time, acted like wet blankets upon the Britons--whereas F. B. warmed them
and cheered them, affably partook of their meals with them, and
graciously shared their cups. So the Colonel was alone, listening to the
far-off roar of the Britons' choruses by an expiring fire, as he sate by
a glass of cold negus and the ashes of his cigar.
I dare say he may have been thinking that his fire was well-nigh out,--
his cup of the dregs, his pipe little more now than dust and ashes--when
Clive, candle in hand, came into their sitting-room.
As each saw the other's face, it was so very sad and worn and pale, that
the young man started back; and the elder, with quite the tenderness of
old days, cried, "God bless me, my boy, how ill you look! Come and warm
yourself--look, the fire's out. Have something, Clivy!"
For months past they had not had a really kind word. The tender old voice
smote upon Clive, and he burst into sudden tears. They rained upon his
father's trembling old brown hand, and stooped down and kissed it.
"You look very ill too, father," says Clive.
"Ill? not I!" cries the father, still keeping the boy's hand under both
his own on the mantelpiece. "Such a battered old fellow as I am has a
right to look the worse for wear; but you, boy; why do you look so pale?"
"I have seen a ghost, father," Clive answered. Thomas, however, looked
alarmed and inquisitive as though the boy was wandering in his mind.
"The ghost of my youth, father, the ghost of my happiness, and the best
days of my life," groaned out the young man. "I saw Ethel to-day. I went
to see Sarah Mason, and she was there."
"I had seen her, but I did not speak of her," said the father. I thought
it was best not to mention her to you, my poor boy. And are--are you fond
of her still, Clive?"
"Still! once means always in these things, father, doesn't it? Once means
to-day, and yesterday, and forever and ever."
"Nay, my boy, you mustn't talk to me so, or even to yourself so. You have
the dearest little wife at home, a dear little wife and child."
"You had a son, and have been kind enough to him, God knows. You had a
wife: but that doesn't prevent other--other thoughts. Do you know you
never spoke twice in your life about my mother? You didn't care for her."
"I--I did my duty by her; I denied her nothing. I scarcely ever had a
word with her, and I did my best to make her happy," interposed the
Colonel.
"I know, but your heart was with the other. So is mine. It's fatal; it
runs in the family, father."
The boy looked so ineffably wretched that the father's heart melted still
more. "I did my best, Clive," the Colonel gasped out. "I went to that
villain Barnes and offered him to settle every shilling I was worth on
you--I did--you didn't know that--I'd kill myself for your sake, Clivy.
What's an old fellow worth living for? I can live upon a crust and a
cigar. I don't care about a carriage, and only go in it to please Rosey.
I wanted to give up all for you, but he played me false, that scoundrel
cheated us both; he did, and so did Ethel."
"No, sir; I may have thought so in my rage once, but I know better now.
She was the victim and not the agent. Did Madame de Florac play you false
when she married her husband? It was her fate, and she underwent it. We
all bow to it, we are in the track and the car passes over us. You know
it does, father." The Colonel was a fatalist: he had often advanced this
Oriental creed in his simple discourses with his son and Clive's friends.
"Besides," Clive went on, "Ethel does not care for me. She received me
to-day quite coldly, and held her hand out as if we had only parted last
year. I suppose she likes that marquis who jilted her--God bless her! How
shall we know what wins the hearts of women? She has mine. There was my
Fate. Praise be to Allah! It is over."
"But there's that villain who injured you. His isn't over yet," cried the
Colonel, clenching his trembling hand.
"Ah, father! Let us leave him to Allah too! Suppose Madame de Florac had
a brother who insulted you. You know you wouldn't have revenged yourself.
You would have wounded her in striking him."
"You called out Barnes yourself, boy," cried the father.
"That was for another cause, and not for my quarrel. And how do you know
I intended to fire? By Jove, I was so miserable then that an ounce of
lead would have done me little harm!"
The father saw the son's mind more clearly than he had ever done
hitherto. They had scarcely ever talked upon that subject which the
Colonel found was so deeply fixed in Clive's heart. He thought of his own
early days, and how he had suffered, and beheld his son before him
racked with the same cruel pangs of enduring grief. And he began to own
that he had pressed him too hastily in his marriage; and to make an
allowance for an unhappiness of which he had in part been the cause.
"Mashallah! Clive, my boy," said the old man, "what is done is done."
"Let us break up our camp before this place, and not go to war with
Barnes, father," said Clive. "Let us have peace--and forgive him if we
can."
"And retreat before this scoundrel, Clive?"
"What is a victory over such a fellow? One gives a chimney-sweep the
wall, father."
"I say again--What is done is done. I have promised to meet him at the
hustings, and I will. I think it is best: and you are right: and you act
like a high-minded gentleman--and my dear old boy--not to meddle in the
quarrel--though I didn't think so--and the difference gave me a great
deal of pain--and so did what Pendennis said--and I'm wrong--and thank
God I am wrong--and God bless you, my own boy!" the Colonel cried out in
a burst of emotion; and the two went to their bedrooms together, and were
happier as they shook hands at the doors of their adjoining chambers than
they had been for many a long day and year.
CHAPTER LXIX
The Election
Having thus given his challenge, reconnoitred the enemy, and pledged
himself to do battle at the ensuing election, our Colonel took leave of
the town of Newcome, and returned to his banking affairs in London. His
departure was as that of a great public personage; the gentlemen of the
Committee followed him obsequiously down to the train. "Quick," bawls out
Mr. Potts to Mr. Brown, the station-master, "Quick, Mr. Brown, a carriage
for Colonel Newcome!" Half a dozen hats are taken off as he enters into
the carriage, F. Bayham and his servant after him, with portfolios,
umbrellas, shawls, despatch-boxes. Clive was not there to act as his
father's aide-de-camp. After their conversation together the young man
had returned to Mrs. Clive and his other duties in life.
It has been said that Mr. Pendennis was in the country, engaged in a
pursuit exactly similar to that which occupied Colonel Newcome. The
menaced dissolution of Parliament did not take place so soon as we
expected. The Ministry still hung together, and by consequence, Sir
Barnes Newcome kept the seat in the House of Commons, from which his
elder kinsman was
eager to oust him. Away from London, and having but few
correspondents, save on affairs of business, I heard little of Clive and
the Colonel, save an occasional puff of one of Colonel Newcome's
entertainments in the Pall Mall Gazette, to which journal F. Bayham still
condescended to contribute; and a satisfactory announcement in a certain
part of that paper, that on such a day, in Hyde Park Gardens, Mrs. Clive
Newcome had presented her husband with a son. Clive wrote to me
presently, to inform me of the circumstance, stating at the same time,
with but moderate gratification on his own part, that the Campaigner,
Mrs. Newcome's mamma, had upon this second occasion made a second
lodgment in her daughter's house and bedchamber, and showed herself
affably disposed to forget the little unpleasantries which had clouded
over the sunshine of her former visit.
Laura, with a smile of some humour, said she thought now would be the
time when, if Clive could be spared from his bank, he might pay us that
visit at Fairoaks which had been due so long, and hinted that change of
air and a temporary absence from Mrs. Mackenzie might be agreeable to my
old friend.
It was, on the contrary, Mr. Pendennis's opinion that his wife artfully
chose that period of time when little Rosey was, perforce, kept at home
and occupied with her delightful maternal duties, to invite Clive to see
us. Mrs. Laura frankly owned that she liked our Clive better without his
wife than with her, and never ceased to regret that pretty Rosey had not
bestowed her little hand upon Captain Hoby, as she had been very well
disposed at one time to do. Against all marriages of interest this
sentimental Laura never failed to utter indignant protests; and Clive's
had been a marriage of interest, a marriage made up by the old people, a
marriage which the young man had only yielded out of good-nature and
obedience. She would apostrophise her unconscious young ones, and inform
those innocent babies that they should never be made to marry except for
love, never--an announcement which was received with perfect indifference
by little Arthur on his rocking-horse, and little Helen smiling and
crowing in her mother's lap.
So Clive came down to us, careworn in appearance, but very pleased and
happy, he said, to stay for a while with the friends of his youth. We
showed him our modest rural lions; we got him such sport and company as
our quiet neighbourhood afforded, we gave him fishing in the Brawl, and
Laura in her pony-chaise drove him to Baymouth, and to Clavering Park and
town, and visit the famous cathedral at Chatteris, where she was pleased
to recount certain incidents of her husband's youth.
Clive laughed at my wife's stories; he pleased himself in our home; he
played with our children, with whom he had became a great favourite; he
was happier, he told me with a sigh, than he had been for many a day. His
gentle hostess echoed the sigh of the poor young fellow. She was sure
that his pleasure was only transitory, and was convinced that many deep
cares weighed upon his mind.
Ere long my old schoolfellow made me sundry confessions, which showed
that Laura's surmises were correct. About his domestic affairs he did not
treat much; the little boy was said to be a very fine little boy; the
ladies had taken entire possession of him. "I can't stand Mrs. Mackenzie
any longer, I own," says Clive; "but how resist a wife at such a moment?
Rosa was sure she would die, unless her mother came to her, and of course
we invited Mrs. Mack. This time she is all smiles and politeness with the
Colonel: the last quarrel is laid upon me, and in so far I am easy, as
the old folks get on pretty well together." To me, considering these
things, it was clear that Mr. Clive Newcome was but a very secondary
personage indeed in his father's new fine house which he inhabited, and
in which the poor Colonel had hoped they were to live such a happy
family.
But it was about Clive Newcome's pecuniary affairs that I felt the most
disquiet when he came to explain these to me. The Colonel's capital and
that considerable sum which Mrs. Clive had inherited from her good old
uncle, were all involved in a common stock, of which Colonel Newcome took
the management. "The governor understands business so well, you see,"
says Clive; "is a most remarkable head for accounts: he must have
inherited that from my grandfather, you know, who made his own fortune:
all the Newcomes are good at accounts, except me, a poor useless devil
who knows nothing but to paint a picture, and who can't even do that." He
cuts off the head of a thistle as he speaks, bites his tawny mustachios,
plunges his hands into his pockets and his soul into reverie.
"You don't mean to say," asks Mr. Pendennis, "that your wife's fortune
has not been settled upon herself?"
"Of course it has been settled upon herself; that is, it is entirely her
own--you know the Colonel has managed all the business, he understands it
better than we do."
"Do you say that your wife's money is not vested in the hands of
trustees, and for her benefit?"
"My father is one of the trustees. I tell you he manages the whole thing.
What is his property is mine and ever has been; and I might draw upon him
as much as I liked: and you know it's five times as great as my wife's.
What is his is ours, and what is ours is his, of course; for instance,
the India Stock, which poor Uncle James left, that now stands in the
Colonel's name. He wants to be a Director: he will be at the next
election--he must have a certain quantity of India Stock, don't you see?"
"My dear fellow, is there then no settlement made upon your wife at all?"
"You needn't look so frightened," says Clive. "I made a settlement on
her: with all my worldly goods I did her endow three thousand three
hundred and thirty-three pounds six and eightpence, which my father sent
over from India to my uncle, years ago, when I came home."
I might well indeed be aghast at this news, and had yet further
intelligence from Clive, which by no means contributed to lessen my
anxiety. This worthy old Colonel, who fancied himself to be so clever a
man of business, chose to conduct it in utter ignorance and defiance of
law. If anything happened to the Bundelcund Bank, it was clear that not
only every shilling of his own property, but every farthing bequeathed to
Rosa Mackenzie would be lost; only his retiring pension, which was
luckily considerable, and the hundred pounds a year which Clive had
settled on his wife, would be saved out of the ruin.
And now Clive confided to me his own serious doubts and misgivings
regarding the prosperity of the Bank itself. He did not know why, but he
could not help fancying that things were going wrong. Those partners who
had come home, having sold out of the Bank, and living in England so
splendidly, why had they quitted it? The Colonel said it was a proof of
the prosperity of the company, that so many gentlemen were enriched who
had taken shares in it. "But when I asked my father," Clive conti
nued,
"why he did not himself withdraw, the dear old Colonel's countenance
fell: he told me such things were not to be done every day; and ended, as
usual, by saying that I do not understand anything about business. No
more I do: that is the truth. I hate the whole concern, Pen! I hate that
great tawdry house in which we live; and those fearfully stupid parties:
--Oh, how I wish we were back in Fitzroy Square! But who can recall
bygones, Arthur; or wrong steps in life? We must make the best of to-day,
and to-morrow must take care of itself. 'Poor little child!' I could not
help thinking, as I took it crying in my arms the other day, 'what has
life in store for you, my poor weeping baby?' My mother-in-law cried out
that I should drop the baby, and that only the Colonel knew how to hold
it. My wife called from her bed; the nurse dashed up and scolded me; and
they drove me out of the room amongst them. By Jove, Pen, I laugh when
some of my friends congratulate me on my good fortune! I am not quite the
father of my own child, nor the husband of my own wife, nor even the
master of my own easel. I am managed for, don't you see? boarded, lodged,
and done for. And here is the man they call happy. Happy! Oh!!! Why had I
not your strength of mind; and why did I ever leave my art, my mistress?"
And herewith the poor lad fell to chopping thistles again; and quitted
Fairoaks shortly, leaving his friends there very much disquieted about
his prospects, actual and future.
The expected dissolution of Parliament came at length. All the country
papers in England teemed with electioneering addresses; and the country
was in a flutter with particoloured ribbons. Colonel Thomas Newcome,
pursuant to his promise, offered himself to the independent electors of
Newcome in the Liberal journal of the family town, whilst Sir Barnes
Newcome, Bart., addressed himself to his old and tried friends, and
called upon the friends of the constitution to rally round him, in the
Conservative print. The addresses of our friend were sent to us at
Fairoaks by the Colonel's indefatigable aide-de-camp, Mr. Frederick
Bayham. During the period which had elapsed since the Colonel's last
canvassing visit and the issuing of the writs now daily expected for the
new Parliament, many things of great importance had occurred in Thomas
Newcome's family--events which were kept secret from his biographer, who
was, at this period also, pretty entirely occupied with his own affairs.
These, however, are not the present subject of this history, which has
Newcome for its business, and the parties engaged in the family quarrel
there.
There were four candidates in the field for the representation of that
borough. That old and tried member of Parliament, Mr. Bunce, was
considered to be secure; and the Baronet's seat was thought to be pretty
safe on account of his influence in the place. Nevertheless, Thomas
Newcome's supporters were confident for their champion, and that when the
parties came to the poll, the extreme Liberals of the borough would
divide their votes between him and the fourth candidate, the
uncompromising Radical, Mr. Barker.
In due time the Colonel and his staff arrived at Newcome, and resumed the
active canvass which they had commenced some months previously. Clive was
not in his father's suite this time, nor Mr. Warrington, whose
engagements took him elsewhere. The lawyer, the editor of the
Independent, and F. B., were the Colonel's chief men. His headquarters
(which F. B. liked very well) were at the hotel where we last saw him,
and whence issuing with his aide-de-camp at his heels, the Colonel went
round to canvass personally, according to his promise, every free and
independent elector of the borough. Barnes too was canvassing eagerly on
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