The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

is the best: I have borrowed that from you Pen, old boy. That puzzles

  her: that would beat her if I could but go on with it. But there comes a

  tone of her sweet voice, a look out of those killing grey eyes, and all

  my frame is in a thrill and a tremble. When she was engaged to Lord Kew I

  did battle with the confounded passion--and I ran away from it like an

  honest man, and the gods rewarded me with ease of mind after a while. But

  now the thing rages worse than ever. Last night, I give you my honour, I

  heard every one of the confounded hurs toll, except the last, when I was

  dreaming of my father, and the chambermaid woke me with a hot water jug."

  "Did she scald you? What a cruel chambermaid! I see you have shaven the

  mustachios off."

  "Farintosh asked me whether I was going in the army," said Clive, "and

  she laughed. I thought I had best dock them. Oh, I would like to cut my

  head off as well as my hair!"

  "Have you ever asked her to marry you?" asked Clive's friend.

  "I have seen her but five times since my return from abroad," the lad

  went on; "there has been always somebody by. Who am I? a painter with

  five hundred a year for an allowance. Isn't she used to walk up on velvet

  and dine upon silver; and hasn't she got marquises and barons, and all

  sorts of swells, in her train? I daren't ask her----"

  Here his friend hummed Montrose's lines--"He either fears his fate too

  much, or his desert is small, who dares not put it to the touch, and win

  or lose it all."

  "I own I dare not ask her. If she were to refuse me, I know I should

  never ask again. This isn't the moment, when all Swelldom is at her feet,

  for me to come forward and say, 'Maiden, I have watched thee daily, and I

  think thou lovest me well.' I read that ballad to her at Baden, sir. I

  drew a picture of the Lord of Burleigh wooing the maiden, and asked what

  she would have done?"

  "Oh, you did? I thought, when we were at Baden, we were so modest that we

  did not even whisper our condition?"

  "A fellow can't help letting it be seen and hinting it," says Clive, with

  another blush. "They can read it in our looks fast enough; and what is

  going on in our minds, hang them! I recollect she said, in her grave,

  cool way, that after all the Lord and Lady of Burleigh did not seem to

  have made a very good marriage, and that the lady would have been much

  happier in marrying one of her own degree."

  "That was a very prudent saying for a young lady of eighteen," remarks

  Clive's friend.

  "Yes; but it was not an unkind one. Say Ethel thought--thought what was

  the case; and being engaged herself, and knowing how friends of mine had

  provided a very pretty little partner for me--she is a dear, good little

  girl, little Rosey; and twice as good, Pen, when her mother is away--

  knowing this and that, I say, suppose Ethel wanted to give me a hint to

  keep quiet, was she not right in the counsel she gave me? She is not fit

  to be a poor man's wife. Fancy Ethel Newcome going into the kitchen and

  making pies like Aunt Honeyman!"

  "The Circassian beauties don't sell under so many thousand purses,"

  remarked Mr. Pendennis. "If there's a beauty in a well-regulated Georgian

  family, they fatten her; they feed her with the best Racahout des Arabes.

  They give her silk robes, and perfumed baths; have her taught to play on

  the dulcimer and dance and sing; and when she is quite perfect, send her

  down to Constantinople for the Sultan's inspection. The rest of the

  family think never of grumbling, but eat coarse meat, bathe in the river,

  wear old clothes, and praise Allah for their sister's elevation. Bah! Do

  you suppose the Turkish system doesn't obtain all over the world? My poor

  Clive, this article in the Mayfair Market is beyond your worship's price.

  Some things in this world are made for our betters, young man. Let Dives

  say grace for his dinner, and the dogs and Lazarus be thankful for the

  crumbs. Here comes Warrington, shaven and smart as if he was going out

  a-courting."

  Thus it will be seen, that in his communication with certain friends who

  approached nearer to his own time of life, Clive was much more eloquent

  and rhapsodical than in the letter which he wrote to his father,

  regarding his passion for Miss Ethel. He celebrated her with pencil and

  pen. He was for ever drawing the outline of her head, the solemn eyebrow,

  the nose (that wondrous little nose), descending from the straight

  forehead, the short upper lip, and chin sweeping in a full curve to the

  neck, etc. etc. A frequenter of his studio might see a whole gallery of

  Ethels there represented: when Mrs. Mackenzie visited that place, and

  remarked one face and figure repeated on a hundred canvases and papers,

  grey, white, and brown, I believe she was told that the original was a

  famous Roman model, from whom Clive had studied a great deal during his

  residence in Italy; on which Mrs. Mack gave it as her opinion that Clive

  was a sad wicked young fellow. The widow thought rather the better of him

  for being a sad wicked young fellow; and as for Miss Rosey, she, was of

  course of mamma's way of thinking. Rosey went through the world

  constantly smiling at whatever occurred. She was good-humoured through

  the dreariest long evenings at the most stupid parties; sate

  good-humouredly for hours at Shoolbred's whilst mamma was making

  purchases; heard good-humouredly those old old stories of her mother's

  day after day; bore an hour's joking or an hour's scolding with equal

  good-humour; and whatever had been the occurrences of her simple day,

  whether there was sunshine or cloudy weather, or flashes of lightning and

  bursts of rain, I fancy Miss Mackenzie slept after them quite

  undisturbedly, and was sure to greet the morrow's dawn with a smile.

  Had Clive become more knowing in his travels, had Love or Experience

  opened his eyes, that they looked so differently now upon objects which

  before used well enough to please them? It is a fact that, until he went

  abroad, he thought widow Mackenzie a dashing, lively, agreeable woman: he

  used to receive her stories about Cheltenham, the colonies, the balls at

  Government House, the observations which the bishop made, and the

  peculiar attention of the Chief Justice to Mrs. Major M'Shane, with the

  Major's uneasy behaviour--all these to hear at one time did Clive not

  ungraciously incline. "Our friend, Mrs. Mack," the good old Colonel used

  to say, "is a clever woman of the world, and has seen a great deal of

  company." That story of Sir Thomas Sadman dropping a pocket-handkerchief

  in his court at Colombo, which the Queen's Advocate O'Goggarty picked up,

  and on which Laura MacS. was embroidered, whilst the Major was absolutely

  in the witness-box giving evidence against a native servant who had

  stolen one of his cocked-hats--that story always made good Thomas Newcome

  laugh, and Clive used to enjoy it too, and the widow's mischievous fun in

  narrating it; and now, behold, one day when Mrs. Mackenzie recounted the

  anecdote in her best manner to Messrs. Pendennis and Warrington, and

  Frederick Bayham, who had been inv
ited to meet Mr. Clive in Fitzroy

  Square--when Mr. Binnie chuckled, when Rosey, as in duty bound, looked

  discomposed and said, "Law, mamma!"--not one sign of good-humour, not one

  ghost of a smile, made its apparition on Clive's dreary face. He painted

  imaginary portraits with a strawberry stalk; he looked into his

  water-glass as though he would plunge and drown there; and Bayham had to

  remind him that the claret jug was anxious to have another embrace from

  its constant friend, F. B. When Mrs. Mack went away distributing smiles,

  Clive groaned out, "Good heavens! how that story does bore me!" and

  lapsed into his former moodiness, not giving so much as a glance to

  Rosey, whose sweet face looked at him kindly for a moment, as she

  followed in the wake of her mamma.

  "The mother's the woman for my money," I heard F. B. whisper to

  Warrington. "Splendid figure-head, sir--magnificent build, sir, from bows

  to stern--I like 'em of that sort. Thank you, Mr. Binnie, I will take a

  back-hander, as Clive don't seem to drink. The youth, sir, has grown

  melancholy with his travels; I'm inclined to think some noble Roman has

  stolen the young man's heart. Why did you not send us over a picture of

  the charmer, Clive? Young Ridley, Mr. Binnie, you will be happy to hear,

  is bidding fair to take a distinguished place in the world of arts. His

  picture has been greatly admired; and my good friend Mrs. Ridley tells me

  that Lord Todmorden has sent him over an order to paint him a couple of

  pictures at a hundred guineas apiece."

  "I should think so. J. J.'s pictures will be worth five times a hundred

  guineas ere five years are over," says Clive.

  "In that case it wouldn't be a bad speculation for our friend Sherrick,"

  remarked F. B., "to purchase a few of the young man's works. I would,

  only I haven't the capital to spare. Mine has been vested in an Odessa

  venture, sir, in a large amount of wild oats, which up to the present

  moment make me no return. But it will always be a consolation to me to

  think that I have been the means--the humble means--of furthering that

  deserving young man's prospects in life."

  "You, F. B.! and how?" we asked.

  "By certain humble contributions of mine to the press," answered Bayham,

  majestically. "Mr. Warrington, the claret happens to stand with you; and

  exercise does it good, sir. Yes, the articles, trifling as they may

  appear, have attracted notice," continued F. B., sipping his wine with

  great gusto. "They are noticed, Pendennis, give me leave to say, by

  parties who don't value so much the literary or even the political part

  of the Pall Mall Gazette, though both, I am told by those who read them,

  are conducted with considerable--consummate ability. John Ridley sent a

  hundred pounds over to his father, the other day, who funded it in his

  son's name. And Ridley told the story to Lord Todmorden, when the

  venerable nobleman congratulated him on having such a child. I wish F. B.

  had one of the same sort, sir." In which sweet prayer we all of us joined

  with a laugh.

  One of us had told Mrs. Mackenzie (let the criminal blush to own that

  quizzing his fellow-creatures used at one time to form part of his

  youthful amusement) that F. B. was the son of a gentleman of most ancient

  family and vast landed possessions, and as Bayham was particularly

  attentive to the widow, and grandiloquent in his remarks, she was greatly

  pleased by his politeness, and pronounced him a most distinque man--

  reminding her, indeed, of General Hopkirk, who commanded in Canada. And

  she bade Rosey sing for Mr. Bayham, who was in a rapture at the young

  lady's performances, and said no wonder such an accomplished daughter

  came from such a mother, though how such a mother could have a daughter

  of such an age he, F. B., was at a loss to understand. Oh, sir! Mrs.

  Mackenzie was charmed and overcome at this novel compliment. Meanwhile

  the little artless Rosey warbled on her pretty ditties.

  "It is a wonder," growled out Mr. Warrington, "that that sweet girl can

  belong to such a woman. I don't understand much about women, but that one

  appears to me to be--hum!"

  "What, George?" asked Warrington's friend.

  "Well, an ogling, leering, scheming, artful old campaigner," grumbled the

  misogynist. "As for the little girl, I should like to have her to sing to

  me all night long. Depend upon it she would make a much better wife for

  Clive than that fashionable cousin of his he is hankering after. I heard

  him bellowing about her the other day in chambers, as I was dressing.

  What the deuce does the boy want with a wife at all?" And Rosey's song

  being by this time finished, Warrington went up with a blushing face and

  absolutely paid a compliment to Miss Mackenzie--an almost unheard-of

  effort on George's part.

  "I wonder whether it is every young fellow's lot," quoth George, as we

  trudged home together, "to pawn his heart away to some girl that's not

  worth the winning? Psha! it's all mad rubbish this sentiment. The women

  ought not to be allowed to interfere with us: married if a man must be, a

  suitable wife should be portioned out to him, and there an end of it. Why

  doesn't the young man marry this girl, and get back to his business and

  paint his pictures? Because his father wishes it--and the old Nabob

  yonder, who seems a kindly-disposed, easy-going, old heathen philosopher.

  Here's a pretty little girl: money I suppose in sufficiency--everything

  satisfactory, except, I grant you, the campaigner. The lad might daub his

  canvases, christen a child a year, and be as happy as any young donkey

  that browses on this common of ours--but he must go and heehaw after a

  zebra forsooth! a lusus naturae is she! I never spoke to a woman of

  fashion, thank my stars--I don't know the nature of the beast; and since

  I went to our race-balls, as a boy, scarcely ever saw one; as I don't

  frequent operas and parties in London like you young flunkeys of the

  aristocracy. I heard you talking about this one; I couldn't help it, as

  my door was open and the young one was shouting like a madman. What! does

  he choose to hang on on sufferance and hope to be taken, provided Miss

  can get no better? Do you mean to say that is the genteel custom, and

  that women in your confounded society do such things every day? Rather

  than have such a creature I would take a savage woman, who should nurse

  my dusky brood; and rather than have a daughter brought up to the trade I

  would bring her down from the woods and sell her in Virginia." With which

  burst of indignation our friend's anger ended for that night.

  Though Mr. Clive had the felicity to meet his cousin Ethel at a party or

  two in the ensuing weeks of the season, every time he perused the

  features of Lady Kew's brass knocker in Queen Street, no result came of

  the visit. At one of their meetings in the world Ethel fairly told him

  that her grandmother would not receive him. "You know, Clive, I can't

  help myself: nor would it be proper to make you signs out of the window.

  But you must call for all that: grandmamma may become more good-humoured:

  or if you d
on't come she may suspect I told you not to come: and to

  battle with her day after day is no pleasure, sir, I assure you. Here is

  Lord Farintosh coming to take me to dance. You must not speak to me all

  the evening, mind that, sir," and away goes the young lady in a waltz

  with the Marquis.

  On the same evening--as he was biting his nails, or cursing his fate, or

  wishing to invite Lord Farintosh into the neighbouring garden of Berkeley

  Square, whence the policeman might carry to the station-house the corpse

  of the survivor,--Lady Kew would bow to him with perfect graciousness; on

  other nights her ladyship would pass and no more recognise him than the

  servant who opened the door.

  If she was not to see him at her grandmother's house, and was not

  particularly unhappy at his exclusion, why did Miss Newcome encourage Mr.

  Clive so that he should try and see her? If Clive could not get into the

  little house in Queen Street, why was Lord Farintosh's enormous cab-horse

  looking daily into the first-floor windows of that street? Why were

  little quiet dinners made for him, before the opera, before going to the

  play, upon a half-dozen occasions, when some of the old old Kew port was

  brought out of the cellar, where cobwebs had gathered round it ere

  Farintosh was born? The dining-room was so tiny that not more than five

  people could sit at the little round table: that is, not more than Lady

  Kew and her granddaughter, Miss Crochet, the late vicar's daughter, at

  Kewbury, one of the Miss Toadins, and Captain Walleye, or Tommy Henchman,

  Farintosh's kinsman, and admirer, who were of no consequence, or old Fred

  Tiddler, whose wife was an invalid, and who was always ready at a

  moment's notice? Crackthorpe once went to one of these dinners, but that

  young soldier being a frank and high-spirited youth, abused the

  entertainment and declined more of them. "I tell you what I was wanted

  for," the Captain told his mess and Clive at the Regent's Park barracks

  afterwards, "I was expected to go as Farintosh's Groom of the Stole,

  don't you know, to stand, or if I could sit, in the back seat of the box,

  whilst his Royal Highness made talk with the Beauty; to go out and fetch

  the carriage, and walk downstairs with that d----- crooked old dowager,

  that looks as if she usually rode on a broomstick, by Jove, or else with

  that bony old painted sheep-faced companion, who's raddled like an old

  bell-wether. I think, Newcome, you seem rather hit by the Belle Cousine--

  so was I last season; so were ever so many of the fellows. By Jove, sir!

  there's nothing I know more comfortable or inspiritin' than a younger

  son's position, when a marquis cuts in with fifteen thousand a year! We

  fancy we've been making running, and suddenly we find ourselves nowhere.

  Miss Mary, or Miss Lucy, or Miss Ethel, saving your presence, will no

  more look at us, than my dog will look at a bit of bread, when I offer

  her this cutlet. Will you--old woman! no, you old slut, that you won't!"

  (to Mag, an Isle of Skye terrier, who, in fact, prefers the cutlet,

  having snuffed disdainfully at the bread)--"that you won't, no more than

  any of your sex. Why, do you suppose, if Jack's eldest brother had been

  dead--Barebones Belsize they used to call him (I don't believe he was a

  bad fellow, though he was fond of psalm-singing)--do you suppose that

  Lady Clara would have looked at that cock-tail Barney Newcome? Beg your

  pardon, if he's your cousin--but a more odious little snob I never saw."

  "I give you up Barnes," said Clive, laughing; "anybody may shy at him and

  I shan't interfere."

  "I understand, but at nobody else of the family. Well, what I mean is,

  that that old woman is enough to spoil any young girl she takes in hand.

  She dries 'em up, and poisons 'em, sir; and I was never more glad than

  when I heard that Kew had got out of her old clutches. Frank is a fellow