The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

morning."

  "I know what I wish would happen now," said Clive,--they were going

  screaming through a tunnel.

  "What?" said the bonnet in the darkness: and the engine was roaring so

  loudly, that he was obliged to put his head quite close to say--

  "I wish the tunnel would fall in and close upon us, or that we might

  travel on for ever and ever."

  Here there was a great jar of the carriage, and the lady's-maid, and I

  think Miss Ethel, gave a shriek. The lamp above was so dim that the

  carriage was almost totally dark. No wonder the lady's-maid was

  frightened! but the daylight came streaming in, and all poor Clive's

  wishes of rolling and rolling on for ever were put an end to by the

  implacable sun in a minute.

  Ah, why was it the quick train? Suppose it had been the parliamentary

  train?--even that too would have come to an end. They came and said,

  "Tickets, please," and Clive held out the three of their party--his, and

  Ethel's, and her maid's. I think for such a ride as that he was right to

  give up Greenwich. Mr. Kuhn was in waiting with a carriage for Miss

  Ethel. She shook hands with Clive, returning his pressure.

  "I may come and see you?" he said.

  "You may come and see mamma--yes."

  "And where are you staying?"

  "Bless my soul--they were staying at Miss Honeyman's!" Clive burst into a

  laugh. Why, he was going there too! Of course Aunt Honeyman had no room

  for him, her house being quite full with the other Newcomes.

  It was a most curious coincidence their meeting; but altogether Lady Anne

  thought it was best to say nothing about the circumstance to grandmamma.

  I myself am puzzled to say which would have been the better course to

  pursue under the circumstances; there were so many courses open. As they

  had gone so far, should they go on farther together? Suppose they were

  going to the same house at Brighton, oughtn't they to have gone in the

  same carriage, with Kuhn and the maid of course? Suppose they met by

  chance at the station, ought they to have travelled in separate

  carriages? I ask any gentleman and father of a family, when he was

  immensely smitten with his present wife, Mrs. Brown, if he had met her

  travelling with her maid, in the mail, when there was a vacant place,

  what would he himself have done?

  CHAPTER XLII

  Injured Innocence

  From Clive Newcome, Esq., to Lieut.-Col. Newcome, C.B.

  "Brighton, June 12, 18--.

  "My Dearest Father,--As the weather was growing very hot at Naples, and

  you wished I should come to England to see Mr. Binnie, I came

  accordingly, and have been here three weeks, and write to you from Aunt

  Honeyman's parlour at Brighton, where you ate your last dinner before

  embarking for India. I found your splendid remittance calling in Fog

  Court, and have invested a part of the sum in a good horse to ride, upon

  which I take my diversion with other young dandies in the Park. Florac is

  in England, but he has no need of your kindness. Only think! he is Prince

  de Moncontour now, the second title of the Duc d'Ivry's family; and M. le

  Comte de Florac is Duc d'Ivry in consequence of the demise of t'other old

  gentleman. I believe the late duke's wife shortened his life. Oh, what a

  woman! She caused a duel between Lord Kew and a Frenchman, which has in

  its turn occasioned all sorts of evil and division in families, as you

  shall hear.

  "In the first place, in consequence of the duel and of incompatibility of

  temper, the match between Kew and E. N. has been broken off. I met Lord

  Kew at Naples with his mother and brother, nice quiet people as you would

  like them. Kew's wound and subsequent illness have altered him a good

  deal. He has become much more serious than he used to be; not ludicrously

  so at all, but he says he thinks his past life has been useless and even

  criminal, and he wishes to change it. He has sold his horses, and sown

  his wild oats. He has turned quite a sober quiet gentleman.

  "At our meeting he told me of what had happened between him and Ethel, of

  whom he spoke most kindly and generously, but avowing his opinion that

  they never could have been happy in married life. And now I think my dear

  old father will see that there may be another reason besides my desire to

  see Mr. Binnie, which has brought me tumbling back to England again. If

  need be to speak, I never shall have, I hope, any secrets from you. I

  have not said much about one which has given me the deuce's disquiet for

  ten months past, because there was no good in talking about it, or vexing

  you needlessly with reports of my griefs and woes.

  "Well, when we were at Baden in September last, and E. and I wrote those

  letters in common to you, I dare say you can fancy what my feelings might

  have been towards such a beautiful young creature, who has a hundred

  faults, for which I love her just as much as for the good that is in her.

  I became dreadfully smitten indeed, and knowing that she was engaged to

  Lord Kew, I did as you told me you did once when the enemy was too strong

  for you--I ran away. I had a bad time of it for two or three months. At

  Rome, however, I began to take matters more easily, my naturally fine

  appetite returned, and at the end of the season I found myself uncommonly

  happy in the society of the Miss Baliols and the Miss Freemans; but when

  Kew told me at Naples of what had happened, there was straightway a fresh

  eruption in my heart, and I was fool enough to come almost without sleep

  to London in order to catch a glimpse of the bright eyes of E. N.

  "She is now in this very house upstairs with one aunt, whilst the other

  lets lodgings to her. I have seen her but very seldom indeed since I came

  to London, where Sir Brian and Lady Anne do not pass the season, and

  Ethel goes about to a dozen parties every week with old Lady Kew, who

  neither loves you nor me. Hearing E. say she was coming down to her

  parents at Brighton, I made so bold as to waylay her at the train (though

  I didn't tell her that I passed three hours in the waiting-room); and we

  made the journey together, and she was very kind and beautiful; and

  though I suppose I might just as well ask the Royal Princess to have me,

  I can't help hoping and longing and hankering after her. And Aunt

  Honeyman must have found out that I am fond of her, for the old lady has

  received me with a scolding. Uncle Charles seems to be in very good

  condition again. I saw him in full clerical feather--at Madame de

  Moncontour's, a good-natured body who drops her h's, though Florac is not

  aware of their absence. Pendennis and Warrington, I know, would send you

  their regards. Pen is conceited, but much kinder in reality than he has

  the air of being. Fred Bayham is doing well, and prospering in his

  mysterious way.

  "Mr. Binnie is not looking at all well: and Mrs. Mack--well, as I know

  you never attack a lady behind her lovely back, I won't say a word of

  Mrs. Mack--but she has taken possession of Uncle James, and seems to me

  to weigh upon him somehow. Rosey is as pretty and good-natured as ever,

  and has learned two new songs; but you s
ee, with my sentiments in another

  quarter, I feel as it were guilty and awkward in company of Rosey and her

  mamma. They have become the very greatest friends with Bryanstone Square,

  and Mrs. Mack is always citing Aunt Hobson as the most superior of women,

  in which opinion, I daresay, Aunt Hobson concurs.

  "Good-bye, my dearest father; my sheet is full; I wish I could put my arm

  in yours and pace up and down the pier with you, and tell you more and

  more. But you know enough now, and that I am your affectionate son

  always, C. N."

  In fact, when Mr. Clive appeared at Steyne Gardens stepping out of the

  fly, and handing Miss Ethel thence, Miss Honeyman of course was very glad

  to see her nephew, and saluted him with a little embrace to show her

  sense of pleasure at his visit. But the next day, being Sunday, when

  Clive, with a most engaging smile on his countenance, walked over to

  breakfast from his hotel, Miss Honeyman would scarcely speak to him

  during the meal, looked out at him very haughtily from under her Sunday

  cap, and received his stories about Italy with "Oh! ah! indeed!" in a

  very unkind manner. And when breakfast was over, and she had done washing

  her age chins, she fluttered up to Clive with such an agitation of

  plumage, redness of craw, and anger of manner, as a maternal hen shows if

  she has reason to think you menace her chickens. She fluttered up to

  Clive, I say, and cried out, "Not in this house, Clive,--not in this

  house, I beg you to understand that!"

  Clive, looking amazed, said, "Certainly not, ma'am; I never did do it in

  the house, as I know you don't like it. I was going into the Square." The

  young man meaning that he was about to smoke, and conjecturing that his

  aunt's anger applied to that practice.

  "You know very well what I mean, sir! Don't try to turn me off in that

  highty-tighty way. My dinner to-day is at half-past one. You can dine or

  not as you like," and the old lady flounced out of the room.

  Poor Clive stood rolling his cigar in sad perplexity of spirit, until

  Mrs. Honeyman's servant Hannah entered, who, for her part, grinned and

  looked particularly sly. "In the name of goodness, Hannah, what is the

  row about?" cries Mr. Clive. "What is my aunt scolding at? What are you

  grinning at, you old Cheshire cat?"

  "Git long, Master Clive," says Hannah, patting the cloth.

  "Get along! why get along, and where am I to get along to?"

  "Did 'ee do ut really now, Master Clive?" cries Mrs. Honeyman's

  attendant, grinning with the utmost good-humour. "Well, she be as pretty

  a young lady as ever I saw; and as I told my missis, 'Miss Martha,' says

  I, 'there's a pair on 'em.' Though missis was mortal angry to be sure.

  She never could bear it."

  "Bear what? you old goose!" cries Clive, who by these playful names had

  been wont to designate Hannah these twenty years past.

  "A young gentleman and a young lady a kissing of each other in the

  railway coach," says Hannah, jerking up with her finger to the ceiling,

  as much as to say, "There she is! Lar, she be a pretty young creature,

  that she be! and so I told Miss Martha." Thus differently had the news

  which had come to them on the previous night affected the old lady and

  her maid.

  The news was, that Miss Newcome's maid (a giddy thing from the county,

  who had not even learned as yet to hold her tongue) had announced with

  giggling delight to Lady Anne's maid, who was taking tea with Mrs. Hicks,

  that Mr. Clive had given Miss Ethel a kiss in the tunnel, and she

  supposed it was a match. This intelligence Hannah Hicks took to her

  mistress, of whose angry behaviour to Clive the next morning you may now

  understand the cause.

  Clive did not know whether to laugh or to be in a rage. He swore that he

  was as innocent of all intention of kissing Miss Ethel as of embracing

  Queen Elizabeth. He was shocked to think of his cousin, walking above,

  fancy-free in maiden meditation, whilst this conversation regarding her

  was carried on below. How could he face her, or her mother, or even her

  maid, now he had cognisance of this naughty calumny? "Of course Hannah

  had contradicted it?" "Of course I have a done no such indeed," replied

  Master Clive's old friend; "of course I have set 'em down a bit; for when

  little Trimmer said it, and she supposed it was all settled between you,

  seeing how it had been a going on in foreign parts last year, Mrs.

  Pincott says, 'Hold your silly tongue, Trimmer,' she says; 'Miss Ethel

  marry a painter, indeed, Trimmer!' says she, 'while she has refused to be

  a Countess,' she says; 'and can be a Marchioness any day, and will be a

  Marchioness. Marry a painter, indeed!' Mrs. Pincott says; 'Trimmer, I'm

  surprised at your impidence.' So, my dear, I got angry at that," Clive's

  champion continued, "and says I, if my young master ain't good enough for

  any young lady in this world, says I, I'd like you to show her to me: and

  if his dear father, the Colonel, says I, ain't as good as your old

  gentleman upstairs, says I, who has gruel and dines upon doctor's stuff,

  the Mrs. Pincott, says I, my name isn't what it is, says I. Those were my

  very words, Master Clive, my dear; and then Mrs. Pincott says, Mrs.

  Hicks, she says, you don't understand society, she says; you don't

  understand society, he! he!" and the country lady, with considerable

  humour, gave an imitation of the town lady's manner.

  At this juncture Miss Honeyman re-entered the parlour, arrayed in her

  Sunday bonnet, her stiff and spotless collar, her Cashmere shawl, and

  Agra brooch, and carrying her Bible and Prayer-Book each stitched in its

  neat cover of brown silk. "Don't stay chattering here, you idle woman,"

  she cried to her attendant with extreme asperity. "And you, sir, if you

  wish to smoke your cigar, you had best walk down to the cliff where the

  Cockneys are!" she added, glowering at Clive.

  "Now I understand it all," Clive said, trying to deprecate her anger. "My

  dear good aunt, it's a most absurd mistake; upon my honour, Miss Ethel is

  as innocent as you are."

  "Innocent or not, this house is not intended for assignations, Clive! As

  long as Sir Brian Newcome lodges here, you will be pleased to keep away

  from it, sir; and though I don't approve of Sunday travelling, I think

  the very best thing you can do is to put yourself in the train and go

  back to London."

  And now, young people, who read my moral pages, you will see how highly

  imprudent it is to sit with your cousins in railway carriages; and how,

  though you may not mean the slightest harm in the world, a great deal may

  be attributed to you; and how, when you think you are managing your

  little absurd love-affairs ever so quietly, Jeames and Betsy in the

  servants'-hall are very likely talking about them, and you are putting

  yourself in the power of those menials. If the perusal of these lines has

  rendered one single young couple uncomfortable, surely my amiable end is

  answered, and I have written not altogether in vain.

  Clive was going away, innocent though he was, yet quivering
under his

  aunt's reproof, and so put out of countenance that he had not even

  thought of lighting the great cigar which he stuck into his foolish

  mouth; when a shout of "Clive! Clive!" from half a dozen little voices

  roused him, and presently as many little Newcomes came toddling down the

  stairs, and this one clung round his knees, and that at the skirts of his

  coat, and another took his hand and said, he must come and walk with them

  on the beach.

  So away went Clive to walk with his cousins, and then to see his old

  friend Miss Cann, with whom and the elder children he walked to church,

  and issuing thence greeted Lady Anne and Ethel (who had also attended the

  service) in the most natural way in the world.

  While engaged in talking with these, Miss Honeyman came out of the sacred

  edifice, crisp and stately in the famous Agra brooch and Cashmere shawls.

  The good-natured Lady Anne had a smile and a kind word for her as for

  everybody. Clive went up to his maternal aunt to offer his arm. "You must

  give him up to us for dinner, Miss Honeyman, if you please to be so very

  kind. He was so good-natured in escorting Ethel down," Lady Anne said.

  "Hm! my lady," says Miss Honeyman, perking her head up in her collar.

  Clive did not know whether to laugh or not, but a fine blush illuminated

  his countenance. As for Ethel, she was and looked perfectly unconscious.

  So, rustling in her stiff black silk, Martha Honeyman walked with her

  nephew silent by the shore of the much-sounding sea. The idea of

  courtship, of osculatory processes, of marrying and giving in marriage,

  made this elderly virgin chafe and fume, she never having, at any period

  of her life, indulged in any such ideas or practices, and being angry

  against them, as childless wives will sometimes be angry and testy

  against matrons with their prattle about their nurseries. Now, Miss Cann

  was a different sort of spinster, and loved a bit of sentiment with all

  her heart from which I am led to conclude--but, pray, is this the history

  of Miss Cann or of the Newcomes?

  All these Newcomes then entered into Miss Honeyman's house, where a

  number of little knives and forks were laid for them. Ethel was cold and

  thoughtful; Lady Anne was perfectly good-natured as her wont was. Sir

  Brian came in on the arm of his valet presently, wearing that look of

  extra neatness which invalids have, who have just been shaved and combed,

  and made ready by their attendants to receive company. He was voluble:

  though there was a perceptible change in his voice: he talked chiefly of

  matters which had occurred forty years ago, and especially of Clive's own

  father, when he was a boy, in a manner which interested the young man and

  Ethel. "He threw me down in a chaise--sad chap--always reading Orme's

  History of India--wanted marry Frenchwoman. He wondered Mrs. Newcome

  didn't leave Tom anything--'pon my word, quite s'prise." The events of

  to-day, the House of Commons, the City, had little interest for him. All

  the children went up and shook him by the hand, with awe in their looks,

  and he patted their yellow heads vacantly and kindly. He asked Clive

  (several times) where he had been? and said he himself had had a slight

  'tack--vay slight--was getting well ev'y day--strong as a horse--go back

  to Parliament d'rectly. And then he became a little peevish with Parker,

  his man, about his broth. The man retired, and came back presently, with

  profound bows and gravity, to tell Sir Brian dinner was ready, and he

  went away quite briskly at this news, giving a couple of fingers to Clive

  before he disappeared into the upper apartments. Good-natured Lady Anne

  was as easy about this as about the other events of this world. In later

  days, with what a strange feeling we remember that last sight we have of

  the old friend; that nod of farewell, and shake of the hand, that last