and shook his old head. “Besides, I am to see a young lady, +sir; and she is coming to make tea for me, and I must speak to Mrs. +Jones to have all things ready—all things ready;” and again the old man +laughed as he spoke. + +His son looked at him and then at me with eyes full of sad meaning. +“How do you mean, Arthur,” Clive said, “that he can come and stay with +me, and that that woman can go?” + +Then feeling in my pocket for Mr. Luce’s letter, I grasped my dear +Clive by the hand and bade him prepare for good news. I told him how +providentially, two days since, Ethel, in the library at Newcome, +looking into Orme’s History of India, a book which old Mrs. Newcome had +been reading on the night of her death, had discovered a paper, of +which the accompanying letter enclosed a copy, and I gave my friend the +letter. + +He opened it, and read it through. I cannot say that I saw any +particular expression of wonder in his countenance, for somehow, all +the while Clive perused this document, I was looking at the Colonel’s +sweet kind face. “It—it is Ethel’s doing,” said Clive, in a hurried +voice. “There was no such letter.” + +“Upon my honour,” I answered, “there was. We came up to London with it +last night, a few hours after she had found it. We showed it to Sir +Barnes Newcome, who—who could not disown it. We took it to Mr. Luce, +who recognised it at once, who was old Mrs. Newcome’s man of business, +and continues to be the family lawyer, and the family recognises the +legacy and has paid it, and you may draw for it to-morrow, as you see. +What a piece of good luck it is that it did not come before the B. B. +C. time! That confounded Bundelcund Bank would have swallowed up this +like all the rest.” + +“Father! father! do you remember Orme’s History of India?” cries Clive. + +“Orme’s History! of course I do, I could repeat whole pages of it when +I was a boy,” says the old man, and began forthwith. “‘The two +battalions advanced against each other cannonading, until the French, +coming to a hollow way, imagined that the English would not venture to +pass it. But Major Lawrence ordered the sepoys and artillery—the sepoys +and artillery to halt and defend the convoy against the +Morattoes’—Morattoes Orme calls ’em. Ho! ho! I could repeat whole +pages, sir.” + +“It is the best book that ever was written,” calls out Clive. The +Colonel said he had not read it, but he was informed Mr. Mill’s was a +very learned history; he intended to read it. “Eh! there is plenty of +time now,” said the good Colonel. “I have all day long at Grey +Friars,—after chapel, you know. Do you know, sir, when I was a boy I +used what they call to tib out and run down to a public-house in +Cistercian Lane—the Red Cowl sir,—and buy rum there? I was a terrible +wild boy, Clivy. You weren’t so, sir, thank Heaven! A terrible wild +boy, and my poor father flogged me, though I think it was very hard on +me. It wasn’t the pain, you know: it wasn’t the pain, but——” Here tears +came into his eyes and he dropped his head on his hand, and the cigar +from it fell on to the floor, burnt almost out, and scattering white +ashes. + +Clive looked sadly at me. “He was often so at Boulogne, Arthur,” he +whispered; “after a scene with that—that woman yonder, his head would +go: he never replied to her taunts; he bore her infernal cruelty +without an unkind word—Oh! I pay her back, thank God I can pay her! But +who shall pay her,” he said, trembling in every limb, “for what she has +made that good man suffer?” + +He turned to his father, who still sate lost in his meditations. “You +need never go back to Grey Friars, father!” he cried out. + +“Not go back, Clivy? Must go back, boy, to say Adsum, when my name is +called. Newcome! Adsum! Hey! that is what we used to say—we used to +say!” + +“You need not go back, except to pack your things, and return and live +with me and Boy,” Clive continued, and he told Colonel Newcome rapidly +the story of the legacy. The old man seemed hardly to comprehend it. +When he did, the news scarcely elated him; when Clive said “they could +now pay Mrs. Mackenzie,” the Colonel replied, “Quite right, quite +right,” and added up the sum, principal and interest, in which they +were indebted to her—he knew it well enough, the good old man. “Of +course we shall pay her, Clivy, when we can!” But in spite of what +Clive had said he did not appear to understand the fact that the debt +to Mrs. Mackenzie was now actually to be paid. + +As we were talking, a knock came to the studio door, and that summons +was followed by the entrance of the maid, who said to Clive, “If you +please, sir, Mrs. Mackenzie says, how long are you a-going to keep the +dinner waiting?” + +“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. + +“Swear on, sir! let the child hear your oaths! Let my blessed child, +who is too ill to sit at table and picks her bite! sweetbread on her +sofa,—which her poor mother prepares for her, Mr. Pendennis,—which I +cooked it, and gave it to her with _these hands_,—let _her_ hear your +curses and blasphemies, Clive Newcome! They are loud enough.” + +“Do let us have a quiet life,” groans out Clive; and for me, I must +confess, I kept my eyes steadily down upon my plate, nor dared to lift +them until my portion of cold beef had vanished. + +No further outbreak took place until the appearance of the second +course, which consisted, as the ingenious reader may suppose, of the +plum-pudding, now in a grilled state, and the remanent of mince-pies +from yesterday’s meal. Maria, I thought, looked particularly guilty as +these delicacies were placed on the table: she set them down hastily, +and was for operating an instant retreat. + +But the Campaigner shrieked after her, “Who has eaten that pudding? I +insist upon knowing who has eaten it. I saw it at two o’clock when I +went down to the kitchen and fried a bit for my darling child, and +there’s pounds of it gone since then! There were five mince-pies! Mr. +Pendennis! you saw yourself there were five that went away from table +yesterday—where’s the other two Maria? You leave the house this night, +you thieving, wicked wretch—and I’ll thank you to come back to me +afterwards for a character. Thirteen servants have we had in nine +months, Mr. Pendennis, and this girl is the worst of them all, and the +greatest liar and the greatest thief.” + +At this charge the outraged Maria stood up in arms, and as the phrase +is, gave the Campaigner as good as she got. Go! wouldn’t she go? Pay +her her wages, and let her go out of that ell upon hearth, was Maria’s +prayer. “It isn’t you, sir,” she said, turning to Clive. “_You_ are +good enough, and works hard enough to git the guineas which you give +out to pay that doctor; and she don’t pay him—and I see five of them in +her purse wrapped up in paper, myself I did, and she abuses you to +him—and I heard her, and Jane Black, who was here before, told me she +heard her. Go! won’t I just go, I dispises your puddens and pies!” and +with a laugh of scorn this rude Maria snapped her black fingers in the +immediate vicinity of the Campaigner’s nose. + +“I will pay her her wages, and she shall go this instant!” says Mrs. +Mackenzie, taking her purse out. + +“Pay me with them suvverings that you have got in it, wrapped up in +paper. See if she haven’t, Mr. Newcome,” the refractory waiting-woman +cried out, and again she laughed a strident laugh. + +Mrs. Mackenzie briskly shut her portemonnaie, and rose up from table, +quivering with indignant virtue. “Go!” she exclaimed, “go and pack your +trunks this instant! you quit the house this night, and a policeman +shall see to your boxes before you leave it!” + +Whilst uttering this sentence against the guilty Maria, the Campaigner +had intended, no doubt, to replace her purse in her pocket,—a handsome +filagree gimcrack of poor Ross’s, one of the relics of former +splendours,—but, agitated by Maria’s insolence, the trembling hand +missed the mark, and the purse fell to the ground. + +Maria dashed at the purse in a moment, with a scream of laughter shook +its contents upon the table, and sure enough, five little packets +wrapped in paper rolled out upon the cloth, besides bank-notes and +silver and golden coin. “I’m to go, am I? I’m a thief, am I?” screamed +the girl, clapping her hands. “_I_ sor ’em yesterday when I was +a-lacing of her; and thought of that pore young man working night and +day to get the money;—me a thief, indeed!—I despise you, and _I_ give +you warning.” + +“Do you wish to see me any longer insulted by this woman, Clive? Mr. +Pendennis, I am shocked that you should witness such horrible +vulgarity,” cries the Campaigner, turning to her guest. “Does the +wretched creature suppose that I, I who have given _thousands_, I who +have denied myself _everything_, I who have spent my _all_ in support +of this house; and Colonel Newcome _knows_ whether I have given +thousands or not, and _who_ has spent them, and _who_ has been robbed, +I say, and——” + +“Here! you! Maria! go about your business,” shouted out Clive Newcome, +starting up; “go and pack your trunks if you like, and pack this +woman’s trunks too. Mrs. Mackenzie, I can bear you no more; go in +peace, and if you wish to see your daughter she shall come to you; but +I will never, so help me God! sleep under the same roof with you; or +break the same crust with you; or bear your infernal cruelty; or sit to +hear my father insulted; or listen to your wicked pride and folly more. +There has not been a day since you thrust your cursed foot into our +wretched house, but you have tortured one and all of us. Look here, at +the best gentleman, and the kindest heart in all the world, you fiend! +and see to what a condition you have brought him! Dearest father! she +is going, do you hear? She leaves us, and you will come back to me, +won’t you? Great God, woman,” he gasped out, “do you know what you have +made me suffer—what you have done to this good man? Pardon, father, +pardon!”—and he sank down by his father’s side, sobbing with passionate +emotion. The old man even now did not seem to comprehend the scene. +When he heard that woman’s voice in anger, a sort of stupor came over +him. + +“I am a _fiend_, am I?” cries the lady. “You hear, Mr. Pendennis, this +is the language to which I am accustomed; I am a widow, and I trusted +my child and my all to that old man; he robbed me and my darling of +almost every farthing we had; and what has been my return for such +baseness? I have lived in this house and toiled like a _slave;_ I have +acted as servant to my blessed child; night after night I have sat with +her; and month after month, when _her husband_ has been away, I have +nursed that poor innocent; and the father having robbed me, the son +turns me out of doors!” + +A sad thing it was to witness, and a painful proof how frequent were +these battles, that, as this one raged, the poor little boy sat almost +careless, whilst his bewildered grandfather stroked his golden head. +“It is quite clear to me, madam,” I said, turning to Mrs. Mackenzie, +“that you and your son-in-law are better apart; and I came to tell him +to-day of a most fortunate legacy, which has been left to him, and +which will enable him to pay you to-morrow morning every shilling, +every shilling which he does NOT owe you?” + +“I will not leave this house until I am paid every shilling of which I +have been robbed,” hissed out Mrs. Mackenzie; and she sat down, folding +her arms across her chest. + +“I am sorry,” groaned out Clive, wiping the sweat off his brow, “I used +a harsh word; I will never sleep under the same roof with you. +To-morrow I will pay you what you claim; and the best chance I have of +forgiving you the evil which you have done me, is that we never should +meet again. Will you give me a bed at your house, Arthur? Father, will +you come out and walk? Good night, Mrs. Mackenzie; Pendennis will +settle with you in the morning. You will not be here, if you please, +when I return; and so God forgive you, and farewell.” + +Mrs. Mackenzie in a tragic manner dashed aside the hand which poor +Clive held out to her, and disappeared from the scene of this dismal +dinner. Boy presently fell a-crying; in spite of all the battle and +fury, there was sleep in his eyes. + +“Maria is too busy, I suppose, to put him to bed,” said Clive, with a +sad smile; “shall we do it, father? Come, Tommy, my son!” and he folded +his arms round the child, and walked with him to the upper regions. The +old man’s eyes lighted up; his seared thoughts returned to him; he +followed his two children up the stairs, and saw his grandson in his +little bed; and, as we walked home with him, he told me how sweetly Boy +said “Our Father,” and prayed God bless all those who loved him, as +they laid him to rest. + +So these three generations had joined in that supplication: the strong +man, humbled by trial and grief, whose loyal heart was yet full of +love;—the child, of the sweet age of those little ones whom the Blessed +Speaker of the prayer first bade to come unto Him;—and the old man, +whose heart was well-nigh as tender and as innocent; and whose day was +approaching, when he should be drawn to the bosom of the Eternal Pity. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXX. +In which the Colonel says “Adsum” when his Name is called + + +The vow which Clive had uttered, never to share bread with his +mother-in-law, or sleep under the same roof with her, was broken on the +very next day. A stronger will than the young man’s intervened, and he +had to confess the impotence of his wrath before that superior power. +In the forenoon of the day following that unlucky dinner, I went with +my friend to the banking-house whither Mr. Luce’s letter directed us, +and carried away with me the principal sum, in which the Campaigner +said Colonel Newcome was indebted to her, with the interest accurately +computed and reimbursed. Clive went off with a pocketful of money to +the dear old Poor Brother of Grey Friars; and he promised to return +with his father, and dine with my wife in Queen Square. I had received +a letter from Laura by the morning’s post, announcing her return by the +express train from Newcome, and desiring that a spare bedroom should be +got ready for a friend who accompanied her. + +On reaching Howland Street, Clive’s door was opened, rather to my +surprise, by the rebellious maid-servant who had received her dismissal +on the previous night; and the doctor’s carriage drove up as she was +still speaking to me. The polite practitioner sped upstairs to Mrs. +Newcome’s apartment. Mrs. Mackenzie, in a robe-de-chambre and cap very +different from yesterday’s, came out eagerly to meet the physician on +the landing. Ere they had been a quarter of an hour together, arrived a +cab, which discharged an elderly person with her bandbox and bundles; I +had no difficulty in recognising a professional nurse in the new-comer. +She too disappeared into the sick-room, and left me sitting in the +neighbouring chamber, the scene of the last night’s quarrel. + +Hither presently came to me Maria, the maid. She said she had not the +heart to go away now she was wanted; that they had passed a sad night, +and that no one had been to bed. Master Tommy was below, and the +landlady taking care of him: the landlord had gone out for the nurse. +Mrs. Clive had been taken bad after Mr. Clive went away the night +before. Mrs. Mackenzie had gone to the poor young thing, and there she +went on, crying, and screaming, and stamping, as she used to do in her +tantrums, which was most cruel of her, and made Mrs. Clive so ill. And +presently the young lady began: my informant told me. She came +screaming into the sitting-room, her hair over her shoulders, calling +out she was deserted, deserted, and would like to die. She was like a +mad woman for some time. She had fit after fit of hysterics: and there +was her mother, kneeling, and crying, and calling out to her darling +child to calm herself;—which it was all her own doing, and she had much +better have held her own tongue, remarked the resolute Maria. I +understood only too well from the girl’s account what had happened, and +that Clive, if resolved to part with his mother-in-law, should not have +left her, even for twelve hours, in possession of his house. The +wretched woman, whose Self was always predominant, and who, though she +loved her daughter after her own fashion, never forgot her own vanity +or passion, had improved the occasion of Clive’s absence: worked upon +her child’s weakness, jealousy, ill-health, and driven her, no doubt, +into the fever which yonder physician was called to quell. + +The doctor presently enters to write a prescription, followed by +Clive’s mother-in-law, who had cast Rosa’s fine Cashmere shawl over her +shoulders, to hide her disarray. “You here still, Mr. Pendennis!” she +exclaims. She knew I was there. Had not she changed her dress in order +to receive me? + +“I have to speak to you for two minutes on important business, and then +I shall go,” I replied gravely. + +“Oh, sir! to what a scene you have come! To what a state has Clive’s +conduct last night driven my darling child!” + +As the odious woman spoke so, the doctor’s keen eyes, looking up from +the prescription, caught mine. “I declare before Heaven, madam,” I said +hotly, “I believe you yourself are the cause of your daughter’s present +illness, as you have been of the misery of my friends.” + +“Is this, sir,” she was breaking out, “is this language to be used +to——?” + +“Madam, will you be silent?” I said. “I am come to bid you farewell on +the part of those whom your temper has driven into infernal torture. I +am come to pay you every halfpenny of the sum which my friends do not +owe you, but which they restore. Here is the account, and here is the +money to settle it. And I take this gentleman to witness, to whom, no +doubt, you have imparted what you call your wrongs” (the doctor smiled, +and shrugged his shoulders) “that now you are paid.” + +“A widow—a poor, lonely, insulted widow!” cries the Campaigner, with +trembling hands taking possession of the notes. + +“And I wish to know,” I continued, “when my friend’s house will be free +to him, and he can return in peace.” + +Here Rosa’s voice was heard from the inner apartment, screaming, +“Mamma, mamma!” + +“I go to my child, sir,” she said. “If Captain Mackenzie had been +alive, you would not have _dared_ to insult me so.” And carrying off +her money, she left us. + +“Cannot she be got out of the house?” I said to the doctor. “My friend +will never return until she leaves it. It is my belief she is the cause +of her daughter’s present illness.” + +“Not altogether, my dear sir. Mrs. Newcome was in a very, very delicate +state of health. Her mother is a lady of impetuous temper, who +expresses herself very strongly—too strongly, I own. In consequence of +unpleasant family discussions, which no physician can prevent, Mrs. +Newcome has been wrought up to a state of—of agitation. Her fever is, +in fact, at present very high. You know her condition. I am +apprehensive of ulterior consequences. I have recommended an excellent +and experienced nurse to her. Mr. Smith, the medical man at the corner, +is a most able practitioner. I shall myself call again in a few hours, +and I trust that, after the event which I apprehend, everything will go +well. + +“Cannot Mrs. Mackenzie leave the house, sir?” I asked. + +“Her daughter cries out for her at every moment. Mrs. Mackenzie is +certainly not a judicious nurse, but in Mrs. Newcome’s present state I +cannot take upon myself to separate them. Mr. Newcome may return, and I +do think and believe that his presence may tend to impose silence and +restore tranquillity.” + +I had to go back to Clive with these gloomy tidings. The poor fellow +must put up a bed in his studio, and there await the issue of his +wife’s illness. I saw Thomas Newcome could not sleep under his son’s +roof that night. That dear meeting, which both so desired, was delayed, +who could say for how long? + +“The Colonel may come to us,” I thought; “our old house is big enough.” +I guessed who was the friend coming in my wife’s company; and pleased +myself by thinking that two friends so dear should meet in our home. +Bent upon these plans, I repaired to Grey Friars, and to Thomas +Newcome’s chamber there. + +Bayham opened the door when I knocked, and came towards me with a +finger on his lip, and a sad, sad countenance. He closed the door +gently behind him, and led me into the court. “Clive is with him, and +Miss Newcome. He is very ill. He does not know them,” said Bayham with +a sob. “He calls out for both of them: they are sitting there and he +does not know them.” + +In a brief narrative, broken by more honest tears, Fred Bayham, as we +paced up and down the court, told me what had happened. The old man +must have passed a sleepless night, for on going to his chamber in the +morning, his attendant found him dressed in his chair, and his bed +undisturbed. He must have sat all through the bitter night without a +fire: but his hands were burning hot, and he rambled in his talk. He +spoke of some one coming to drink tea with him, pointed to the fire, +and asked why it was not made; he would not go to bed, though the nurse +pressed him. The bell began to ring for morning chapel; he got up and +went towards his gown, groping towards it as though he could hardly +see, and put it over his shoulders, and would go out, but he would have +fallen in the court if the good nurse had not given him her arm; and +the physician of the hospital, passing fortunately at this moment, who +had always been a great friend of Colonel Newcome’s, insisted upon +leading him back to his room again, and got him to bed. “When the bell +stopped, he wanted to rise once more; he fancied he was a boy at school +again,” said the nurse, “and that he was going in to Dr. Raine, who was +schoolmaster here ever so many years ago.” So it was, that when happier +days seemed to be dawning for the good man, that reprieve came too +late. Grief, and years, and humiliation, and care, and cruelty had been +too strong for him, and Thomas Newcome was stricken down. + +Bayham’s story told, I entered the room, over which the twilight was +falling, and saw the figures of Clive and Ethel seated at each end of +the bed. The poor old man within it was calling incoherent sentences. I +had to call Clive from the present grief before him, with intelligence +of further sickness awaiting him at home. Our poor patient did not heed +what I said to his son. “You must go home to Rosa,” Ethel said. “She +will be sure to ask for her husband, and forgiveness is best, dear +Clive. I will stay with uncle. I will never leave him. Please God, he +will be better in the morning when you come back.” So Clive’s duty +called him to his own sad home; and, the bearer of dismal tidings, I +returned to mine. The fires were lit there and the table spread; and +kind hearts were waiting to welcome the friend who never more was to +enter my door. + +It may be imagined that the intelligence which I brought alarmed and +afflicted my wife and Madame de Florac, our guest. Laura immediately +went away to Rosa’s house to offer her services if needed. The accounts +which she brought thence were very bad: Clive came to her for a minute +or two, but Mrs. Mackenzie could not see her. Should she not bring the +little boy home to her children? Laura asked; and Clive thankfully +accepted that offer. The little man slept in our nursery that night, +and was at play with our young ones on the morrow—happy and unconscious +of the fate impending over his home. + +Yet two more days passed, and I had to take two advertisements to _The +Times_ newspaper on the part of poor Clive. Among the announcements of +Births was printed, “On the 28th, in Howland Street, Mrs. Clive Newcome +of a son, still-born.” And a little lower, in the third division of the +same column, appeared the words, “On the 29th, in Howland Street, aged +26, Rosa, wife of Clive Newcome, Esq.” So, one day, shall the names of +all of us be written there; to be deplored by how many?—to be +remembered how long?—to occasion what tears, praises, sympathy, +censure?—yet for a day or two, while the busy world has time to +recollect us who have passed beyond it. So this poor little flower had +bloomed for its little day, and pined, and withered, and perished. +There was only one friend by Clive’s side following the humble +procession which laid poor Rosa and her child out of sight of a world +that had been but unkind to her. Not many tears were there to water her +lonely little grave. A grief that was akin to shame and remorse humbled +him as he knelt over her. Poor little harmless lady! no more childish +triumphs and vanities, no more hidden griefs are you to enjoy or +suffer; and earth closes over your simple pleasures and tears! The snow +was falling and whitening the coffin as they lowered it into the +ground. It was at the same cemetery in which Lady Kew was buried. I +dare say the same clergyman read the same service over the two graves, +as he will read it for you or any of us to-morrow, and until his own +turn comes. Come away from the place, poor Clive! Come sit with your +orphan little boy; and bear him on your knee, and hug him to your +heart. He seems yours now, and all a father’s love may pour out upon +him. Until this hour, Fate uncontrollable and homely tyranny had +separated him from you. + +It was touching to see the eagerness and tenderness with which the +great strong man now assumed the guardianship of the child, and endowed +him with his entire wealth of affection. The little boy now ran to +Clive whenever he came in, and sat for hours prattling to him. He would +take the boy out to walk, and from our windows we could see Clive’s +black figure striding over the snow in St. James’s Park, the little man +trotting beside him, or perched on his father’s shoulder. My wife and I +looked at them one morning as they were making their way towards the +City. + +“He has inherited that loving heart from his father,” Laura said; “and +he is paying over the whole property to his son.” + +Clive, and the boy sometimes with him, used to go daily to Grey Friars, +where the Colonel still lay ill. After some days the fever which had +attacked him left him, but left him so weak and enfeebled that he could +only go from his bed to the chair by his fireside. The season was +exceedingly bitter, the chamber which he inhabited was warm and +spacious; it was considered unadvisable to move him until he had +attained greater strength, and till warmer weather. The medical men of +the House hoped he might rally in spring. My friend, Dr. Goodenough, +came to him; he hoped too: but not with a hopeful face. A chamber, +luckily vacant, hard by the Colonel’s, was assigned to his friends, +where we sate when we were too many for him. Besides his customary +attendant, he had two dear and watchful nurses, who were almost always +with him—Ethel and Madame de Florac, who had passed many a faithful +year by an old man’s bedside; who would have come, as to a work of +religion, to any sick couch, much more to this one, where he lay for +whose life she would once gladly have given her own. + +But our Colonel, we all were obliged to acknowledge, was no more our +friend of old days. He knew us again, and was good to every one round +him, as his wont was; especially when Boy came, his old eyes lighted up +with simple happiness, and, with eager trembling hands, he would seek +under his bedclothes, or the pockets of his dressing-gown, for toys or +cakes, which he had caused to be purchased for his grandson. There was +a little laughing, red-cheeked, white-headed gown-boy of the school, to +whom the old man had taken a great fancy. One of the symptoms of his +returning consciousness and recovery, as we hoped, was his calling for +this child, who pleased our friend by his archness and merry ways; and +who, to the old gentleman’s unfailing delight, used to call him, “Codd +Colonel.” “Tell little F——, that Codd Colonel wants to see him;” and +the little gown-boy was brought to him; and the Colonel would listen to +him for hours; and hear all about his lessons and his play; and prattle +almost as childishly about Dr. Raine, and his own early school-days. +The boys of the school, it must be said, had heard the noble old +gentleman’s touching history, and had all got to know and love him. +They came every day to hear news of him; sent him in books and papers +to amuse him; and some benevolent young souls,—God’s blessing on all +honest boys, say I,—painted theatrical characters, and sent them in to +Codd Colonel’s grandson. The little fellow was made free of gown-boys, +and once came thence to his grandfather in a little gown, which +delighted the old man hugely. Boy said he would like to be a little +gown-boy; and I make no doubt, when he is old enough, his father will +get him that post, and put him under the tuition of my friend Dr. +Senior. + +So, weeks passed away, during which our dear old friend still remained +with us. His mind was gone at intervals, but would rally feebly; and +with his consciousness returned his love, his simplicity, his +sweetness. He would talk French with Madame de Florac, at which time, +his memory appeared to awaken with surprising vividness, his cheek +flushed, and he was a youth again,—a youth all love and hope,—a +stricken old man, with a beard as white as snow covering the noble +careworn face. At such times he called her by her Christian name of +Léonore; he addressed courtly old words of regard and kindness to the +aged lady; anon he wandered in his talk, and spoke to her as if they +still were young. Now, as in those early days, his heart was pure; no +anger remained in it; no guile tainted it; only peace and goodwill +dwelt in it. + +Rosa’s death had seemed to shock him for a while when the unconscious +little boy spoke of it. Before that circumstance, Clive had even +forbore to wear mourning, lest the news should agitate his father. The +Colonel remained silent and was very much disturbed all that day, but +he never appeared to comprehend the fact quite; and, once or twice +afterwards, asked, why she did not come to see him? She was prevented, +he supposed—she was prevented, he said, with a look of terror: he never +once otherwise alluded to that unlucky tyrant of his household, who had +made his last years so unhappy. + +The circumstance of Clive’s legacy he never understood: but more than +once spoke of Barnes to Ethel, and sent his compliments to him, and +said he should like to shake him by the hand. Barnes Newcome never once +offered to touch that honoured hand, though his sister bore her uncle’s +message to him. They came often from Bryanstone Square; Mrs. Hobson +even offered to sit with the Colonel, and read to him, and brought him +books for his improvement. But her presence disturbed him; he cared not +for her books; the two nurses whom he loved faithfully watched him; and +my wife and I were admitted to him sometimes, both of whom he honoured +with regard and recognition. As for F. B., in order to be near his +Colonel, did not that good fellow take up his lodging in Cistercian +Lane, at the Red Cow? He is one whose errors, let us hope, shall be +pardoned, _quia multum amavit_. I am sure he felt ten times more joy at +hearing of Clive’s legacy, than if thousands had been bequeathed to +himself. May good health and good fortune speed him! + +The days went on, and our hopes, raised sometimes, began to flicker and +fail. One evening the Colonel left his chair for his bed in pretty good +spirits, but passed a disturbed night, and the next morning was too +weak to rise. Then he remained in his bed, and his friends visited him +there. One afternoon he asked for his little gown-boy, and the child +was brought to him, and sate by the bed with a very awestricken face; +and then gathered courage, and tried to amuse him by telling him how it +was a half-holiday, and they were having a cricket-match with the St. +Peter’s boys in the green, and Grey Friars was in and winning. The +Colonel quite understood about it; he would like to see the game; he +had played many a game on that green when he was a boy. He grew +excited; Clive dismissed his father’s little friend, and put a +sovereign into his hand; and away he ran to say that Codd Colonel had +come into a fortune, and to buy tarts, and to see the match out. _I, +curre_, little white-haired gown-boy! Heaven speed you, little friend! + +After the child had gone, Thomas Newcome began to wander more and more. +He talked louder; he gave the word of command, spoke Hindustanee as if +to his men. Then he spoke words in French rapidly, seizing a hand that +was near him and crying, “Toujours, toujours!” But it was Ethel’s hand +which he took. + +Ethel and Clive and the nurse were in the room with him; the latter +came to us, who were sitting in the adjoining apartment; Madame de +Florac was there, with my wife and Bayham. + +At the look in the woman’s countenance Madame de Florac started up. “He +is very bad, he wanders a great deal,” the nurse whispered. The French +lady fell instantly on her knees, and remained rigid in prayer. + +Some time afterwards Ethel came in with a scared face to our pale +group. “He is calling for you again, dear lady,” she said, going up to +Madame de Florac, who was still kneeling; “and just now he said he +wanted Pendennis to take care of his boy. He will not know you.” She +hid her tears as she spoke. + +She went into the room, where Clive was at the bed’s foot; the old man +within it talked on rapidly for a while: then again he would sigh and +be still: once more I heard him say hurriedly, “Take care of him while +I’m in India;” and then with a heart-rending voice he called out, +“Léonore, Léonore!” She was kneeling by his side now. The patient’s +voice sank into faint murmurs; only a moan now and then announced that +he was not asleep. + +At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, and Thomas +Newcome’s hands outside the bed feebly beat a time. And just as the +last bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone over his face, and he +lifted up his head a little, and quickly said, “Adsum!” and fell back. +It was the word we used at school, when names were called; and lo, he, +whose heart was as that of a little child, had answered to his name, +and stood in the presence of The Master. + + +Two years ago, walking with my children in some pleasant fields, near +to Berne in Switzerland, I strayed from them into a little wood; and, +coming out of it presently, told them how the story had been revealed +to me somehow, which for three-and-twenty months the reader has been +pleased to follow. As I write the last line with a rather sad heart, +Pendennis and Laura, and Ethel and Clive, fade away into Fable-land. I +hardly know whether they are not true: whether they do not live near us +somewhere. They were alive, and I heard their voices, but five minutes +since was touched by their grief. And have we parted with them here on +a sudden, and without so much as a shake of the hand? Is yonder line +(——), which I drew with my own pen, a barrier between me and Hades as +it were, across which I can see those figures retreating and only dimly +glimmering? Before taking leave of Mr. Arthur Pendennis, might he not +have told us whether Miss Ethel married anybody finally? It was +provoking that he should retire to the shades without answering that +sentimental question. + +But though he has disappeared as irrevocably as Eurydice, these minor +questions may settle the major one above mentioned. How could Pendennis +have got all that information about Ethel’s goings-on at Baden, and +with Lord Kew, unless she had told somebody—her husband, for instance, +who, having made Pendennis an early confidant in his amour, gave him +the whole story? Clive, Pendennis writes expressly, is travelling +abroad with his wife. Who is that wife? By a most monstrous blunder, +Mr. Pendennis killed Lord Farintosh’s mother at one page and brought +her to life again at another; but Rosey, who is so lately consigned to +Kensal Green, it is not surely with _her_ that Clive is travelling, for +then Mrs. Mackenzie would probably be with them to a live certainty, +and the tour would be by no means pleasant. How could Pendennis have +got all those private letters, etc., but that the Colonel kept them in +a teak box, which Clive inherited and made over to his friend? My +belief then is, that in Fable-land somewhere Ethel and Clive are living +most comfortably together: that she is immensely fond of his little +boy, and a great deal happier now than they would have been had they +married at first, when they took a liking to each other as young +people. That picture of J. J.’s of Mrs. Clive Newcome (in the Crystal +Palace Exhibition in Fable-land), is certainly not in the least like +Rosey, who we read was fair; but it represents a tall, handsome, dark +lady, who must be Mrs. Ethel. + +Again, why did Pendennis introduce J. J. with such a flourish, giving +us, as it were, an overture, and no piece to follow it? J. J.’s +history, let me confidentially state, has been revealed to me too, and +may be told some of these fine summer months, or Christmas evenings, +when the kind reader has leisure to hear. + +What about Sir Barnes Newcome ultimately? My impression is that he is +married again, and it is my fervent hope that his present wife bullies +him. Mrs. Mackenzie cannot have the face to keep that money which Clive +paid over to her, beyond her lifetime; and will certainly leave it and +her savings to little Tommy. I should not be surprised if Madame de +Moncontour left a smart legacy to the Pendennis children; and Lord Kew +stood godfather in case—in case Mr. and Mrs. Clive wanted such an +article. But have they any children? I, for my part, should like her +best without, and entirely devoted to little Tommy. But for you, dear +friend, it is as you like. You may settle your Fable-land in your own +fashion. Anything you like happens in Fable-land. Wicked folks die +apropos (for instance, that death of Lady Kew was most artful, for if +she had not died, don’t you see that Ethel would have married Lord +Farintosh the next week?)—annoying folks are got out of the way; the +poor are rewarded—the upstarts are set down in Fable-land,—the frog +bursts with wicked rage, the fox is caught in his trap, the lamb is +rescued from the wolf, and so forth, just in the nick of time. And the +poet of Fable-land rewards and punishes absolutely. He splendidly deals +out bags of sovereigns, which won’t buy anything; belabours wicked +backs with awful blows, which do not hurt; endows heroines with +preternatural beauty, and creates heroes, who, if ugly sometimes, yet +possess a thousand good qualities, and usually end by being immensely +rich; makes the hero and heroine happy at last, and happy ever after. +Ah, happy, harmless Fable-land, where these things are! Friendly +reader! may you and the author meet there on some future day. He hopes +so; as he yet keeps a lingering hold of your hand, and bids you +farewell with a kind heart. + +PARIS, 28th June 1855. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 7467 *** |