“Look at them,” says the man: “they are almost in rags, they have to

put up with scanty and hard food; contrast them with his other

children, whom you see lording in gilt carriages, robed in purple and

fine linen, and scattering mud from their wheels over us humble people

as we walk the streets; ignorance and starvation is good enough for

these, for those others nothing can be too fine or too dear. What can a

factory-girl expect from such a fine, high-bred, white-handed,

aristocratic gentleman as Sir Barnes Newcome, Baronet, but to be

cajoled, and seduced, and deserted, and left to starve! When she has

served my lord’s pleasure, her natural fate is to be turned into the

street; let her go and rot there and her children beg in the gutter.

“This is the most shameful imposture,” gasps out Sir Barnes, “these

children are not—are not——”

The man interrupted him with a bitter laugh. “No,” he says; “they are

not his; that’s true enough, friends. It’s Tom Martin’s girl and boy, a

precious pair of lazy little scamps. But, at least he _thought_ they

were his children. See how much he knows about them! He hasn’t seen his

children for years; he would have left them and their mother to starve,

and did, but for shame and fear. The old man, his father, pensioned

them, and he hasn’t the heart to stop their wages now. Men of Newcome,

will you have this man to represent you in Parliament?” And the crowd

roared “No;” and Barnes and his shamefaced committee slunk out of the

place, and no wonder the dissenting clerical gentlemen were shy of

voting for him.

A brilliant and picturesque diversion in Colonel Newcome’s favour was

due to the inventive genius of his faithful aide-de-camp, F. B. On the

polling-day, as the carriages full of voters came up to the

market-place, there appeared nigh to the booths an open barouche,

covered all over with ribbon, and containing Frederick Bayham, Esq.,

profusely decorated with the Colonel’s colours, and a very old woman

and her female attendant, who were similarly ornamented. It was good

old Mrs. Mason, who was pleased with the drive and the sunshine, though

she scarcely understood the meaning of the turmoil, with her maid by

her side, delighted to wear such ribbons, and sit in such a post of

honour. Rising up in the carriage, F. B. took off his hat, bade his men

of brass be silent, who were accustomed to bray “See the Conquering

Hero come,” whenever the Colonel, or Mr. Bayham, his brilliant

aide-de-camp, made their appearance;—bidding, we say, the musicians and

the universe to be silent, F. B. rose, and made the citizens of Newcome

a splendid speech. Good old unconscious Mrs. Mason was the theme of it,

and the Colonel’s virtues and faithful gratitude in tending her. “She

was his father’s old friend. She was Sir Barnes Newcome’s grandfather’s

old friend. She had lived for more than forty years at Sir Barnes

Newcome’s door, and how often had he been to see her? Did he go every

week? No. Every month? No. Every year? No. Never in the whole course of

his life had he set his foot into her doors!” (Loud yells, and cries of

‘Shame!’) “Never had he done her one single act of kindness. Whereas

for years and years past, when he was away in India, heroically

fighting the battles of his country, when he was distinguishing himself

at Assaye, and—and—Mulligatawny, and Seringapatam, in the hottest of

the fight and the fiercest of the danger, in the most terrible moment

of the conflict, and the crowning glory of the victory, the good, the

brave, the kind old Colonel,—why should he say Colonel? why should he

not say Old Tom at once?” (immense roars of applause) “always

remembered his dear old nurse and friend. Look at that shawl, boys,

which she has got on! My belief is that Colonel Newcome took that shawl

in single combat, and on horseback, from the prime minister of Tippoo

Sahib.” (Immense cheers and cries of ‘Bravo, Bayham!’) “Look at that

brooch the dear old thing wears!” (he kissed her hand whilst so

apostrophising her). “Tom Newcome never brags about his military

achievements, he is the most modest as well as the bravest man in the

world. What if I were to tell you that he cut that brooch from the

throat of an Indian rajah? He’s man enough to do it.” (‘He is! he is!’

from all parts of the crowd.) “What, you want to take the horses out,

do you?” (to the crowd, who were removing those quadrupeds). “I ain’t

agoing to prevent you; I expected as much of you. Men of Newcome, I

expected as much of you, for I know you! Sit still, old lady; don’t be

frightened, ma’am: they are only going to pull you to the King’s Arms,

and show you to the Colonel.”

This, indeed, was the direction in which the mob (whether inflamed by

spontaneous enthusiasm, or excited by cunning agents placed amongst the

populace by F. B., I cannot say), now took the barouche and its three

occupants. With a myriad roar and shout the carriage was dragged up in

front of the King’s Arms, from the balconies of which a most

satisfactory account of the polling was already placarded. The extra

noise and shouting brought out the Colonel, who looked at first with

curiosity at the advancing procession, and then, as he caught sight of

Sarah Mason, with a blush and a bow of his kind old head.

“Look at him, boys!” cried the enraptured F. B., pointing up to the old

man. “Look at him; the dear old boy! Isn’t he an old trump? which will

you have for your Member, Barnes Newcome or Old Tom?”

And as might be supposed, an immense shout of “Old Tom!” arose from the

multitude; in the midst of which, blushing and bowing still, the

Colonel went back to his committee-room: and the bands played “See the

Conquering Hero” louder than ever; and poor Barnes in the course of his

duty having to come out upon his balcony at the Roebuck opposite, was

saluted with a yell as vociferous as the cheer for the Colonel had

been; and old Mrs. Mason asked what the noise was about; and after

making several vain efforts, in dumb show, to the crowd, Barnes slunk

back into his hole again as pale as the turnip which was flung at his

head: and the horses were brought, and Mrs. Mason driven home; and the

day of election came to an end.

Reasons of personal gratitude, as we have stated already, prevented His

Highness the Prince de Moncontour from taking a part in this family

contest. His brethren of the House of Higg, however, very much to

Florac’s gratification, gave their second votes to Colonel Newcome,

carrying with them a very great number of electors: we know that in the

present Parliament, Mr. Higg and Mr. Bunce sit for the borough of

Newcome. Having had monetary transactions with Sir Barnes Newcome, and

entered largely into railway speculations with him, the Messrs. Higg

had found reason to quarrel with the Baronet; accuse him of sharp

practices to the present day, and have long stories to tell which do

not concern us about Sir Barnes’s stratagems, grasping, and extortion.

They their following, deserting Sir Barnes, whom they had supported in

previous elections, voted for the Colonel, although some of the

opinions of that gentleman were rather too extreme for such sober

persons.

Not exactly knowing what his politics were when he commenced the

canvass, I can’t say to what opinions the poor Colonel did not find

himself committed by the time when the election was over. The worthy

gentleman felt himself not a little humiliated by what he had to say

and to unsay, by having to answer questions, and submit to

familiarities, to shake hands which, to say truth, he did not care for

grasping at all. His habits were aristocratic; his education had been

military; the kindest and simplest soul alive, he yet disliked all

familiarity, and expected from common people the sort of deference

which he had received from his men in the regiment. The contest

saddened and mortified him; he felt that he was using wrong means to

obtain an end that perhaps was not right (for so his secret conscience

must have told him); he was derogating from his own honour in tampering

with political opinions, submitting to familiarities, condescending to

stand by whilst his agents solicited vulgar suffrages or uttered

claptraps about retrenchment and reform. “I felt I was wrong,” he said

to me, in after days, “though _I_ was too proud to own my error in

those times, and you and your good wife and my boy were right in

protesting against that mad election.” Indeed, though we little knew

what events were speedily to happen, Laura and I felt very little

satisfaction when the result of the Newcome election was made known to

us, and we found Sir Barnes Newcome third, and Col. Thomas Newcome

second upon the poll.

Ethel was absent with her children at Brighton. She was glad, she

wrote, not to have been at home during the election. Mr. and Mrs. C.

were at Brighton, too. Ethel had seen Mrs. C. and her child once or

twice. It was a very fine child. “My brother came down to us,” she

wrote, “after all was over. He is furious against M. de Moncontour,

who, he says, persuaded the Whigs to vote against him, and turned the

election.”

CHAPTER LXX.

Chiltern Hundreds

We shall say no more regarding Thomas Newcome’s political doings; his

speeches against Barnes, and the Baronet’s replies. The nephew was

beaten by his stout old uncle.

In due time the _Gazette_ announced that Thomas Newcome, Esq., was

returned as one of the Members of Parliament for the borough of

Newcome; and after triumphant dinners, speeches, and rejoicings, the

Member came back to his family in London, and to his affairs in that

city.

The good Colonel appeared to be by no means elated by his victory. He

would not allow that he was wrong in engaging in that family war, of

which we have just seen the issue; though it may be that his secret

remorse on this account in part occasioned his disquiet. But there were

other reasons, which his family not long afterwards came to understand,

for the gloom and low spirits which now oppressed the head of their

home.

It was observed (that is, if simple little Rosey took the trouble to

observe) that the entertainments at the Colonel’s mansion were more

frequent and splendid even than before; the silver cocoa-nut tree was

constantly in requisition, and around it were assembled many new

guests, who had not formerly been used to sit under those branches. Mr.

Sherrick and his wife appeared at those parties, at which the

proprietor of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel made himself perfectly familiar.

Sherrick cut jokes with the master of the house, which the latter

received with a very grave acquiescence; he ordered the servants about,

addressing the butler as “Old Corkscrew,” and bidding the footman, whom

he loved to call by his Christian name, to “look alive.” He called the

Colonel “Newcome” sometimes, and facetiously speculated upon the degree

of relationship subsisting between them now that his daughter was

married to Clive’s uncle, the Colonel’s brother-in-law. Though I dare

say Clive did not much relish receiving news of his aunt, Sherrick was

sure to bring such intelligence when it reached him; and announced, in

due time, the birth of a little cousin at Boggley Wollah, whom the fond

parents designed to name “Thomas Newcome Honeyman.”

A dreadful panic and ghastly terror seized poor Clive on occasion which

he described to me afterwards. Going out from home one day with his

father, he beheld a wine-merchant’s cart, from which hampers were

carried down the area gate into the lower regions of Colonel Newcome’s

house. “Sherrick and Co., Wine Merchants, Walpole Street,” was painted

upon the vehicle.

“Good heavens! sir, do you get your wine from _him?_” Clive cried out

to his father, remembering Honeyman’s provisions in early times. The

Colonel, looking very gloomy and turning red, said, “Yes, he bought

wine from Sherrick, who had been very good-natured and serviceable; and

who—and who, you know, is our connexion now.” When informed of the

circumstance by Clive, I too, as I confess, thought the incident

alarming.

Then Clive, with a laugh, told me of a grand battle which had taken

place in consequence of Mrs. Mackenzie’s behaviour to the

wine-merchant’s wife. The Campaigner had treated this very kind and

harmless, but vulgar woman, with extreme _hauteur_—had talked loud

during her singing—the beauty of which, to say truth, time had

considerably impaired—had made contemptuous observations regarding her

upon more than one occasion. At length the Colonel broke out in great

wrath against Mrs. Mackenzie—bade her to respect that lady as one of

his guests—and, if she did not like the company which assembled at his

house, hinted to her that there were many thousand other houses in

London where she could find a lodging. For the sake of her grandchild,

and her adored child, the Campaigner took no notice of this hint; and

declined to remove from the quarter which she had occupied ever since

she had become a grandmamma.

I myself dined once or twice with my old friends, under the shadow of

the pickle-bearing cocoa-nut tree; and could not but remark a change of

personages in the society assembled. The manager of the City branch of

the B. B. C. was always present—an ominous-looking man, whose whispers

and compliments seemed to make poor Clive, at his end of the table,

very melancholy. With the City manager came the City manager’s friends,

whose jokes passed gaily round, and who kept the conversation to

themselves. Once I had the happiness to meet Mr. Ratray, who had

returned, filled with rupees from the Indian Bank; who told us many

anecdotes of the splendour of Rummun Loll at Calcutta, who complimented

the Colonel on his fine house and grand dinners with sinister

good-humour. Those compliments did not seem to please our poor friend;

that familiarity choked him. A brisk little chattering attorney, very

intimate with Sherrick, with a wife of dubious gentility, was another

constant guest. He enlivened the table by his jokes, and recounted

choice stories about the aristocracy, with certain members of whom the

little man seemed very familiar. He knew to a shilling how much this

lord owed—and how much the creditors allowed to that marquis. He had

been concerned with such and such a nobleman, who was now in the

Queen’s Bench. He spoke of their lordships affably and without their

titles—calling upon “Louisa, my dear,” his wife, to testify to the day

when Viscount Tagrag dined with them, and Earl Bareacres sent them the

pheasants. F. B., as sombre and downcast as his hosts now seemed to be,

informed me demurely that the attorney was a member of one of the most

eminent firms in the City—that he had been engaged in procuring the

Colonel’s parliamentary title for him—and in various important matters

appertaining to the B. B. C.; but my knowledge of the world and the law

was sufficient to make me aware that this gentleman belonged to a

well-known firm of money-lending solicitors, and I trembled to see such

a person in the home of our good Colonel. Where were the generals and

the judges? Where were the fogies and their respectable ladies? Stupid

they were, and dull their company; but better a stalled ox in their

society, than Mr. Campion’s jokes over Mr. Sherrick’s wines.

After the little rebuke administered by Colonel Newcome, Mrs. Mackenzie

abstained from overt hostilities against any guests of her daughter’s

father-in-law; and contented herself by assuming grand and

princess-like airs in the company of the new ladies. They flattered her

and poor little Rosa intensely. The latter liked their company, no

doubt. To a man of the world looking on, who has seen the men and

morals of many cities, it was curious, almost pathetic, to watch that

poor little innocent creature fresh and smiling, attired in bright

colours and a thousand gewgaws, simpering in the midst of these

darkling people—practising her little arts and coquetries, with such a

court round about her. An unconscious little maid, with rich and rare

gems sparkling on all her fingers, and bright gold rings as many as

belonged to the late Old Woman of Banbury Cross—still she smiled and

prattled innocently before these banditti—I thought of Zerlina and the

Brigands, in Fra Diavolo.

Walking away with F. B. from one of these parties of the Colonel’s, and

seriously alarmed at what I had observed there, I demanded of Bayham

whether my conjectures were not correct, that some misfortune overhung

our old friend’s house? At first Bayham denied stoutly or pretended

ignorance; but at length, having reached the Haunt together, which I

had not visited since I was a married man, we entered that place of

entertainment, and were greeted by its old landlady and waitress, and

accommodated with a quiet parlour. And here F. B., after groaning and

sighing—after solacing himself with a prodigious quantity of bitter

beer—fairly burst out, and, with tears in his eyes, made a full and sad

confession respecting this unlucky Bundelcund Banking Company. The

shares had been going lower and lower, so that there was no sale now

for them at all. To meet the liabilities, the directors must have

undergone the greatest sacrifices. He did know—he did not like to think

what the Colonel’s personal losses were. The respectable solicitors of

the Company had retired, long since, after having secured payment of a

most respectable bill; and had given place to the firm of dubious

law-agents of whom I had that evening seen a partner. How the retiring

partners from India had been allowed to withdraw, and to bring fortunes

along with them, was a mystery to Mr. Frederick Bayham. The great

Indian millionnaire was in his, F. B.’s eyes, “a confounded

mahogany-coloured heathen humbug.” These fine parties which the Colonel

was giving, and that fine carriage which was always flaunting about the

Park with poor Mrs. Clive and the Campaigner, and the nurse and the

baby, were, in F. B.’s opinion, all decoys and shams. He did not mean

to say that the meals were not paid, and that the Colonel had to

plunder for his horses’ corn; but he knew that Sherrick, and the

attorney, and the manager, insisted upon the necessity of giving these

parties, and keeping up this state and grandeur, and opined that it was

at the special instance of these advisers that the Colonel had

contested the borough for which he was now returned. “Do you know how

much that contest cost?” asks F. B. “The sum, sir, was awful! and we

have ever so much of it to pay. I came up twice myself from Newcome to

Campion and Sherrick about it. I betray no secrets—F. B., sir, would

die a thousand deaths before he would tell the secrets of his

benefactor!—But, Pendennis, you understand a thing or two. You know

what o’clock it is, and so does yours truly, F. B., who drinks your

health. _I_ know the taste of Sherrick’s wine well enough. F. B., sir,

fears the Greeks and all the gifts they bring. Confound his

Amontillado! I had rather drink this honest malt and hops all my life

than ever see a drop of his abominable sherry. Golden? F. B. believes

it _is_ golden—and a precious deal dearer than gold too”—and herewith,

ringing the bell, my friend asked for a second pint of the just-named

and cheaper fluid.

I have of late had to recount portions of my dear old friend’s history

which must needs be told, and over which the writer does not like to

dwell. If Thomas Newcome’s opulence was unpleasant to describe, and to

contrast with the bright goodness and simplicity I remembered in former

days, how much more painful is that part of his story to which we are

now come perforce, and which the acute reader of novels has, no doubt,

long foreseen? Yes, sir or madam, you are quite right in the opinion

which you have held all along regarding that Bundelcund Banking

Company, in which our Colonel has invested every rupee he possesses,

_Solvuntur rupees_, etc. I disdain, for the most part, the tricks and

surprises of the novelist’s art. Knowing, from the very beginning of

our story, what was the issue of this Bundelcund Banking concern, I

have scarce had patience to keep my counsel about it; and whenever I

have had occasion to mention the Company, have scarcely been able to

refrain from breaking out into fierce diatribes against that

complicated, enormous, outrageous swindle. It was one of many similar

cheats which have been successfully practised upon the simple folks,

civilian and military, who toil and struggle—who fight with sun and

enemy—who pass years of long exile and gallant endurance in the service

of our empire in India. Agency houses after agency houses have been

established, and have flourished in splendour and magnificence, and

have paid fabulous dividends—and have enormously enriched two or three

wary speculators—and then have burst in bankruptcy, involving widows,

orphans, and countless simple people who trusted their all to the

keeping of these unworthy treasurers.

The failure of the Bundelcund Bank which we now have to record, was one

only of many similar schemes ending in ruin. About the time when Thomas

Newcome was chaired as Member of Parliament for the borough of which he

bore the name, the great Indian merchant who was at the head of the

Bundelcund Banking Company’s affairs at Calcutta, suddenly died of

cholera at his palace at Barackpore. He had been giving of late a

series of the most splendid banquets with which Indian prince ever

entertained a Calcutta society. The greatest and proudest personages of

that aristocratic city had attended his feasts. The fairest Calcutta

beauties had danced in his halls. Did not poor F. B. transfer from the

columns of the _Bengal Hurkaru_ to the _Pall Mall Gazette_ the most

astounding descriptions of those Asiatic Nights Entertainments, of

which the very grandest was to come off on the night when cholera

seized Rummun Loll in its grip? There was to have been a masquerade

outvying all European masquerades in splendour. The two rival queens of

the Calcutta society were to have appeared each with her court around

her. Young civilians at the College, and young ensigns fresh landed,

had gone into awful expenses and borrowed money at interest from the B.

B. C. and other banking companies, in order to appear with befitting

splendour as knights and noblemen of Henrietta Maria’s Court (Henrietta

Maria, wife of Hastings Hicks, Esq., Sudder Dewanee Adawlut), or as

princes and warriors surrounding the palanquin of Lalla Rookh (the

lovely wife of Hon. Cornwallis Bobus, Member of Council): all these

splendours were there. As carriage after carriage drove up from

Calcutta, they were met at Rummun Loll’s gate by ghastly weeping

servants, who announced their master’s demise.

On the next day the Bank at Calcutta was closed, and the day after,

when heavy bills were presented which must be paid, although by this

time Rummun Loll was not only dead but buried, and his widows howling

over his grave, it was announced throughout Calcutta that but 800

rupees were left in the treasury of the B. B. C. to meet engagements to

the amount of four lakhs then immediately due, and sixty days

afterwards the shutters were closed at No. 175 Lothbury, the London

offices of the B. B. C. of India, and 35,000 pounds worth of their

bills refused by their agents, Messrs. Baines, Jolly and Co., of Fog

Court.

When the accounts of that ghastly bankruptcy arrived from Calcutta, it

was found, of course, that the merchant-prince Rummun Loll owed the B.

B. C. twenty-five lakhs of rupees, the value of which was scarcely even

represented by his respectable signature. It was found that one of the

auditors of the bank, the generally esteemed Charley Conder (a capital

fellow, famous for his good dinners, and for playing low-comedy

characters at the Chowringhee Theatre), was indebted to the bank in

90,000 pounds; and also it was discovered that the revered Baptist

Bellman, Chief Registrar of the Calcutta Tape and Sealing-Wax Office (a

most valuable and powerful amateur preacher who had converted two

natives, and whose serious soirées were thronged at Calcutta), had

helped himself to 73,000 pounds more, for which he settled in the

Bankruptcy Court before he resumed his duties in his own. In justice to

Mr. Bellman, it must be said that he could have had no idea of the

catastrophe impending over the B. B. C. For, only three weeks before

that great bank closed its doors, Mr. Bellman, as guardian of the

children of his widowed sister Mrs. Green, had sold the whole of the

late Colonel’s property out of Company’s paper and invested it in the

bank, which gave a high interest, and with bills of which, drawn upon

their London correspondents, he had accommodated Mrs. Colonel Green

when she took her departure for Europe with her numerous little family

on board the Burrumpooter.

And now you have the explanation of the title of this chapter, and know

wherefore Thomas Newcome never sat in Parliament. Where are our dear

old friends now? Where are Rosey’s chariots and horses? Where her

jewels and gewgaws? Bills are up in the fine new house. Swarms of

Hebrew gentlemen with their hats on are walking about the

drawing-rooms, peering into the bedrooms, weighing and poising the poor

old silver cocoa-nut tree, eyeing the plate and crystal, thumbing the

damask of the curtains, and inspecting ottomans, mirrors, and a hundred

articles of splendid trumpery. There is Rosey’s boudoir which her

father-in-law loved to ornament—there is Clive’s studio with a hundred

sketches—there is the Colonel’s bare room at the top of the house, with

his little iron bedstead and ship’s drawers, and a camel trunk or two

which have accompanied him on many an Indian march, and his old

regulation sword, and that one which the native officers of his

regiment gave him when he bade them farewell. I can fancy the brokers’

faces as they look over this camp wardrobe, and that the uniforms will

not fetch much in Holywell Street. There is the old one still, and that

new one which he ordered and wore when poor little Rosey was presented

at court. I had not the heart to examine their plunder, and go amongst

those wreckers. F. B. used to attend the sale regularly, and report its

proceedings to us with eyes full of tears. “A fellow laughed at me,”

says F. B., “because when I came into the dear old drawing-room I took

my hat off. I told him that if he dared say another word I would knock

him down.” I think F. B. may be pardoned in this instance for emulating

the office of auctioneer. Where are you, pretty Rosey and poor little

helpless baby? Where are you, dear Clive—gallant young friend of my

youth? Ah! it is a sad story—a melancholy page to pen! Let us pass it

over quickly—I love not to think of my friend in pain.

CHAPTER LXXI.

In which Mrs. Clive Newcome’s Carriage is ordered

All the friends of the Newcome family, of course, knew the disaster

which had befallen the good Colonel, and I was aware, for my own part,

that not only his own, but almost the whole of Rosa Newcome’s property

was involved in the common ruin. Some proposals of temporary relief

were made to our friends from more quarters than one, but were

thankfully rejected—and we were led to hope that the Colonel, having

still his pension secured to him, which the law could not touch, might

live comfortably enough the retirement to which, of course, he would

betake himself, when the melancholy proceedings consequent on the

bankruptcy were brought to an end. It was shown that he had been

egregiously duped in the transaction—that his credulity had cost him

and his family a large fortune—that he had given up every penny which

belonged to him—that there could not be any sort of stain upon his

honest reputation. The judge before whom he appeared spoke with feeling

and regard of the unhappy gentleman—the lawyer who examined him

respected the grief and fall of that simple old man. Thomas Newcome

took a little room near the court where his affairs and the affairs of

the company were adjudged—lived with a frugality which never was

difficult to him—And once when perchance I met him in the City, avoided

me, with a bow and courtesy that was quite humble, though proud and

somehow inexpressibly touching to me. Fred Bayham was the only person

whom he admitted. Fred always faithfully insisted upon attending him in

and out of court. J. J. came to me immediately after he heard of the

disaster, eager to place all his savings at the service of his friends.

Laura and I came to London, and were urgent with similar offers. Our

good friend declined to see any of us. F. B., again, with tears

trickling on his rough cheeks, and a break in his voice, told me he

feared that affairs must be very bad indeed, for the Colonel absolutely

denied himself a cheroot to smoke. Laura drove to his lodgings and took

him a box, which was held up to him as he came to open the door to my

wife’s knock by our smiling little boy, He patted the child on his

golden head and kissed him. My wife wished he would have done as much

for her—but he would not—though she owned she kissed his hand. He drew

it across his eyes and thanked her in a very calm and stately

manner—but he did not invite her within the threshold of his door,

saying simply, that such a room was not a fit place to receive a lady,

“as you ought to know very well, Mrs. Smith,” he said to the landlady,

who had accompanied my wife up the stairs. “He will eat scarcely

anything,” the woman told us, “his meals come down untouched; his

candles are burning all night, almost, as he sits poring over his

papers.”

“He was bent—he who used to walk so uprightly,” Laura said. He seemed

to have grown many years older, and was, indeed, quite a decrepit old

man.

“I am glad they have left Clive out of the bankruptcy,” the Colonel

said to Bayham; it was almost the only time when his voice exhibited

any emotion. “It was very kind of them to leave out Clive, poor boy,

and I have thanked the lawyers in court.” Those gentlemen, and the

judge himself, were very much moved at this act of gratitude. The judge

made a very feeling speech to the Colonel when he came up for his

certificate. He passed very different comments on the conduct of the

Manager of the Bank, when that person appeared for examination. He

wished that the law had power to deal with those gentlemen who had come

home with large fortunes from India, realised but a few years before

the bankruptcy. Those gentlemen had known how to take care of

themselves very well; and as for the Manager, is not his wife giving

elegant balls at her elegant house at Cheltenham at this very day?

What weighed most upon the Colonel’s mind, F. B. imagined, was the

thought that he had been the means of inducing many poor friends to

embark their money in this luckless speculation. Take J. J.’s money

after he had persuaded old Ridley to place 200 pounds in Indian shares!

Good God, he and his family should rather perish than he would touch a

farthing of it! Many fierce words were uttered to him by Mrs.

Mackenzie, for instance—by her angry daughter at Musselburgh—Josey’s

husband, by Mr. Smee, R.A., and two or three Indian officers, friends

of his own, who had entered into the speculation on his recommendation.

These rebukes Thomas Newcome bore with an affecting meekness, as his

faithful F. B. described to me, striving with many oaths and much

loudness to carry off his own emotion. But what moved the Colonel most

of all, was a letter which came at this time from Honeyman in India,

saying that he was doing well—that of course he knew of his

benefactor’s misfortune, and that he sent a remittance which, _D. V._,

should be annual, in payment of his debt to the Colonel, and his good

sister at Brighton. “On receipt of this letter,” said F. B., “the old

man was fairly beaten—the letter, with the bill in it, dropped out of

his hands. He clasped them together, shaking in every limb, and his

head dropped down on his breast as he said, ‘I thank my God Almighty

for this!’ and he sent the cheque off to Mrs. Honeyman by the post that

night, sir, every shilling of it; and he passed his old arm under

mine—and we went out to Tom’s Coffee-House, and he ate some dinner the

first time for ever so long, and drank a couple of glasses of port

wine, and F. B. stood it, sir, and would stand his heart’s blood that

dear old boy.”

It was on a Monday morning that those melancholy shutters were seen

over the offices of the Bundelcund Bank in Lothbury, which were not to

come down until the rooms were handed over to some other, and, let us

trust, more fortunate speculators. The Indian bills had arrived, and

been protested in the City on the previous Saturday. The Campaigner and

Mrs. Rosey had arranged a little party to the theatre that evening, and

the gallant Captain Goby had agreed to quit the delights of the Flag

Club, in order to accompany the ladies. Neither of them knew what was

happening in the City, or could account otherwise than by the common

domestic causes, for Clive’s gloomy despondency and his father’s sad

reserve. Clive had not been in the City on this day. He had spent it,

as usual, in his studio, _boudé_ by his wife, and not disturbed by the

messroom raillery of the Campaigner. They had dined early, in order to

be in time for the theatre. Goby entertained them with the latest jokes

from the smoking-room at the Flag, and was in his turn amused by the

brilliant plans for the season which Rosey and her mamma sketched out

the entertainments which Mrs. Clive proposed to give, the ball—she was

dying for a masked ball just such a one as that was described in the

_Pall Mall Gazette_ of last week, out of that paper with the droll

title, the _Bengal Hurkaru_, which the merchant-prince, the head of the

bank, you know, in India, had given at Calcutta. “We must have a ball,

too,” says Mrs. Mackenzie; “society demands it of you.” “Of course it

does,” echoes Captain Goby, and he bethought him of a brilliant circle

of young fellows from the Flag, whom he would bring in splendid uniform

to dance with the pretty Mrs. Clive Newcome.

After the dinner—they little knew it was to be their last in that fine

house—the ladies retired to give their parting kiss to baby—a parting

look to the toilettes, with which they proposed to fascinate the

inhabitants of the pit and the public boxes at the Olympic. Goby made

vigorous play with the claret-bottle during the brief interval of

potation allowed to him; he, too, little deeming that he should never

drink bumper there again; Clive looking on with the melancholy and

silent acquiescence which had, of late, been his part in the household.

The carriage was announced—the ladies came down—pretty capotes on the

lovely Campaigner, Goby vowed, looking as young and as handsome as her

daughter, by Jove, and the ball door was opened to admit the two

gentlemen and ladies to their carriage, when, as they were about to

step in, a hansom cab drove up rapidly, in which was perceived Thomas

Newcome’s anxious face. He got out of the vehicle—his own carriage

making way for him—the ladies still on the steps. “Oh, the play! I

forgot,” said the Colonel.

“Of course we are going to the play, papa,” cries little Rosey, with a

gay little tap of her hand.

“I think you had better not,” Colonel Newcome said gravely.

“Indeed my darling child has set her heart upon it, and I would not

have her disappointed for the world in her situation,” cries the

Campaigner, tossing up her head.

The Colonel for reply bade his coachman drive to the stables, and come

for further orders; and, turning to his daughter’s guest, expressed to

Captain Goby his regret that the proposed party could not take place on

that evening, as he had matter of very great importance to communicate

to his family. On hearing these news, and understanding that his

further company was not desirable, the Captain, a man of great presence

of mind, arrested the hansom cabman, who was about to take his

departure, and who blithely, knowing the Club and its inmates full

well, carried off the jolly Captain to finish his evening at the Flag.

“Has it come, father?” said Clive with a sure prescience, looking in

his father’s face.

The father took and grasped the hand which his son held out. “Let us go

back into the dining-room,” he said. They entered it, and he filled

himself a glass of wine out of the bottle still standing amidst the

dessert. He bade the butler retire, who was lingering about the room

and sideboard, and only wanted to know whether his master would have

dinner, that was all. And, this gentleman having withdrawn, Colonel

Newcome finished his glass of sherry and broke a biscuit; the

Campaigner assuming an attitude of surprise and indignation, whilst

Rosey had leisure to remark that papa looked very ill, and that

something must have happened.

The Colonel took both her hands and drew her towards him and kissed

her, whilst Rosey’s mamma, flouncing down on a chair, beat a tattoo

upon the tablecloth with her fan. “Something has happened, my love,”

the Colonel said very sadly; “you must show all your strength of mind,

for a great misfortune has befallen us.”

“Good heavens, Colonel, what is it? don’t frighten my beloved child,”

cries the Campaigner, rushing towards her darling, and enveloping her

in her robust arms. “What can have happened, don’t agitate this darling

child, sir,” and she looked indignantly towards the poor Colonel.

“We have received the very worst news from Calcutta, a confirmation of

the news by the last mail, Clivey, my boy.”

“It is no news to me. I have always been expecting it, father,” says

Clive, holding down his head.

“Expecting what? What have you been keeping back from us? In what have

you been deceiving us, Colonel Newcome?” shrieks the Campaigner; and

Rosa, crying out, “Oh, mamma, mamma!” begins to whimper.

“The chief of the bank in India is dead,” the Colonel went on. “He has

left its affairs in worse than disorder. We are, I fear, ruined, Mrs.

Mackenzie.” And the Colonel went on to tell how the bank could not open

on Monday morning, and its bills to a great amount had already been

protested in the City that day.

Rosey did not understand half these news, or comprehend the calamity

which was to follow; but Mrs. Mackenzie, rustling in great wrath, made

a speech, of which the anger gathered as he proceeded; in which she

vowed and protested that her money, which the Colonel, she did not know

from _what motives_, had induced her to subscribe, should not be

sacrificed, and that have it she would, the bank shut or not, the next

Monday morning—that her daughter had a fortune of her own which her

poor dear brother James should have divided and would have divided much

more fairly, had he not been wrongly influenced—she would not say by

whom, and she commanded Colonel Newcome upon that _instant_, if he was,

as he always pretended to be, an _honourable_ man, to give an account

of her blessed darling’s property, and to pay back her own, every

sixpence of it. She would not lend it for an hour longer, and to see

that that dear blessed child now sleeping unconsciously upstairs, and

his dear brothers and sisters who might follow, for Rosey was a young

woman, a poor innocent creature, too young to be married, and never

would have been married had she listened to her mamma’s advice. She

demanded that the baby, and all succeeding babies, should have their

_rights_, and should be looked to by their grandmother, if their

father’s father was so _unkind_, and so _wicked_, and so _unnatural_,

as to give their money to rogues, and deprive them of their just bread.

Rosey began to cry more loudly than ever during the utterance of

mamma’s sermon, so loudly that Clive peevishly cried out, “Hold your

tongue,” on which the Campaigner, clutching her daughter to her breast

again, turned on her son-in-law, and abused him as she had abused his

father before him, calling out that they were both in a conspiracy to

defraud her child, and the little darling upstairs of its bread, and

she would speak, yes, she would, and no power should prevent her, and

her money she would have on Monday, as sure as her poor dear husband,

Captain Mackenzie, was dead, and she never would have been _cheated_

so, yes, _cheated_, if he had been alive.

At the word “cheated” Clive broke out with an execration—the poor

Colonel with a groan of despair—the widow’s storm continued, and above

that howling tempest of words rose Mrs. Clive’s piping scream, who went

off into downright hysterics at last, in which she was encouraged by

her mother, and in which she gasped out frantic ejaculations regarding

baby; dear, darling, ruined baby, and so forth.

The sorrow-stricken Colonel had to quell the women’s tongues and shrill

anger, and his son’s wrathful replies, who could not bear the weight of

Mrs. Mackenzie upon him; and it was not until these three were allayed,

that Thomas Newcome was able to continue his sad story, to explain what

had happened, and what the actual state of the case was, and to oblige

the terror-stricken women at length to hear something like reason.

He then had to tell them, to their dismay, that he would inevitably be

declared a bankrupt in the ensuing week; that the whole of his property

in that house, as elsewhere, would be seized and sold for the

creditors’ benefit; and that his daughter had best immediately leave a

home where she would be certainly subject to humiliation and annoyance.

“I would have Clive, my boy, take you out of the country, and—and

return to me when I have need of him, and shall send for him,” the

father said fondly in reply to a rebellious look on his son’s face. “I

would have you quit this house as soon as possible. Why not to-night?

The law blood-hound may be upon us ere an hour is over—at this moment

for what I know.”

At that moment the door-bell was heard to ring, and the women gave a

scream apiece, as if the bailiffs were actually coming to take

possession. Rosey went off in quite a series of screams, peevishly

repressed by her husband, and always encouraged by mamma, who called

her son-in-law an unfeeling wretch. It must be confessed that Mrs.

Clive Newcome did not exhibit much strength of mind, or comfort her

husband much at a moment when he needed consolation.

From angry rebellion and fierce remonstrance, this pair of women now

passed to an extreme terror and desire for instantaneous flight. They

would go that moment—they would wrap the blessed child up in its

shawls—and nurse should take it anywhere—anywhere, poor neglected

thing. “My trunks,” cries Mrs. Mackenzie, “you know are ready packed—I

am sure it is not the treatment which I have received—it is nothing but

my _duty_ and my _religion_—and the protection which I owe to this

blessed unprotected—yes, _unprotected_, and _robbed_, and _cheated_,

darling child—which have made me stay a _single day_ in this house. I

never thought I should have been _robbed_ in it, or my darlings with

their fine fortunes flung naked on the world. If my Mac was here, you

never had dared to have done this, Colonel Newcome—no, never. He had

his faults—Mackenzie had—but he would never have robbed his own

children! Come away, Rosey, my blessed love, come let us pack your

things, and let us go and _hide_ our _heads_ in sorrow somewhere. Ah!

didn’t I tell you to beware of all _painters_, and that Clarence was a

true gentleman, and loved you with all his heart, and would never have

cheated you out of your money, for which I will have justice as sure as

there is justice in England.”

During this outburst the Colonel sat utterly scared and silent,

supporting his poor head between his hands. When the harem had departed

he turned sadly to his son. Clive did not believe that his father was a

cheat and a rogue. No, thank God! The two men embraced with tender

cordiality and almost happy emotion on the one side and the other.

Never for one moment could Clive think his dear old father meant

wrong—though the speculations were unfortunate in which he had

engaged—though Clive had not liked them; it was a relief to his mind

that they were now come to an end; they should all be happier now,

thank God! those clouds of distrust being removed. Clive felt not one

moment’s doubt but that they should be able to meet fortune with a

brave face; and that happier, much happier days were in store for him

than ever they had known since the period of this confounded

prosperity.

“Here’s a good end to it,” says Clive, with flashing eyes and a flushed

face, “and here’s a good health till to-morrow, father!” and he filled

into two glasses the wine still remaining in the flask. “Good-bye to

our fortune, and bad luck go with her—I puff the prostitute away—_Si

celeres quatit pennas_, you remember what we used to say at Grey

Friars—_resigno quæ dedit, et mea virtute me involvo, probamque

pauperiem sine dote quæro_.” And he pledged his father, who drank his

wine, his hand shaking as he raised the glass to his lips, and his kind

voice trembling as he uttered the well-known old school words, with an

emotion that was as sacred as a prayer. Once more, and with hearts full

of love, the two men embraced. Clive’s voice would tremble now if he

told the story, as it did when he spoke it to me in happier times, one

calm summer evening when we sat together and talked of dear old days.

Thomas Newcome explained to his son the plan, which, to his mind, as he

came away from the City after the day’s misfortunes, he thought it was

best to pursue. The women and the child were clearly best out of the

way. “And you too, my boy, must be on duty with them until I send for

you, which I will do if your presence can be of the least service to

me, or is called for by—by—our honour,” said the old man with a drop in

his voice. “You must obey me in this, dear Clive, as you have done in

everything, and been a good and dear, and obedient son to me. God

pardon me for having trusted to my own simple old brains too much, and

not to you who know so much better. You will obey me this once more, my

boy—you will promise me this?” and the old man as he spoke took Clive’s

hand in both his, and fondly caressed it.

Then with a shaking hand he took out of his pocket his old purse with

the steel rings, which he had worn for many and many a long year. Clive

remembered it, and his father’s face how it would beam with delight,

when he used to take that very purse out in Clive’s boyish days and tip

him just after he left school. “Here are some notes and some gold,” he

said. “It is Rosey’s, honestly, Clive dear, her half-year’s dividend,

for which you will give an order, please, to Sherrick. He has been very

kind and good, Sherrick. All the servants were providentially paid last

week—there are only the outstanding week’s bills out—we shall manage to

meet those, I dare say. And you will see that Rosey only takes away

such clothes for herself and her baby as are actually necessary, won’t

you, dear? the plain things, you know—none of the fineries—they may be

packed in a petara or two, and you will take them with you—but the

pomps and vanities, you know, we will leave behind—the pearls and

bracelets, and the plate, and all that rubbish—and I will make an

inventory of them to-morrow when you are gone, and give them up, every

rupee’s worth, sir, every anna, by Jove, to the creditors.”

The darkness had fallen by this time, and the obsequious butler entered

to light the dining-room lamps. “You have been a very good and kind

servant to us, Martin,” says the Colonel, making him a low bow. “I

should like to shake you by the hand. We must part company now, and I

have no doubt you and your fellow servants will find good places, all

of you, as you merit, Martin—as you merit. Great losses have fallen

upon our family—we are ruined, sir—we are ruined! The great Bundelcund

Banking Company has stopped payment in India, and our branch here must

stop on Monday. Thank my friends downstairs for their kindness to me

and my family.” Martin bowed in silence with great respect. He and his

comrades in the servants’-hall had been expecting this catastrophe,

quite as long as the Colonel himself who thought he had kept his

affairs so profoundly secret.

Clive went up into his women’s apartments, looking with but little

regret, I dare say, round those cheerless nuptial chambers with all

their gaudy fittings; the fine looking-glasses, in which poor Rosey’s

little person had been reflected; the silken curtains under which he

had lain by the poor child’s side, wakeful and lonely. Here he found

his child’s nurse, and his wife, and wife’s mother, busily engaged with

a multiplicity of boxes; with flounces, feathers, fal-lals, and finery,

which they were stowing away in this trunk and that; while the baby lay

on its little pink pillow breathing softly, a little pearly fist placed

close to its mouth. The aspect of the tawdry vanities scattered here

and there chafed and annoyed the young man. He kicked the robes over

with his foot. When Mrs. Mackenzie interposed with loud ejaculations,

he sternly bade her to be silent, and not wake the child. His words

were not to be questioned when he spoke in that manner. “You will take

nothing with you, Rosey, but what is strictly necessary—only two or

three of your plainest dresses, and what is required for the boy. What

is in this trunk?” Mrs. Mackenzie stepped forward and declared, and the

nurse vowed upon her honour, and the lady’s-maid asserted really now

upon honour too, that there was nothing but what was most strictly

necessary in that trunk, to which affidavits, when Clive applied to his

wife, she gave a rather timid assent.

“Where are the keys of that trunk?” Upon Mrs. Mackenzie’s exclamation

of “What nonsense!” Clive, putting his foot upon the flimsy oil-covered

box, vowed he would kick the lid off unless it was instantly opened.

Obeying this grim summons, the fluttering women produced the keys, and

the black box was opened before him.

The box was found to contain a number of objects which Clive pronounced

to be by no means necessary to his wife’s and child’s existence.

Trinket-boxes and favourite little gimcracks, chains, rings and pearl

necklaces, the tiara poor Rosey had worn at court—the feathers and the

gorgeous train which had decorated the little person—all these were

found packed away in this one receptacle; and in another box, I am

sorry to say, were the silver forks and spoons (the butler wisely

judging that the rich and splendid electrotype ware might as well be

left behind)—all the silver forks, spoons, and ladles, and our poor old

friend the cocoa-nut tree, which these female robbers would have

carried out of the premises.

Mr. Clive Newcome burst out into fierce laughter when he saw the

cocoa-nut tree; he laughed so loud that baby woke, and his

mother-in-law called him a brute, and the nurse ran to give its

accustomed quietus to the little screaming infant. Rosey’s eyes poured

forth a torrent of little protests, and she would have cried yet more

loudly than the other baby, had not her husband, again fiercely

checking her, sworn with a dreadful oath, that unless she told him the

whole truth, “By heavens she should leave the house with nothing but

what covered her.” Even the Campaigner could not make head against

Clive’s stern resolution; and the incipient insurrection of the maids

and the mistresses was quelled by his spirit. The lady’s-maid, a

flighty creature, received her wages and took her leave: but the nurse

could not find it in her heart to quit her little nursling so suddenly,

and accompanied Clive’s household in the journey upon which those poor

folks were bound. What stolen goods were finally discovered when the

family reached foreign parts were found in Mrs. Mackenzie’s trunks, not

in her daughter’s: a silver filigree basket, a few teaspoons, baby’s

gold coral, and a costly crimson velvet-bound copy of the Hon. Miss

Grimstone’s Church Service, to which articles, having thus appropriated

them, Mrs. Mackenzie henceforward laid claim as her own.

So when the packing was done a cab was called to receive the modest

trunks of this fugitive family—the coachman was bidden to put his

horses to again, and for the last time poor Rosey Newcome sate in her

own carriage, to which the Colonel conducted her with his courtly old

bow, kissing the baby as it slept once more unconscious in its nurse’s

embrace, and bestowing a very grave and polite parting salute upon the

Campaigner.

Then Clive and his father entered a cab on which the trunks were borne,

and they drove to the Tower Stairs, where the ship lay which was to

convey them out of England; and, during that journey, no doubt, they

talked over their altered prospects, and I am sure Clive’s father

blessed his son fondly, and committed him and his family to a good

God’s gracious keeping, and thought of him with sacred love when they

had parted, and Thomas Newcome had returned to his lonely house to

watch and to think of his ruined fortunes, and to pray that he might

have courage under them; that he might bear his own fate honourably;

and that a gentle one might be dealt to those beloved beings for whom

his life had been sacrificed in vain.

CHAPTER LXXII.

Belisarius

When the sale of Colonel Newcome’s effects took place, a friend of the

family bought in for a few shillings those two swords which had hung,

as we have said, in the good man’s chamber, and for which no single

broker present had the heart to bid. The head of Clive’s father,

painted by himself, which had always kept its place in the young man’s

studio, together with a lot of his oil-sketchings, easels, and painting

apparatus, were purchased by the faithful J. J., who kept them until

his friend should return to London and reclaim them, and who showed the

most generous solicitude in Clive’s behalf. J. J. was elected of the

Royal Academy this year, and Clive, it was evident, was working hard at

the profession which he had always loved; for he sent over three

pictures to the Academy, and I never knew man more mortified than the

affectionate J. J., when two of these unlucky pieces were rejected by

the committee for the year. One pretty little piece, called “The

Stranded Boat,” got a fair place on the Exhibition walls, and, you may

be sure, was loudly praised by a certain critic in the _Pall Mall

Gazette_. The picture was sold on the first day of the exhibition at

the price of twenty-five pounds, which the artist demanded; and when

the kind J. J. wrote to inform his friend of this satisfactory

circumstance, and to say that he held the money at Clive’s disposal,

the latter replied with many expressions of sincere gratitude, at the

same time begging him directly to forward the money, with our old

friend Thomas Newcome’s love, to Mrs. Sarah Mason, at Newcome. But J.

J. never informed his friend that he himself was the purchaser of the

picture; nor was Clive made acquainted with the fact until some time

afterwards, when he found it hanging in Ridley’s studio.

I have said that we none of us were aware at this time what was the

real state of Colonel Newcome’s finances, and hoped that, after giving

up every shilling of his property which was confiscated to the

creditors of the Bank, he had still, from his retiring pension and

military allowances, at least enough reputably to maintain him. On one

occasion, having business in the City, I there met Mr. Sherrick.

Affairs had been going ill with that gentleman—he had been let in

terribly, he informed me, by Lord Levant’s insolvency—having had large

money transactions with his lordship. “There’s none of them so good as

old Newcome,” Mr. Sherrick said with a sigh; “that was a good one—that

was an honest man if ever I saw one—with no more guile, and no more

idea of business than a baby. Why didn’t he take my advice, poor old

cove?—he might be comfortable now. Why did he sell away that annuity,

Pendennis? I got it done for him when nobody else perhaps could have

got it done for him—for the security ain’t worth twopence if Newcome

wasn’t an honest man;—but I know he is, and would rather starve and eat

the nails off his fingers than not keep his word, the old trump. And

when he came to me, a good two months before the smash of the Bank,

which I knew it, sir, and saw that it must come—when he came and raised

three thousand pounds to meet them d—d electioneering bills, having to

pay lawyers, commission, premium, life-insurance—you know the whole

game, Mr. P.—I as good as went down on my knees to him—I did—at the

North and South American Coffee-house, where he was to meet the party

about the money, and said, ‘Colonel, don’t raise it—I tell you, let it

stand over—let it go in along with the bankruptcy that’s a-coming,’—but

he wouldn’t—he went on like an old Bengal tiger, roaring about his

honour; he paid the bills every shilling—infernal long bills they were,

and it’s my belief that, at this minute, he ain’t got fifty pounds a

year of his own to spend. I would send him back my commission—I would

by Jove—only times is so bad, and that rascal Levant let me in. It went

to my heart to take the old cock’s money—but it’s gone—that and ever so

much more—and Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel too, Mr. P. Hang that young

Levant.”

Squeezing my hand after this speech, Sherrick ran across the street

after some other capitalist who was entering the Diddlesex Insurance

Office, and left me very much grieved and dismayed at finding that my

worst fears in regard to Thomas Newcome were confirmed. Should we

confer with his wealthy family respecting the Colonel’s impoverished

condition? Was his brother Hobson Newcome aware of it? As for Sir

Barnes, the quarrel between him and his uncle had been too fierce to

admit of hopes of relief from that quarter. Barnes had been put to very

heavy expenses in the first contested election; had come forward again

immediately on his uncle’s resignation, but again had been beaten by a

more liberal candidate, his quondam former friend, Mr. Higg—who

formally declared against Sir Barnes, and who drove him finally out of

the representation of Newcome. From this gentleman it was vain of

course for Colonel Newcome’s friends to expect relief.

How to aid him? He was proud—past work—nearly seventy years old. “Oh,

why did those cruel Academicians refuse Clive’s pictures?” cries Laura.

“I have no patience with them—had the pictures been exhibited I know

who might have bought them—but that is vain now. He would suspect at

once, and send her money away. Oh, Pen! why, why didn’t he come when I

wrote that letter to Brussels?”

From persons so poorly endowed with money as ourselves, any help, but

of the merest temporary nature, was out of the question. We knew our

friends too well not to know that they would disdain to receive it. It

was agreed between me and Laura that at any rate I should go and see

Clive. Our friends indeed were at a very short distance from us, and,

having exiled themselves from England, could yet see its coasts from

their windows upon any clear day. Boulogne was their present

abiding-place—refuge of how many thousands of other unfortunate

Britons—and to this friendly port I betook myself speedily, having the

address of Colonel Newcome. His quarters were in a quiet grass-grown

old street of the Old Town. None of the family were at home when I

called. There was indeed no servant to answer the bell, but the

good-natured French domestic of a neighbouring lodger told me that the

young monsieur went out every day to make his designs, and that I

should probably find the elder gentleman upon the rampart, where he was

in the custom of going every day. I strolled along by those pretty old

walks and bastions, under the pleasant trees which shadow them, and the

grey old gabled houses from which you look down upon the gay new city,

and the busy port, and the piers stretching into the shining sea,

dotted with a hundred white sails or black smoking steamers, and

bounded by the friendly lines of the bright English shore. There are

few prospects more charming than the familiar view from those old

French walls—few places where young children may play, and ruminating

old age repose more pleasantly than on those peaceful rampart gardens.

I found our dear old friend seated on one of the benches, a newspaper

on his knees, and by his side a red-cheeked little French lass, upon

whose lap Thomas Newcome the younger lay sleeping. The Colonel’s face

flushed up when he saw me. As he advanced a step or two towards me I

could see that he trembled in his walk. His hair had grown almost quite

white. He looked now to be more than his age—he whose carriage last

year had been so erect, whose figure had been so straight and manly. I

was very much moved at meeting him, and at seeing the sad traces which

pain and grief had left in the countenance of the dear old man.

“So you are come to see me, my good young friend,” cried the Colonel,

with a trembling voice. “It is very, very kind of you. Is not this a

pretty drawing-room to receive our friends in? We have not many of them

now; Boy and I come and sit here for hours every day. Hasn’t he grown a

fine boy? He can say several words now, sir, and can walk surprisingly

well. Soon he will be able to walk with his grandfather, and then Marie

will not have the trouble to wait upon either of us.” He repeated this

sentiment in his pretty old French, and turning with a bow to Marie.

The girl said monsieur knew very well that she did not desire better

than to come out with baby; that it was better than staying at home,

pardieu; and, the clock striking at this moment, she rose up with her

child, crying out that it was time to return or madame would scold.

“Mrs. Mackenzie has rather a short temper,” the Colonel said with a

gentle smile. “Poor thing, she has had a great deal to bear in

consequence, Pen, of my imprudence. I am glad you never took shares in

our bank. I should not be so glad to see you as I am now, if I had

brought losses upon you as I have upon so many of my friends.” I, for

my part, trembled to hear the good old man was under the domination of

the Campaigner.

“Bayham sends me the paper regularly; he is a very kind faithful

creature. How glad I am that he has got a snug berth in the City! His

company really prospers, I am happy to think, unlike some companies you

know of, Pen. I have read your two speeches, sir, and Clive and I liked

them very much. The poor boy works all day at his pictures. You know he

has sold one at the exhibition, which has given us a great deal of

heart—and he has completed two or three more—and I am sitting to him

now for—what do you think, sir? for Belisarius. Will you give

Belisarius and the Obolus kind word?”

“My dear, dear old friend,” I said in great emotion, “if you will do me

the kindness to take my Obolus or to use my services in any way, you

will give me more pleasure than ever I had from your generous bounties

in old days. Look, sir, I wear the watch which you gave me when you

went to India. Did you not tell me then to look over Clive and serve

him if I could? Can’t I serve him now?” and I went on further in this

strain, asseverating with great warmth and truth that my wife’s

affection and my own were most sincere for both of them, and that our

pride would be to be able to help such dear friends.

The Colonel said I had a good heart, and my wife had, though—though—he

did not finish this sentence, but I could interpret it without need of

its completion. My wife and the two ladies of Colonel Newcome’s family

never could be friends, however much my poor Laura tried to be intimate

with these women. Her very efforts at intimacy caused a frigidity and

hauteur which Laura could not overcome. Little Rosey and her mother set

us down as two aristocratic personages; nor for our parts were we very

much disturbed at this opinion of the Campaigner and little Rosa.

I talked with the Colonel for half an hour or more about his affairs,

which indeed were very gloomy, and Clive’s prospects, of which he

strove to present as cheering a view as possible. He was obliged to

confirm the news which Sherrick had given me, and to own, in fact, that

all his pension was swallowed up by a payment of interest and life

insurance for sums which he had been compelled to borrow. How could he

do otherwise than meet his engagements? Thank God, he had Clive’s full

approval for what he had done—had communicated the circumstance to his

son almost immediately after it took place, and that was a comfort to

him—an immense comfort. “For the women are very angry,” said the poor

Colonel; “you see they do not understand the laws of honour, at least

as we understand them: and perhaps I was wrong in hiding the truth as I

certainly did from Mrs. Mackenzie, but I acted for the best—I hoped

against hope that some chance might turn in our favour. God knows, I

had a hard task enough in wearing a cheerful face for months, and in

following my little Rosa about to her parties and balls; but poor Mrs.

Mackenzie has a right to be angry, only I wish my little girl did not

side with her mother so entirely, for the loss of her affection gives

me great pain.”

So it was as I suspected. The Campaigner ruled over this family, and

added to all their distresses by her intolerable presence and tyranny.

“Why, sir,” I ventured to ask, “if, as I gather from you—and I

remember,” I added with a laugh, “certain battles-royal which Clive

described to me in old days—if you and the Campai—Mrs. Mackenzie do not

agree, why should she continue to live with you, when you would all be

so much happier apart?”

“She has a right to live in the house,” says the Colonel; “It is I who

have no right in it. I am a poor old pensioner, don’t you see,

subsisting on Rosey’s bounty? We live on the hundred a year, secured to

her at her marriage, and Mrs. Mackenzie has her forty pounds of pension

which she adds to the common stock. It is I who have made away with

every shilling of Rosey’s 17,000 pounds, God help me, and with 1500

pounds of her mother’s. They put their little means together, and they

keep us—me and Clive. What can we do for a living? Great God! What can

we do? Why, I am so useless that even when my poor boy earned 25 pounds

for his picture, I felt we were bound to send it to Sarah Mason, and

you may fancy when this came to Mrs. Mackenzie’s ears, what a life my

boy and I led. I have never spoken of these things to any mortal soul—I

even don’t speak of them with Clive—but seeing your kind and honest

face has made me talk—you must pardon my garrulity—I am growing old,

Arthur. This poverty and these quarrels have beaten my spirit

down—there, I shall talk on this subject no more. I wish, sir, I could

ask you to dine with us, but”—and here he smiled—“we must get the leave

of the higher powers.”

I was determined, in spite of prohibitions and Campaigners, to see my

old friend Clive, and insisted on walking back with the Colonel to his

lodgings, at the door of which we met Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter.

Rosa blushed up a little—looked at her mamma—and then greeted me with a

hand and a curtsey. The Campaigner also saluted me in a majestic but

amicable manner, made no objection even to my entering her apartments

and seeing _the condition to which they were reduced:_ this phrase was

uttered with particular emphasis and a significant look towards the

Colonel, who bowed his meek head and preceded me into the lodgings,

which were in truth very homely, pretty, and comfortable. The

Campaigner was an excellent manager—restless, bothering, brushing

perpetually. Such fugitive gimcracks as they had brought away with them

decorated the little salon. Mrs. Mackenzie, who took the entire

command, even pressed me to dine and partake, if so fashionable a

gentleman would _condescend_ to partake, of a humble exile’s fare. No

fare was perhaps very pleasant to me in company with that woman, but I

wanted to see my dear old Clive, and gladly accepted his voluble

mother-in-law’s not disinterested hospitality. She beckoned the Colonel

aside; whispered to him, putting something into his hand; on which he

took his hat and went away. Then Rosey was dismissed upon some other

pretext, and I had the felicity to be left alone with Mrs. Captain

Mackenzie.

She instantly improved the occasion; and with great eagerness and

volubility entered into her statement of the present affairs and

position of this unfortunate family. She described darling Rosey’s

delicate state, poor thing—nursed with tenderness and in the lap of

luxury—brought up with every delicacy and the fondest mother—never

knowing in the least how to take care of herself, and likely to fall

down and perish unless the kind Campaigner were by to prop and protect

her. She was in delicate health—very delicate—ordered cod-liver oil by

the doctor. Heaven knows how he could be paid for those expensive

medicines out of the pittance to which the _imprudence_—the most

culpable and designing _imprudence_, and _extravagance_, and _folly_ of

Colonel Newcome had reduced them! Looking out from the window as she

spoke I saw—we both saw—the dear old gentleman sadly advancing towards

the house, a parcel in his hand. Seeing his near approach, and that our

interview was likely to come to an end, Mrs. Mackenzie rapidly

whispered to me that she knew I had a good heart—that I had been

blessed by Providence with a fine fortune, which I knew how to keep

better than _some_ folks—and that if, as no doubt was my intention—for

with what other but a charitable view could I have come to see

them?—“and most generous and noble was it of you to come, and I always

thought it of you, Mr. Pendennis, whatever _other_ people said to the

contrary—if I proposed to give them relief, which was most needful—and

for which a _mother’s blessings_ would follow me—let it be to her, the

Campaigner, that my loan should be confided—for as for the Colonel, he

is not fit to be trusted with a shilling, and has already flung away

_immense sums_ upon some old woman he keeps in the country, leaving his

darling Rosey without the actual necessaries of life.

The woman’s greed and rapacity—the flattery with which she chose to

belabour me at dinner, so choked and disgusted me, that I could hardly

swallow the meal, though my poor old friend had been sent out to

purchase a pâté from the pastrycook’s for my especial refection. Clive

was not at the dinner. He seldom returned till late at night on

sketching days. Neither his wife nor his mother-in-law seemed much to

miss him; and seeing that the Campaigner engrossed the entire share of

the conversation, and proposed not to leave me for five minutes alone

with the Colonel, I took leave rather speedily of my entertainers,

leaving a message for Clive, and a prayer that he would come and see me

at my hotel.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

In which Belisarius returns from Exile

I was sitting in the dusk in my room at Hotel des Bains, when the

visitor for whom I hoped made his appearance in the person of Clive,

with his broad shoulders, and broad hat, and a shaggy beard, which he

had thought fit in his quality of painter to assume. Our greeting it

need not be said was warm; and our talk, which extended far into the

night, very friendly and confidential. If I make my readers confidants

in Mr. Clive’s private affairs, I ask my friend’s pardon for narrating

his history in their behoof. The world had gone very ill with my poor

Clive, and I do not think that the pecuniary losses which had visited

him and his father afflicted him near so sorely as the state of his

home. In a pique with the woman he loved, and from that generous

weakness which formed part of his character, and which led him to

acquiesce in most wishes of his good father, the young man had

gratified the darling desire of the Colonel’s heart, and taken the wife

whom his two old friends brought to him. Rosey, who was also, as we

have shown, of a very obedient and ductile nature, had acquiesced

gladly enough in her mamma’s opinion, that she was in love with the

rich and handsome young Clive, and accepted him for better or worse. So

undoubtedly would this good child have accepted Captain Hoby, her

previous adorer, have smilingly promised fidelity to the Captain at

church, and have made a very good, happy, and sufficient little wife

for that officer,—had not mamma commanded her to jilt him. What wonder

that these elders should wish to see their two dear young ones united?

They began with suitable age, money, good temper, and parents’

blessings. It is not the first time that, with all these excellent

helps to prosperity and happiness, a marriage has turned out

unfortunately—a pretty, tight ship gone to wreck that set forth on its

voyage with cheers from the shore, and every prospect of fair wind and

fine weather.

We have before quoted poor Clive’s simile of the shoes with which his

good old father provided him—as pretty a little pair of shoes as need

be—only they did not fit the wearer. If they pinched him at first, how

they blistered and tortured him now! If Clive was gloomy and

discontented even when the honeymoon had scarce waned, and he and his

family sat at home in state and splendour under the boughs of the

famous silver cocoa-nut tree, what was the young man’s condition now in

poverty, when they had no love along with a scant dinner of herbs; when

his mother-in-law grudged each morsel which his poor old father

ate—when a vulgar, coarse-minded woman pursued with brutal sarcasm and

deadly rancour one of the tenderest and noblest gentlemen in the

world—when an ailing wife, always under some one’s domination, received

him with helpless hysterical cries and reproaches—when a coarse female

tyrant, stupid, obstinate, utterly unable to comprehend the son’s

kindly genius, or the father’s gentle spirit, bullied over both, using

the intolerable undeniable advantage which her actual wrongs gave her

to tyrannise over these two wretched men! He had never heard the last

of that money which they had sent to Mrs. Mason, Clive said. When the

knowledge of the fact came to the Campaigner’s ears, she raised such a

storm as almost killed the poor Colonel, and drove his son half mad.

She seized the howling infant, vowing that its unnatural father and

grandfather were bent upon starving it—she consoled and sent Rosey into

hysterics—she took the outlawed parson to whose church they went, and

the choice society of bankrupt captains, captains’ ladies, fugitive

stockbrokers’ wives, and dingy frequenters of billiard-rooms, and

refugees from the Bench, into her councils; and in her daily visits

amongst these personages, and her walks on the pier, whither she

trudged with poor Rosey in her train, Mrs. Mackenzie made known her own

wrongs and her daughter’s—showed how the Colonel, having robbed and

cheated them previously, was now living upon them; insomuch that Mrs.

Bolter, the levanting auctioneer’s wife, would not make the poor old

man a bow when she met him—that Mrs. Captain Kitely, whose husband had

lain for seven years past in Boulogne gaol ordered her son to cut

Clive; and when, the child being sick, the poor old Colonel went for

arrowroot to the chemist’s, young Snooks, the apothecary’s assistant,

refused to allow him to take the powder away without previously

depositing the money.

He had no money, Thomas Newcome. He gave up every farthing. After

having impoverished all around him, he had no right, he said, to touch

a sixpence of the wretched pittance remaining to them—he had even given

up his cigar, the poor old man, the companion and comforter of forty

years. He was “not fit to be trusted with money,” Mrs. Mackenzie said,

and the good man owned as he ate his scanty crust, and bowed his noble

old head in silence under that cowardly persecution.

And this, at the end of threescore and seven or eight years, was to be

the close of a life which had been spent in freedom and splendour, and

kindness and honour; this the reward of the noblest heart that ever

beat—the tomb and prison of a gallant warrior who had ridden in twenty

battles—whose course through life had been a bounty wherever it had

passed—whose name had been followed by blessings, and whose career was

to end here—here—in a mean room, in a mean alley of a foreign town—a

low furious woman standing over him and stabbing the kind defenceless

heart with killing insult and daily outrage!

As we sat together in the dark, Clive told me this wretched story,

which was wrung from him with a passionate emotion that I could not but

keenly share. He wondered the old man lived, Clive said. Some of the

women’s taunts and gibes, as he could see, struck his father so that he

gasped and started back as if some one had lashed him with a whip. “He

would make away with himself,” said poor Clive, “but he deems this is

his punishment, and that he must bear it as long as it pleases God. He

does not care for his own losses, as far as they concern himself: but

these reproaches of Mrs. Mackenzie, and some things which were said to

him in the Bankruptcy Court, by one or two widows of old friends, who

were induced through his representations, to take shares in that

infernal bank, have affected him dreadfully. I hear him lying awake and

groaning at night, God bless him. Great God! what can I do—what can I

do?” burst out the young man in a dreadful paroxysm of grief. “I have

tried to get lessons—I went to London on the deck of a steamer, and

took a lot of drawings with me—tried

picture-dealers—pawnbrokers—Jews—Moss, whom you may remember at

Gandish’s, and who gave me for forty-two drawings, eighteen pounds. I

brought the money back to Boulogne. It was enough to pay the doctor,

and bury our last poor little dead baby. _Tenez_, Pen, you must give me

some supper: I have had nothing all day but a _pain de deux sous;_ I

can’t stand it at home. My heart’s almost broken—you must give me some

money, Pen, old boy. I know you will. I thought of writing to you, but

I wanted to support myself, you see. When I went to London with the

drawings I tried George’s chambers, but he was in the country, I saw

Crackthorpe on the street in Oxford Street, but I could not face him,

and bolted down Hanway Yard. I tried, and I could not ask him, and I

got the 18 pounds from Moss that day, and came home with it.”

Give him money? of course I would give him money—my dear old friend!

And, as an alternative and a wholesome shock to check that burst of

passion and grief in which the poor fellow indulged, I thought fit to

break into a very fierce and angry invective on my own part, which

served to disguise the extreme feeling of pain and pity that I did not

somehow choose to exhibit. I rated Clive soundly, and taxed him with

unfriendliness and ingratitude for not having sooner applied to friends

who would think shame of themselves whilst he was in need. Whatever he

wanted was his as much as mine. I could not understand how the

necessity of the family should, in truth, be so extreme as he described

it, for after all many a poor family lived upon very much less; but I

uttered none of these objections, checking them with the thought that

Clive, on his first arrival at Boulogne, entirely ignorant of the

practice of economy, might have imprudently engaged in expenses which

had reduced him to this present destitution.*

* I did not know at the time that Mrs. Mackenzie had taken entire

superintendence of the family treasury—and that this exemplary woman

was putting away, as she had done previously, sundry little sums to

meet rainy days.

I took the liberty of asking about debts, and of these Clive gave me to

understand there were none—at least none of his or his father’s

contracting. “If we were too proud to borrow, and I think we were

wrong, Pen, my dear old boy—I think we were wrong now—at least, we were

too proud to owe. My colourman takes his bill out in drawings, and I

think owes me a trifle. He got me some lessons at fifty sous a ticket—a

pound the ten—from an economical swell who has taken a château here,

and has two flunkeys in livery. He has four daughters, who take

advantage of the lessons, and screws ten per cent upon the poor

colourman’s pencils and drawing-paper. It’s pleasant work to give the

lessons to the children; and to be patronised by the swell; and not

expensive to him, is it, Pen? But I don’t mind that, if I could but get

lessons enough: for, you see, besides our expenses here, we must have

some more money, and the dear old governor would die outright if poor

old Sarah Mason did not get her 50 pounds a year.”

And now there arrived a plentiful supper, and a bottle of good wine, of

which the giver was not sorry to partake after the meagre dinner at

three o’clock, to which I had been invited by the Campaigner; and it

was midnight when I walked back with my friend to his house in the

upper town; and all the stars of heaven were shining cheerily; and my

dear Clive’s face wore an expression of happiness, such as I remembered

in old days, as we shook hands and parted with a “God bless you.”

To Clive’s friend, revolving these things in his mind, as he lay in one

of those most snug and comfortable beds at the excellent Hotel des

Bains, it appeared that this town of Boulogne was a very bad market for

the artist’s talents; and that he had to bring them to London, where a

score of old friends would assuredly be ready to help him. And if the

Colonel, too, could be got away from the domination of the Campaigner,

I felt certain that the dear old gentleman could but profit by his

leave of absence. My wife and I at this time inhabited a spacious old

house in Queens Square, Westminster, where there was plenty of room for

father and son. I knew that Laura would be delighted to welcome these

guests—may the wife of every worthy gentleman who reads these pages be

as ready to receive her husband’s friends. It was the state of Rosa’s

health, and the Campaigner’s authority and permission, about which I

was in doubt, and whether this lady’s two slaves would be allowed to go

away.

These cogitations kept the present biographer long awake, and he did

not breakfast next day until an hour before noon. I had the coffee-room

to myself by chance, and my meal was not yet ended when the waiter

announced a lady to visit Mr. Pendennis, and Mrs. Mackenzie made her

appearance. No signs of care or poverty were visible in the attire or

countenance of the buxom widow. A handsome bonnet, decorated within

with a profusion of poppies, bluebells; and ears of corn; a jewel on

her forehead, not costly, but splendid in appearance, and glittering

artfully over that central spot from which her wavy chestnut hair

parted to cluster in ringlets round her ample cheeks; a handsome India

shawl, smart gloves, a rich silk dress, a neat parasol of blue with

pale yellow lining, a multiplicity of glittering rinks, and a very

splendid gold watch and chain, which I remembered in former days as

hanging round poor Rosey’s white neck;—all these adornments set off the

widow’s person, so that you might have thought her a wealthy

capitalist’s lady, and never could have supposed that she was a poor,

cheated, ruined, robbed, unfortunate Campaigner.

Nothing could be more gracious than the _accueil_ of this lady. She

paid me many handsome compliments about my literary work—asked most

affectionately for dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear children—and then,

as I expected, coming to business, contrasted the happiness and genteel

position of my wife and family with the misery and wrongs of her own

blessed child and grandson. She never could call that child by the

odious name which he received at his baptism. _I_ knew what bitter

reasons she had to dislike the name of Thomas Newcome.

She again rapidly enumerated the wrongs she had received at the hands

of that gentleman; mentioned the vast sums of money out of which she

and her soul’s darling had been tricked by that poor muddle-headed

creature, to say no worse of him; and described finally their present

pressing need. The doctors, the burial, Rosey’s delicate condition, the

cost of sweetbreads, calf’s-foot jelly, and cod-liver oil, were again

passed in a rapid calculation before me; and she ended her speech by

expressing her gratification that I had attended to her advice of the

previous day, and not given Clive Newcome a direct loan; that the

family wanted it, the Campaigner called upon Heaven to witness; that

Clive and his absurd poor father would fling guineas out of the window

was a fact equally certain; the rest of the argument was obvious,

namely, that Mr. Pendennis should administer a donation to herself.

I had brought but a small sum of money in my pocket-book, though Mrs.

Mackenzie, intimate with bankers, and having, thank Heaven, in spite of

all her misfortunes, the utmost confidence of _all_ her tradesmen,

hinted a perfect willingness on her part to accept an order upon her

friends, Hobson Brothers of London.

This direct thrust I gently and smilingly parried by asking Mrs.

Mackenzie whether she supposed a gentleman who had just paid an

electioneering bill, and had, at the best of times, but a very small

income, might sometimes not be in a condition to draw satisfactorily

upon Messrs. Hobson or any other bankers? Her countenance fell at this

remark, nor was her cheerfulness much improved by the tender of one of

the two bank-notes which then happened to be in my possession. I said

that I had a use for the remaining note, and that it would not be more

than sufficient to pay my hotel bill, and the expenses of my party back

to London.

My party? I had here to divulge, with some little trepidation, the plan

which I had been making overnight; to explain how I thought that

Clive’s great talents were wasted at Boulogne, and could only find a

proper market in London; how I was pretty certain, through my

connection with booksellers, to find some advantageous employment for

him, and would have done so months ago had I known the state of the

case; but I had believed, until within a very few days since, that the

Colonel, in spite of his bankruptcy, was still in the enjoyment of

considerable military pensions.

This statement, of course, elicited from the widow a number of remarks

not complimentary to my dear old Colonel. He might have kept his

pensions had he not been a fool—he was a baby about money

matters—misled himself and everybody—was a log in the house, etc. etc.

etc.

I suggested that his annuities might possibly be put into some more

satisfactory shape—that I had trustworthy lawyers with whom I would put

him in communication—that he had best come to London to see to these

matters—and that my wife had a large house where she would most gladly

entertain the two gentlemen.

This I said with some reasonable dread—fearing, in the first place, her

refusal; in the second, her acceptance of the invitation, with a

proposal, as our house was large, to come herself and inhabit it for a

while. Had I not seen that Campaigner arrive for a month at poor James

Binnie’s house in Fitzroy Square, and stay there for many years? Was I

not aware that when she once set her foot in a gentleman’s

establishment, terrific battles must ensue before she could be

dislodged? Had she not once been routed by Clive? and was she not now

in command and possession? Do I not, finally, know something of the

world; and have I not a weak, easy temper? I protest it was with terror

that I awaited the widow’s possible answer to my proposal.

To my great relief, she expressed the utmost approval of both my plans.

I was uncommonly kind, she was sure, to interest myself about the two

gentlemen, and for her blessed Rosa’s sake, a fond mother thanked me.

It was most advisable that he should earn some money by that horrid

profession which he had chosen to adopt—_trade, she_ called it. She was

clearly anxious get rid both of father and son, and agreed that the

sooner they went the better.

We walked back arm-in-arm to the Colonel’s quarters in the Old Town,

Mrs. Mackenzie, in the course of our walk, doing me the honour to

introduce me by name to several dingy acquaintances, whom we met

sauntering up the street, and imparting to me, as each moved away, the

pecuniary cause of his temporary residence in Boulogne. Spite of

Rosey’s delicate state of health, Mrs. Mackenzie did not hesitate to

break the news to her of the gentlemen’s probable departure, abruptly

and eagerly, as if the intelligence was likely to please her:—and it

did, rather than otherwise. The young woman, being in the habit of

letting mamma judge for her, continued it in this instance; and whether

her husband stayed or went, seemed to be equally content or apathetic.

“And is it not most kind and generous of dear Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis to

propose to receive Mr. Newcome and the Colonel?” This opportunity for

gratitude being pointed out to Rosey, she acquiesced in it

straightway—it was very kind of me, Rosey was sure. “And don’t you ask

after dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear children—you poor dear suffering

darling child?” Rosey, who had neglected this inquiry, immediately

hoped Mrs. Pendennis and the children were well. The overpowering

mother had taken utter possession of this poor little thing. Rosey’s

eyes followed the Campaigner about, and appealed to her at all moments.

She sat under Mrs. Mackenzie as a bird before a boa-constrictor,

doomed—fluttering—fascinated—scared and fawning as a whipt spaniel

before a keeper.

The Colonel was on his accustomed bench on the rampart at this sunny

hour. I repaired thither, and found the old gentleman seated by his

grandson, who lay, as yesterday, on the little bonne’s lap, one of his

little purple hands closed round the grandfather’s finger. “Hush!” says

the good man, lifting up his other finger to his moustache, as I

approached, “Boy’s asleep. Il est bien joli quand il dort—le Boy,

n’est-ce pas, Marie?” The maid believed monsieur well—the boy was a

little angel. “This maid is a most trustworthy, valuable person,

Pendennis,” the Colonel said, with much gravity.

The boa-constrictor had fascinated him, too—the lash of that woman at

home had cowed that helpless, gentle, noble spirit. As I looked at the

head so upright and manly, now so beautiful and resigned—the year of

his past life seemed to pass before me somehow in a flash of thought. I

could fancy the accursed tyranny—the dumb acquiescence—the brutal

jeer—the helpless remorse—the sleepless nights of pain and

recollection—the gentle heart lacerated with deadly stabs—and the

impotent hope. I own I burst into a sob at the sight, and thought of

the noble suffering creature, and hid my face, and turned away.

He sprang up, releasing his hand from the child’s, and placing it, the

kind shaking hand, on my shoulder. “What is it, Arthur—my dear boy?” he

said, looking wistfully in my face. “No bad news from home, my dear?

Laura and the children well?”

The emotion was mastered in a moment, I put his arm under mine, and as

we slowly sauntered up and down the sunny walk of the old rampart, I

told him how I had come with special commands from Laura to bring him

for a while to stay with us, and to settle his business, which I was

sure had been wofully mismanaged, and to see whether we could not find

the means of getting some little out of the wreck of the property for

the boy yonder.

At first Colonel Newcome would not hear of quitting Boulogne, where

Rosey would miss him—he was sure she would want him—but before the

ladies of his family, to whom we presently returned, Thomas Newcome’s

resolution was quickly recalled. He agreed to go, and Clive coming in

at this time was put in possession of our plan and gladly acquiesced in

it. On that very evening I came with a carriage to conduct my two

friends to the steamboat. Their little packets were made and ready.

There was no pretence of grief at parting on the women’s side, but

Marie, the little maid, with Boy in her arms, cried sadly; and Clive

heartily embraced the child; and the Colonel, going back to give it one

more kiss, drew out of his neckcloth a little gold brooch which he

wore, and which, trembling, he put into Marie’s hand, bidding her take

good care of Boy till his return.

“She is a good girl—a most faithful, attached girl, Arthur, do you

see,” the kind old gentleman said; “and I had no money to give her—no,

not one single rupee.”

CHAPTER LXXIV.

In which Clive begins the World

We are ending our history, and yet poor Clive is but beginning the

world. He has to earn the bread which he eats henceforth; and, as I saw

his labours, his trials, and his disappointments, I could not but

compare his calling with my own.

The drawbacks and penalties attendant upon our profession are taken

into full account, as we well know, by literary men, and their friends.

Our poverty, hardships, and disappointments are set forth with great

emphasis, and often with too great truth by those who speak of us; but

there are advantages belonging to our trade which are passed over, I

think, by some of those who exercise it and describe it, and for which,

in striking the balance of our accounts, we are not always duly

thankful. We have no patron, so to speak—we sit in ante-chambers no

more, waiting the present of a few guineas from my lord, in return for

a fulsome dedication. We sell our wares to the book-purveyor, between

whom and us there is no greater obligation than between him and his

paper-maker or printer. In the great towns in our country immense

stores of books are provided for us, with librarians to class them,

kind attendants to wait upon us, and comfortable appliances for study.

We require scarce any capital wherewith to exercise our trade. What

other so-called learned profession is equally fortunate? A doctor, for

example, after carefully and expensively educating himself, must invest

in house and furniture, horses, carriage, and menservants, before the

public patient will think of calling him in. I am told that such

gentlemen have to coax and wheedle dowagers, to humour hypochondriacs,

to practise a score of little subsidiary arts in order to make that of

healing profitable. How many many hundreds of pounds has a barrister to

sink upon his stock-in-trade before his returns are available? There

are the costly charges of university education—the costly chambers in

the Inn of Court—the clerk and his maintenance—the inevitable travels

on circuit—certain expenses all to be defrayed before the possible

client makes his appearance, and the chance of fame or competency

arrives. The prizes are great, to be sure, in the law, but what a

prodigious sum the lottery-ticket costs! If a man of letters cannot

win, neither does he risk so much. Let us speak of our trade as we find

it, and not be too eager in calling out for public compassion.

The artists, for the most part, do not cry out their woes as loudly as

some gentlemen of the literary fraternity, and yet I think the life of

many of them is harder; their chances even more precarious, and the

conditions of their profession less independent and agreeable than

ours. I have watched Smee, Esq., R.A., flattering and fawning, and at

the same time boasting and swaggering, poor fellow, in order to secure

a sitter. I have listened to a Manchester magnate talking about fine

arts before one of J. J.’s pictures, assuming the airs of a painter,

and laying down the most absurd laws respecting the art. I have seen

poor Tomkins bowing a rich amateur through a private view, and noted

the eager smiles on Tomkins’ face at the amateur’s slightest joke, the

sickly twinkle of hope in his eyes as Amateur stopped before his own

picture. I have been ushered by Chipstone’s black servant through hall

after hall peopled with plaster gods and heroes, into Chipstone’s own

magnificent studio, where he sat longing vainly for an order, and

justly dreading his landlord’s call for the rent. And, seeing how

severely these gentlemen were taxed in their profession, I have been

grateful for my own more fortunate one, which necessitates cringing to

no patron; which calls for no keeping up of appearances; and which

requires no stock-in-trade save the workman’s industry, his best

ability, and a dozen sheets of paper.

Having to turn with all his might to his new profession, Clive Newcome,

one of the proudest men alive, chose to revolt and to be restive at

almost every stage of his training. He had a natural genius for his

art, and had acquired in his desultory way a very considerable skill.

His drawing was better than his painting (an opinion which, were my

friend present, he of course would utterly contradict); his designs and

sketches were far superior to his finished compositions. His friends,

presuming to judge of this artist’s qualifications, ventured to counsel

him accordingly, and were thanked for their pains in the usual manner.

We had in the first place to bully and browbeat Clive most fiercely,

before he would take fitting lodgings for the execution of those

designs which we had in view for him. “Why should I take expensive

lodgings?” says Clive, slapping his fist on the table. “I am a pauper,

and can scarcely afford to live in a garret. Why should you pay me for

drawing your portrait and Laura’s and the children? What the deuce does

Warrington want with the effigy of his old mug? You don’t want them a

bit—you only want to give me money.—It would be much more honest of me

to take the money at once and own that I am a beggar; and I tell you

what, Pen, the only money which I feel I come honestly by, is that

which is paid me by a little printseller in Long Acre who buys my

drawings, one with another, at fourteen shillings apiece, and out of

whom I can earn pretty nearly two hundred a year. I am doing Coaches

for him, sir, and Charges of Cavalry; the public like the Mail Coaches

best—on a dark paper—the horses and miles picked out white—yellow

dust—cobalt distance, and the guard and coachman of course in

vermilion. That’s what a gentleman can get his bread by—portraits,

pooh! it’s disguised beggary, Crackthorpe, and a half-dozen men of his

regiment came, like good fellows as they are, and sent me five pounds

apiece for their heads, but I tell you I am ashamed to take the money.”

Such used to be the tenor of Clive Newcome’s conversation as he strode

up and down our room after dinner, pulling his moustache, and dashing

his long yellow hair off his gaunt face.

When Clive was inducted into the new lodgings at which his friends

counselled him to hang up his ensign, the dear old Colonel accompanied

his son, parting with a sincere regret from our little ones at home, to

whom he became greatly endeared during his visit to us, and who always

hailed him when he came to see us with smiles and caresses and sweet

infantile welcome. On that day when he went away, Laura went up and

kissed him with tears in her eyes. “You know how long I have been

wanting to do it,” this lady said to her husband. Indeed I cannot

describe the behaviour of the old man during his stay with us, his

gentle gratitude, his sweet simplicity and kindness, his thoughtful

courtesy. There was not a servant in our little household but was eager

to wait upon him. Laura’s maid was as tender-hearted at his departure

as her mistress. He was ailing for a short time, when our cook

performed prodigies of puddings and jellies to suit his palate. The

youth who held the offices of butler and valet in our establishment—a

lazy and greedy youth whom Martha scolded in vain—would jump up and

leave his supper to carry a message to our Colonel. My heart is full as

I remember the kind words which he said to me at parting, and as I

think that we were the means of giving a little comfort to that

stricken and gentle soul.

Whilst the Colonel and his son stayed with us, letters of course passed

between Clive and his family at Boulogne, but my wife remarked that the

receipt of those letters appeared to give our friend but little

pleasure. They were read in a minute, and he would toss them over to

his father, or thrust them into his pocket with a gloomy face. “Don’t

you see,” groans out Clive to me one evening, “that Rosa scarcely

writes the letters, or if she does, that her mother is standing over

her? That woman is the Nemesis of our life, Pen. How can I pay her off?

Great God! how can I pay her off?” And so having spoken, his head fell

between his hands, and as I watched him I saw a ghastly domestic

picture before me of helpless pain, humiliating discord, stupid

tyranny.

What, I say again, are the so-called great ills of life compared to

these small ones?

The Colonel accompanied Clive to the lodgings which we had found for

the young artist, in a quarter not far removed from the old house in

Fitzroy Square, where some happy years of his youth had been spent.

When sitters came to Clive—as at first they did in some numbers, many

of his early friends being anxious to do him a service—the old

gentleman was extraordinarily cheered and comforted. We could see by

his face that affairs were going on well at the studio. He showed us

the rooms which Rosey and the boy were to occupy. He prattled to our

children and their mother, who was never tired of hearing him, about

his grandson. He filled up the future nursery with a hundred little

knick-knacks of his own contriving; and with wonderful cheap bargains,

which he bought in his walks about Tottenham Court Road. He pasted a

most elaborate book of prints and sketches for Boy. It was astonishing

what notice Boy already took of pictures. He would have all the genius

of his father. Would he had had a better grandfather than the foolish

old man who had ruined all belonging to him!

However much they like each other, men in the London world see their

friends but seldom. The place is so vast that even next door is

distant; the calls of business, society, pleasure, so multifarious that

mere friendship can get or give but an occasional shake of the hand in

the hurried moments of passage. Men must live their lives; and are

perforce selfish, but not unfriendly. At a great need you know where to

look for your friend, and he that he is secure of you. So I went very

little to Howland Street, where Clive now lived; very seldom to Lamb

Court, where my dear old friend Warrington still sate in his old

chambers, though our meetings were none the less cordial when they

occurred, and our trust in one another always the same. Some folks say

the world is heartless: he who says so either prates commonplaces (the

most likely and charitable suggestion), or is heartless himself, or is

most singular and unfortunate in having made no friends. Many such a

reasonable mortal cannot have: our nature, I think, not sufficing for

that sort of polygamy. How many persons would you have to deplore your

death; or whose death would you wish to deplore? Could our hearts let

in such a harem of dear friendships, the mere changes and recurrences

of grief and mourning would be intolerable, and tax our lives beyond

their value. In a word, we carry our own burthen in the world; push and

struggle along on our own affairs; are pinched by our own shoes—though

Heaven forbid we should not stop and forget ourselves sometimes, when a

friend cries out in his distress, or we can help a poor stricken

wanderer in his way. As for good women—these, my worthy reader, are

different from us—the nature of these is to love, and to do kind

offices, and devise untiring charities:—so I would have you to know,

that, though Mr. Pendennis was _parcus suorum cultor et infrequens_,

Mrs. Laura found plenty of time to go from Westminster to Bloomsbury;

and to pay visits to her Colonel and her Clive, both of whom she had

got to love with all her heart again, now misfortune was on them; and

both of whom returned her kindness with an affection blessing the

bestower and the receiver; and making the husband proud and thankful

whose wife had earned such a noble regard. What is the dearest praise

of all to a man? his own—or that you should love those whom he loves? I

see Laura Pendennis ever constant and tender and pure, ever ministering

in her sacred office of kindness—bestowing love and followed by

blessings. Which would I have, think you; that priceless crown

hymeneal, or the glory of a Tenth Edition?

Clive and his father had found not only a model friend in the lady

above mentioned, but a perfect prize landlady in their happy lodgings.

In her house, besides those apartments which Mr. Newcome had originally

engaged, were rooms just sufficient to accommodate his wife, child, and

servant, when they should come to him, with a very snug little upper

chamber for the Colonel, close by Boy’s nursery, where he liked best to

be. “And if there is not room for the Campaigner, as you call her,”

says Mrs. Laura, with a shrug of her shoulders, “why, I am very sorry,

but Clive must try and bear her absence as well as possible. After all,

my dear Pen, you know he is married to Rosa and not to her mamma; and

so, and so I think it will be quite best that they shall have their

_ménage_ as before.”

The cheapness of the lodgings which the prize landlady let, the

quantity of neat new furniture which she put in, the consultations

which she had with my wife regarding these supplies, were quite

singular to me. “Have you pawned your diamonds, you reckless little

person, in order to supply all this upholstery?” “No, sir, I have not

pawned my diamonds,” Mrs. Laura answers; and I was left to think (if I

thought on the matter at all) that the landlady’s own benevolence had

provided these good things for Clive. For the wife of Laura’s husband

was perforce poor; and she asked me for no more money at this time than

at any other.

At first, in spite of his grumbling, Clive’s affairs looked so

prosperous, and so many sitters came to him from amongst his old

friends, that I was half inclined to believe with the Colonel and my

wife, that he was a prodigious genius, and that his good fortune would

go on increasing. Laura was for having Rosey return to her husband.

Every wife ought to be with her husband. J. J. shook his head about the

prosperity. “Let us see whether the Academy will have his pictures this

year, and what a place they will give him,” said Ridley. To do him

justice, Clive thought far more humbly of his compositions than Ridley

did. Not a little touching was it to us, who had known the young men in

former days, to see them in their changed positions. It was Ridley,

whose genius and industry had put him in the rank of a patron—Ridley,

the good industrious apprentice, who had won the prize of his art—and

not one of his many admirers saluted his talent and success with such a

hearty recognition as Clive, whose generous soul knew no envy, and who

always fired and kindled at the success of his friends.

When Mr. Clive used to go over to Boulogne from time to time to pay his

dutiful visits to his wife, the Colonel did not accompany his son, but,

during the latter’s absence, would dine with Mrs. Pendennis.

Though the preparations were complete in Howland Street, and Clive

dutifully went over to Boulogne, Mrs. Pendennis remarked that he seemed

still to hesitate about bringing his wife to London.

Upon this Mr. Pendennis observed that some gentlemen were not

particularly anxious about the society of their wives, and that this

pair were perhaps better apart. Upon which Mrs. Pendennis, drubbing on

the ground with a little foot, said, “Nonsense, for shame, Arthur! How

can you speak so flippantly? Did he not swear before Heaven to love and

cherish her, never to leave her, sir? Is not his _duty_ his _duty_,

sir?” (a most emphatic stamp of the foot). “Is she not his for better,

or for worse?”

“Including the Campaigner, my dear?” says Mr. P.

“Don’t laugh, sir! She _must_ come to him. There is no room in Howland

Street for Mrs. Mackenzie.”

“You artful scheming creature! We have some spare rooms. Suppose we ask

Mrs. Mackenzie to come and live with us, my dear? and we could then

have the benefit of the garrison anecdotes, and mess jocularities of

your favourite, Captain Goby.”

“I could never bear the horrid man!” cried Mrs. Pendennis. And how can

I tell why she disliked him?

Everything being now ready for the reception of Clive’s little family,

we counselled our friend to go over to Boulogne, and bring back his

wife and child, and then to make some final stipulation with the

Campaigner. He saw, as well as we, that the presence and tyranny of

that fatal woman destroyed his father’s health and spirits—that the old

man knew no peace or comfort in her neighbourhood, and was actually

hastening to his grave under that dreadful and unremitting persecution.

Mrs. Mackenzie made Clive scarcely less wretched than his father—she

governed his household—took away his weak wife’s allegiance and

affection from him—and caused the wretchedness of every single person

round about her. They ought to live apart. If she was too poor to

subsist upon her widow’s pension, which, in truth, was but a very small

pittance, let Clive give up to her, say, the half of his wife’s income

of one hundred pounds a year. His prospects and present means of

earning money were such that he might afford to do without that portion

of his income; at any rate, he and his father would be cheaply ransomed

at that price from their imprisonment to this intolerable person. “Go,

Clive,” said his counsellors, “and bring back your wife and child, and

let us all be happy together.” For, you see, those advisers opined that

if we had written over to Mrs. Newcome—“Come”—she would have come with

the Campaigner in her suite.

Vowing that he would behave like a man of courage—and we knew that

Clive had shown himself to be such in two or three previous

battles—Clive crossed the water to bring back his little Rosey. Our

good Colonel agreed to dine at our house during the days of his son’s

absence. I have said how beloved he was by young and old there—and he

was kind enough to say afterwards, that no woman had made him so happy

as Laura. We did not tell him—I know not from what reticence—that we

had advised Clive to offer a bribe of fifty pounds a year to Mrs.

Mackenzie; until about a fortnight after Clive’s absence, and a week

after his return, when news came that poor old Mrs. Mason was dead at

Newcome, whereupon we informed the Colonel that he had another

pensioner now in the Campaigner.

Colonel Newcome was thankful that his dear old friend had gone out of

the world in comfort and without pain. She had made a will long since,

leaving all her goods and chattels to Thomas Newcome—but having no

money to give, the Colonel handed over these to the old lady’s faithful

attendant, Keziah.

Although many of the Colonel’s old friends had parted from him or

quarrelled with him in consequence of the ill success of the B. B. C.,

there were two old ladies who yet remained faithful to him—Miss Cann,

namely, and honest little Miss Honeyman of Brighton, who, when she

heard of the return to London of her nephew and brother-in-law, made a

railway journey to the metropolis (being the first time she ever

engaged in that kind of travelling), rustled into Clive’s apartments in

Howland Street in her neatest silks, and looking not a day older than

on that when we last beheld her; and after briskly scolding the young

man for permitting his father to enter into money affairs—of which the

poor dear Colonel was as ignorant as a baby—she gave them both to

understand that she had a little sum at her banker’s at their

disposal—and besought the Colonel to remember that her house was his,

and that she should be proud and happy to receive him as soon and as

often and for as long a time as he would honour her with his company.

“Is not my house full of your presents”—cried the stout little old

lady—“have I not reason to be grateful to all the Newcomes—yes, to all

the Newcomes;—for Miss Ethel and her family have come to me every year

for months, and I don’t quarrel with them, and I won’t, although you

do, sir? Is not this shawl—are not these jewels that I wear,” she

continued, pointing to those well-known ornaments, “my dear Colonel’s

gift? Did you not relieve my brother Charles in this country and

procure for him his place in India? Yes, my dear friend—and though you

have been imprudent in money matters, my obligations towards you, and

my gratitude, and my affection are always the same.” Thus Miss Honeyman

spoke, with somewhat of a quivering voice at the end of her little

oration, but with exceeding state and dignity—for she believed that her

investment of two hundred pounds in that unlucky B. B. C., which failed

for half a million, was a sum of considerable importance, and gave her

a right to express her opinion to the Managers.

Clive came back from Boulogne in a week, as we have said—but he came

back without his wife, much to our alarm, and looked so exceedingly

fierce and glum when we demanded the reason of his return without his

family, that we saw wars and battles had taken place, and thought that

in this last continental campaign the Campaigner had been too much for

her friend.

The Colonel, to whom Clive communicated, though with us the poor lad

held his tongue, told my wife what had happened:—not all the battles;

which no doubt raged at breakfast, dinner, supper, during the week of

Clive’s visit to Boulogne,—but the upshot of these engagements. Rosey,

not unwilling in her first private talk with her husband to come to

England with him and the boy, showed herself irresolute on the second

day at breakfast, when the fire was opened on both sides; cried at

dinner when fierce assaults took place, in which Clive had the

advantage; slept soundly, but besought him to be very firm, and met the

enemy at breakfast with a quaking heart; cried all that day during

which, pretty well without cease, the engagement lasted; and when Clive

might have conquered and brought her off, but the weather was windy and

the sea was rough, and he was pronounced a brute to venture on it with

a wife in Rosey’s situation.

Behind that “situation” the widow shielded herself. She clung to her

adored child, and from that bulwark discharged abuse and satire at

Clive and his father. He could not rout her out of her position. Having

had the advantage on the first two or three days, on the four last he

was beaten, and lost ground in each action. Rosey found that in her

situation she could not part from her darling mamma. The Campaigner for

her part averred that she might be reduced to beggary; that she might

be robbed of her last farthing and swindled and cheated; that she might

see her daughter’s fortune flung away by unprincipled adventurers, and

her blessed child left without even the comforts of life; but desert

her in such a situation, she never would—no, never! Was not dear Rosa’s

health already impaired by the various shocks which she had undergone?

Did she not require every comfort, every attendance? Monster! ask the

doctor! She would stay with her darling child in spite of insult and

rudeness and vulgarity. (Rosey’s father was a King’s officer, not a

Company’s officer, thank God!) She would stay as long at least as

Rosey’s situation continued, at Boulogne, if not in London, but with

her child. They might refuse to send her money, having robbed her of

all her own, but she would pawn her gown off her back for her child.

Whimpers from Rosey—cries of “Mamma, mamma, compose

yourself,”—convulsive sobs—clenched knuckles—flashing eyes—embraces

rapidly clutched—laughs—stamps—snorts—from the dishevelled Campaigner;

grinding teeth—livid fury and repeated breakages of the third

commandment by Clive—I can fancy the whole scene. He returned to London

without his wife, and when she came she brought Mrs. Mackenzie with

her.

CHAPTER LXXV.

Founder’s Day at the Grey Friars

Rosey came, bringing discord and wretchedness with her to her husband,

and the sentence of death or exile to his dear old father, all of which

we foresaw—all of which Clive’s friends would have longed to

prevent—all of which were inevitable under the circumstances. Clive’s

domestic affairs were often talked over by our little set. Warrington

and F. B. knew of his unhappiness. We three had strongly opined that

the women being together at Boulogne, should stay there and live there,

Clive sending them over pecuniary aid as his means permitted. “They

must hate each other pretty well by this time,” growls George

Warrington. “Why on earth should they not part?” “What a woman that

Mrs. Mackenzie is!” cries F. B. “What an infernal tartar and catamaran!

She who was so uncommonly smiling and soft-spoken, and such a fine

woman, by jingo! What puzzles all women are!” F. B. sighed, and drowned

further reflection in beer.

On the other side, and most strongly advocating Rosey’s return to

Clive, was Mrs. Laura Pendennis; with certain arguments for which she

had chapter and verse, and against which we of the separatist party had

no appeal. “Did he marry her only for the days of her prosperity?”

asked Laura. “Is it right, is it manly, that he should leave her now

she is unhappy—poor little creature—no woman had ever more need of

protection; and who should be her natural guardian save her husband?

Surely, Arthur, you forget—have you forgotten them yourself, sir?—the

solemn vows which Clive made at the altar. Is he not bound to his wife

to keep only unto her so long as they both shall live, to love and

comfort her, honour her, and keep her in sickness and health?”

“To keep her, yes—but not to keep the Campaigner,” cries Mr. Pendennis.

“It is a moral bigamy, Laura, which you advocate, you wicked, immoral

young woman!”

But Laura, though she smiled at this notion, would not be put off from

her first proposition. Turning to Clive, who was with us, talking over

his doleful family circumstances, she took his hand, and pleaded the

cause of right and religion with sweet artless fervour. She agreed with

us that it was a hard lot for Clive to bear. So much the nobler the

task, and the fulfilment of duty in enduring it. A few months too would

put an end to his trials. When his child was born Mrs. Mackenzie would

take her departure. It would even be Clive’s duty to separate from her

then, as it now was to humour his wife in her delicate condition, and

to soothe the poor soul who had had a great deal of ill-health, of

misfortune, of domestic calamity to wear and shatter her. Clive

acquiesced with a groan, but—with a touching and generous resignation

as we both thought. “She is right, Pen,” he said, “I think your wife is

always right. I will try, Laura, and bear my part, God help me! I will

do my duty and strive my best to soothe and gratify my poor dear little

woman. They will be making caps and things, and will not interrupt me

in my studio. Of nights I can go to Clipstone Street and work at the

Life. There’s nothing like the Life, Pen. So you see I shan’t be much

at home except at meal-times, when by nature I shall have my mouth

full, and no opportunity of quarrelling with poor Mrs. Mac.” So he went

home, followed and cheered by the love and pity of my dear wife, and

determined stoutly to bear this heavy yoke which fate had put on him.

To do Mrs. Mackenzie justice, that lady backed up with all her might

the statement which my wife had put forward, with a view of soothing

poor Clive, viz., that the residence of his mother-in-law in his house

was only to be temporary. “Temporary!” cries Mrs. Mac (who was kind

enough to make a call on Mrs. Pendennis, and treat that lady to a piece

of her mind). “Do you suppose, madam, that it could be otherwise? Do

you suppose that worlds would induce me to stay in a house where I have

received such _treatment;_ where, after I and my daughter had been

robbed of every shilling of our fortune, where we are daily insulted by

Colonel Newcome and his son? Do you suppose, ma’am, that I do not know

that Clive’s friends hate me, and give themselves airs and look down

upon my darling child, and try and make differences between my sweet

Rosa and me—Rosa who might have been dead, or might have been starving,

but that her dear mother came to her rescue? No, I would never stay. I

loathe every day that I remain in the house—I would rather beg my

bread—I would rather sweep the streets and starve—though, thank God, I

have my pension as the widow of an officer in Her Majesty’s Service,

and I can live upon that—and of _that_ Colonel Newcome _cannot_ rob me;

and when my darling love needs a mother’s care no longer, I will leave

her. I will shake the dust off my feet and leave that house. I will—And

Mr. Newcome’s friends may then sneer at me and abuse me, and blacken my

darling child’s heart towards me if they choose. And I thank you, Mrs.

Pendennis, for all your _kindness_ towards my daughter’s family, and

for the furniture which you have sent into the house, and for the

_trouble_ you have taken about our family arrangements. It was for this

I took the liberty of calling upon you, and I wish you a very good

morning.” So speaking, the Campaigner left my wife; and Mrs. Pendennis

enacted the pleasing scene with great spirit to her husband afterwards,

concluding the whole with a splendid curtsey and toss of the head, such

as Mrs. Mackenzie performed as her parting salute.

Our dear Colonel had fled before. He had acquiesced humbly with the

decree of fate; and, lonely, old and beaten, marched honestly on the

path of duty. It was a great blessing, he wrote to us, to him to think

that in happier days and during many years he had been enabled to

benefit his kind and excellent relative, Miss Honeyman. He could

thankfully receive her hospitality now, and claim the kindness and

shelter which this old friend gave him. No one could be more anxious to

make him comfortable. The air of Brighton did him the greatest good; he

had found some old friends, some old Bengalees there, with whom he

enjoyed himself greatly, etc. How much did we, who knew his noble

spirit, believe of this story? To us Heaven had awarded health,

happiness, competence, loving children, united hearts, and modest

prosperity. To yonder good man, whose long life shone with

benefactions, and whose career was but kindness and honour, fate

decreed poverty, disappointment, separation, a lonely old age. We bowed

our heads, humiliated at the contrast of his lot and ours; and prayed

Heaven to enable us to bear our present good fortune meekly, and our

evil days, if they should come, with such a resignation as this good

Christian showed.

I forgot to say that our attempts to better Thomas Newcome’s money

affairs were quite in vain, the Colonel insisting upon paying over

every shilling of his military allowances and retiring pension to the

parties from whom he had borrowed money previous to his bankruptcy.

“Ah! what a good man that is,” says Mr. Sherrick with tears in his

eyes, “what a noble fellow, sir! He would die rather than not pay every

farthing over. He’d starve, sir, that he would. The money ain’t mine,

sir, or if it was do you think I’d take it from the poor old boy? No,

sir; by Jove! I honour and reverence him more now he ain’t got a

shilling in his pocket, than ever I did when we thought he was

a-rolling in money.”

My wife made one or two efforts at Samaritan visits in Howland Street,

but was received by Mrs. Clive with such a faint welcome, and by the

Campaigner with so grim a countenance, so many sneers, innuendoes,

insults almost, that Laura’s charity was beaten back, and she ceased to

press good offices thus thanklessly received. If Clive came to visit

us, as he very rarely did, after an official question or two regarding

the health of his wife and child, no further mention was made of his

family affairs. His painting, he said, was getting on tolerably well;

he had work, scantily paid it is true, but work sufficient. He was

reserved, uncommunicative, unlike the frank Clive of former times, and

oppressed by his circumstances, as it was easy to see. I did not press

the confidence which he was unwilling to offer, and thought best to

respect his silence. I had a thousand affairs of my own; who has not in

London? If you die to-morrow, your dearest friend will feel for you a

hearty pang of sorrow, and go to his business as usual. I could divine,

but would not care to describe, the life which my poor Clive was now

leading; the vulgar misery, the sordid home, the cheerless toil, and

lack of friendly companionship which darkened his kind soul. I was glad

Clive’s father was away. The Colonel wrote to us twice or thrice; could

it be three months ago?—bless me, how time flies! He was happy, he

wrote, with Miss Honeyman, who took the best care of him.