Although Mrs. Laura here also appeared, and had the place of honour in

her character of bride, I am bound to own my opinion that Mrs. Hobson

only made us the pretext of her party, and that in reality it was given

to persons of a much more exalted rank. We were the first to arrive,

our good old Major, the most punctual of men, bearing us company. Our

hostess was arrayed in unusual state and splendour; her fat neck was

ornamented with jewels, rich bracelets decorated her arms, and this

Bryanstone Square Cornelia had likewise her family jewels distributed

round her, priceless male and female Newcome gems, from the King’s

College youth, with whom we have made a brief acquaintance, and his

elder sister, now entering into the world, down to the last little

ornament of the nursery, in a prodigious new sash, with ringlets hot

and crisp from the tongs of a Marylebone hairdresser, We had seen the

cherub faces of some of these darlings pressed against the drawing-room

windows as our carriage drove up to the door; when, after a few

minutes’ conversation, another vehicle arrived, away they dashed to the

windows again, the innocent little dears crying out, “Here’s the

Marquis;” and in sadder tones, “No, it isn’t the Marquis,” by which

artless expressions they showed how eager they were to behold an

expected guest of a rank only inferior to Dukes in this great empire.

Putting two and two together, as the saying is, it was not difficult

for me to guess who the expected Marquis was—and, indeed, the King’s

College youth set that question at once to rest, by wagging his head at

me, and winking his eye, and saying, “We expect Farintosh.”

“Why, my dearest children,” Matronly Virtue exclaimed, “this anxiety to

behold the young Marquis of Farintosh, whom we expect at our modest

table, Mrs. Pendennis, to-day? Twice you have been at the window in

your eagerness to look for him. Louisa, you silly child, do you imagine

that his lordship will appear in his robes and coronet? Rodolf, you

absurd boy, do you think that a Marquis is other than a man? I have

never admired aught but intellect, Mrs. Pendennis; _that_, let us be

thankful, is the only true title to distinction in our country

nowadays.”

“Begad, sir,” whispers the old Major to me, “intellect may be a doosid

fine thing, but in my opinion, a Marquisate and eighteen or twenty

thousand a year—I should say the Farintosh property, with the Glenlivat

estate and the Roy property in England, must be worth nineteen thousand

a year at the very lowest figure and I remember when this young man’s

father was only Tom Roy, of the 42nd, with no hope of succeeding to the

title, and doosidly out at elbows too—I say what does the bankeress

mean by chattering about intellect? Hang me, a Marquis is a Marquis;

and Mrs. Newcome knows it as well as I do.” My good Major was growing

old, and was not unnaturally a little testy at the manner in which his

hostess received him. Truth to tell, she hardly took any notice of him

and cut down a couple of the old gentleman’s stories before he had been

five minutes in the room.

To our party presently comes the host in a flurried countenance, with a

white waistcoat, holding in his hand an open letter, towards which his

wife looks with some alarm. “How dy’ doo, Lady Clara, how dy’ doo,

Ethel?” he says, saluting those ladies, whom the second carriage had

brought to us. “Sir Barnes is not coming, that’s one place vacant;

that, Lady Clara, you won’t mind, you see him at home: but here’s a

disappointment for you, Miss Newcome, Lord Farintosh can’t come.”

At this, two of the children cry out “Oh! oh!” with such a melancholy

accent that Miss Newcome and Lady Clara burst out laughing.

“Got a dreadful toothache,” said Mr. Hobson; “here’s his letter.”

“Hang it, what a bore!” cries artless young King’s College.

“Why a bore, Samuel? A bore, as you call it, for Lord Farintosh, I

grant; but do you suppose that the high in station are exempt from the

ills of mortality? I know nothing more painful than a toothache,”

exclaims a virtuous matron, using the words of philosophy, but showing

the countenance of anger.

“Hang it, why didn’t he have it out?” says Samuel.

Miss Ethel laughed. “Lord Farintosh would not have that tooth out for

the world, Samuel,” she cried, gaily. “He keeps it in on purpose, and

it always aches when he does not want to go out to dinner.”

“I know _one_ humble family who will never ask him again,” Mrs. Hobson

exclaims, rustling in all her silks, and tapping her fan and her foot.

The eclipse, however, passes off her countenance and light is restored;

when at this moment, a cab having driven up during the period of

darkness, the door is flung open, and Lord Highgate is announced by a

loud-voiced butler.

My wife, being still the bride on this occasion, had the honour of

being led to the dinner-table by our banker and host. Lord Highgate was

reserved for Mrs. Hobson, who, in an engaging manner, requested poor

Clive to conduct his cousin Maria to dinner, handing over Miss Ethel to

another guest. Our Major gave his arm to Lady Clara, and I perceived

that my wife looked very grave as he passed the place where she sat,

and seated Lady Clara in the next chair to that which Lord Highgate

chanced to occupy. Feeling himself _en vein_, and the company being

otherwise rather mum and silent, my uncle told a number of delightful

anecdotes about the beau-monde of his time, about the Peninsular war,

the Regent, Brummell, Lord Steyne, Pea Green Payne, and so forth. He

said the evening was very pleasant, though some others of the party, as

it appeared to me, scarcely seemed to think so. Clive had not a word

for his cousin Maria, but looked across the table at Ethel all

dinner-time. What could Ethel have to say to her partner, old Colonel

Sir Donald M’Craw, who gobbled and drank, as his wont is, and if he had

a remark to make, imparted it to Mrs. Hobson, at whose right hand he

was sitting, and to whom, during the whole course, or courses, of the

dinner, my Lord Highgate scarcely uttered one single word?

His lordship was whispering all the while into the ringlets of Lady

Clara; they were talking a jargon which their hostess scarcely

understood, of people only known to her by her study of the Peerage.

When we joined the ladies after dinner, Lord Highgate again made way

towards Lady Clara, and at an order from her, as I thought, left her

ladyship, and strove hard to engage in a conversation with Mrs.

Newcome. I hope he succeeded in smoothing the frowns in that round

little face. Mrs. Laura, I own, was as grave as a judge all the

evening; very grave even and reserved with my uncle, when the hour for

parting came, and we took him home.

“He, he!” said the old man, coughing, and nodding his old head and

laughing in his senile manner, when I saw him on the next day; “that

was a pleasant evening we had yesterday; doosid pleasant, and I think

my two neighbours seemed to be uncommonly pleased with each other; not

an amusing fellow, that young painter of yours, though he is

good-looking enough, but there’s no conversation in him. Do you think

of giving a little dinner, Arthur, in return for these hospitalities?

Greenwich, hey, or something of that sort? I’ll go you halves, sir, and

we’ll ask the young banker and bankeress—not yesterday’s Amphitryon nor

his wife; no, no, hang it! but Barnes Newcome is a devilish clever,

rising man, and moves in about as good society as any in London. We’ll

ask him and Lady Clara and Highgate, and one or two more, and have a

pleasant party.”

But to this proposal, when the old man communicated it to her, in a

very quiet, simple, artful way, Laura, with a flushing face said No

quite abruptly, and quitted the room, rustling in her silks, and

showing at once dignity and indignation.

Not many more feasts was Arthur Pendennis, senior, to have in this

world. Not many more great men was he to flatter, nor schemes to wink

at, nor earthly pleasures to enjoy. His long days were well-nigh ended:

on his last couch, which Laura tended so affectionately, with his last

breath almost, he faltered out to me. “I had other views for you, my

boy, and once hoped to see you in a higher position in life; but I

begin to think now, Arthur, that I was wrong; and as for that girl,

sir, I am sure she is an angel.”

May I not inscribe the words with a grateful heart? Blessed he—blessed

though maybe undeserving—who has the love of a good woman.

CHAPTER L.

Clive in New Quarters

My wife was much better pleased with Clive than with some of his

relatives to whom I had presented her. His face carried a

recommendation with it that few honest people could resist. He was

always a welcome friend in our lodgings, and even our uncle the Major

signified his approval of the lad as a young fellow of very good

manners and feelings, who, if he chose to throw himself away and be a

painter, _ma foi_, was rich enough no doubt to follow his own caprices.

Clive executed a capital head of Major Pendennis, which now hangs in

our drawing-room at Fairoaks, and reminds me of that friend of my

youth. Clive occupied ancient lofty chambers in Hanover Square now. He

had furnished them in an antique manner, with hangings, cabinets,

carved work, Venice glasses, fine prints, and water-colour sketches of

good pictures by his own and other hands. He had horses to ride, and a

liberal purse full of paternal money. Many fine equipages drew up

opposite to his chambers: few artists had such luck as young Mr. Clive.

And above his own chambers were other three which the young gentleman

had hired, and where, says he, “I hope ere very long my dear old father

will be lodging with me. In another year he says he thinks he will be

able to come home; when the affairs of the Bank are quite settled. You

shake your head! why? The shares are worth four times what we gave for

them. We are men of fortune, Pen, I give you my word. You should see

how much they make of me at Baynes and Jolly’s, and how civil they are

to me at Hobson Brothers’! I go into the City now and then, and see our

manager, Mr. Blackmore. He tells me such stories about indigo, and

wool, and copper, and sicca rupees, and Company’s rupees. I don’t know

anything about the business, but my father likes me to go and see Mr.

Blackmore. Dear cousin Barnes is for ever asking me to dinner; I might

call Lady Clara Clara if I liked, as Sam Newcome does in Bryanstone

Square. You can’t think how kind they are to me there. My aunt

reproaches me tenderly for not going there oftener—it’s not very good

fun dining in Bryanstone Square, is it? And she praises my cousin Maria

to me—you should hear my aunt praise her! I have to take Maria down to

dinner; to sit by the piano and listen to her songs in all languages.

Do you know Maria can sing Hungarian and Polish, besides your common

German, Spanish, and Italian? Those I have at our _other_ agents’,

Baynes and Jolly’s—Baynes’s that is in the Regent’s Park, where the

girls are prettier and just as civil to me as at Aunt Hobson’s.” And

here Clive would amuse us by the accounts which he gave us of the

snares which the Misses Baynes, those young sirens of Regent’s Park,

set for him; of the songs which they sang to enchant him, the albums in

which they besought him to draw—the thousand winning ways which they

employed to bring him into their cave in York Terrace. But neither

Circe’s smiles nor Calypso’s blandishments had any effect on him; his

ears were stopped to their music, and his eyes rendered dull to their

charms by those of the flighty young enchantress with whom my wife had

of late made acquaintance.

Capitalist though he was, our young fellow was still very affable. He

forgot no old friends in his prosperity; and the lofty antique chambers

would not unfrequently be lighted up at nights to receive F. B. and

some of the old cronies of the Haunt, and some of the Gandishites, who,

if Clive had been of a nature that was to be spoiled by flattery, had

certainly done mischief to the young man. Gandish himself, when Clive

paid a visit to that illustrious artist’s Academy, received his former

pupil as if the young fellow had been a sovereign prince almost,

accompanied him to his horse; and would have held his stirrup as he

mounted; whilst the beautiful daughters of the house waved adieus to

him from the parlour-window. To the young men assembled in his studio,

Gandish was never tired of talking about Clive. The Professor would

take occasion to inform them that he had been to visit his

distinguished young friend, Mr. Newcome, son of Colonel Newcome; that

last evening he had been present at an elegant entertainment at Mr.

Newcome’s new apartments. Clive’s drawings were hung up in Gandish’s

gallery, and pointed out to visitors by the worthy Professor. On one or

two occasions, I was allowed to become a bachelor again, and

participate in these jovial meetings. How guilty my coat was on my

return home; how haughty the looks of the mistress of my house, as she

bade Martha carry away the obnoxious garment! How grand F. B. used to

be as president of Clive’s smoking-party, where he laid down the law,

talked the most talk, sang the jolliest song, and consumed the most

drink of all the jolly talkers and drinkers! Clive’s popularity rose

prodigiously; not only youngsters, but old practitioners of the fine

arts, lauded his talents. What a shame that his pictures were all

refused this year at the Academy! Alfred Smee, Esq., R.A., was

indignant at their rejection, but J. J. confessed with a sigh, and

Clive owned good-naturedly, that he had been neglecting his business,

and that his pictures were not so good as those of two years before. I

am afraid Mr. Clive went to too many balls and parties, to clubs and

jovial entertainments, besides losing yet more time in that other

pursuit we wot of. Meanwhile J. J. went steadily on with his work, no

day passed without a line: and Fame was not very far off, though this

he heeded but little; and Art, his sole mistress, rewarded him for his

steady and fond pursuit of her.

“Look at him,” Clive would say with a sigh. “Isn’t he the mortal of all

others the most to be envied! He is so fond of his art that in all the

world there is no attraction like it for him. He runs to his easel at

sunrise, and sits before it caressing his picture all day till

nightfall. He takes leave of it sadly when dark comes, spends the night

in a Life Academy, and begins next morning _da capo_. Of all the pieces

of good fortune which can befall a man, is not this the greatest: to

have your desire, and then never tire of it? I have been in such a rage

with my own shortcomings that I have dashed my foot through the

canvases, and vowed I would smash my palette and easel. Sometimes I

succeed a little better in my work, and then it will happen for half an

hour that I am pleased, but pleased at what? pleased at drawing Mr.

Muggins’s head rather like Mr. Muggins. Why, a thousand fellows can do

better, and when one day I reach my very best, yet thousands will be

able to do better still. Ours is a trade for which nowadays there is no

excuse unless one can be great in it: and I feel I have not the stuff

for that. No. 666. ‘Portrait of Joseph Muggins, Esq., Newcome, Great

George Street.’ No. 979. ‘Portrait of Mrs. Muggins, on her grey pony,

Newcome.’ No. 579. ‘Portrait of Joseph Muggins Esq.’s dog Toby,

Newcome’—this is—what I’m fit for. These are the victories I have set

myself on achieving. Oh, Mrs. Pendennis, isn’t it humiliating? Why

isn’t there a war? Why can’t I go and distinguish myself somewhere and

be a general? Why haven’t I a genius? I say, Pen, sir, why haven’t I a

genius? There is a painter who lives hard by, and who sends sometimes,

to beg me to come and look at his work. He is in the Muggins line too.

He gets his canvases with a good light upon them: excludes the

contemplation of all other objects, stands beside his pictures in an

attitude himself, and thinks that he and they are masterpieces.

Masterpieces! Oh me, what drivelling wretches we are! Fame!—except that

of just the one or two—what’s the use of it? I say, Pen, would you feel

particularly proud now if you had written Hayley’s poems? And as for a

second place in painting, who would care to be Caravaggio or Caracci? I

wouldn’t give a straw to be Caracci or Caravaggio. I would just as soon

be yonder artist who is painting up Foker’s Entire over the

public-house at the corner. He will have his payment afterwards, five

shillings a day, and a pot of beer. Your head a little more to the

light, Mrs. Pendennis, if you please. I am tiring you, I dare say, but

then, oh, I am doing it so badly!”

I, for my part, thought Clive was making a very pretty drawing of my

wife, and having affairs of my own to attend to, would often leave her

at his chambers as a sitter, or find him at our lodgings visiting her.

They became the very greatest friends. I knew the young fellow could

have no better friend than Laura; and not being ignorant of the malady

under which he was labouring, concluded naturally and justly that Clive

grew so fond of my wife, not for her sake entirely, but for his own,

because he could pour his heart out to her, and her sweet kindness and

compassion would soothe him in his unhappy condition.

Miss Ethel, I have said, also professed a great fondness for Mrs.

Pendennis; and there was that charm in the young lady’s manner which

speedily could overcome even female jealousy. Perhaps Laura determined

magnanimously to conquer it; perhaps she hid it so as to vex me and

prove the injustice of my suspicions: perhaps, honestly, she was

conquered by the young beauty, and gave her a regard and admiration

which the other knew she could inspire whenever she had the will. My

wife was fairly captivated by her at length. The untameable young

creature was docile and gentle in Laura’s presence; modest, natural,

amiable, full of laughter and spirits, delightful to see and to hear;

her presence cheered our quiet little household; her charm fascinated

my wife as it had subjugated poor Clive. Even the reluctant Farintosh

was compelled to own her power, and confidentially told his male

friends, that, hang it, she was so handsome, and so clever, and so

confoundedly pleasant and fascinating, and that—that he had been on the

point of popping the fatal question ever so many times, by Jove. “And

hang it, you know,” his lordship would say, “I don’t want to marry

until I have had my fling, you know.” As for Clive, Ethel treated him

like a boy, like a big brother. She was jocular, kind, pert, pleasant

with him, ordered him on her errands, accepted his bouquets and

compliments, admired his drawings, liked to hear him praised, and took

his part in all companies; laughed at his sighs, and frankly owned to

Laura her liking for him and her pleasure in seeing him. “Why,” said

she, “should not I be happy as long as the sunshine lasts? To-morrow, I

know, will be glum and dreary enough. When grandmamma comes back I

shall scarcely be able to come and see you. When I am settled in

life—eh! I shall be settled in life! Do not grudge me my holiday,

Laura. Oh, if you knew how stupid it is to be in the world, and how

much pleasanter to come and talk, and laugh, and sing, and be happy

with you, than to sit in that dreary Eaton Place with poor Clara!”

“Why do you stay in Eaton Place?” asks Laura.

“Why? because I must go out with somebody. What an unsophisticated

little country creature you are! Grandmamma is away, and I cannot go

about to parties by myself.”

“But why should you go to parties, and why not go back to your mother?”

says Mrs. Pendennis, gently.

“To the nursery, and my little sisters, and Miss Cann? I like being in

London best, thank you. You look grave? You think a girl should like to

be with her mother and sisters best? My dear mamma wishes me to be

here, and I stay with Barnes and Clara by grandmamma’s orders. Don’t

you know that I have been made over to Lady Kew, who has adopted me? Do

you think a young lady of my pretensions can stop at home in a damp

house in Warwickshire and cut bread-and-butter for little schoolboys?

Don’t look so very grave and shake your head so, Mrs. Pendennis! If you

had been bred as I have, you would be as I am. I know what you are

thinking, madam.”

“I am thinking,” said Laura, blushing and bowing her head—“I am

thinking, if it pleases God to give me children, I should like to live

at home at Fairoaks.” My wife’s thoughts, though she did not utter

them, and a certain modesty and habitual awe kept her silent upon

subjects so very sacred, went deeper yet. She had been bred to measure

her actions by a standard which the world may nominally admit, but

which it leaves for the most part unheeded. Worship, love, duty, as

taught her by the devout study of the Sacred Law which interprets and

defines it—if these formed the outward practice of her life, they were

also its constant and secret endeavours and occupation. She spoke but

very seldom of her religion, though it filled her heart and influenced

all her behaviour. Whenever she came to that sacred subject, her

demeanour appeared to her husband so awful that he scarcely dared to

approach it in her company, and stood without as this pure creature

entered into the Holy of Holies. What must the world appear to such a

person? Its ambitious rewards, disappointments, pleasures, worth how

much? Compared to the possession of that priceless treasure and

happiness unspeakable, a perfect faith, what has Life to offer? I see

before me now her sweet grave face, as she looks out from the balcony

of the little Richmond villa we occupied during the first happy year

after our marriage, following Ethel Newcome, who rides away, with a

staid groom behind her, to her brother’s summer residence, not far

distant. Clive had been with us in the morning, and had brought us

stirring news. The good Colonel was by this time on his way home. “If

Clive could tear himself away from London,” the good man wrote (and we

thus saw he was acquainted with the state of the young man’s mind),

“why should not Clive go and meet his father at Malta?” He was feverish

and eager to go; and his two friends strongly counselled him to take

the journey. In the midst of our talk Miss Ethel came among us. She

arrived flushed and in high spirits; she rallied Clive upon his gloomy

looks; she turned rather pale, as it seemed to us, when she heard the

news. Then she coldly told him she thought the voyage must be a

pleasant one, and would do him good: it was pleasanter than that

journey she was going to take herself with her dreary grandmother, to

those German springs which the old Countess frequented year after year.

Mr. Pendennis having business, retired to his study, whither presently

Mrs. Laura followed, having to look for her scissors, or a book she

wanted, or upon some pretext or other. She sate down in the conjugal

study; not one word did either of us say for a while about the young

people left alone in the drawing-room yonder. Laura talked about our

own home at Fairoaks, which our tenants were about to vacate. She vowed

and declared that we must live at Fairoaks; that Clavering, with all

its tittle-tattle and stupid inhabitants, was better than this wicked

London. Besides, there were some new and very pleasant families settled

in the neighbourhood. Clavering Park was taken by some delightful

people—“and you know, Pen, you were always very fond of fly-fishing,

and may fish the Brawl, as you used in old days, when—” The lips of the

pretty satirist who alluded to these unpleasant bygones were silenced

as they deserved to be by Mr. Pendennis. “Do you think, sir, I did not

know,” says the sweetest voice in the world, “when you went out on your

fishing excursions with Miss Amory?” Again the flow of words is checked

by the styptic previously applied.

“I wonder,” says Mr. Pendennis, archly, bending over his wife’s fair

hand—“I wonder whether this kind of thing is taking place in the

drawing-room?”

“Nonsense, Arthur. It is time to go back to them. Why, I declare, I

have been three-quarters of an hour away!”

“I don’t think they will much miss you, my dear,” says the gentleman.

“She is certainly very fond of him. She is always coming here. I am

sure it is not to hear you read Shakspeare, Arthur; or your new novel,

though it is very pretty. I wish Lady Kew and her sixty thousand pounds

were at the bottom of the sea.”

“But she says she is going to portion her younger brothers with a part

of it; she told Clive so,” remarks Mr. Pendennis.

“For shame! Why does not Barnes Newcome portion his younger brothers? I

have no patience with that——Why! Goodness! There is Clive going away,

actually! Clive! Mr. Newcome!” But though my wife ran to the

study-window and beckoned our friend, he only shook his head, jumped on

his horse, and rode away gloomily.

“Ethel had been crying when I went into the room,” Laura afterwards

told me. “I knew she had; but she looked up from some flowers over

which she was bending, began to laugh and rattle, would talk about

nothing but Lady Hautboi’s great breakfast the day before, and the most

insufferable Mayfair jargon; and then declared it was time to go home

and dress for Mrs. Booth’s _déjeûner_, which was to take place that

afternoon.”

And so Miss Newcome rode away—back amongst the roses and the

rouges—back amongst the fiddling, flirting, flattery, falseness—and

Laura’s sweet serene face looked after her departing. Mrs. Booth’s was

a very grand _déjeûner_. We read in the newspapers a list of the

greatest names there. A Royal Duke and Duchess; a German Highness, a

Hindoo Nabob, etc.; and, amongst the Marquises, Farintosh; and, amongst

the Lords, Highgate; and Lady Clara Newcome, and Miss Newcome, who

looked killing, our acquaintance Captain Crackthorpe informs us, and

who was in perfectly stunning spirits. “His Imperial Highness the Grand

Duke of Farintosh is wild about her,” the Captain said, “and our poor

young friend Clive may just go and hang himself. Dine with us at the

Gar and Starter? Jolly party. Oh! I forgot! married man now!” So

saying, the Captain entered the hostelry near which I met him, leaving

this present chronicler to return to his own home.

CHAPTER LI.

An Old Friend

I might open the present chapter as a contemporary writer of Romance is

occasionally in the habit of commencing his tales of Chivalry, by a

description of a November afternoon falling leaves, tawny forests,

gathering storms, and other autumnal phenomena; and two horsemen

winding up the romantic road which leads from—from Richmond Bridge to

the Star and Garter. The one rider is youthful, and has a blonde

moustache. The cheek of the other has been browned by foreign suns; it

is easy to see by the manner in which he bestrides his powerful charger

that he has followed the profession of arms. He looks as if he had

faced his country’s enemies on many a field of Eastern battle. The

cavaliers alight before the gate of a cottage on Richmond Hill, where a

gentleman receives them with eager welcome. Their steeds are

accommodated at a neighbouring hostelry,—I pause in the midst of the

description, for the reader has made the acquaintance of our two

horsemen long since. It is Clive returned from Malta, from Gibraltar,

from Seville, from Cadiz, and with him our dear old friend the Colonel.

His campaigns are over, his sword is hung up, he leaves Eastern suns

and battles to warm younger blood. Welcome back to England, dear

Colonel and kind friend! How quickly the years have passed since he has

been gone! There is a streak or two more silver in his hair. The

wrinkles about his honest eyes are somewhat deeper, but their look is

as steadfast and kind as in the early, almost boyish days when first we

knew them.

We talk a while about the Colonel’s voyage home, the pleasures of the

Spanish journey, the handsome new quarters in which Clive has installed

his father and himself, my own altered condition in life, and what not.

During the conversation a little querulous voice makes itself audible

above-stairs, at which noise Mr. Clive begins to laugh, and the Colonel

to smile. It is for the first time in his life Mr. Clive listens to the

little voice; indeed, it is only since about six weeks that that small

organ has been heard in the world at all. Laura Pendennis believes its

tunes to be the sweetest, the most interesting, the most

mirth-inspiring, the most pitiful and pathetic, that ever baby uttered;

which opinions, of course, are backed by Mrs. Hokey, the confidential

nurse. Laura’s husband is not so rapturous; but, let us trust, behaves

in a way becoming a man and a father. We forgo the description of his

feelings as not pertaining to the history at present under

consideration. A little while before the dinner is served, the lady of

the cottage comes down to greet her husband’s old friends.

And here I am sorely tempted to a third description, which has nothing

to do with the story, to be sure, but which, if properly hit off, might

fill half a page very prettily. For is not a young mother one of the

sweetest sights which life shows us? If she has been beautiful before,

does not her present pure joy give a character of refinement and

sacredness almost to her beauty, touch her sweet cheeks with fairer

blushes, and impart I know not what serene brightness to her eyes? I

give warning to the artist who designs the pictures for this veracious

story, to make no attempt at this subject. I never would be satisfied

with it were his drawing ever so good.

When Sir Charles Grandison stepped up and made his very beautifullest

bow to Miss Byron, I am sure his gracious dignity never exceeded that

of Colonel Newcome’s first greeting to Mrs. Pendennis. Of course from

the very moment they beheld one another they became friends. Are not

most of our likings thus instantaneous? Before she came down to see

him, Laura had put on one of the Colonel’s shawls—the crimson one, with

the red palm-leaves and the border of many colours. As for the white

one, the priceless, the gossamer, the fairy web, which might pass

through a ring, _that_, every lady must be aware, was already

appropriated to cover the cradle, or what I believe is called the

bassinet, of Master Pendennis.

So we all became the very best of friends; and during the winter months

whilst we still resided at Richmond, the Colonel was my wife’s constant

visitor. He often came without Clive. He did not care for the world

which the young gentleman frequented, and was more pleased and at home

by my wife’s fireside than at more noisy and splendid entertainments.

And, Laura being a sentimental person interested in pathetic novels and

all unhappy attachments, of course she and the Colonel talked a great

deal about Mr. Clive’s little affair, over which they would have such

deep confabulations that even when the master of the house appeared,

Pater Familias, the man whom, in the presence of the Rev. Dr. Portman,

Mrs. Laura had sworn to love and honour these two guilty ones would be

silent, or change the subject of conversation, not caring to admit such

an unsympathising person as myself into their conspiracy.

From many a talk which they have had together since the Colonel and his

son embraced at Malta, Clive’s father had been led to see how strongly

the passion which our friend had once fought and mastered, had now

taken possession of the young man. The unsatisfied longing left him

indifferent to all other objects of previous desire or ambition. The

misfortune darkened the sunshine of his spirit, and clouded the world

before his eyes. He passed hours in his painting-room, though he tore

up what he did there. He forsook his usual haunts, or appeared amongst

his old comrades moody and silent. From cigar-smoking, which I own to

be a reprehensible practice, he plunged into still deeper and darker

dissipation; for I am sorry to say, he took to pipes and the strongest

tobacco, for which there is _no_ excuse. Our young man was changed.

During the last fifteen or twenty months, the malady had been

increasing on him, of which we have not chosen to describe at length

the stages; knowing very well that the reader (the male reader at

least) does not care a fig about other people’s sentimental

perplexities, and is not wrapped up heart and soul in Clive’s affairs

like his father, whose rest was disturbed if the boy had a headache, or

who would have stripped the coat off his back to keep his darling’s

feet warm.

The object of this hopeless passion had, meantime, returned to the

custody of the dark old duenna, from which she had been liberated for a

while. Lady Kew had got her health again, by means of the prescriptions

of some doctors, or by the efficacy of some baths; and was again on

foot and in the world, tramping about in her grim pursuit of pleasure.

Lady Julia, we are led to believe, had retired upon half-pay, and into

an inglorious exile at Brussels, with her sister, the outlaw’s wife, by

whose bankrupt fireside she was perfectly happy. Miss Newcome was now

her grandmother’s companion, and they had been on a tour of visits in

Scotland, and were journeying from country-house to country-house about

the time when our good Colonel returned to his native shores.

The Colonel loved his nephew Barnes no better than before, perhaps,

though we must say that since his return from India the young Baronet’s

conduct had been particularly friendly. “No doubt marriage had improved

him; Lady Clara seemed a good-natured young woman enough; besides,”

says the Colonel, wagging his good old head knowingly, “Tom Newcome, of

the Bundelcund Bank, is a personage to be conciliated; whereas Tom

Newcome, of the Bengal Cavalry, was not worth Master Barnes’s

attention. He has been very good and kind on the whole; so have his

friends been uncommonly civil. There was Clive’s acquaintance, Mr.

Belsize that was, Lord Highgate who is now, entertained our whole

family sumptuously last week—wants us and Barnes and his wife to go to

his country-house at Christmas—is as hospitable, my dear Mrs.

Pendennis, as man can be. He met you at Barnes’s, and as soon as we are

alone,” says the Colonel, turning round to Laura’s husband, “I will

tell you in what terms Lady Clara speaks of your wife. Yes. She is a

good-natured, kind little woman, that Lady Clara.” Here Laura’s face

assumed that gravity and severeness, which it always wore when Lady

Clara’s name was mentioned, and the conversation took another turn.

Returning home from London one afternoon, I met the Colonel, who hailed

me on the omnibus, and rode on his way towards the City, I knew, of

course, that he had been colloquying with my wife; and taxed that young

woman with these continued flirtations. “Two or three times a week,

Mrs. Laura, you dare to receive a Colonel of Dragoons. You sit for

hours closeted with the young fellow of sixty; you change the

conversation when your own injured husband enters the room, and pretend

to talk about the weather, or the baby. You little arch hypocrite, you

know you do. Don’t try to humbug me, miss; what will Richmond, what

will society, what will Mrs. Grundy in general say to such atrocious

behaviour?”

“Oh! Pen,” says my wife, closing my mouth in a way which I do not

choose further to particularise; “that man is the best, the dearest,

the kindest creature. I never knew such a good man; you ought to put

him into a book. Do you know, sir, that I felt the very greatest desire

to give him a kiss when he went away; and that one which you had just

now, was intended for him.

“Take back thy gift, false girl!” says Mr. Pendennis; and then, finally,

we come to the particular circumstance which had occasioned so much

enthusiasm on Mrs. Laura’s part.

Colonel Newcome had summoned heart of grace, and in Clive’s behalf had

regularly proposed him to Barnes, as a suitor to Ethel, taking an

artful advantage of his nephew Barnes Newcome, and inviting that Barnes

to a private meeting, where they were to talk about the affairs of the

Bundelcund Banking Company.

Now this Bundelcund Banking Company, in the Colonel’s eyes, was in

reality his son Clive. But for Clive there might have been a hundred

banking companies established, yielding a hundred per cent, in as many

districts of India, and Thomas Newcome, who had plenty of money for his

own wants, would never have thought of speculation. His desire was to

see his boy endowed with all the possible gifts of fortune. Had he

built a palace for Clive, and been informed that a roc’s egg was

required to complete the decoration of the edifice, Tom Newcome would

have travelled to the world’s end in search of the wanting article. To

see Prince Clive ride in a gold coach with a princess beside him, was

the kind old Colonel’s ambition; that done, he would be content to

retire to a garret in the prince’s castle, and smoke his cheroot there

in peace. So the world is made. The strong and eager covet honour and

enjoyment for themselves; the gentle and disappointed (once, they may

have been strong and eager, too) desire these gifts for their children.

I think Clive’s father never liked or understood the lad’s choice of a

profession. He acquiesced in it as he would in any of his son’s wishes.

But, not being a poet himself, he could not see the nobility of that

calling; and felt secretly that his son was demeaning himself by

pursuing the art of painting. “Had he been a soldier, now,” thought

Thomas Newcome, “(though I prevented that) had he been richer than he

is, he might have married Ethel, instead of being unhappy as he now is,

God help him! I remember my own time of grief well enough: and what

years it took before my wound was scarred over.”

So with these things occupying his brain Thomas Newcome artfully

invited Barnes, his nephew, to dinner under pretence of talking of the

affairs of the great B. B. C. With the first glass of wine at dessert,

and according to the Colonel’s good old-fashioned custom of proposing

toasts, they drank the health of the B. B. C. Barnes drank the toast

with all his generous heart. The B. B. C. sent to Hobson Brothers and

Newcome a great deal of business, was in a most prosperous condition,

kept a great balance at the bank, a balance that would not be

overdrawn, as Sir Barnes Newcome very well knew. Barnes was for having

more of these bills, provided there were remittances to meet the same.

Barnes was ready to do any amount of business with the Indian bank, or

with any bank, or with any individual, Christian or heathen, white or

black, who could do good to the firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcome. He

spoke upon this subject with great archness and candour: of course as a

City man he would be glad to do a profitable business anywhere, and the

B. B. C.’s business was profitable. But the interested motive which he

admitted frankly as a man of the world, did not prevent other

sentiments more agreeable. “My dear Colonel,” says Barnes, “I am happy,

most happy, to think that our house and our name should have been

useful, as I know they have been, in the establishment of a concern in

which one of our family is interested; one whom we all so sincerely

respect and regard.” And he touched his glass with his lips and blushed

a little, as he bowed towards his uncle. He found himself making a

little speech, indeed; and to do so before one single person seems

rather odd. Had there been a large company present Barnes would not

have blushed at all, but have tossed off his glass, struck his

waistcoat possibly, and looked straight in the face of his uncle as the

chairman; well, he _did_ very likely believe that he respected and

regarded the Colonel.

The Colonel said—“Thank you, Barnes, with all my heart. It is always

good for men to be friends, much more for blood relations, as we are.”

“A relationship which honours me, I’m sure!” says Barnes, with a tone

of infinite affability. You see, he believed that Heaven had made him

the Colonel’s superior.

“And I am very glad,” the elder went on, “that you and my boy are good

friends.”

“Friends! of course. It would be unnatural if such near relatives were

otherwise than good friends.”

“You have been hospitable to him, and Lady Clara very kind, and he

wrote to me telling me of your kindness. Ahem! this is tolerable

claret. I wonder where Clive gets it?”

“You were speaking about that indigo, Colonel!” here Barnes interposes.

“Our house has done very little in that way, to be sure but I suppose

that our credit is _about_ as good as Baines and Jolly’s, and if——” but

the Colonel is in a brown study.

“Clive will have a good bit of money when I die,” resumes Clive’s

father.

“Why, you are a hale man—upon my word, quite a young man, and may marry

again, Colonel,” replies the nephew fascinatingly.

“I shall never do that,” replies the other. “Ere many years are gone, I

shall be seventy years old, Barnes.”

“Nothing in this country, my dear sir! positively nothing. Why, there

was Titus, my neighbour in the country—when will you come down to

Newcome?—who married a devilish pretty girl, of very good family, too,

Miss Burgeon, one of the Devonshire Burgeons. He looks, I am sure,

twenty years older than you do. Why should not you do likewise?”

“Because I like to remain single, and want to leave Clive a rich man.

Look here, Barnes, you know the value of our bank shares, now?”

“Indeed I do; rather speculative; but of course I know what some sold

for last week,” says Barnes.

“Suppose I realise now. I think I am worth six lakhs. I had nearly two

from my poor father. I saved some before and since I invested in this

affair; and could sell out to-morrow with sixty thousand pounds.”

“A very pretty sum of money, Colonel,” says Barnes.

“I have a pension of a thousand a year.”

“My dear Colonel, you are a capitalist! we know it very well,” remarks

Sir Barnes.

“And two hundred a year is as much as I want for myself,” continues the

capitalist, looking into the fire, and jingling his money in his

pockets. “A hundred a year for a horse; a hundred a year for

pocket-money, for I calculate, you know, that Clive will give me a

bedroom and my dinner.”

“He! he! If your son won’t, your nephew will, my dear Colonel!” says

the affable Barnes, smiling sweetly.

“I can give the boy a handsome allowance, you see,” resumes Thomas

Newcome.

“You can make him a handsome allowance now, and leave him a good

fortune when you die!” says the nephew, in a noble and courageous

manner,—and as if he said Twelve times twelve are a hundred and

forty-four and you have Sir Barnes Newcome’s authority—Sir Barnes

Newcome’s, mind you—to say so.

“Not when I die, Barnes,” the uncle goes on. “I will give him every

shilling I am worth to-morrow morning, if he marries as I wish him.”

“Tant mieux pour lui!” cries the nephew; and thought to himself, “Lady

Clara must ask Clive to dinner instantly. Confound the fellow. I hate

him—always have; but what luck he has!”

“A man with that property may pretend to a good wife, as the French

say; hey Barnes?” asks the Colonel, rather eagerly looking up in his

nephew’s face.

That countenance was lighted up with a generous enthusiasm. “To any

woman, in any rank—to a nobleman’s daughter, my dear sir!” exclaims Sir

Barnes.

“I want your sister; I want dear Ethel for him, Barnes,” cries Thomas

Newcome, with a trembling voice, and a twinkle in his eyes. “That was

the hope I always had till my talk with your poor father stopped it.

Your sister was engaged to my Lord Kew then; and my wishes of course

were impossible. The poor boy is very much cut up, and his whole heart

is bent upon possessing her. She is not, she can’t be, indifferent to

him. I am sure she would not be, if her family in the least encouraged

him. Can either of these young folks have a better chance of happiness

again offered to them in life? There’s youth, there’s mutual liking,

there’s wealth for them almost—only saddled with the encumbrance of an

old dragoon, who won’t be much in their way. Give us your good word,

Barnes, and let them come together; and upon my word the rest of my

days will be made happy if I can eat my meal at their table.”

Whilst the poor Colonel was making his appeal, Barnes had time to

collect his answer; which, since in our character of historians we take

leave to explain gentlemen’s motives as well as record their speeches

and actions, we may thus interpret. “Confound the young beggar!” thinks

Barnes, then. “He will have three or four thousand a year, will he?

Hang him, but it’s a good sum of money. What a fool his father is to

give it away! Is he joking? No, he was always half crazy—the Colonel.

Highgate seemed uncommonly sweet on her, and was always hanging about

our house. Farintosh has not been brought to book yet; and perhaps

neither of them will propose for her. My grandmother, I should think,

won’t hear of her making a low marriage, as this certainly is: but it’s

a pity to throw away four thousand a year, ain’t it?” All these natural

calculations passed briskly through Barnes Newcome’s mind, as his

uncle, from the opposite side of the fireplace, implored him in the

above little speech.

“My dear Colonel,” said Barnes, “my dear, kind Colonel! I needn’t tell

you that your proposal flatters us, as much as your extraordinary

generosity surprises me. I never heard anything like it—never. Could I

consult my own wishes I would at once—I would, permit me to say, from

sheer admiration of your noble character, say yes, with all my heart,

to your proposal. But, alas, I haven’t that power.”

“Is—is she engaged?” asks the Colonel, looking as blank and sad as

Clive himself when Ethel had conversed with him.

“No—I cannot say engaged—though a person of the very highest rank has

paid her the most marked attention. But my sister has, in a way, gone

from our family, and from my influence as the head of it—an influence

which I, I am sure, had most gladly exercised in your favour. My

grandmother, Lady Kew, has adopted her; purposes, I believe, to leave

Ethel the greater part of her fortune, upon certain conditions; and, of

course, expects the—the obedience, and so forth, which is customary in

such cases. By the way, Colonel, is our young soupirant aware that papa

is pleading his cause for him?”

The Colonel said no; and Barnes lauded the caution which his uncle had

displayed. It was quite as well for the young man’s interests (which

Sir Barnes had most tenderly at heart) that Clive Newcome should not

himself move in the affair, or present himself to Lady Kew. Barnes

would take the matter in hand at the proper season; the Colonel might

be sure it would be most eagerly, most ardently pressed. Clive came

home at this juncture, whom Barnes saluted affectionately. He and the

Colonel had talked over their money business; their conversation had

been most satisfactory, thank you. “Has it not, Colonel?” The three

parted the very best of friends.

As Barnes Newcome professed that extreme interest for his cousin and

uncle, it is odd he did not tell them that Lady Kew and Miss Ethel

Newcome were at that moment within a mile of them, at her ladyship’s

house in Queen Street, Mayfair. In the hearing of Clive’s servant,

Barnes did not order his brougham to drive to Queen Street, but waited

until he was in Bond Street before he gave the order.

And, of course, when he entered Lady Kew’s house, he straightway asked

for his sister, and communicated to her the generous offer which the

good Colonel had made.

You see, Lady Kew was in town, and not in town. Her ladyship was but

passing through, on her way from a tour of visits in the North, to

another tour of visits somewhere else. The newspapers were not even off

the blinds. The proprietor of the house cowered over a bed-candle and a

furtive teapot in the back drawing-room. Lady Kew’s _gens_ were not here.

The tall canary ones with white polls, only showed their plumage and

sang in spring. The solitary wretch who takes charge of London houses,

and the two servants specially affected to Lady Kew’s person, were the

only people in attendance. In fact, her ladyship was not in town. And

that is why, no doubt, Barnes Newcome said nothing about her being

there.

CHAPTER LII.

Family Secrets

The figure cowering over the furtive teapot glowered grimly at Barnes

as he entered; and an old voice said—“Ho, it’s you!”

“I have brought you the notes, ma’am,” says Barnes, taking a packet of

those documents from his pocket-book. “I could not come sooner, I have

been engaged upon bank business until now.”

“I dare say! You smell of smoke like a courier.”

“A foreign capitalist: he would smoke. They will, ma’am. _I_ didn’t

smoke, upon my word.”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t, if you like it. You will never get

anything out of me whether you do or don’t. How is Clara? Is she gone

to the country with the children? Newcome is the best place for her.”

“Doctor Bambury thinks she can move in a fortnight. The boy has had a

little——”

“A little fiddlestick! I tell you it is she who likes to stay, and

makes that fool, Bambury, advise her not going away. I tell you to send

her to Newcome. The air is good for her.”

“By that confounded smoky town, my dear Lady Kew?”

“And invite your mother and little brothers and sisters to stay

Christmas there. The way in which you neglect them is shameful, it is,

Barnes.”

“Upon my word, ma’am, I propose to manage my own affairs without your

ladyship’s assistance,” cries Barnes, starting up, “and did not come at

this time of night to hear this kind of——”

“Of good advice. I sent for you to give it you. When I wrote to you to

bring me the money I wanted it was but a pretext; Barkins might have

fetched it from the City in the morning. I want you to send Clara and

the children to Newcome. They ought to go, sir. That is why I sent for

you; to tell you that. Have you been quarrelling as much as usual?”

“Pretty much as usual,” says Barnes, drumming on his hat.

“Don’t beat that devil’s tattoo; you agacez my poor old nerves. When

Clara was given to you she was as well broke a girl as any in London.”

Sir Barnes responded by a groan.

“She was as gentle and amenable to reason, as good-natured a girl as

could be; a little vacant and silly, but you men like dolls for your

wives; and now in three years you have utterly spoiled her. She is

restive, she is artful, she flies into rages, she fights you and beats

you. He! he! and that comes of your beating her!”

“I didn’t come to hear this, ma’am,” says Barnes, livid with rage

“You struck her, you know you did, Sir Barnes Newcome. She rushed over

to me last year on the night you did it, you know she did.”

“Great God, ma’am! You know the provocation,” screams Barnes.

“Provocation or not, I don’t say. But from that moment she has beat

you. You fool, to write her a letter and ask her pardon. If I had been

a man I would rather have strangled my wife, than have humiliated

myself so before her. She will never forgive that blow.”

“I was mad when I did it; and she drove me mad,” says Barnes. “She has

the temper of a fiend, and the ingenuity of the devil. In two years an

entire change has come over her. If I had used a knife to her I should

not have been surprised. But it is not with you to reproach me about

Clara. Your ladyship found her for me.”

“And you spoilt her after she was found, sir. She told me part of her

story that night she came to me. I know it is true, Barnes. You have

treated her dreadfully, sir.”

“I know that she makes my life miserable, and there is no help for it,”

says Barnes, grinding a curse between his teeth. “Well, well, no more

about this. How is Ethel? Gone to sleep after her journey? What do you

think, ma’am, I have brought for her? A proposal.”

“Bon Dieu! You don’t mean to say Charles Belsize was in earnest!” cries

the dowager. “I always thought it was a——”

“It is not from Lord Highgate, ma’am,” Sir Barnes said, gloomily. “It

is some time since I have known that he was not in earnest; and he

knows that I am now.”

“Gracious goodness! come to blows with him, too? You have not? That

would be the very thing to make the world talk,” says the dowager, with

some anxiety.

“No,” answers Barnes. “He knows well enough that there can be no open

rupture. We had some words the other day at a dinner he gave at his own

house; Colonel Newcome and that young beggar, Clive, and that fool, Mr.

Hobson, were there. Lord Highgate was confoundedly insolent. He told me

that I did not dare to quarrel with him because of the account he kept

at our house. I should like to have massacred him! She has told him

that I struck her,—the insolent brute—he says he will tell it at my

clubs; and threatens personal violence to me, there, if I do it again.

Lady Kew, I’m not safe from that man and that woman,” cries poor

Barnes, in an agony of terror.

“Fighting is Jack Belsize’s business, Barnes Newcome; banking is yours,

luckily,” said the dowager. “As old Lord Highgate was to die and his

eldest son, too, it is a pity certainly they had not died a year or two

earlier, and left poor Clara and Charles to come together. You should

have married some woman in the serious way; my daughter Walham could

have found you one. Frank, I am told, and his wife go on very sweetly

together; her mother-in-law governs the whole family. They have turned

the theatre back into a chapel again: they have six little ploughboys

dressed in surplices to sing the service; and Frank and the Vicar of

Kewbury play at cricket with them on holidays. Stay, why should not

Clara go to Kewbury?”

“She and her sister have quarrelled about this very affair with Lord

Highgate. Some time ago it appears they had words about it and when I

told Kew that bygones had best be bygones, that Highgate was very sweet

upon Ethel now, and that I did not choose to lose such a good account

as his, Kew was very insolent to me; his conduct was blackguardly,

ma’am, quite blackguardly, and you may be sure but for our relationship

I would have called him to——”

Here the talk between Barnes and his ancestress was interrupted by the

appearance of Miss Ethel Newcome, taper in hand, who descended from the

upper regions enveloped in a shawl.

“How do you do, Barnes? How is Clara? I long to see my little nephew.

Is he like his pretty papa?” cries the young lady, giving her fair

cheek to her brother.

“Scotland has agreed with our Newcome rose,” says Barnes, gallantly.

“My dear Ethel, I never saw you in greater beauty.”

“By the light of one bedroom candle! what should I be if the whole room

were lighted? You would see my face then was covered all over with

wrinkles, and quite pale and woebegone, with the dreariness of the

Scotch journey. Oh, what a time we have spent! haven’t we, grandmamma?

I never wish to go to a great castle again; above all, I never wish to

go to a little shooting-box. Scotland may be very well for men; but for

women—allow me to go to Paris when next there is talk of a Scotch

expedition. I had rather be in a boarding-school in the Champs Elysées

than in the finest castle in the Highlands. If it had not been for a

blessed quarrel with Fanny Follington, I think I should have died at

Glen Shorthorn. Have you seen my dear, dear uncle, the Colonel? When

did he arrive?”

“Is he come? Why is he come?” asks Lady Kew.

“Is he come? Look here, grandmamma! did you ever see such a darling

shawl! I found it in a packet in my room.”

“Well, it is beautiful,” cries the Dowager, bending her ancient nose

over the web. “Your Colonel is a galant homme. That must be said of

him; and in this does not quite take after the rest of the family. Hum!

hum! is he going away again soon?”

“He has made a fortune, a very considerable fortune for a man in that

rank in life,” says Sir Barnes. “He cannot have less than sixty

thousand pounds.”

“Is that much?” asks Ethel.

“Not in England, at our rate of interest; but his money is in India,

where he gets a great percentage. His income must be five or six

thousand pounds, ma’am,” says Barnes, turning to Lady Kew.

“A few of the Indians were in society in my time, my dear,” says Lady

Kew, musingly. “My father has often talked to me about Barbell of

Stanstead, and his house in St. James’s Square; the man who ordered

more curricles when there were not carriages enough for his guests. I

was taken to Mr. Hastings’s trial. It was very stupid and long. The

young man, the painter, I suppose will leave his paint-pots now, and

set up as a gentleman. I suppose they were very poor, or his father

would not have put him to such a profession. Barnes, why did you not

make him a clerk in the bank, and save him from the humiliation?”

“Humiliation! why, he is proud of it. My uncle is as proud as a

Plantagenet; though he is as humble as—as what! Give me a simile

Barnes. Do you know what my quarrel with Fanny Follington was about?

She said we were not descended from the barber-surgeon, and laughed at

the Battle of Bosworth. She says our great-grandfather was a weaver.

Was he a weaver?”

“How should I know? and what on earth does it matter, my child? Except

the Gaunts, the Howards, and one or two more, there is scarcely any

good blood in England. You are lucky in sharing some of mine. My poor

Lord Kew’s grandfather was an apothecary at Hampton Court, and founded

the family by giving a dose of rhubarb to Queen Caroline. As a rule,

nobody is of a good family. Didn’t that young man, that son of the

Colonel’s, go about last year? How did he get in society? Where did we

meet him? Oh! at Baden, yes; when Barnes was courting, and my

grandson—yes, my grandson, acted so wickedly.” Here she began to cough,

and to tremble so, that her old stick shook under her hand. “Ring the

bell for Ross. Ross, I will go to bed. Go you too, Ethel. You have been

travelling enough to-day.”

“Her memory seems to fail her a little,” Ethel whispered to her

brother; “or she will only remember what she wishes. Don’t you see that

she has grown very much older?”

“I will be with her in the morning. I have business with her,” said

Barnes.

“Good night. Give my love to Clara, and kiss the little ones for me.

Have you done what you promised me, Barnes?”

“What?”

“To be—to be kind to Clara. Don’t say cruel things to her. She has a

high spirit, and she feels them, though she says nothing.”

“_Doesn’t_ she?” said Barnes, grimly.

“Ah, Barnes, be gentle with her. Seldom as I saw you together, when I

lived with you in the spring, I could see that you were harsh, though

she affected to laugh when she spoke of your conduct to her. Be kind. I

am sure it is the best, Barnes; better than all the wit in the world.

Look at grandmamma, how witty she was and is; what a reputation she

had, how people were afraid of her; and see her now—quite alone.”

“I’ll see her in the morning quite alone, my dear,” says Barnes, waving

a little gloved hand. “Bye-bye!” and his brougham drove away. While

Ethel Newcome had been under her brother’s roof, where I and friend

Clive, and scores of others, had been smartly entertained, there had

been quarrels and recriminations, misery and heart-burning, cruel words

and shameful struggles, the wretched combatants in which appeared

before the world with smiling faces, resuming their battle when the

feast was concluded and the company gone.

On the next morning, when Barnes came to visit his grandmother, Miss

Newcome was gone away to see her sister-in-law, Lady Kew said, with

whom she was going to pass the morning; so Barnes and Lady Kew had an

uninterrupted _tête-à-tête_, in which the former acquainted the old

lady with the proposal which Colonel Newcome had made to him on the

previous night.

Lady Kew wondered what the impudence of the world’s would come to. An

artist propose for Ethel! One of her footmen might propose next, and

she supposed Barnes would bring the message. “The father came and

proposed for this young painter, and you didn’t order him out of the

room!”

Barnes laughed. “The Colonel is one of my constituents. I can’t afford

to order the Bundelcund Banking Company out of its own room.”

“You did not tell Ethel this pretty news, I suppose?”

“Of course I didn’t tell Ethel. Nor did I tell the Colonel that Ethel

was in London. He fancies her in Scotland with your ladyship at this

moment.”

“I wish the Colonel were at Calcutta, and his son with him. I wish he

was in the Ganges, I wish he was under Juggernaut’s car,” cried the old

lady. “How much money has the wretch really got? If he is of importance

to the bank, of course you must keep well with him. Five thousand a

year, and he says he will settle it all on his son? He must be crazy.

There is nothing some of these people will not do, no sacrifice they

will not make, to ally themselves with good families. Certainly you

must remain on good terms with him and his bank. And we must say

nothing of the business to Ethel, and trot out of town as quickly as we

can. Let me see? We go to Drummington on Saturday. This is Tuesday.

Barkins, you will keep the front drawing-room shutters shut, and

remember we are not in town, unless Lady Glenlivat or Lord Farintosh

should call.”

“Do you think Farintosh will—will call, ma’am?” asked Sir Barnes

demurely.

“He will be going through to Newmarket. He has been where we have been

at two or three places in Scotland,” replies the lady, with equal

gravity. “His poor mother wishes him to give up his bachelor’s life—as

well she may—for you young men are terribly dissipated. Rossmont is

quite a regal place. His Norfolk house is not inferior. A young man of

that station ought to marry, and live at his places, and be an example

to his people, instead of frittering away his time at Paris and Vienna

amongst the most odious company.”

“Is he going to Drummington?” asks the grandson.

“I believe he has been invited. We shall go to Paris for November: he

probably will be there,” answered the Dowager casually; “and tired of

the dissipated life he has been leading, let us hope he will mend his

ways, and find a virtuous, well-bred young woman to keep him right.”

With this her ladyship’s apothecary is announced, and her banker and

grandson takes his leave.

Sir Barnes walked into the City with his umbrella, read his letters,

conferred with his partners and confidential clerks; was for a while

not the exasperated husband, or the affectionate brother, or the

amiable grandson, but the shrewd, brisk banker, engaged entirely with

his business. Presently he had occasion to go on ’Change, or elsewhere,

to confer with brother-capitalists, and in Cornhill behold he meets his

uncle, Colonel Newcome, riding towards the India House, a groom behind

him.

The Colonel springs off his horse, and Barnes greets him in the

blandest manner. “Have you any news for me, Barnes?” cries the officer.

“The accounts from Calcutta are remarkably good. That cotton is of

admirable quality really. Mr. Briggs, of our house, who knows cotton as

well as any man in England, says——”

“It’s not the cotton, my dear Sir Barnes,” cries the other.

“The bills are perfectly good; there is no sort of difficulty about

them. Our house will take half a million of ’em, if——”

“You are talking of bills, and I am thinking of poor Clive,” the

Colonel interposes. “I wish you could give me good news for him,

Barnes.”

“I wish I could. I heartily trust that I may some day. My good wishes

you know are enlisted in your son’s behalf,” cries Barnes, gallantly.

“Droll place to talk sentiment in—Cornhill, isn’t it? But Ethel, as I

told you, is in the hands of higher powers, and we must conciliate Lady

Kew if we can. She has always spoken very highly of Clive; very.”

“Had I not best go to her?” asks the Colonel.

“Into the North, my good sir? She is—ah—she is travelling about. I

think you had best depend upon me, Good morning. In the City we have no

hearts, you know, Colonel. Be sure you shall hear from me as soon as

Lady Kew and Ethel come to town.”

And the banker hurried away, shaking his finger-tips to his uncle, and

leaving the good Colonel utterly surprised at his statements. For the

fact is, the Colonel knew that Lady Kew was in London, having been

apprised of the circumstance in the simplest manner in the world,

namely, by a note from Miss Ethel, which billet he had in his pocket,

whilst he was talking with the head of the house of Hobson Brothers:—

“My dear Uncle” (the note said), “how glad I shall be to see you! How

shall I thank you for the beautiful shawl, and the kind, kind

remembrance of me? I found your present yesterday evening, on our

arrival from the North. We are only here _en passant_, and see _nobody_

in Queen Street but Barnes, who has just been about business, and he

does not count, you know. I shall go and see Clara to-morrow, and make

her take me to see your pretty friend, Mrs. Pendennis. How glad I

should be if you _happened_ to pay Mrs. P. a visit _about two!_

Good-night. I thank you a thousand times, and am always your

affectionate E.”

“QUEEN STREET. Tuesday night. _Twelve o’clock_.”

This note came to Colonel Newcome’s breakfast-table, and he smothered

the exclamation of wonder which was rising to his lips, not choosing to

provoke the questions of Clive, who sate opposite to him. Clive’s

father was in a woeful perplexity all that forenoon. “Tuesday night,

twelve o’clock,” thought he. “Why, Barnes must have gone to his

grandmother from my dinner-table; and he told me she was out of town,

and said so again just now when we met in the City.” (The Colonel was

riding towards Richmond at this time.) “What cause had the young man to

tell me these lies? Lady Kew may not wish to be at home for me, but

need Barnes Newcome say what is untrue to mislead me? The fellow

actually went away simpering, and kissing his hand to me, with a

falsehood on his lips! What a pretty villain! A fellow would deserve,

and has got, a horse-whipping for less. And to think of a Newcome doing

this to his own flesh and blood; a young Judas!” Very sad and

bewildered, the Colonel rode towards Richmond, where he was to happen

to call on Mrs. Pendennis.

It was not much of a fib that Barnes had told. Lady Kew announcing that

she was out of town, her grandson, no doubt, thought himself justified

in saying so, as any other of her servants would have done. But if he

had recollected how Ethel came down with the Colonel’s shawl on her

shoulders, how it was possible she might have written to thank her

uncle, surely Barnes Newcome would not have pulled that unlucky

long-bow. The banker had other things to think of than Ethel and her

shawl.

When Thomas Newcome dismounted at the door of Honeymoon Cottage,

Richmond, the temporary residence of A. Pendennis, Esq., one of the

handsomest young women in England ran into the passage with

outstretched arms, called him her dear old uncle, and gave him two

kisses, that I dare say brought blushes on his lean sunburnt cheeks.

Ethel clung always to his affection. She wanted that man, rather than

any other in the whole world, to think well of her. When she was with

him, she was the amiable and simple, the loving impetuous creature of

old times. She chose to think of no other. Worldliness, heartlessness,

eager scheming, cold flirtations, marquis-hunting and the like,

disappeared for a while—and were not, as she sate at that honest man’s

side. O me! that we should have to record such charges against Ethel

Newcome!

“He was come home for good now? He would never leave that boy he

spoiled so, who was a good boy, too: she wished she could see him

oftener. At Paris, at Madame de Florac’s—I found out all about Madame

de Florac, sir,” says Miss Ethel, with a laugh—“we used often to meet

there; and here, sometimes, in London. But in London it was different.

You know what peculiar notions some people have; and as I live with

grandmamma, who is most kind to me and my brothers, of course I must

obey her, see her,” etc. etc. That the young lady went on talking,

defending herself, whom nobody attacked, protesting her dislike to

gaiety and dissipation—you would have fancied her an artless young

country lass, only longing to trip back to her village, milk her cows

at sunrise, and sit spinning of winter evenings by the fire.

“Why do you come and spoil my _tête-à-tête_ with my uncle, Mr.

Pendennis?” cries the young lady to the master of the house, who

happens to enter “Of all the men in the world the one I like best to

talk to! Does he not look younger than when he went to India? When

Clive marries that pretty little Miss Mackenzie, you will marry again,

uncle, and I will be jealous of your wife.”

“Did Barnes tell you that we had met last night, my dear?” asks the

Colonel.

“Not one word. Your shawl and your dear kind note told me you were

come. Why did not Barnes tell us? Why do you look so grave?”

“He has not told her that I was here, and would have me believe her

absent,” thought Newcome, as his countenance fell. “Shall I give her my

own message, and plead my poor boy’s cause with her?” I know not

whether he was about to lay his suit before her; he said himself

subsequently that his mind was not made up; but at this juncture, a

procession of nurses and babies made their appearance, followed by the

two mothers, who had been comparing their mutual prodigies (each lady

having her own private opinion)—Lady Clara and my wife—the latter for

once gracious to Lady Clara Newcome, in consideration of the infantine

company with which she came to visit Mrs. Pendennis.

Luncheon was served presently. The carriage of the Newcomes drove away,

my wife smilingly pardoning Ethel for the assignation which the young

person had made at our house. And when those ladies were gone, our good

Colonel held a council of war with us his two friends, and told us what

had happened between him and Barnes on that morning and the previous

night. His offer to sacrifice every shilling of his fortune to young

Clive seemed to him to be perfectly simple (though the recital of the

circumstance brought tears into my wife’s eyes)—he mentioned it by the

way, and as a matter that was scarcely to call for comment, much less

praise.

Barnes’s extraordinary statements respecting Lady Kew’s absence puzzled

the elder Newcome; and he spoke of his nephew’s conduct with much

indignation. In vain I urged that her ladyship desiring to be

considered absent from London, her grandson was bound to keep her

secret. “Keep her secret, yes! Tell me lies, no!” cries out the

Colonel. Sir Barnes’s conduct was in fact indefensible, though not

altogether unusual—the worst deduction to be drawn from it, in my

opinion, was, that Clive’s chance with the young lady was but a poor

one, and that Sir Barnes Newcome, inclined to keep his uncle in

good-humour, would therefore give him no disagreeable refusal.

Now this gentleman could no more pardon a lie than he could utter one.

He would believe all and everything a man told him until deceived once,

after which he never forgave. And wrath being once roused in his simple

mind and distrust firmly fixed there, his anger and prejudices gathered

daily. He could see no single good quality in his opponent; and hated

him with a daily increasing bitterness.

As ill luck would have it, that very same evening, at his return to

town, Thomas Newcome entered Bays’s club, of which, at our request, he

had become a member during his last visit to England, and there was Sir

Barnes, as usual, on his way homewards from the City. Barnes was

writing at a table, and sealing and closing a letter, as he saw the

Colonel enter; he thought he had been a little inattentive and curt

with his uncle in the morning; had remarked, perhaps, the expression of

disapproval on the Colonel’s countenance. He simpered up to his uncle

as the latter entered the clubroom, and apologised for his haste when

they met in the City in the morning—all City men were so busy! “And I

have been writing about that little affair, just as you came in,” he

said; “quite a moving letter to Lady Kew, I assure you, and I do hope

and trust we shall have a favourable answer in a day or two.”

“You said her ladyship was in the North, I think?” said the Colonel,

drily.

“Oh, yes—in the North, at—at Lord Wallsend’s—great coal-proprietor, you

know.”

“And your sister is with her?”

“Ethel is always with her.”

“I hope you will send her my very best remembrances,” said the Colonel.

“I’ll open the letter, and add ’em in a postscript,” said Barnes.

“Confounded liar?” cried the Colonel, mentioning the circumstance to me

afterwards, “why does not somebody pitch him out of the bow-window?”

If we were in the secret of Sir Barnes Newcome’s correspondence, and

could but peep into that particular letter to his grandmother, I dare

say we should read that he had seen the Colonel, who was very anxious

about his darling youth’s suit, but, pursuant to Lady Kew’s desire,

Barnes had stoutly maintained that her ladyship was still in the North,

enjoying the genial hospitality of Lord Wallsend. That of course he

should say nothing to Ethel, except with Lady Kew’s full permission:

that he wished her a pleasant trip to ——, and was, etc. etc.

Then if we could follow him, we might see him reach his Belgravian

mansion, and fling an angry word to his wife as she sits alone in the

darkling drawing-room, poring over the embers. He will ask her,

probably with an oath, why the —— she is not dressed? and if she always

intends to keep her company waiting? An hour hence, each with a smirk,

and the lady in smart raiment, with flowers in her hair, will be

greeting their guests as they arrive. Then will come dinner and such

conversation as it brings. Then at night Sir Barnes will issue forth,

cigar in mouth; to return to his own chamber at his own hour; to

breakfast by himself; to go Citywards, money-getting. He will see his

children once a fortnight, and exchange a dozen sharp words with his

wife twice in that time.

More and more sad does the Lady Clara become from day to day; liking

more to sit lonely over the fire; careless about the sarcasms of her

husband; the prattle of her children. She cries sometimes over the

cradle of the young heir. She is aweary, aweary. You understand, the

man to whom her parents sold her does not make her happy, though she

has been bought with diamonds, two carriages, several large footmen, a

fine country-house with delightful gardens, and conservatories, and

with all this she is miserable—is it possible?

CHAPTER LIII.

In which Kinsmen fall out

Not the least difficult part of Thomas Newcome’s present business was

to keep from his son all knowledge of the negotiation in which he was

engaged on Clive’s behalf. If my gentle reader has had sentimental

disappointments, he or she is aware that the friends who have given him

most sympathy under these calamities have been persons who have had

dismal histories of their own at some time of their lives, and I

conclude Colonel Newcome in his early days must have suffered very

cruelly in that affair of which we have a slight cognisance, or he

would not have felt so very much anxiety about Clive’s condition.

A few chapters back and we described the first attack, and Clive’s

manful cure: then we had to indicate the young gentleman’s relapse, and

the noisy exclamations of the youth under this second outbreak of

fever. Calling him back after she had dismissed him, and finding

pretext after pretext to see him,—why did the girl encourage him, as

she certainly did? I allow, with Mrs. Grundy and most moralists, that

Miss Newcome’s conduct in this matter was highly reprehensible; that if

she did not intend to marry Clive she should have broken with

him—altogether; that a virtuous young woman of high principle, etc.

etc., having once determined to reject a suitor, should separate from

him utterly then and there—never give him again the least chance of a

hope, or reillume the extinguished fire in the wretch’s bosom.

But coquetry, but kindness, but family affection, and a strong, very

strong partiality for the rejected lover—are these not to be taken in

account, and to plead as excuses for her behaviour to her cousin? The

least unworthy part of her conduct, some critics will say, was that

desire to see Clive and be well with him: as she felt the greatest

regard for him, the showing it was not blameable; and every flutter

which she made to escape out of the meshes which the world had cast

about her was but the natural effort at liberty. It was her prudence

which was wrong; and her submission wherein she was most culpable. In

the early church story, do we not read how young martyrs constantly had

to disobey worldly papas and mammas, who would have had them silent,

and not utter their dangerous opinions? how their parents locked them

up, kept them on bread-and-water, whipped and tortured them in order to

enforce obedience?—nevertheless they would declare the truth: they

would defy the gods by law established, and deliver themselves up to

the lions or the tormentors. Are not there Heathen Idols enshrined

among us still? Does not the world worship them, and persecute those

who refuse to kneel? Do not many timid souls sacrifice to them; and

other bolder spirits rebel and, with rage at their hearts, bend down

their stubborn knees at their altars? See! I began by siding with Mrs.

Grundy and the world, and at the next turn of the see-saw have lighted

down on Ethel’s side, and am disposed to think that the very best part

of her conduct has been those escapades which—which right-minded

persons most justly condemn. At least, that a young beauty should

torture a man with alternate liking and indifference; allure, dismiss,

and call him back out of banishment; practise arts to please upon him,

and ignore them when rebuked for her coquetry—these are surely

occurrences so common in young women’s history as to call for no

special censure; and if on these charges Miss Newcome is guilty, is

she, of all her sex, alone in her criminality?

So Ethel and her duenna went away upon their tour of visits to mansions

so splendid, and among hosts and guests so polite, that the present

modest historian does not dare to follow them. Suffice it to say that

Duke This and Earl That were, according to their hospitable custom,

entertaining a brilliant circle of friends at their respective castles,

all whose names the _Morning Post_ gave; and among them those of the

Dowager Countess of Kew and Miss Newcome.

During her absence, Thomas Newcome grimly awaited the result of his

application to Barnes. That Baronet showed his uncle a letter, or

rather a postscript, from Lady Kew, which probably had been dictated by

Barnes himself, in which the Dowager said she was greatly touched by

Colonel Newcome’s noble offer; that though she owned she had very

different views for her granddaughter, Miss Newcome’s choice of course

lay with herself. Meanwhile, Lady K. and Ethel were engaged in a round

of visits to the country, and there would be plenty of time to resume

this subject when they came to London for the season. And, lest dear

Ethel’s feelings should be needlessly agitated by a discussion of the

subject, and the Colonel should take a fancy to write to her privately,

Lady Kew gave orders that all letters from London should be despatched

under cover to her ladyship, and carefully examined the contents of the

packet before Ethel received her share of the correspondence.

To write to her personally on the subject of the marriage, Thomas

Newcome had determined was not a proper course for him to pursue. “They

consider themselves,” says he, “above us, forsooth, in their rank of

life (oh, mercy! what pigmies we are! and don’t angels weep at the

brief authority in which we dress ourselves up!) and of course the

approaches on our side must be made in regular form, and the parents of

the young people must act for them. Clive is too honourable a man to

wish to conduct the affair in any other way. He might try the influence

of his _beaux yeux_, and run off to Gretna with a girl who had nothing;

but the young lady being wealthy, and his relation, sir, we must be on

the point of honour; and all the Kews in Christendom shan’t have more

pride than we in this matter.”

All this time we are keeping Mr. Clive purposely in the background. His

face is so woebegone that we do not care to bring it forward in the

family picture. His case is so common that surely its lugubrious

symptoms need not be described at length. He works away fiercely at his

pictures, and in spite of himself improves in his art. He sent a

“Combat of Cavalry,” and a picture of “Sir Brian the Templar carrying

off Rebecca,” to the British Institution this year; both of which

pieces were praised in other journals besides the _Pall Mall Gazette_.

He did not care for the newspaper praises. He was rather surprised when

a dealer purchased his “Sir Brian the Templar.” He came and went from

our house a melancholy swain. He was thankful for Laura’s kindness and

pity. J. J.’s studio was his principal resort; and I dare say, as he

set up his own easel there, and worked by his friend’s side, he

bemoaned his lot to his sympathising friend.

Sir Barnes Newcome’s family was absent from London during the winter.

His mother, and his brothers and sisters, his wife and his two

children, were gone to Newcome for Christmas. Some six weeks after

seeing him, Ethel wrote her uncle a kind, merry letter. They had been

performing private theatricals at the country-house where she and Lady

Kew were staying. “Captain Crackthorpe made an admirable Jeremy Diddler

in ‘Raising the Wind.’ Lord Farintosh broke down lamentably as Fusbos

in ‘Bombastes Furioso.’” Miss Ethel had distinguished herself in both

of these facetious little comedies. “I should like Clive to paint me as

Miss Plainways,” she wrote. “I wore a powdered front, painted my face

all over wrinkles, imitated old Lady Griffin as well as I could, and

looked sixty at least.”

Thomas Newcome wrote an answer to his fair niece’s pleasant letter;

“Clive,” he said, “would be happy to bargain to paint her, and nobody

else but her, all the days of his life; and,” the Colonel was sure,

“would admire her at sixty as much as he did now, when she was forty

years younger.” But, determined on maintaining his appointed line of

conduct respecting Miss Newcome, he carried his letter to Sir Barnes,

and desired him to forward it to his sister. Sir Barnes took the note,

and promised to despatch it. The communications between him and his

uncle had been very brief and cold, since the telling of these little

fibs concerning old Lady Kew’s visits to London, which the Baronet

dismissed from his mind as soon as they were spoken, and which the good

Colonel never could forgive. Barnes asked his uncle to dinner once or

twice, but the Colonel was engaged. How was Barnes to know the reason

of the elder’s refusal? A London man, a banker, and a Member of

Parliament, has a thousand things to think of; and no time to wonder

that friends refuse his invitations to dinner. Barnes continued to grin

and smile most affectionately when he met the Colonel; to press his

hand, to congratulate him on the last accounts from India, unconscious

of the scorn and distrust with which his senior mentally regarded him.

“Old boy is doubtful about the young cub’s love-affair,” the Baronet

may have thought. “We’ll ease his old mind on that point some time

hence.” No doubt Barnes thought he was conducting the business very

smartly and diplomatically.

I heard myself news at this period from the gallant Crackthorpe, which,

being interested in my young friend’s happiness, filled me with some

dismay. “Our friend the painter and glazier has been hankering about

our barracks at Knightsbridge” (the noble Life Guards Green had now

pitched their tents in that suburb), “and pumping me about _la belle

cousine_. I don’t like to break it to him—I don’t really, now. But it’s

all up with his chance, I think. Those private theatricals at

Fallowfield have done Farintosh’s business. He used to rave about the

Newcomes to me, as we were riding home from hunting. He gave Bob

Henchman the lie, who told a story which Bob got from his man, who had

it from Miss Newcome’s lady’s-maid, about—about some journey to

Brighton, which the cousins took.” Here Mr. Crackthorpe grinned most

facetiously. “Farintosh swore he’d knock Henchman down; and vows he

will be the death of—will murder our friend Clive when he comes to

town. As for Henchman, he was in a desperate way. He lives on the

Marquis, you know, and Farintosh’s anger or his marriage will be the

loss of free quarters, and ever so many good dinners a year to him.” I

did not deem it necessary to impart Crackthorpe’s story to Clive, or

explain to him the reason why Lord Farintosh scowled most fiercely upon

the young painter, and passed him without any other sign of recognition

one day as Clive and I were walking together in Pall Mall. If my lord

wanted a quarrel, young Clive was not a man to balk him; and would have

been a very fierce customer to deal with, in his actual state of mind.

A pauper child in London at seven years old knows how to go to market,

to fetch the beer, to pawn father’s coat, to choose the largest fried

fish or the nicest ham-bone, to nurse Mary Jane of three,—to conduct a

hundred operations of trade or housekeeping, which a little Belgravian

does not perhaps acquire in all the days of her life. Poverty and

necessity force this precociousness on the poor little brat. There are

children who are accomplished shoplifters and liars almost as soon as

they can toddle and speak. I dare say little Princes know the laws of

etiquette as regards themselves, and the respect due to their rank, at

a very early period of their royal existence. Every one of us,

according to his degree, can point to the Princekins of private life

who are flattered and worshipped, and whose little shoes grown men kiss

as soon almost as they walk upon ground.

It is a wonder what human nature will support: and that, considering

the amount of flattery some people are crammed with from their cradles,

they do not grow worse and more selfish than they are. Our poor little

pauper just mentioned is dosed with Daffy’s Elixir, and somehow

survives the drug. Princekin or lordkin from his earliest days has

nurses, dependants, governesses, little friends, schoolfellows,

schoolmasters, fellow-collegians, college tutors, stewards and valets,

led captains of his suite, and women innumerable flattering him and

doing him honour. The tradesman’s manner, which to you and me is

decently respectful, becomes straightway frantically servile before

Princekin. Honest folks at railway stations whisper to their families,

“That’s the Marquis of Farintosh,” and look hard at him as he passes.

Landlords cry, “This way, my lord; this room for your lordship.” They

say at public schools Princekin is taught the beauties of equality, and

thrashed into some kind of subordination. Psha! Toad-eaters in

pinafores surround Princekin. Do not respectable people send their

children so as to be at the same school with him; don’t they follow him

to college, and eat his toads through life?

And as for women—oh, my dear friends and brethren in this vale of

tears—did you ever see anything so curious, monstrous, and amazing as

the way in which women court Princekin when he is marriageable, and

pursue him with their daughters? Who was the British nobleman in old

old days who brought his three daughters to the King of Mercia, that

His Majesty might choose one after inspection? Mercia was but a petty

province, and its king in fact a Princekin. Ever since those extremely

ancient and venerable times the custom exists not only in Mercia, but

in all the rest of the provinces inhabited by the Angles, and before

Princekins the daughters of our nobles are trotted out.

There was no day of his life which our young acquaintance, the Marquis

of Farintosh, could remember on which he had not been flattered; and no

society which did not pay him court. At a private school he could

recollect the master’s wife stroking his pretty curls and treating him

furtively to goodies; at college he had the tutor simpering and bowing

as he swaggered over the grass-plat; old men at clubs would make way

for him and fawn on him—not your mere pique-assiettes and penniless

parasites, but most respectable toad-eaters, fathers of honest

families, gentlemen themselves of good station, who respected this

young gentleman as one of the institutions of their country, and the

admired wisdom of the nation that set him to legislate over us. When

Lord Farintosh walked the streets at night, he felt himself like Haroun

Alraschid—(that is, he would have felt so had he ever heard of the

Arabian potentate)—a monarch in disguise affably observing and

promenading the city. And let us be sure there was a Mesrour in his

train to knock at the doors for him and run the errands of this young

caliph. Of course he met with scores of men in life who neither

flattered him nor would suffer his airs; but he did not like the

company of such, or for the sake of truth undergo the ordeal of being

laughed at; he preferred toadies, generally speaking. “I like,” says

he, “you know, those fellows who are always saying pleasant things, you

know, and who would run from here to Hammersmith if I asked ’em—much

better than those fellows who are always making fun of me, you know.” A

man of his station who likes flatterers need not shut himself up; he

can get plenty of society.

As for women, it was his lordship’s opinion that every daughter of Eve

was bent on marrying him. A Scotch marquis, an English earl, of the

best blood in the empire, with a handsome person, and a fortune of

fifteen thousand a year, how could the poor creatures do otherwise than

long for him? He blandly received their caresses; took their coaxing

and cajolery as matters of course; and surveyed the beauties of his

time as the Caliph the moonfaces of his harem. My lord intended to

marry certainly. He did not care for money, nor for rank; he expected

consummate beauty and talent, and some day would fling his handkerchief

to the possessor of these, and place her by his side upon the Farintosh

throne.

At this time there were but two or three young ladies in society

endowed with the necessary qualifications, or who found favour in his

eyes. His lordship hesitated in his selection from these beauties. He

was not in a hurry, he was not angry at the notion that Lady Kew (and

Miss Newcome with her) hunted him. What else should they do but pursue

an object so charming? Everybody hunted him. The other young ladies,

whom we need not mention, languished after him still more longingly. He

had little notes from these; presents of purses worked by them, and

cigar-cases embroidered with his coronet. They sang to him in cosy

boudoirs—mamma went out of the room, and sister Ann forgot something in

the drawing-room. They ogled him as they sang. Trembling they gave him

a little foot to mount them, that they might ride on horseback with

him. They tripped along by his side from the Hall to the pretty country

church on Sundays. They warbled hymns: sweetly looking at him the while

mamma whispered confidentially to him, “What an angel Cecilia is!” And

so forth, and so forth—with which chaff our noble bird was by no means

to be caught. When he had made up his great mind, that the time was

come and the woman, he was ready to give a Marchioness of Farintosh to

the English nation.

Miss Newcome has been compared ere this to the statue of “Huntress

Diana” at the Louvre, whose haughty figure and beauty the young lady

indeed somewhat resembled. I was not present when Diana and Diana’s

grandmother hunted the noble Scottish stag of whom we have just been

writing; nor care to know how many times Lord Farintosh escaped, and

how at last he was brought to bay and taken by his resolute pursuers.

Paris, it appears, was the scene of his fall and capture. The news was

no doubt well known amongst Lord Farintosh’s brother-dandies, among

exasperated matrons and virgins in Mayfair, and in polite society

generally, before it came to simple Tom Newcome and his son. Not a word

on the subject had Sir Barnes mentioned to the Colonel: perhaps not

choosing to speak till the intelligence was authenticated; perhaps not

wishing to be the bearer of tidings so painful.

Though the Colonel may have read in his _Pall Mall Gazette_ a paragraph

which announced an approaching MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE, “between a noble

young marquis and an accomplished and beautiful young lady, daughter

and sister of a Northern baronet,” he did not know who were the

fashionable persons about to be made happy, nor, until he received a

letter from an old friend who lived at Paris, was the fact conveyed to

him. Here is the letter preserved by him along with all that he ever

received from the same hand:—

“Rue St. Dominique, St. Germain, Paris, 10 Fev.

“So behold you of return, my friend! you quit for ever the sword and

those arid plains where you have passed so many years of your life,

separated from those to whom, at the commencement, you held very

nearly. Did it not seem once as if two hands never could unlock, so

closely were they enlaced together? Ah, mine are old and feeble now;

forty years have passed since the time when you used to say they were

young and fair. How well I remember me of every one of those days,

though there is a death between me and them, and it is as across a

grave I review them! Yet another parting, and tears and regrets are

finished. Tenez, I do not believe them when they say there is no

meeting for us afterwards, there above. To what good to have seen you,

friend, if we are to part here, and in Heaven too? I have not

altogether forgotten your language, is it not so? I remember it because

it was yours, and that of my happy days. I radote like an old woman as

I am. M. de Florac has known my history from the commencement. May I

not say that after so many of years I have been faithful to him and to

all my promises? When the end comes with its great absolution, I shall

not be sorry. One supports the combats of life, but they are long, and

one comes from them very wounded; ah, when shall they be over?

“You return and I salute you with wishes for parting. How much egotism!

I have another project which I please myself to arrange. You know how I

am arrived to love Clive as own my child. I very quick surprised his

secret, the poor boy, when he was here it is twenty months. He looked

so like you as I repeal me of you in the old time! He told me he had no

hope of his beautiful cousin. I have heard of the fine marriage that

one makes her. Paul, my son, has been at the English Ambassade last

night and has made his congratulations to M. de Farintosh. Paul says

him handsome, young, not too spiritual, rich, and haughty, like all,

all noble Montagnards.

“But it is not of M. de Farintosh I write, whose marriage, without

doubt, has been announced to you. I have a little project; very

foolish, perhaps. You know Mr. the Duke of Ivry has left me guardian of

his little daughter Antoinette, whose _affreuse_ mother no one sees

more. Antoinette is pretty and good, and soft, and with an affectionate

heart. I love her already as my infant. I wish to bring her up, and

that Clive should marry her. They say you are returned very rich. What

follies are these I write! In the long evenings of winter, the children

escaped it is a long time from the maternal nest, a silent old man my

only company,—I live but of the past; and play with its souvenirs as

the detained caress little birds, little flowers, in their prisons. I

was born for the happiness; my God! I have learned it in knowing you.

In losing you I have lost it. It is not against the will of Heaven I

oppose myself. It is man, who makes himself so much of this evil and

misery, this slavery, these tears, these crimes, perhaps.

“This marriage of the young Scotch Marquis and the fair Ethel (I love

her in spite of all, and shall see her soon and congratulate her, for,

do you see, I might have stopped this fine marriage, and did my best

and more than my duty for our poor Clive) shall make itself in London

next spring, I hear. You shall assist scarcely at the ceremony; he,

poor boy, shall not care to be there. Bring him to Paris to make the

court to my little Antoinette: bring him to Paris to his good friend,

Comtesse de Florac.”

“I read marvels of his works in an English journal, which one sends

me.”

Clive was not by when this letter reached his father. Clive was in his

painting-room, and lest he should meet his son, and in order to devise

the best means of breaking the news to the lad, Thomas Newcome

retreated out of doors; and from the Oriental he crossed Oxford Street,

and from Oxford Street he stalked over the roomy pavements of

Gloucester Place, and there he bethought him how he had neglected Mrs.

Hobson Newcome of late, and the interesting family of Bryanstone

Square. So he went to leave his card at Maria’s door: her daughters, as

we have said, are quite grown girls. If they have been lectured, and

learning, and back-boarded, and practising, and using the globes, and

laying in a store of ’ologies, ever since, what a deal they must know!

Colonel Newcome was admitted to see his nieces, and Consummate Virtue,

their parent. Maria was charmed to see her brother-in-law; she greeted

him with reproachful tenderness: “Why, why,” her fine eyes seemed to

say, “have you so long neglected us? Do you think because I am wise,

and gifted, and good, and you are, it must be confessed, a poor

creature with no education, I am not also affable? Come, let the

prodigal be welcomed by his virtuous relatives: come and lunch with us,

Colonel!” He sate down accordingly to the family tiffin.

When the meal was over, the mother, who had matter _of importance to

impart to him_, besought him to go to the drawing-room, and there

poured out such a eulogy upon her children’s qualities as fond mothers

know how to utter. They knew this and they knew that. They were

instructed by the most eminent professors; “that wretched Frenchwoman,

whom you may remember here, Mademoiselle Lenoir,” Maria remarked

parenthetically, “turned out, oh, frightfully! She taught the girls the

worst accent, it appears. Her father was not a colonel; he was—oh!

never mind! It is a mercy I got rid of that _fiendish woman_, and

before my precious ones knew _what_ she was!” And then followed details

of the perfections of the two girls, with occasional side-shots at Lady

Anne’s family, just as in the old time. “Why don’t you bring your boy,

whom I have always loved as a son, and who avoids me? Why does not

Clive know his cousins? They are very different from others of his

kinswomen, who think best of the _heartless world_.”

“I fear, Maria, there is too much truth in what you say,” sighs the

Colonel, drumming on a book on the drawing-room table, and looking down

sees it is a great, large, square, gilt Peerage, open at FARINTOSH,

MARQUIS OF.—Fergus Angus Malcolm Mungo Roy, Marquis of Farintosh, Earl

of Glenlivat, in the peerage of Scotland; also Earl of Rossmont, in

that of the United Kingdom. Son of Angus Fergus Malcolm, Earl of

Glenlivat, and grandson and heir of Malcolm Mungo Angus, first Marquis

of Farintosh, and twenty-fifth Earl, etc. etc.

“You have heard the news regarding Ethel?” remarks Hobson.

“I have just heard,” says the poor Colonel.

“I have a letter from Anne this morning,” Maria continues. “They are of

course delighted with the match. Lord Farintosh is wealthy, handsome;

has been a little wild, I hear; is not such a husband as I would choose

for my darlings, but poor Brian’s family have been educated to love the

world; and Ethel no doubt is flattered by the prospects before her. I

_have_ heard that some one else was a little _épris_ in that quarter.

How does Clive bear the news, my dear Colonel?”

“He has long expected it,” says the Colonel, rising: “and I left him

very cheerful at breakfast this morning.”

“Send him to see us, the naughty boy!” cries Maria. “_We_ don’t change;

we remember old times, to us he will ever be welcome!” And with this

confirmation of Madame de Florac’s news, Thomas Newcome walked sadly

homewards.

And now Thomas Newcome had to break the news to his son; who received

the shot in such a way as caused his friends and confidants to admire

his high spirit. He said he had long been expecting some such

announcement: it was many months since Ethel had prepared him for it.

Under her peculiar circumstances he did not see how she could act

otherwise than she had done. And he narrated to the Colonel the

substance of the conversation which the two young people had had

together several months before, in Madame de Florac’s garden.

Clive’s father did not tell his son of his own bootless negotiation

with Barnes Newcome. There was no need to recall that now; but the

Colonel’s wrath against his nephew exploded in conversation with me,

who was the confidant of father and son in this business. Ever since

that luckless day when Barnes thought proper to—to give a wrong address

for Lady Kew, Thomas Newcome’s anger had been growing. He smothered it

yet for a while, sent a letter to Lady Anne Newcome, briefly

congratulating her on the choice which he had heard Miss Newcome had

made; and in acknowledgment of Madame de Florac’s more sentimental

epistle he wrote a reply which has not been preserved, but in which he

bade her rebuke Miss Newcome for not having answered him when he wrote

to her, and not having acquainted her old uncle with her projected

union.

To this message, Ethel wrote back a brief, hurried reply; it said:—

“I saw Madame de Florac last night at her daughter’s reception, and she

gave me my dear uncle’s messages. _Yes, the news is true_ which you

have heard from Madame de Florac, and in Bryanstone Square. I did not

like to write it to you, because I know one whom I regard as a brother

(and a great, great deal better), and to whom I know it will give pain.

He knows that I have done _my duty_, and _why_ I have acted as I have

done. God bless him and his dear father!

“What is this about a letter which I never answered? Grandmamma knows

nothing about a letter. Mamma has enclosed to me that which you wrote

to her, but there has been _no letter_ from T. N. to his sincere and

affectionate E. N.

“Rue de Rivoli. Friday.”

This was too much, and the cup of Thomas Newcome’s wrath overflowed.

Barnes had lied about Ethel’s visit to London: Barnes had lied in

saying that he delivered the message with which his uncle charged him:

Barnes had lied about the letter which he had received, and never sent.

With these accusations firmly proven in his mind against his nephew,

the Colonel went down to confront that sinner.

Wherever he should find Barnes, Thomas Newcome was determined to tell

him his mind. Should they meet on the steps of a church, on the flags

of ’Change, or in the newspaper-room at Bays’s, at evening-paper time,

when men most do congregate, Thomas the Colonel was determined upon

exposing and chastising his father’s grandson. With Ethel’s letter in

his pocket, he took his way into the City, penetrated into the

unsuspecting back-parlour of Hobson’s bank, and was disappointed at

first at only finding his half-brother Hobson there engaged over his

newspaper. The Colonel signified his wish to see Sir Barnes Newcome.

“Sir Barnes was not come in yet. You’ve heard about the marriage,” says

Hobson. “Great news for the Barnes’s, ain’t it? The head of the house

is as proud as a peacock about it. Said he was going out to Samuels,

the diamond merchants; going to make his sister some uncommon fine

present. Jolly to be uncle to a marquis, ain’t it, Colonel? I’ll have

nothing under a duke for my girls. I say, I know whose nose is out of

joint. But young fellows get over these things, and Clive won’t die

this time, I dare say.”

While Hobson Newcome made these satiric and facetious remarks, his

half-brother paced up and down the glass parlour, scowling over the

panes into the bank where the busy young clerks sate before their

ledgers. At last he gave an “Ah!” as of satisfaction. Indeed, he had

seen Sir Barnes Newcome enter into the bank.

The Baronet stopped and spoke with a clerk, and presently entered,

followed by that young gentleman into his private parlour. Barnes tried

to grin when he saw his uncle, and held out his hand to greet the

Colonel; but the Colonel put both his behind his back—that which

carried his faithful bamboo cane shook nervously. Barnes was aware that

the Colonel had the news. “I was going to—to write to you this morning,

with—with some intelligence that I am—very—very sorry to give.”

“This young gentleman is one of your clerks?” asked Thomas Newcome,

blandly.

“Yes; Mr. Boltby, who has your private account. This is Colonel

Newcome, Mr. Boltby,” says Sir Barnes, in some wonder.

“Mr. Boltby, brother Hobson, you heard what Sir Barnes Newcome said

just now respecting certain intelligence which he grieved to give me?”

At this the three other gentlemen respectively wore looks of amazement.

“Allow me to say in your presence, that I don’t believe one single word

Sir Barnes Newcome says, when he tells me that he is very sorry for

some intelligence he has to communicate. He lies, Mr. Boltby; he is

very glad. I made up my mind that in whatsoever company I met him, and

on the very first day I found him—hold your tongue, sir; you shall

speak afterwards and tell more lies when I have done—I made up my mind,

I say, that on the very first occasion I would tell Sir Barnes Newcome

that he was a liar and a cheat. He takes charge of letters and keeps

them back. Did you break the seal, sir? There was nothing to steal in

my letter to Miss Newcome. He tells me people are out of town, when he

goes to see in the next street, after leaving my table, and whom I see

myself half an hour before he lies to me about their absence.”

“D—n you, go out, and don’t stand staring there, you booby!” screams

out Sir Barnes to the clerk. “Stop, Boltby. Colonel Newcome, unless you

leave this room I shall—I shall——”

“You shall call a policeman. Send for the gentleman, and I will tell

the Lord Mayor what I think of Sir Barnes Newcome, Baronet. Mr. Boltby,

shall we have the constable in?”

“Sir, you are an old man, and my father’s brother, or you know very

well I would——”

“You would what, Sir? Upon my word, Barnes Newcome” (here the Colonel’s

two hands and the bamboo cane came from the rear and formed in front),

“but that you are my father’s grandson, after a menace like that, I

would take you out and cane you in the presence of your clerks. I

repeat, sir, that I consider you guilty of treachery, falsehood, and

knavery. And if I ever see you at Bays’s Club, I will make the same

statement to your acquaintance at the west end of the town. A man of

your baseness ought to be known, sir; and it shall be my business to

make men of honour aware of your character. Mr. Boltby, will you have

the kindness to make out my account? Sir Barnes Newcome, for fear of

consequences that I should deplore, I recommend you to keep a wide

berth of me, sir.” And the Colonel twirled his mustachios, and waved

his cane in an ominous manner, and Barnes started back spontaneously

out of its dangerous circle.

What Mr. Boltby’s sentiments may have been regarding this extraordinary

scene in which his principal cut so sorry a figure;—whether he narrated

the conversation to other gentlemen connected with the establishment of

Hobson Brothers, or prudently kept it to himself, I cannot say, having

no means of pursuing Mr. B.’s subsequent career. He speedily quitted

his desk at Hobson Brothers; and let us presume that Barnes _thought_

Mr. B. had told all the other clerks of the avuncular quarrel. That

conviction will make us imagine Barnes still more comfortable. Hobson

Newcome no doubt was rejoiced at Barnes’s discomfiture; he had been

insolent and domineering beyond measure of late to his vulgar

good-natured uncle, whereas after the above interview with the Colonel

he became very humble and quiet in his demeanour, and for a long, long

time never said a rude word. Nay, I fear Hobson must have carried an

account of the transaction to Mrs. Hobson and the circle in Bryanstone

Square; for Sam Newcome, now entered at Cambridge, called the Baronet

“Barnes” quite familiarly; asked after Clara and Ethel; and requested a

small loan of Barnes.

Of course the story did not get wind at Bays’s; of course Tom Eaves did

not know all about it, and say that Sir Barnes had been beaten

black-and-blue. Having been treated very ill by the committee in a

complaint which he made about the Club cookery, Sir Barnes Newcome

never came to Bays’s, and at the end of the year took off his name from

the lists of the Club.

Sir Barnes, though a little taken aback in the morning, and not ready

with an impromptu reply to the Colonel and his cane, could not allow

the occurrence to pass without a protest; and indited a letter which

Thomas Newcome kept along with some others previously quoted by the

compiler of the present memoirs.

It is as follows:—

Belgrave St., Feb. 15, 18—.

“Colonel Newcome, C.B., _private_.

“SIR—The incredible insolence and violence of your behaviour to-day

(inspired by whatever causes or mistakes of your own), cannot be passed

without some comment, on my part. I laid before a friend of your own

profession, a statement of the words which you applied to me in the

presence of my partner and one of my clerks this morning; and my

adviser is of opinion, that considering the relationship unhappily

subsisting between us, I can take no notice of insults for which you

knew when you uttered them, I could not call you to account.”

“There is some truth in that,” said the Colonel. “He couldn’t fight,

you know; but then he was such a liar I could not help speaking my

mind.”

“I gathered from the brutal language which you thought fit to employ

towards a disarmed man, the ground of one of your monstrous accusations

against me, that I deceived you in stating that my relative, Lady Kew,

was in the country, when in fact she was at her house in London.

“To this absurd charge I at once plead guilty. The venerable lady in

question was passing through London, where she desired to be free from

intrusion. At her ladyship’s wish I stated that she was out of town;

and would, under the same circumstances, unhesitatingly make the same

statement. Your slight acquaintance with the person in question did not

warrant that you should force yourself on her privacy, as you would

doubtless know were you more familiar with the customs of the society

in which she moves.

“I declare upon my honour as a gentleman, that I gave her the message

which I promised to deliver from you, and also that I transmitted a

letter with which you entrusted me; and repel with scorn and

indignation the charges which you were pleased to bring against me, as

I treat with contempt the language and the threats which you thought

fit to employ.

“Our books show the amount of _x_£. _xs. xd_. to your credit, which you

will be good enough to withdraw at your earliest convenience; as of

course all intercourse must cease henceforth between you and—Yours,

etc.

“B. Newcome Newcome.”

“I think, sir, he doesn’t make out a bad case,” Mr. Pendennis remarked

to the Colonel, who showed him this majestic letter.

“It would be a good case if I believed a single word of it, Arthur,”

replied my friend, placidly twirling the old grey moustache. “If you

were to say so-and-so, and say that I had brought false charges against

you, I should cry _mea culpa_ and apologise with all my heart. But as I

have a perfect conviction that every word this fellow says is a lie,

what is the use of arguing any more about the matter? I would not

believe him if he brought twenty as witnesses, and if he lied till he

was black in the other liars’ face. Give me the walnuts. I wonder who

Sir Barnes’s military friend was.”

Barnes’s military friend was our gallant acquaintance General Sir

George Tufto, K.C.B., who a short while afterwards talked over the

quarrel with the Colonel, and manfully told him that (in Sir George’s

opinion) he was wrong. “The little beggar behaved very well, I thought,

in the first business. You bullied him so, and in the front of his

regiment, too, that it was almost past bearing; and when he deplored,

with tears in his eyes, almost, the little humbug! that his

relationship prevented him calling you out, ecod, I believed him! It

was in the second affair that poor little Barnes showed he was a

cocktail.”

“What second affair?” asked Thomas Newcome.

“Don’t you know? He! he! this is famous!” cries Sir George. “Why, sir,

two days after your business, he comes to me with another letter and a

face as long as my mare’s, by Jove. And that letter, Newcome, was from

your young ’un. Stop, here it is!” and from his padded bosom General

Sir George Tufto drew a pocket-book, and from the pocket-book a copy of

a letter, inscribed, “Clive Newcome, Esq., to Sir B. N. Newcome.”

“There’s no mistake about your fellow, Colonel. No,——him!” and the man

of war fired a volley of oaths as a salute to Clive.

And the Colonel, on horseback, riding by the other cavalry officer’s

side read as follows:—

“George Street, Hanover Square, February 16.

“SIR—Colonel Newcome this morning showed me a letter bearing your

signature, in which you state—1. That Colonel Newcome has uttered

calumnious and insolent charges against you. 2. That Colonel Newcome so

spoke, knowing that you could take no notice of his charges of

falsehood and treachery, on account of the relationship subsisting

between you.

“Your statements would evidently imply that Colonel Newcome has been

guilty of ungentlemanlike conduct, and of cowardice towards you.

“As there can be no reason why we should not meet in any manner that

you desire, I here beg leave to state, on my own part, that I fully

coincide with Colonel Newcome in his opinion that you have been guilty

of falsehood and treachery, and that the charge of cowardice which you

dare to make against a gentleman of his tried honour and courage, is

another wilful and cowardly falsehood on your part.

“And I hope you will refer the bearer of this note, my friend, Mr.

George Warrington, of the Upper Temple, to the military gentleman whom

you consulted in respect to the just charges of Colonel Newcome.

Waiting a prompt reply,

“Believe me, sir—Your obedient servant,

Clive Newcome.

“Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., M. P., etc.”

“What a blunderhead I am!” cries the Colonel, with delight on his

countenance, spite of his professed repentance. “It never once entered

my head that the youngster would take any part in the affair. I showed

him his cousin’s letter casually, just to amuse him, I think, for he

has been deuced low lately, about—about a young man’s scrape that he

has got into. And he must have gone off and despatched his challenge

straightway. I recollect he appeared uncommonly brisk at breakfast the

next morning. And so you say, General, the Baronet did not like the

_poulet?_”