them. He behaves with splendid courtesy to Miss Quigley, the governess,
and makes a point of taking wine with her, and of making a most profound
bow during that ceremony. Miss Quigley cannot help thinking Colonel
Newcome's bow very fine. She has an idea that his late Majesty must have
bowed in that way: she flutteringly imparts this opinion to Lady Anne's
maid; who tells her mistress, who tells Miss Ethel, who watches the
Colonel the next time he takes wine with Miss Quigley, and they laugh,
and then Ethel tells him; so that the gentleman and the governess have to
blush ever after when they drink wine together. When she is walking with
her little charges in the Park, or in that before-mentioned paradise nigh
to Apsley House, faint signals of welcome appear on her wan cheeks. She
knows the dear Colonel amongst a thousand horsemen. If Ethel makes for
her uncle purses, guard-chains, antimacassars, and the like beautiful and
useful articles, I believe it is in reality Miss Quigley who does
four-fifths of the work, as she sits alone in the schoolroom, high, high
up in that lone house, when the little ones are long since asleep, before
her dismal little tea-tray, and her little desk containing her mother's
letters and her mementos of home.
There are, of course, numberless fine parties in Park Lane, where the
Colonel knows he would be very welcome. But if there be grand assemblies,
he does not care to come. "I like to go to the club best," he says to
Lady Anne. "We talk there as you do here about persons, and about Jack
marrying, and Tom dying, and so forth. But we have known Jack and Tom all
our lives, and so are interested in talking about them. Just as you are
in speaking of your own friends and habitual society. They are people
whose names I have sometimes read in the newspaper, but whom I never
thought of meeting until I came to your house. What has an old fellow
like me to say to your young dandies or old dowagers?"
"Mamma is very odd and sometimes very captious, my dear Colonel," said
Lady Anne, with a blush; "she suffers so frightfully from tic that we are
all bound to pardon her."
Truth to tell, old Lady Kew had been particularly rude to Colonel Newcome
and Clive. Ethel's birthday befell in the spring, on which occasion she
was wont to have a juvenile assembly, chiefly of girls of her own age and
condition; who came, accompanied by a few governesses, and they played
and sang their little duets and choruses together, and enjoyed a gentle
refection of sponge-cakes, jellies, tea, and the like.--The Colonel, who
was invited to this little party, sent a fine present to his favourite
Ethel; and Clive and his friend J. J. made a funny series of drawings,
representing the life of a young lady as they imagined it, and drawing
her progress from her cradle upwards: now engaged with her doll, then
with her dancing-master; now marching in her back-board; now crying over
her German lessons: and dressed for her first ball finally, and bestowing
her hand upon a dandy, of preternatural ugliness, who was kneeling at her
feet as the happy man. This picture was the delight of the laughing happy
girls; except, perhaps, the little cousins from Bryanstone Square, who
were invited to Ethel's party, but were so overpowered by the prodigious
new dresses in which their mamma had attired them, that they could admire
nothing but their rustling pink frocks, their enormous sashes, their
lovely new silk stockings.
Lady Kew coming to London attended on the party, and presented her
granddaughter with a sixpenny pincushion. The Colonel had sent Ethel a
beautiful little gold watch and chain. Her aunt had complimented her with
that refreshing work, Alison's History of Europe, richly bound.--Lady
Kew's pincushion made rather a poor figure among the gifts, whence
probably arose her ladyship's ill-humour.
Ethel's grandmother became exceedingly testy when, the Colonel arriving,
Ethel ran up to him and thanked him for the beautiful watch, in return
for which she gave him a kiss, which, I dare say, amply repaid Colonel
Newcome; and shortly after him Mr. Clive arrived, looking uncommonly
handsome, with that smart little beard and mustachio with which nature
had recently gifted him. As he entered, all the girls, who had been
admiring his pictures, began to clap their hands. Mr. Clive Newcome
blushed, and looked none the worse for that indication of modesty.
Lady Kew had met Colonel Newcome a half-dozen times at her daughter's
house: but on this occasion she had quite forgotten him, for when the
Colonel made her a bow, her ladyship regarded him steadily, and beckoning
her daughter to her, asked who the gentleman was who has just kissed
Ethel? Trembling as she always did before her mother, Lady Anne
explained. Lady Kew said "Oh!" and left Colonel Newcome blushing and
rather embarrasse de sa personne--before her.
With the clapping of hands that greeted Clive's arrival, the Countess was
by no means more good-humoured. Not aware of her wrath, the young fellow,
who had also previously been presented to her, came forward presently to
make her his compliments. "Pray, who are you?" she said, looking at him
very earnestly in the face. He told her his name.
"Hm," said Lady Kew, "I have heard of you, and I have heard very little
good of you."
"Will your ladyship please to give me your informant?" cried out Colonel
Newcome.
Barnes Newcome, who had condescended to attend his sister's little fete,
and had been languidly watching the frolics of the young people, looked
very much alarmed.
CHAPTER XXI
Is Sentimental, but Short
Without wishing to disparage the youth of other nations, I think a
well-bred English lad has this advantage over them, that his bearing is
commonly more modest than theirs. He does not assume the tail-coat and
the manners of manhood too early: he holds his tongue, and listens to his
elders: his mind blushes as well as his cheeks: he does not know how to
make bows and pay compliments like the young Frenchman: nor to contradict
his seniors as I am informed American striplings do. Boys, who learn
nothing else at our public schools, learn at least good manners, or what
we consider to be such; and with regard to the person at present under
consideration, it is certain that all his acquaintances, excepting
perhaps his dear cousin Barnes Newcome, agreed in considering him as a
very frank, manly, modest, and agreeable young fellow.--My friend
Warrington found a grim pleasure in his company; and his bright face,
droll humour, and kindly laughter were always welcome in our chambers.
Honest Fred Bayham was charmed to be in his society; and used
pathetically to aver that he himself might have been such a youth, had he
been blest with a kind father to watch, and good friends to guide, his
early career. In fact, Fred was by far the most didactic of Clive's
bachelor acquaintances, pursued the young man with endless advice and
sermons, and held himself up as a warning to Clive, and a touching
example of the evil consequences
of early idleness and dissipation.
Gentlemen of much higher rank in the world took a fancy to the lad.
Captain Jack Belsize introduced him to his own mess, as also to the Guard
dinner at St. James's; and my Lord Kew invited him to Kewbury, his
lordship's house in Oxfordshire, where Clive enjoyed hunting, shooting,
and plenty of good company. Mrs. Newcome groaned in spirit when she heard
of these proceedings; and feared, feared very much that that unfortunate
young man was going to ruin; and Barnes Newcome amiably disseminated
reports amongst his family that the lad was plunged in all sorts of
debaucheries: that he was tipsy every night: that he was engaged, in his
sober moments, with dice, the turf, or worse amusements: and that his
head was so turned by living with Kew and Belsize, that the little
rascal's pride and arrogance were perfectly insufferable. Ethel would
indignantly deny these charges; then perhaps credit a few of them; and
she looked at Clive with melancholy eyes when he came to visit his aunt;
and I hope prayed that Heaven might mend his wicked ways. The truth is,
the young fellow enjoyed life, as one of his age and spirit might be
expected to do; but he did very little harm, and meant less; and was
quite unconscious of the reputation which his kind friends were making
for him.
There had been a long-standing promise that Clive and his father were to
go to Newcome at Christmas: and I dare say Ethel proposed to reform the
young prodigal, if prodigal he was, for she busied herself delightedly in
preparing the apartments which they were to inhabit during their stay--
speculated upon it in a hundred pleasant ways, putting off her visit to
this pleasant neighbour, or that pretty scene in the vicinage, until her
uncle should come and they should be enabled to enjoy the excursion
together. And before the arrival of her relatives, Ethel, with one of her
young brothers, went to see Mrs. Mason; and introduced herself as Colonel
Newcome's niece; and came back charmed with the old lady, and eager once
more in defence of Clive (when that young gentleman's character happened
to be called in question by her brother Barnes), for had she not seen the
kindest letter, which Clive had written to old Mrs. Mason, and the
beautiful drawing of his father on horseback and in regimentals, waving
his sword in front of the gallant the Bengal Cavalry, which the lad had
sent down to the good old woman? He could not be very bad, Ethel thought,
who was so kind and thoughtful for the poor. His father's son could not
be altogether a reprobate. When Mrs. Mason, seeing how good and beautiful
Ethel was, and thinking in her heart nothing could be too good or
beautiful for Clive, nodded her kind old head at Miss Ethel, and said she
should like to find a husband for her, Miss Ethel blushed, and looked
handsomer than ever; and at home, when she was describing the interview,
never mentioned this part of her talk with Mrs. Mason.
But the enfant terrible, young Alfred, did: announcing to all the company
at dessert, that Ethel was in love with Clive--that Clive was coming to
marry her--that Mrs. Mason, the old woman at Newcome, had told him so.
"I dare say she has told the tale all over Newcome!" shrieked out Mr.
Barnes. "I dare say it will be in the Independent next week. By Jove,
it's a pretty connexion--and nice acquaintances this uncle of ours brings
us!" A fine battle ensued upon the receipt and discussion of this
intelligence: Barnes was more than usually bitter and sarcastic: Ethel
haughtily recriminated, losing her temper, and then her firmness, until,
fairly bursting into tears, she taxed Barnes with meanness and malignity
in for ever uttering stories to his cousin's disadvantage, and pursuing
with constant slander and cruelty one of the very best of men. She rose
and left the table in great tribulation--she went to her room and wrote a
letter to her uncle, blistered with tears, in which she besought him not
to come to Newcome.--Perhaps she went and looked at the apartments which
she had adorned and prepared for his reception. It was for him and for
his company that she was eager. She had met no one so generous and
gentle, so honest and unselfish, until she had seen him.
Lady Anne knew the ways of women very well; and when Ethel that night,
still in great indignation and scorn against Barnes, announced that she
had written a letter to her uncle, begging the Colonel not to come at
Christmas, Ethel's mother soothed the wounded girl, and treated her with
peculiar gentleness and affection; and she wisely gave Mr. Barnes to
understand, that if he wished to bring about that very attachment, the
idea of which made him so angry, he could use no better means than those
which he chose to employ at present, of constantly abusing and insulting
poor Clive, and awakening Ethel's sympathies by mere opposition. And
Ethel's sad little letter was extracted from the post-bag: and her mother
brought it to her, sealed, in her own room, where the young lady burned
it: being easily brought by Lady Anne's quiet remonstrances to perceive
that it was best no allusion should take place to the silly dispute which
had occurred that evening; and that Clive and his father should come for
the Christmas holidays, if they were so minded. But when they came, there
was no Ethel at Newcome. She was gone on a visit to her sick aunt, Lady
Julia. Colonel Newcome passed the holidays sadly without his young
favourite, and Clive consoled himself by knocking down pheasants with Sir
Brian's keepers: and increased his cousin's attachment for him by
breaking the knees of Barnes's favourite mare out hunting. It was a
dreary entertainment; father and son were glad enough to get away from
it, and to return to their own humbler quarters in London.
Thomas Newcome had now been for three years in the possession of that
felicity which his soul longed after; and had any friend of his asked him
if he was happy, he would have answered in the affirmative no doubt, and
protested that he was in the enjoyment of everything a reasonable man
could desire. And yet, in spite of his happiness, his honest face grew
more melancholy: his loose clothes hung only the looser on his lean
limbs: he ate his meals without appetite: his nights were restless: and
he would sit for hours silent in the midst of his family, so that Mr.
Binnie first began jocularly to surmise that Tom was crossed in love;
then seriously to think that his health was suffering and that a doctor
should be called to see him; and at last to agree that idleness was not
good for the Colonel, and that he missed the military occupation to which
he had been for so many years accustomed.
The Colonel insisted that he was perfectly happy and contented. What
could he want more than he had--the society of his son, for the present;
and a prospect of quiet for his declining days? Binnie vowed that his
friend's days had no business to decline as yet; that a sober man of
fifty ought to be at his best; and that Newcome had grown older in three
years in Europe, than in a quarter of a cent
ury in the East--all which
statements were true, though the Colonel persisted in denying them.
He was very restless. He was always finding business in distant quarters
of England. He must go visit Tom Barker who was settled in Devonshire, or
Harry Johnson who had retired and was living in Wales. He surprised Mrs.
Honeyman by the frequency of his visits to Brighton, and always came away
much improved in health by the sea air, and by constant riding with the
harriers there. He appeared at Bath and at Cheltenham, where, as we know,
there are many old Indians. Mr. Binnie was not indisposed to accompany
him on some of these jaunts--"provided," the civilian said, "you don't
take young Hopeful, who is much better without us; and let us two old
fogies enjoy ourselves together."
Clive was not sorry to be left alone. The father knew that only too well.
The young man had occupations, ideas, associates, in whom the elder could
take no interest. Sitting below in his blank, cheerless bedroom, Newcome
could hear the lad and his friends talking, singing, and making merry
overhead. Something would be said in Clive's well-known tones, and a roar
of laughter would proceed from the youthful company. They had all sorts
of tricks, bywords, waggeries, of which the father could not understand
the jest nor the secret. He longed to share in it, but the party would be
hushed if he went in to join it--and he would come away sad at heart, to
think that his presence should be a signal for silence among them; and
that his son could not be merry in his company.
We must not quarrel with Clive and Clive's friends, because they could
not joke and be free in the presence of the worthy gentleman. If they
hushed when he came in, Thomas Newcome's sad face would seem to look
round--appealing to one after another of them, and asking, "Why don't you
go on laughing?" A company of old comrades shall be merry and laughing
together, and the entrance of a single youngster will stop the
conversation--and if men of middle age feel this restraint with our
juniors, the young ones surely have a right to be silent before their
elders. The boys are always mum under the eyes of the usher. There is
scarce any parent, however friendly or tender with his children, but must
feel sometimes that they have thoughts which are not his or hers; and
wishes and secrets quite beyond the parental control: and, as people are
vain, long after they are fathers, ay; or grandfathers, and not seldom
fancy that mere personal desire of domination is overweening anxiety and
love for their family, no doubt that common outcry against thankless
children might often be shown to prove, not that the son is disobedient,
but the father too exacting. When a mother (as fond mothers often will)
vows that she knows every thought in her daughter's heart, I think she
pretends to know a great deal too much; nor can there be a wholesomer
task for the elders, as our young subjects grow up, naturally demanding
liberty and citizen's rights, than for us gracefully to abdicate our
sovereign pretensions and claims of absolute control. There's many a
family chief who governs wisely and gently, who is loth to give the power
up when he should. Ah, be sure, it is not youth alone that has need to
learn humility! By their very virtues, and the purity of their lives,
many good parents create flatterers for themselves, and so live in the
midst of a filial court of parasites--and seldom without a pang of
unwillingness, and often not at all, will they consent to forgo their
autocracy, and exchange the tribute they have been wont to exact of love
and obedience for the willing offering of love and freedom.
Our good Colonel was not of the tyrannous, but of the loving order of
fathers: and having fixed his whole heart upon this darling youth, his
son, was punished, as I suppose such worldly and selfish love ought to be
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