MARTHA HONEYMAN.

* * * * *

Besides the news gleaned from these letters we gather the main facts

concerning little Clive's departure from the Colonel's side. He had kept

the child with him until he felt sure that the change would be of

advantage to the pretty boy, then had parted from him with bitter pangs

of heart, and thought constantly of him with longing and affection. With

the boy, it was different. Half an hour after his father had left him and

in grief and loneliness was rowing back to shore, Clive was at play with

a dozen other children on the sunny deck of the ship. When two bells rang

for their dinner, they were all hurrying to the table, busy over their

meal, and forgetful of all but present happiness.

But with that fidelity which was an instinct of his nature, Colonel

Newcome thought ever of his absent child and longed after him. He never

forsook the native servants who had had charge of Clive, but endowed them

with money sufficient to make all their future lives comfortable. No

friends went to Europe, nor ship departed, but Newcome sent presents to

the boy and costly tokens of his love and thanks to all who were kind to

his son. His aim was to save money for the youngster, but he was of a

nature so generous that he spent five rupees where another would save

them. However, he managed to lay by considerable 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. 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. 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, 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 the 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! 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 dive's letters, and those of

Miss Honeyman, which contained an account of the boy. He even bored some

of his hearers 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, generosity and honour.

As to Clive himself, by this time he was thoroughly enjoying his new life

in England. After remaining for a time at Doctor Timpany's school, where

he was first placed by his aunt, Miss Honeyman, he was speedily removed

to that classical institution in which Colonel Newcome had been a student

in earlier days. My acquaintance with young Clive was at this school,

Grey Friars, where our acquaintance was brief and casual. He had the

advantage of being six years my junior, and such a difference of age

between lads at a public school puts intimacy out of the question, even

though we knew each other at home, as our school phrase was, and our

families were somewhat acquainted. When Newcome's uncle, the Reverend

Charles Honeyman, brought Newcome to the Grey Friars School, he

recommended him to my superintendence and protection, and told me 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 & Newcome, Hobson Newcome, Esquire, Brianstone 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 protege in the neighbourhood of

the pastry cook's, regaling himself with raspberry tarts. "You must not

spend all the money, sir, which your uncle gave you," said I, "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 Ann

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?" I ask, smiling at the artless youth's confessions.

"Ethel is my cousin," replied little Newcome; "Aunt Ann's daughter.

There's Ethel and Alice, and Aunt Ann 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," replied the little

chubby-faced hero, digging his hands deep into his trousers, 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, and lost sight of him

for several years. Nor did we meet again until I was myself a young man

occupying chambers in the Temple.

Meanwhile the years of Clive's absence had slowly worn away for Colonel

Newcome, and at last the happy time came which he had been longing more

passionately than any prisoner for liberty, or schoolboy for holiday. The

Colonel had taken leave of his regiment. He had travelled to Calcutta;

and the Commander-in-Chief announced that in giving to Lieutenant-Colonel

Thomas Newcome, of the Bengal Cavalry, leave for the first time, after no

less than thirty-four years' absence from home, he could not refrain from

expressing his sense of the great services of this most distinguished

officer, who had left his regiment in a state of the highest discipline

and efficiency.

This kind Colonel had also to take leave of a score, at least, of adopted

children to whom he chose to stand in the light of a father. He was

forever whirling away in post-chaises 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 Hick'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, some

of whom he actually escorted to their friends before he visited his own,

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 moustaches, and 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 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.

The Colonel 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 Reverend Mister Popkinson, came into the

lodging-room, with a good-natured face, and said, "Newcome, you're

wanted," he knew who had come. He did not heed that notorious bruiser,

old Hodge, who roared out, "Confound you, Newcome: I'll give it you for

upsetting your tea over my new trousers." He ran to the room where the

stranger was 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 everything which his parent could desire. He was

the picture of health, strength, activity, and good-humour. He had a good

forehead shaded with a quantity of waving light hair; a complexion which

ladies might envy; a mouth which seemed accustomed to laughing; and a

pair of blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and frank kindness. No

wonder the pleased father could not refrain from looking at him.

The bell rang for second school, and Mr. Popkinson, arrayed in cap and

gown, came in to shake Colonel Newcome by the hand, and to say he

supposes it was to be a holiday for Newcome that day. He said not 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 was done ringing, and all these busy little bees swarmed

into their hive, there was a solitude in the place. The Colonel and his

son walked the play-ground together, that gravelly flat, as destitute of

herbage as the Arabian desert, but, nevertheless, in the language of the

place, called the green. They walked the green, and they paced the

cloisters, and Clive showed his father his own name of Thomas Newcome

carved upon one of the arches forty years ago. As they talked, the boy

gave sidelong glances at his new friend, and wondered at the Colonel's

loose trousers, long moustaches, and yellow face. He looked very odd,

Clive thought, very odd and very kind, and like a gentleman, every inch

of him:--not like Martin's father, who came to see his son lately in

highlows, and a shocking bad hat, and actually flung coppers amongst the

boys for a scramble. He burst 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, 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 into the banking house, broke into the parlour where the lords

of the establishment were seated, and astonished these trim, quiet

gentlemen by the warmth of his greeting, by the vigour of his handshake,

and the loud tones of his voice, which might actually be heard by the

busy clerks in the hall without. He knew Bryan from Hobson at once--that

unlucky little accident in the go-cart having left its mark forever on

the nose of Sir Bryan Newcome. He had a bald head and light hair, a short

whisker cut to his cheek, a buff waistcoat, very neat boots and hands,

and was altogether dignified, bland, smiling, and statesmanlike.

Hobson Newcome, Esquire, was more portly than his elder brother, and

allowed his red whiskers to grow on his cheeks and under his chin. He

wore thick shoes with nails in them, and affected the country gentleman

in his appearance. His hat had a broad brim, and his ample pockets always

contained agricultural produce, samples of bean or corn, or a whiplash or

balls for horses. In fine, he was a good old country gentleman, and a

better man of business than his more solemn brother, at whom he laughed

in his jocular way; and said rightly that a gentleman must get up very

early to get ahead of him.

These gentlemen each received the Colonel in a manner consistent with his

peculiar nature. Sir Bryan regretted that Lady Ann 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 Lady Ann

could give you; but when will you take a day and come and dine with us?

Let's see, to-day is Wednesday; to-morrow we are engaged. Friday, we dine

at Judge Budge's; Saturday I am 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 worthy 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.

At this moment a fair-haired young gentleman, languid and pale, and

dressed in the height of fashion, made his appearance and was introduced

as the Baronet's oldest son, Barnes Newcome. He returned Colonel

Newcome's greeting with a smile, saying, "Very happy to see you, I am

sure. 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 his 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 asked him whether he

found London was changed. As soon as possible he ended the interview with

his step-brothers, and drove back to Ludgate Hill, where he dismissed his

cab and walked across the muddy pavements 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 espied him, 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 moustaches, 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 the 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 Saturday night, I go

into the dining-room to shake hands, and he gives it to 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," said 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 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's very kind to me; but Aunt Ann 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 Ann herself, is old

Aunt Honeyman at Brighton--that is, in all essentials, 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 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. "That's a man," cried 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 Hobson

Newcome lived in a handsome and roomy mansion. Colonel Newcome was bent

on paying a visit to his sister-in-law, although as they waited to be let

in they could not but remark through the opened windows of the

dining-room that a great table was laid and every preparation was 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 India with all

his family, he might have stayed for a year, and I should have been

offended had he 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 is not at home," said the man. "Missis is gone in carriage--Not

at this door!--Take them things down the area steps, young man!"

This latter speech was addressed to a pastry cook'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 from what it is in India. There are the children in

the Square,--those are the girls in blue,--that's the French governess,

the one with the yellow parasol. How d'ye do, Mary? How d'ye do, Fanny?

This is my father,--this is your uncle."

The Colonel surveyed his little nieces with that kind expression which

his face always wore when it was turned toward children.

"Have you heard of your uncle in India?" he asked them.

"No," says Maria.

"Yes," says Fannie. "You know mademoiselle said that if we were naughty

we should be sent to our uncle in India. I think I should like to go

with you."

"Oh, you silly child!" cries Maria.

"Yes, I should, if Clive went, too," says little Fanny.

"Behold madame, who arrives from her promenade!" mademoiselle exclaimed,

and, turning round, Colonel Newcome beheld, for the first time, his

sister-in-law, a stout lady with fair hair and a fine bonnet and a

pelisse, who was reclining in her barouche with the scarlet plush

garments of her domestics blazing before and behind her.

Clive 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," said 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 exclaimed, and the Colonel stepped

forward and took off his hat and bowed and stood bareheaded. She surveyed

him blandly, and put forward a little hand, saying, "You have only

arrived to-day, and you came to see me? That was very kind. Have you had

a pleasant voyage? 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 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 papa will like us, Clive? Or, perhaps

you will like Lady Ann best? Yes; you have been to her first, of course?

Not been? Oh! because she is not in town." Leaning fondly on Clive's

arm, mademoiselle standing 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 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 arriven in Europe. A stranger coming to London could scarcely have

a better opportunity of seeing some of our great illustrations of science

and literature. We have a few friends at dinner, and now I must go in and

consult with 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. Goodbye!"

And again the Colonel was favoured with a shake of the hand, and the lady

sailed up the stair, and passed in at the door, with not the faintest

idea but that the hospitality which she was offering to her kinsman was

of the most cordial and pleasant kind.

Having met Colonel Newcome on the steps of her house, she ordered him to

come to her evening party; and though he had not been to an evening party

for five and thirty years--though he had not been to bed the night

before--he never once thought of disobeying Mrs. Newcome's order, but was

actually at her door at five minutes past ten, having arrayed himself, to

the wonderment of Clive, and left the boy to talk to Mr. Binnie, a friend

and fellow-passenger, who had just arrived from Portsmouth, who had

dined with him, and taken up his quarters at the same hotel.

Well, then, the Colonel is launched in English society of an intellectual

order, and mighty dull he finds it. During two hours of desultory

conversation and rather meagre refreshments, the only bright spot is his

meeting with Charles Honeyman, his dead wife's brother, whom he was

mighty glad to see. Except for this meeting there was little to entertain

the Colonel, and as soon as possible he and Honeyman walked away

together, the Colonel returning to his hotel, where he found his friend

James Binnie installed in his room in the best arm-chair,

sleeping-cosily, but he woke up briskly when the Colonel entered. "It is

you, you gadabout, is it?" cried Binnie. "See what it is to have a real

friend now, Colonel! I waited for you, because I knew you would want to

talk about that scapegrace of yours."

"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 I

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

prodigiously 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 sojor of him, though worse men than him's good enough for

that--but a bad merchant, a lazy lawyer, and a miserable mathematician.

My opinion, Colonel, is that young scapegrace will give you a deal of

trouble; or would, only you are so absurdly proud of him, and you think

everything he does is perfection. 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 your obstinate habit of telling the

truth, Colonel, which may prevent 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?" asked 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. By the admirable seestem purshood

at your public schools, just about as much knowledge 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 you 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," says the little wag, daintily

taking up the tail of his friend's coat. "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, eh, Colonel?"

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. The next

morning when Binnie entered the sitting-room he found the Colonel had

preceded him. "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 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; and 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.

If my memory serves me right it was at about this time that I, the humble

biographer of Mr. Clive Newcome's life, met him again for the first time

since my school days at Grey Friars.

Going to the play one night with some fellows of my own age, and laughing

enthusiastically at the farce, we became naturally hungry at midnight,

and a desire for Welch Rabbits and good old glee-singing led us to the

"Cave of Harmony," then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, with whom we

enjoyed such intimacy that he never failed to greet us with a kind nod.

We also knew the three admirable glee-singers. 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 moustaches, 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 moustaches

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. 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 Smiffle."

Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, strode across the room

twirling his moustaches, and came up to the table where we sat, making a

salutation with his hat in a very stately and polite manner, so that

Hoskins himself felt obliged to bow; the glee-singers murmured among

themselves, and that mischievous little wag, little Nadab the

Improvisatore, 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 sternly, looking towards

Nadab, and at the same time calling upon the gents to give their orders.

Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me, and he spoke in a

voice so 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.

"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 there is to be seen."

King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was about to point out a

half dozen of people in the room, as the most celebrated wits of that

day; but I cut King's shins under the table, and got the fellow to hold

his tongue, while Jones wrote 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 lady's school might have come in, and have taken no

harm by what happened. 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 pleasure over the glees, and joined

in all the choruses with an exceedingly sweet voice.

And now young Nadab 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; when he

came 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., 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. 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 the Honour," says Mr. Nadab, "and perhaps the day will

come when the world will do me justice,--may I put down your Honoured

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.

The Colonel selected the ditty of "Wapping Old Stairs," which charming

old song he sang so pathetically that even the professional gentlemen

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; 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. There was

something touching in the naivetée and kindness of the placid and simple

gentleman.

Whilst the Colonel had been singing his ballad there had come into the

room a gentleman, by name Captain Costigan, who was in his usual

condition at this hour of the night. Holding on by various tables, he had

sidled up without accident to himself or any of the jugs and glasses

round about him, to the table where we sat, and seated himself warbling

the refrain of the Colonel's song. Then having procured a glass of

whiskey and water he gave what he called one of his prime songs. The

unlucky wretch, who scarcely knew what he was doing or saying, selected

the most offensive song in his repertoire. At the end of the second verse

the Colonel started up, clapping on his hat, seizing his stick, and

looking ferocious. "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? Do you dare, sir, to call yourself a

gentleman, and to say that you hold the King's commission, and to sit

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 whiskey 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 shamedfaced, but I fear the rest of the company

looked still more foolish. For if the truth be told that uplifted cane

of the Colonel's had somehow fallen on the back of every man in the room.

While Clive and his father are becoming better acquainted let us pass on

to Brighton, and glance at the household of that good, brisk old lady,

Clive's Aunt Honeyman. Now Aunt Honeyman was a woman of spirit and

resolution, and when she found her income sadly diminished by financial

reverses she brought her furniture to Brighton, also a faithful maid

servant who had learned her letters and worked her first sampler under

Miss Honeyman's own eye, and whom she adored all through her life. With

this outfit the brisk little lady took a house, and let the upper floors

to lodgers, and because of her personal attractions and her good

housekeeping her rooms were seldom empty.

On the morning when we first visit Miss Honeyman's a gentleman had just

applied there for rooms. "Please to speak to mistress," says Hannah, the

maid, opening the parlour door with a curtsey. "A gentleman about the

apartments, mum."

"Fife bet-rooms," says the man entering. "Six bets, two or dree

sitting-rooms? We gome from Dr. Good-enough."

"Are the apartments for you, sir?" says Miss Honeyman, looking up at the

large gentleman.

"For my lady," answers the man.

"Had you not better take off your hat?" asks Miss Honeyman.

The man grins and takes off his hat. Whereupon Miss Honeyman, having

heard also that a German's physician has especially recommended Miss

Honeyman's as a place in which one of his patients can have a change of

air and scene, informs the man that she can let his mistress have the

desired number of apartments. The man reports to his mistress, who

descends to inspect the apartments, and pronounces them exceedingly neat

and pleasant and exactly what are wanted. The baggage is forthwith

ordered to be brought from the carriages. The little invalid, wrapped in

his shawl, is carried upstairs as gently as possible, while the young

ladies, the governess, the maids, are shown to their apartments. The

eldest young lady, a slim black-haired young lass of thirteen, frisks

about the rooms, looks at all the pictures, runs in and out of the

veranda, tries the piano, and bursts out laughing at its wheezy jingle.

She also 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; Brasenose College, Oxford; what a funny name."

At the idea of Brasenose College, another laugh comes from the invalid.

"I suppose they've all got _brass noses_ there," he says; and he 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. "How much better is this than going home and

seeing those horrid factories and chimneys! I love Dr. Goodenough for

sending us here. What a sweet house it is. What nice rooms!"

Presently little Miss Honeyman makes her appearance 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. She curtseys

with dignity to her lodger, who vouchsafes a very slight inclination of

the head, saying that the apartments will do very well.

"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 mam, 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, mam," cried Lady Ann

Newcome, for it was no other than that noble person, with her children,

who had invaded the precincts of Miss Honeyman's home. "Dr. Goodenough

has given me a most satisfactory account of you--more satisfactory,

perhaps, than you are aware of. 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. Dr.

Goodenough has ordered ass's milk. Anything further I want I will

communicate through the man who first spoke to you--and that will do."

A heavy shower of rain was descending at this moment, and little Miss

Honeyman, looking at her lodger, who had sat 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 Miss

Honeyman, trembling with indignation, and sitting down in a chair,

spreading her silks.

"Do you know who I am?" asks Lady Ann, 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 Ann. "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-sty! 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, until one

of the nurses intrusted with the care of Master Alfred's dinner informed

her that she was entertaining Lady Ann 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 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; then she came to wait upon Lady Ann, 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 bringing them up to the little patient when the frantic parent

met her on the stair.

"Is it--is it for my child?" cried Lady Ann, 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-ess-ings 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 Ann, with clasped hands and streaming

eyes, sat 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, and

for a brief season Lady Ann Newcome was in rapture 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 fresh French beans?

"Indeed they were very good," said Miss Ethel, "I am so glad you like the

house, and Clive, and Miss Honeyman."

Ethel's mother was constantly falling in love with new acquaintances; so

these raptures were no novelty to her daughter. Ethel 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, "Oh, 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.

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 everyone stared; nor dance with them at the

academy; nor attend the _Cours de Litterature Universelle et de Science

Comprehensive_ 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 sat 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, and intractable, and did

battle with the governesses, and overcame them one after another.

While Lady Ann Newcome and her children were at Brighton, Lady Kew,

mother of Lady Ann, was also staying there, but refused to visit the

house in which her daughter was stopping for fear that she herself might

contract the disease from which her grandchildren were recovering. She

received news of them, however, through her grandson, Lord Kew, and his

friend Jack Belsize, who enjoyed dining with the old lady whenever they

were given the opportunity. Having met their cousins one day before

dining with Lady Kew their news was most interesting and enthusiastic.

"That little chap who has just had the measles--he's a dear little

brick," said Jack Belsize. "And as for Miss Ethel--"

"Ethel is a trump, mam," 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, "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. The little

fellow wanted a drive and I said I would drive him and Ethel, too, if she

would come. Upon my word she's 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 she finally let the children take their seats beside me, and Jack

went behind. We drove on to the Downs; my horses are young, and when they

get on the grass they are as if they were mad. They 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 sat 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."

There is a brother of Sir Brian Newcome's staying with them, Lord Kew

perceives; an East India Colonel, a very fine-looking old boy. He was on

the lookout for them, and when they came in sight he despatched a boy who

was with him, running like a lamplighter, back to their 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 great fright." And then he made Kew and Jack a low bow,

and stalked into the lodgings. Then they went up and made their peace and

were presented in form to the Colonel and his youthful cub.

"As fine a fellow as I ever 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-do-you-call-'im, and Miss Newcome

was looking over them. And Lady Ann pointed out the group to me, and said

how pretty it was."

In consequence of this conversation, which aroused her curiosity, Lady

Kew sent a letter that night to Lady Ann Newcome, desiring that Ethel

should be sent to see her grandmother; Ethel, who was no weakling in

character despite her youth, and who always rebelled against her

grandmother and always fought on her Aunt Julia's side when that amiable

invalid lady, who lived with her mother, was oppressed by the dominating

older woman.

From the foregoing facts we gather that Thomas Newcome had not been many

weeks in England before he favoured good little Miss Honeyman with a

visit, to her great delight. You may be sure that the visit was an event

in her life. And she was especially pleased that it should occur at the

time when the Colonel's kinsfolk were staying under her roof. On the day

of the Colonel's arrival all the presents which Newcome had ever sent 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 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? 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 firescreens, and the sandal-wood

work-box, and the ivory card case, 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 trowsers, 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 Newcome, Master Newcome, 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. 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 ginger-bread 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.

"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 was 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 moustache from

his mouth, and stooping down he kissed the little white hand with a great

deal of grace and dignity, after which he was forever the humble and

devoted admirer of that bright young girl.

Raising himself from his salute, he heard a pretty little infantile

chorus. "How do you do, uncle?" said girls number two and three, while

the dancing baby in the arms of the bobbing nurse babbled a welcome.

Alfred looked up for a while at his uncle in the white trousers, and then

instantly proposed that Clive should make some drawings; and was on his

knees at the next moment. He was always climbing on somebody or

something, or winding over chairs, curling through bannisters, standing

on somebody's head, or his own head; as his convalescence advanced, his

breakages were fearful. Miss Honeyman and Hannah talked about his

dilapidations for years after. When he was a jolly young officer in the

Guards, and came to see them at Brighton, they showed him the blue dragon

Chayny jar on which he would sit, and over which he cried so fearfully

upon breaking it.

When this little party had gone out smiling to take its walk on the sea

shore, the Colonel from his balcony watched the slim figure of pretty

Ethel, looked fondly after her, and as the smoke of his cigar floated in

the air, formed a fine castle in it, whereof Clive was Lord, and Ethel

Lady. "What a frank, generous, bright young creature is yonder!" thought

he. "How cheering 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 had!

What a pretty little white hand it is! When she gave it me, it looked

like a little white bird lying in mine."

Thus mused the Colonel, upon the charms of the young girl who was

henceforth to occupy the first place in his affection.

His admiration for her might have been still further heightened had he

been at Lady Ann's breakfast table some four or five weeks later, when

Lady Ann and her nursery had just returned to London, little Alfred being

perfectly set up by a month of Brighton air. Barnes Newcome had just

discovered an article in the Newcome Independent commenting warmly upon a

visit which Colonel Newcome and Clive had recently paid to Newcome, the

object of that visit having been the Colonel's desire to gladden the eyes

of his old nurse Sarah with a sight of him. Inhabitants of Newcome,

feeling that the same Sarah Mason, who was a much respected member of the

community, was much neglected by her rich and influential relatives in

London, took great delight in commenting upon the Colonel's attention to

the aged woman. The article in the Independent on that subject was

anything but pleasing to the family pride of Mr. Barnes, who remarked in

a sneering tone, "My uncle the Colonel, and his amiable son, have been

paying a visit to Newcome. That is the news which the paper announces

triumphantly," said Mr. Barnes.

"You are always sneering about our uncle," broke in Ethel, impetuously,

"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.

Barnes is always speaking ill of him behind his back; and Miss Honeyman

is a dear little old woman too. Was not she kind to Alfred, mamma, and

did not she make him nice jelly?"

"Did you bring some of Miss Honeyman's lodging-house cards with you,

Ethel?" sneered 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 Ann.

"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 has retired into private life in her native town of

Newcome. The Colonel and young Clive have been spending 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 in her eyes.

"The Colonel went to her like a kind, dear, good brave uncle as he is.

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, adding simply, "if we had gone sooner there

would not have been all this abuse of us in the papers." To which

statement her worldly father and brother perforce agreeing, we may

congratulate good old nurse Sarah upon adding to the list of her

friends such a frank, open-hearted, high-spirited young woman as Miss

Ethel Newcome.

In spite of the notoriety given him in the newspapers by his visit to

Nurse Sarah, at his native place, he still remained in high favour with

Sir Brian Newcome's family, where he paid almost daily visits, and was

received with affection at least by the ladies and 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, the little girls, Sir Brian's daughters, holding each by a

finger of his 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, and was eager to supply any luxury longed for by his young

companions.

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 Brianstone 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 sovereigns with which their

uncle had thought to give them a treat. So the Colonel was obliged to

confine his benevolence to that branch of the family where it was

graciously accepted.

Meanwhile the Colonel had a new interest to absorb his attention. He had

taken a new house at 120 Fitzroy Square in connection with that Indian

friend of his, Mr. Binnie. The house being taken, there was fine

amusement for Clive, Mr. Binnie, and the Colonel, in frequenting sales,

in inspection of upholsterers' shops, and the purchase of furniture for

the new mansion. There were three masters with four or five servants

under them. Irons for the Colonel and his son, a smart boy with boots

for Mr. Binnie; Mrs. Irons to cook and keep house, with a couple of

maids under her. The Colonel himself was great at making hash mutton,

hotpot, and curry. 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 together.

Clive had a tutor--Grindley of Corpus--with whom the young gentleman did

not fatigue his brains very much, his great talent lying decidedly in

drawing. He sketched the horses, he sketched the dogs, all the servants,

from the bleer-eyed boot-boy to the rosy cheeked lass whom the

housekeeper was always calling to come downstairs. He drew his father in

all postures, and jolly little Mr. Binnie too. Young Ridley, known to his

young companions as J.J., was his daily friend now, to the great joy of

that young man, who considered Clive Newcome to be the most splendid,

fortunate, beautiful, high-born and gifted youth in the world. 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 hearts 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 C. on the chance of seeing him and getting a

kind word from him or a shake of the hand. The poor lad was known by the

boys as Newcome's Punch. He was all but hunchback, long and lean in the

arm; sallow, with a great forehead and waving black hair, and large

melancholy eyes. But his genius for drawing was enormous, which fact

Clive fully appreciated. Because of J. J.'s admiration for Clive it was

his joy to be with Clive constantly; and after Grindley's classics and

mathematics in the morning, the young men would attend Gandish's Drawing

Academy, together.

"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."

Clive had many conversations with his father 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? While his tutor 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 art under the eminent Mr. Gandish of Soho.

It was that well-known portrait painter, Andrew Smee, Esq., R.A., who

recommended Gandish to Colonel Newcome one day when the two gentleman met

at dinner at Lady Ann Newcome's. 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 direction. 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. Also, of course Clive drew Alfred and the nursery in general,

Aunt Ann and the Blenheim spaniels, 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 now-a-days! 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. But no

cajoleries could induce the Colonel to sit to any artist save one. There

hangs in Clive's 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. Clive shows

that portrait of their grandfather to his children, and tells them that

the whole world never saw a nobler gentleman.

Well, then; Clive having decided to become an artist, on a day marked

with a white stone, Colonel Newcome with his son and Mr. Smee, R. A.,

walked to Gandish's and entered the would-be artist on the roll call of

that famous academy, and of J. J. as well, for the Colonel had insisted

upon paying his expenses as an art student together with his son.

Mr. Gandish was an excellent master and the two lads made great progress

under his excellent training. 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 seldom deserted him and put him at ease wherever

his fate led him. Not one of the Gandishites but liked Clive, and at that

period of his existence he enjoyed himself in all kinds of ways, making

himself popular with dancing folks and with drawing folks, and the jolly

king of his company everywhere. He gave entertainments in the rooms in

Fitzroy Square which were devoted to his use, inviting his father and Mr.

Binnie now and then, but the good Colonel did not often attend those

parties. He saw that his presence rather silenced the young men, and went

away to play his rubber of whist at the club. And although time hung a

bit heavily on the good Colonel's hands, now that Clive's interests were

separate from his own, yet of nights as he heard Clive's companions

tramping by his bedchamber door, where he lay wakeful within, he was

happy to think his son was happy. As for Clive, those were glorious days

for him. 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 was not the most docile of Mr. Gandish's pupils,

and if the truth must be told about him, though one of the most frank,

generous and kind-hearted persons, was somewhat haughty and imperious. He

had been known to lament since that he was taken from school too early

where a further course of thrashings would, he believed, have done him

good. He lamented that he was not sent to college, where if a young man

receives no other discipline at least he meets his equals in society and

assuredly finds his betters; whereas in Mr. Gandish's studio 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 these simple

folks, who would run on his errands and vied with each other winning his

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 much better have been away. In fact, as the Colonel did

not attempt in any way to check him in his youthful career of

extravagance and experiences which were the result of an excessive high

spirit, our young gentleman at this time brought down upon himself much

adverse criticism for his behaviour, especially from his uncles. Because

of this and other reasons there was not much friendliness exhibited by

the several branches of the family for Clive and his father. Colonel

Newcome, in spite of coldness, felt it his duty to make constant attempts

to remain on friendly terms at least with the wives of his stepbrothers.

But after he had called twice or thrice upon his sister-in-law in

Brianstone Square, bringing as was his wont a present for this little

niece or a book for that, Mrs. Newcome gave him to understand that the

occupation of an English matron would not allow her to pass the mornings

in idle gossip, and with curtseys and fine speeches 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 his 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. And then he flew

out about his boy, and said 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. But since he has taken this madcap freak of turning

painter there is no understanding the chap. I don't care what a fellow

is, if he is a good fellow, but a painter is no trade at all! I don't

like it, Barnes!"

To Lady Ann Newcome the Colonel's society was more welcome than to her

sister-in-law, and the affectionate gentleman never tired of doing

kindnesses for her children, and consoled himself as best he might for

Clive's absences with his nephews and nieces, especially with Ethel, for

whom his admiration conceived at first sight never diminished. 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, but Ethel rallied him and

treated him with such distance and dignity, at the same time looking

fondly and archly at her uncle, that Clive set her down as a very

haughty, spoiled, aristocratic young creature. In fact, the two young

people were too much alike in disposition to agree perfectly, and Ethel's

parents were glad that it was so.

It was pleasant to watch the kind old face of Clive's father, that

sweet young blushing lady by his side, as the two rode homewards at

sunset talking happily together. Ethel wanted to know about battles;

about lover's lamps, which she had 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! Rambling happily from one subject to

another Ethel commands: "Next year, when I am presented at Court, you

must come, too, sir! 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, and asked

you how many people you had killed, do you know I had the same question

in my mind? I thought perhaps the King would knight you instead of that

horrid little Sir Danby Jilks, and I won't have you knighted anymore!"

The Colonel, laughing, says he hopes Egbert won't ask Sir Danby Jilks how

many men he has killed; then thinking the joke too severe upon Sir Danby,

hastens to narrate some anecdotes about the courage of surgeons in

general. Ethel declares that her uncle always will talk of other people's

courage, and never say a word about his own. So the pair talked kindly

on, riding homewards through the pleasant summer twilight. Mamma had gone

out to dinner and there were cards for three parties afterward.

"Oh, how I wish it was next year!" says Miss Ethel.

Many a splendid assembly and many a brilliant next year will the young

creature enjoy; but in the midst of her splendour and triumphs she will

often think of that quiet happy season before the world began for her,

and of that dear old friend on whose arm she leaned while she was yet a

young girl.

On account of the ugly rumours spread abroad concerning young Clive's

extravagant habits and gaiety of living, also on account of the

profession he had chosen, Sir Bryan Newcome's family preferred to have

young Clive see as little of his handsome Cousin Ethel as possible, and

Ethel's brother, Barnes, whose hatred for Clive was not untinged by

jealousy, was the most vigorous of the family in spreading disagreeable

reports about his cousin, whom he spoke of as an impudent young puppy.

Even old Lady Kew was particularly rude to Colonel Newcome and Clive. On

Ethel's birthday she had a small party chiefly of girls of her own age

who came and played and sang together and enjoyed such mild refreshments

as sponge cake, 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 backboard; 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 Brianstone 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, "Allison'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 daresay amply repaid

Colonel Newcome; and shortly after him Mr. Clive arrived. 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 a bow, her ladyship regarded him steadily, and beckoning her

daughter to her, asked who the gentleman was who had just kissed Ethel.

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.

"H'm," 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 party,

and had been languidly watching the frolics of the young people, looked

very much alarmed, and hastened to soften the incident by a change of

conversation.

But the attitude of Lady Kew and young Barnes was only a reflection of

the attitude of Ethel's parents concerning Clive, and Ethel, who was

really friendly towards him, found it difficult to deny the charges which

were constantly brought against the boy. The truth was 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 he was gaining.

There had been a long-standing promise that Clive and his father were to

go to Newcome at Christmas; and I daresay Ethel proposed to reform the

young prodigal, if prodigal he was, for she busied herself delightedly in

preparing the apartments for their guests and putting off her visit to

this pleasant neighbour, or that pretty scene in the vicinity, until her

uncle should come and they might 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, 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 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. And the

young lady went home quite fired with enthusiasm for her cousin, but

encountered Barnes, who was more than usually bitter and sarcastic on the

subject. Ethel lost her temper, and then her firmness, while bursting

into tears she taxed Barnes with cruelty for uttering stories to his

cousin's disadvantage and for pursuing with constant slander one of the

very best of men. But notwithstanding her defence of the Colonel and

Clive, when they came to Newcome for the Christmas holidays, there was no

Ethel there. She had gone on a visit to her sick aunt. Colonel Newcome

passed the holidays sadly without her, 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 holiday; 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 joy

which his soul longed after, 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, and was constantly finding

business which took him to distant quarters of England. Notwithstanding

this change in him the Colonel insisted that he was perfectly happy and

contented, but the truth was, his heart was aching with the knowledge

that Clive had occupations, ideas, associates, in which the elder could

take no interest. Sitting in his blank, cheerless bedroom, Newcome could

hear the lad and his friends making merry and breaking out in roars of

laughter from time to time. The Colonel longed to share in the merriment,

but he knew that the party would be hushed if he joined it, that the

younger men were happier and freer without him, and without laying any

blame upon them for this natural state of affairs, it saddened the days

and nights of our genial Colonel.

Clive, meanwhile, 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

took a course of modern languages, which he learned with great rapidity.

And now, being strong enough to paint without a master, Mr. Clive must

needs have a studio, as there was no good light in the house in Fitzroy

Square. 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

Clive's part. He walked over with Colonel Newcome to see the new studio,

with its tall centre window, and its curtains and hard wardrobes, china

jars, pieces of armour, and other artistic properties, and with a very

sweet smile of kindness and affection lighting up his honest face, took

out a house-key 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 am to be a historical painter, I shall condescend to do a

few portraits, you know." The Colonel grasped his son's hand as Clive

fondly put the other hand on his father's shoulder. Then Colonel Newcome

walked away 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, his face glowed with love and pleasure, and the little act of

affection compensated him for many weary hours of solitude. It is certain

that Clive worked much better after he had this apartment of his own, and

meals at home were gayer; and the rides with his father more frequent and

agreeable. The Colonel used his key not infrequently, and found Clive and

his friend J. J. as a general thing absorbed in executing historical

subjects on the largest possible canvases. Meanwhile Colonel Newcome was

preparing his mind to leave his idol, who he knew would be happy without

as with him. During the three years since he had come from India the

Colonel had spent money lavishly and had also been obliged to pay dearly

for some of Clive's boyish extravagances. At first, the Colonel had

thought he might retire from the army altogether, but experience showed

him that he could not live upon his income. He proposed now to return to

India to get his promotion as full Colonel when the thousand a year to

which that would entitle him, together with his other investments, would

be ample for Clive and himself to live on. While the Colonel's thoughts

were absorbed in this matter his favourite Ethel was constantly away with

her grandmother. The Colonel went to see her at Brighton, and once,

twice, thrice, Lady Kew's door was denied to him. Once when the Colonel

encountered his pretty Ethel with her riding master she greeted him

affectionately, but when he rode up to her she looked so constrained,

when he talked about Clive she was so reserved, when he left her, so sad,

he could only feel pain and regret. Back he went to London, having in a

week only caught this single glance of his darling, but filled with

determination to have a frank talk with his sister-in-law, Lady Ann, and

if possible to mend the family disagreement and turn the tide of Lady

Ann's affection again towards his son. This he attempted to do, and would

have succeeded had not Barnes Newcome been the head of the house. As we

know, his opinion of Clive was not to that young man's advantage. These

opinions were imparted to his Uncle Hobson at the bank, and Uncle Hobson

carried them home to his wife, who took an early opportunity of repeating

them to the Colonel, 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 was very angry because Hobson

Brothers wrote to him to say that he had overdrawn his account. "I am

sure there is some screw loose," remarked Clive to a friend, "and that my

father and the people in Park Lane have disagreed, because he goes there

very little now; and he promised to go to Court when Ethel was presented

and he didn't go." This state of affairs between the members of the

Newcome family continued for some months. Then, happily, a truce was

declared, the quarrel between the Newcome brothers came to an end--for

that time at least--and was followed by a rather showy reconciliation and

a family dinner at Brianstone Square. 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 Ann. Ethel Newcome ran to him with both hands out, an eager welcome

on her beautiful face. And even Lady Kew held out her hand to Colonel

Newcome, saying briskly: "Colonel, it is an age since we met," and

turning to Clive with equal graciousness to say, "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." There was no doubt about it,--it was an evening of

reconciliation on every side.

Ethel was so happy to see her dear uncle that she had no eyes for any

one else, until Clive advancing, those bright eyes became brighter still

as she saw him; and as she looked she saw a very handsome fellow, for

Clive at that time was of the ornamental class of mankind--a customer to

tailors, a wearer of handsome rings, shirt studs, long hair, and the

like; nor could he help, in his costume or his nature, being

picturesque, generous, and splendid. 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 and being stopped on the road in a lock of carriages

during which the people in a carriage ahead saluted us with many

insulting 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 falling off

his face, his blue eyes flashing fire, his lips and nostrils quivering

with wrath. His father sat back in the carriage looking on with delight

and wonder while a policeman separated the warriors. Clive ascended the

box again, with his coat gashed from waist to shoulder. I hardly ever

saw the elder Newcome in such a state of triumph.

While we have been making this sketch of Clive, Ethel was standing

looking at him, and the blushing youth cast down his eyes before hers

while her face assumed a look of arch humour. And now let us have a

likeness of Ethel. She was seventeen years old; rather taller than the

majority of girls; her face 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 was more sarcastic now than she became when

after-years of suffering had softened her nature. Truth looked out of her

bright eyes, and rose up armed and flashed scorn or denial when she

encountered flattery or meanness or imposture.

But those who had no cause to fear her keenness or her coldness admired

her beauty; nor could the famous Parisian model whom Clive said she

resembled be more perfect in form than this young lady. Her hair and

eyebrows were jet black, but her complexion was dazzlingly fair and her

cheeks as red as those belonging by right to a blonde. In her black hair

there was a slight natural ripple. Her eyes were grey; her mouth rather

large; her teeth were regular and white, her voice was low and sweet; and

her smile, when it lighted up her face and eyes, as beautiful as spring

sunshine; also her eyes could lighten and flash often, and sometimes,

though rarely, rain. As for her figure, the tall, slender form clad in a

simple white muslin robe in which her fair arms were enveloped, and which

was caught at her slim waist by a blue ribbon, let us make a respectful

bow to that fair image of youth, health, and modesty, and fancy it as

pretty as we will.

Not yet overshadowed by the cloud of Colonel Newcome's departure,

light-hearted in the joy of reconciliation and meeting, once again full

of high spirits and mindful of no moment beyond the present, the two

cousins never looked brighter or happier, and as Colonel Newcome gazed

upon them in the freshness of their youth and vigour his heart was filled

with delight.

Not many days after the dinner the good Colonel found it necessary to

break the news of his intended departure to Clive. His resolution to go

being taken, and having been obliged to dip somewhat deeply into the

little purse he had set aside for European expenses to help a kinsman in

distress, the Colonel's departure came somewhat sooner than he had

expected. But, as he said, "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. I fancy now a lad is not the better for being always

tied to his parents' apron-strings. 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, and 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."

With this resolution taken, the Colonel began saying farewell to his

friends. He and Clive made a pilgrimage to Grey Friars; and the Colonel

ran down to Newcome to give Mrs. Mason a parting benediction; went to all

the boys' and girls' schools where his little protégés were, so as to be

able to take the very latest account of the young folks to their parents

in India; and thence proceeded to Brighton to pass a little time with

good Miss Honeyman. With Sir Brian's family he parted on very good terms.

I believe Sir Brian even accompanied him downstairs from the drawing-room

in Park Lane, and actually saw his brother into his cab, 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 she was closeted

with Colonel Newcome for five minutes, and when he led her back to the

carriage there were tears in his eyes. Then came the day when Clive and

his father travelled together to Southampton, where a group of the

Colonel's faithful friends were assembled to say a "God bless you" to

their dear old friend, and see the vessel sail. To the end Clive remained

with his father and went below with him, and when the last bell was

ringing, came from below looking very pale. The plank was drawn after him

almost as soon as he stepped on land, and the vessel had sailed.

Although Thomas Newcome had gone back to India in search of more money,

he was nevertheless rather a wealthy man and was able to leave a hundred

a year in England to be transferred to his boy as soon as he came of

age. He also left a considerable annual sum to be paid to the boy, and

so as soon as the parting was over and his affairs were settled, Clive

was free to start on his travels, to study art in new lands, accompanied

by his faithful friend J.J. They went first to Antwerp; thence to

Brussels, and next Clive's correspondents received a letter from Bonn:

in which Master Clive said, "And whom should I find here but Aunt Ann,

Ethel, Miss Quigley and the little ones. Uncle Brian is staying at Aix,

and, upon my conscience, I think my pretty cousin looks prettier every

day. J.J. and I were climbing a little hill which leads to a ruin, when

I heard a little voice cry, 'Hello! it's Clive! Hooray, Clive,' and an

ass came down the incline with a little pair of white trousers at an

immensely wide angle over the donkey's back, and 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 came two donkeys-full of children, with

Kuhn as supercargo; then Ethel on donkey back, too, with a bunch of wild

flowers 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 women or pictures without colour. Oh,

ye carnations! Oh, 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. 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 can't paint her colour."

Thus wrote Clive from Bonn, and now that the old Countess and Barnes were

away, the barrier between Clive and this family was 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? He was glad enough to go with

them, and to travel in the orbit of such a lovely girl as Ethel Newcome,

whose beauty made all the passengers on all the steamers look round and

admire. The journey was all sunshine and pleasure and novelty; and I like

to think of the pretty girl and the gallant young fellow enjoying this

holiday. Few sights are more pleasant than to watch a happy, manly

English youth, freehanded 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. As for J. J., he, too, had his share

of enjoyment. 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 there enjoyed themselves

to the fullest extent.

Among Colonel Newcome's papers to which the family biographer has had

access, there are a couple of letters from Clive, dated Baden 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, etc., are dying to dance with her. She sends her dearest love to

her uncle." By the side of the words "Prettiest girl" are 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, Clive, after giving amusing details of life at Baden and

the company whom he met there, concludes with this: "Ethel 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.

Ethel takes up the pen. "My dear uncle," she says, "while Clive is

sketching out of the window, let me write to 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, and he draws more beautifully

every day."

When these letters were received by the good Colonel in India we can well

imagine the joy that warmed his fond heart. He, himself, was comfortably

settled in the only place which would ever be home to him,--his son, the

idol of his heart, was with Ethel, his darling. The objects of his

tenderest affection were gay, happy, together, and, best of all, thinking

of him. That he was not with them gave him no regrets; his love was too

great for that. That their youth was soon to give place to the soberer

experiences of life, gave him no pang of fear for them. Reading their

letters, the Colonel was filled with quiet contentment; their future he

could trust to the care of that Guiding Hand to whom he had entrusted his

boy in childhood's earliest days.