welfare. The young fellow, I dare say, gave his parent no more credit for
his long self-denial, than many other children award to theirs. We take
such life-offerings as our due commonly. The old French satirist avers
that, in a love affair, there is usually one person who loves, and the
other, qui se laisse aimer; it is only in later days, perhaps, when the
treasures of love are spent, and the kind hand cold which ministered
them, that we remember how tender it was; how soft to soothe; how eager
to shield; how ready to support and caress. The ears may no longer hear,
which would have received our words of thanks so delightedly. Let us hope
those fruits of love, though tardy, are yet not all too late; and though
we bring our tribute of reverence and gratitude, it may be to a
gravestone, there is an acceptance even there for the stricken heart's
oblation of fond remorse, contrite memories, and pious tears. I am
thinking of the love of Clive Newcome's father for him (and, perhaps,
young reader, that of yours and mine for ourselves); how the old man lay
awake, and devised kindnesses, and gave his all for the love of his son;
and the young man took, and spent, and slept, and made merry. Did we not
say at our tale's commencement that all stories were old? Careless
prodigals and anxious elders have been from the beginning:--and so may
love, and repentance, and forgiveness endure even till the end.
The stifling fogs, the slippery mud, the dun dreary November mornings,
when the Regent's Park, where the Colonel took his early walk, was
wrapped in yellow mist, must have been a melancholy exchange for the
splendour of Eastern sunrise, and the invigorating gallop at dawn, to
which, for so many years of his life, Thomas Newcome had accustomed
himself. His obstinate habit of early waking accompanied him to England,
and occasioned the despair of his London domestics, who, if master wasn't
so awful early, would have found no fault with him; for a gentleman as
gives less trouble to his servants; as scarcely ever rings the bell for
his self; as will brush his own clothes; as will even boil his own
shaving-water in the little hetna which he keeps up in his dressing-room;
as pays so regular, and never looks twice at the accounts; such a man
deserved to be loved by his household, and I dare say comparisons were
made between him and his son, who do ring the bells, and scold if his
boots ain't nice, and horder about like a young lord. But Clive, though
imperious, was very liberal and good-humoured, and not the worse served
because he insisted upon exerting his youthful authority. As for friend
Binnie, he had a hundred pursuits of his own, which made his time pass
very comfortably. He had all the Lectures at the British Institution; he
had the Geographical Society, the Asiatic Society, and the Political
Economy Club; and though he talked year after year of going to visit his
relations in Scotland, the months and seasons passed away, and his feet
still beat the London pavement.
In spite of the cold reception his brothers gave him, duty was duty, and
Colonel Newcome still proposed, or hoped to be well with the female
members of the Newcome family; and having, as we have said, plenty of
time on his hands, and living at no very great distance from either of
his brothers' town houses, when their wives were in London, the elder
Newcome was for paying them pretty constant visits. But after the good
gentleman had called twice or thrice upon his sister-in-law in Bryanstone
Square--bringing, as was his wont, a present for this little niece, or a
book for that--Mrs. Newcome, with her usual virtue, gave him to
understand that the occupation of an English matron, who, besides her
multifarious family duties, had her own intellectual culture to mind,
would not allow her to pass the mornings in idle gossips: and of course
took great credit to herself for having so rebuked him. "I am not above
instruction of any age," says she, thanking Heaven (or complimenting it,
rather, for having created a being so virtuous and humble-minded). "When
Professor Schroff comes, I sit with my children, and take lessons in
German,--and I say my verbs with Maria and Tommy in the same class!" Yes,
with curtsies and fine speeches she actually bowed her brother out of
doors; and the honest gentleman meekly left her, though with
bewilderment, as he thought of the different hospitality to which he had
been accustomed in the East, where no friend's house was ever closed to
him, where no neighbour was so busy but he had time to make Thomas
Newcome welcome.
When Hobson Newcome's boys came home for the holidays, their kind uncle
was for treating them to the sights of the town, but here Virtue again
interposed and laid its interdict upon pleasure. "Thank you, very much,
my dear Colonel," says Virtue, "there never was surely such a kind,
affectionate, unselfish creature as you are, and so indulgent for
children, but my boys and yours are brought up on a very different plan.
Excuse me for saying that I do not think it is advisable that they should
even see too much of each other. Clive's company is not good for them."
"Great heavens, Maria!" cries the Colonel, starting up, "do you mean that
my boy's society is not good enough for any boy alive?"
Maria turned very red: she had said not more than she meant, but more
than she meant to say. "My dear Colonel, how hot we are! how angry you
Indian gentlemen become with us poor women! Your boy is much older than
mine. He lives with artists, with all sorts of eccentric people. Our
children are bred on quite a diferent plan. Hobson will succeed his
father in the bank, and dear Samuel I trust will go into the Church. I
told you, before, the views I had regarding the boys: but it was most
kind of you to think of them--most generous and kind."
"That nabob of ours is a queer fish," Hobson Newcome remarked to his
nephew Barnes. "He is as proud as Lucifer, he is always taking huff about
one thing or the other. He went off in a fume the other night because
your aunt objected to his taking the boys to the play. She don't like
their going to the play. My mother didn't either. Your aunt is a woman
who is uncommon wideawake, I can tell you."
"I always knew, sir, that my aunt was perfectly aware of the time of the
day," says Barnes, with a bow.
"And then the Colonel flies out about his boy, and says that my wife
insulted him! I used to like that boy. Before his father came he was a
good lad enough--a jolly brave little fellow."
"I confess I did not know Mr. Clive at that interesting period of his
existence," remarks Barnes.
"But since he has taken this madcap freak of turning painter," the uncle
continues, "there is no understanding the chap. Did you ever see such a
set of fellows as the Colonel had got together at his party the other
night? Dirty chaps in velvet coats and beards? They looked like a set of
mountebanks. And this young Clive is going to turn painter!"
"Very advantageous thing for the family. He'll do our pictures for
nothing. I always said
he was a darling boy," simpered Barnes.
"Darling jackass!" growled out the senior. "Confound it, why doesn't my
brother set him up in some respectable business? I ain't proud. I have
not married an earl's daughter. No offence to you, Barnes."
"Not at all, sir. I can't help it if my grandfather is a gentleman," says
Barnes, with a fascinating smile.
The uncle laughs. "I mean I don't care what a fellow is if he is a good
fellow. But a painter! hang it--a painter's no trade at all--I don't
fancy seeing one of our family sticking up pictures for sale. I don't
like it, Barnes."
"Hush! here comes his distinguished friend, Mr. Pendennis," whispers
Barnes; and the uncle growling out, "Damn all literary fellows--all
artists--the whole lot of them!" turns away. Barnes waves three languid
fingers of recognition towards Pendennis: and when the uncle and nephew
have moved out of the club newspaper room, little Tom Eaves comes up and
tells the present reporter every word of their conversation.
Very soon Mrs. Newcome announced that their Indian brother found the
society of Bryanstone Square very little to his taste, as indeed how
should he? being a man of a good harmless disposition certainly, but of
small intellectual culture. It could not be helped. She had done her
utmost to make him welcome, and grieved that their pursuits were not more
congenial. She heard that he was much more intimate in Park Lane.
Possibly the superior rank of Lady Anne's family might present charms to
Colonel Newcome, who fell asleep at her assemblies. His boy, she was
afraid, was leading the most irregular life. He was growing a pair of
mustachios, and going about with all sorts of wild associates. She found
no fault; who was she, to find fault with any one? But she had been
compelled to hint that her children must not be too intimate with him.
And so, between one brother who meant no unkindness, and another who was
all affection and goodwill, this undoubting woman created difference,
distrust, dislike, which might one day possibly lead to open rupture. The
wicked are wicked, no doubt, and they go astray and they fall, and they
come by their deserts: but who can tell the mischief which the very
virtuous do?
To her sister-in-law, Lady Anne, the Colonel's society was more welcome.
The affectionate gentleman never tired of doing kindnesses to his
brother's many children; and as Mr. Clive's pursuits now separated him a
good deal from his father, the Colonel, not perhaps without a sigh that
fate should so separate him from the society which he loved best in the
world, consoled himself as best he might with his nephews and nieces,
especially with Ethel, for whom his belle passion conceived at first
sight never diminished. If Uncle Newcome had a hundred children, Ethel
said, who was rather jealous of disposition, he would spoil them all. He
found a fine occupation in breaking a pretty little horse for her, of
which he made her a present, and there was no horse in the Park that was
so handsome, and surely no girl who looked more beautiful than Ethel
Newcome with her broad hat and red ribbon, with her thick black locks
waving round her bright face, galloping along the ride on Bhurtpore.
Occasionally Clive was at their riding-parties, when the Colonel would
fall back and fondly survey the young people cantering side by side over
the grass: but by a tacit convention it was arranged that the cousins
should be but seldom together; the Colonel might be his niece's companion
and no one could receive him with a more joyous welcome, but when Mr.
Clive made his appearance with his father at the Park Lane door, a
certain gene was visible in Miss Ethel, who would never mount except with
Colonel Newcome's assistance, and who, especially after Mr. Clive's
famous mustachios made their appearance, rallied him, and remonstrated
with him regarding those ornaments, and treated him with much distance
and dignity. She asked him if he was going into the army? she could not
understand how any but military men could wear mustachios; and then she
looked fondly and archly at her uncle, and said she liked none that were
not grey.
Clive set her down as a very haughty, spoiled, aristocratic young
creature. If he had been in love with her, no doubt he would have
sacrificed even those beloved new-born whiskers for the charmer. Had he
not already bought on credit the necessary implements in a fine
dressing-case, from young Moss? But he was not in love with her;
otherwise he would have found a thousand opportunities of riding with
her, walking with her, meeting her, in spite of all prohibitions tacit or
expressed, all governesses, guardians, mamma's punctilios, and kind hints
from friends. For a while, Mr. Clive thought himself in love with his
cousin; than whom no more beautiful young girl could be seen in any park,
ball, or drawing-room; and he drew a hundred pictures of her, and
discoursed about her beauties to J. J., who fell in love with her on
hearsay. But at this time Mademoiselle Saltarelli was dancing at Drury
Lane Theatre, and it certainly may be said that Clive's first love was
bestowed upon that beauty: whose picture of course he drew in most of her
favourite characters; and for whom his passion lasted until the end of
the season, when her night was announced, tickets to be had at the
theatre, or of Mademoiselle Saltarelli, Buckingham Street, Strand. Then
it was that with a throbbing heart and a five-pound note, to engage
places for the houri's benefit, Clive beheld Madame Rogomme, Mademoiselle
Saltarelli's mother, who entertained him in the French language in a
dark parlour smelling of onions. And oh! issuing from the adjoining
dining-room (where was a dingy vision of a feast and pewter pots upon a
darkling tablecloth), could that lean, scraggy, old, beetle-browed yellow
face, who cried, "Ou es tu donc, maman?" with such a shrill nasal voice--
could that elderly vixen be that blooming and divine Saltarelli? Clive
drew her picture as she was, and a likeness of Madame Rogomme, her mamma;
a Mosaic youth, profusely jewelled, and scented at once with tobacco and
eau-de-cologne, occupied Clive's stall on Mademoiselle Saltarelli's
night. It was young Mr. Moss, of Gandish's to whom Newcome ceded his
place, and who laughed (as he always did at Clive's jokes) when the
latter told the story of his interview with the dancer. "Paid five pound
to see that woman! I could have took you behind the scenes" (or "beide
the seeds," Mr. Moss said) "and showed her to you for dothing." Did he
take Clive behind the scenes? Over this part of the young gentleman's
life, without implying the least harm to him--for have not others been
behind the scenes; and can there be any more dreary object than those
whitened and raddled old women who shudder at the slips?--over this stage
of Clive Newcome's life we may surely drop the curtain.
It is pleasanter to contemplate that kind old face of Clive's father,
that sweet young blushing lady by his side, as the two ride homewards at
sunset. The grooms behind in qu
iet conversation about horses, as men
never tire of talking about horses. Ethel wants to know about battles;
about lovers' lamps, which she has read of in Lalla Rookh. "Have you ever
seen them, uncle, floating down the Ganges of a night?" About Indian
widows. "Did you actually see one burning, and hear her scream as you
rode up?" She wonders whether he will tell her anything about Clive's
mother: how she must have loved Uncle Newcome! Ethel can't bear, somehow,
to think that her name was Mrs. Casey, perhaps he was very fond of her;
though he scarcely ever mentions her name. She was nothing like that good
old funny Miss Honeyman at Brighton. Who could the person be?--a person
that her uncle knew ever so long ago--a French lady, whom her uncle says
Ethel often resembles? That is why he speaks French so well. He can
recite whole pages out of Racine. Perhaps it was the French lady who
taught him. And he was not very happy at the Hermitage (though grandpapa
was a very kind good man), and he upset papa in a little carriage, and
was wild, and got into disgrace, and was sent to India? He could not have
been very bad, Ethel thinks, looking at him with her honest eyes. Last
week he went to the Drawing-room, and papa presented him. His uniform of
grey and silver was quite old, yet he looked much grander than Sir Brian
in his new deputy-lieutenant's dress. "Next year, when I am presented,
you must come too, sir," says Ethel. "I insist upon it, you must come
too!"
"I will order a new uniform, Ethel," says her uncle.
The girl laughs. "When little Egbert took hold of your sword, uncle, and
asked you how many people you had killed, do you know I had the same
question in my mind; and I thought when you went to the Drawing-room,
perhaps the King will knight him. But instead he knighted mamma's
apothecary, Sir Danby Jilks: that horrid little man, and I won't have you
knighted any more."
"I hope Egbert won't ask Sir Danby Jilks how many people HE has killed,"
says the Colonel, laughing; but thinking the joke too severe upon Sir
Danby and the profession, he forthwith apologises by narrating many
anecdotes he knows to the credit of surgeons. How, when the fever broke
out on board the ship going to India, their surgeon devoted himself to
the safety of the crew, and died himself, leaving directions for the
treatment of the patients when he was gone! What heroism the doctors
showed during the cholera in India; and what courage he had seen some of
them exhibit in action: attending the wounded men under the hottest fire,
and exposing themselves as readily as the bravest troops. Ethel declares
that her uncle always will talk of other people's courage, and never say
a word about his own; "and the only reason," she says, "which made me
like that odious Sir Thomas de Boots, who laughs so, and looks so red,
and pays such horrid compliments to all ladies, was, that he praised you,
uncle, at Newcome, last year, when Barnes and he came to us at Christmas.
Why did you not come? Mamma and I went to see your old nurse; and we
found her such a nice old lady." So the pair talk kindly on, riding
homewards through the pleasant summer twilight. Mamma had gone out to
dinner; and there were cards for three parties afterwards. "Oh, how I
wish it was next year!" says Miss Ethel.
Many a splendid assembly, and many a brilliant next year, will the ardent
and hopeful young creature enjoy; but in the midst of her splendour and
triumphs, buzzing flatterers, conquered rivals, prostrate admirers, no
doubt she will think sometimes of that quiet season before the world
began for her, and that dear old friend, on whose arm she leaned while
she was yet a young girl.
The Colonel comes to Park Street early in the forenoon, when the mistress
of the house, surrounded by her little ones, is administering dinner to
The Newcomes Page 28
