maid was as tender-hearted at his departure as her mistress. He was
ailing for a short time, when our cook performed prodigies of puddings
and jellies to suit his palate. The youth who held the offices of butler
and valet in our establishment--a lazy and greedy youth whom Martha
scolded in vain--would jump up and leave his supper to carry a message to
our Colonel. My heart is full as I remember the kind words which he said
to me at parting, and as I think that we were the means of giving a
little comfort to that stricken and gentle soul.
Whilst the Colonel and his son stayed with us, letters of course passed
between Clive and his family at Boulogne, but my wife remarked that the
receipt of those letters appeared to give our friend but little pleasure.
They were read in a minute, and he would toss them over to his father, or
thrust them into his pocket with a gloomy face. "Don't you see," groans
out Clive to me one evening, "that Rosa scarcely writes the letters, or
if she does, that her mother is standing over her? That woman is the
Nemesis of our life, Pen. How can I pay her off? Great God! how can I pay
her off?" And so having spoken, his head fell between his hands, and as I
watched him I saw a ghastly domestic picture before me of helpless pain,
humiliating discord, stupid tyranny.
What, I say again, are the so-called great ills of life compared to these
small ones?
The Colonel accompanied Clive to the lodgings which we had found for the
young artist, in a quarter not far removed from the old house in Fitzroy
Square, where some happy years of his youth had been spent. When sitters
came to Clive--as at first they did in some numbers, many of his early
friends being anxious to do him a service--the old gentleman was
extraordinarily cheered and comforted. We could see by his face that
affairs were going on well at the studio. He showed us the rooms which
Rosey and the boy were to occupy. He prattled to our children and their
mother, who was never tired of hearing him, about his grandson. He filled
up the future nursery with a hundred little knick-knacks of his own
contriving; and with wonderful cheap bargains, which he bought in his
walks about Tottenham Court Road. He pasted a most elaborate book of
prints and sketches for Boy. It was astonishing what notice Boy already
took of pictures. He would have all the genius of his father. Would he
had had a better grandfather than the foolish old man who had ruined all
belonging to him!
However much they like each other, men in the London world see their
friends but seldom. The place is so vast that even next door is distant;
the calls of business, society, pleasure, so multifarious that mere
friendship can get or give but an occasional shake of the hand in the
hurried moments of passage. Men must live their lives; and are perforce
selfish, but not unfriendly. At a great need you know where to look for
your friend, and he that he is secure of you. So I went very little to
Howland Street, where Clive now lived; very seldom to Lamb Court, where
my dear old friend Warrington still sate in his old chambers, though our
meetings were none the less cordial when they occurred, and our trust in
one another always the same. Some folks say the world is heartless: he
who says so either prates commonplaces (the most likely and charitable
suggestion), or is heartless himself, or is most singular and unfortunate
in having made no friends. Many such a reasonable mortal cannot have: our
nature, I think, not sufficing for that sort of polygamy. How many
persons would you have to deplore your death; or whose death would you
wish to deplore? Could our hearts let in such a harem of dear
friendships, the mere changes and recurrences of grief and mourning would
be intolerable, and tax our lives beyond their value. In a word, we carry
our own burthen in the world; push and struggle along on our own affairs;
are pinched by our own shoes--though Heaven forbid we should not stop and
forget ourselves sometimes, when a friend cries out in his distress, or
we can help a poor stricken wanderer in his way. As for good women--
these, my worthy reader, are different from us--the nature of these is to
love, and to do kind offices, and devise untiring charities:--so I would
have you to know, that, though Mr. Pendennis was parcus suorum cultor et
infrequens, Mrs. Laura found plenty of time to go from Westminster to
Bloomsbury; and to pay visits to her Colonel and her Clive, both of whom
she had got to love with all her heart again, now misfortune was on them;
and both of whom returned her kindness with an affection blessing the
bestower and the receiver; and making the husband proud and thankful
whose wife had earned such a noble regard. What is the dearest praise of
all to a man? his own--or that you should love those whom he loves? I see
Laura Pendennis ever constant and tender and pure, ever ministering in
her sacred office of kindness--bestowing love and followed by blessings.
Which would I have, think you; that priceless crown hymeneal, or the
glory of a Tenth Edition?
Clive and his father had found not only a model friend in the lady above
mentioned, but a perfect prize landlady in their happy lodgings. In her
house, besides those apartments which Mr. Newcome had originally engaged,
were rooms just sufficient to accommodate his wife, child, and servant,
when they should come to him, with a very snug little upper chamber for
the Colonel, close by Boy's nursery, where he liked best to be. "And if
there is not room for the Campaigner, as you call her," says Mrs. Laura,
with a shrug of her shoulders, "why, I am very sorry, but Clive must try
and bear her absence as well as possible. After all, my dear Pen, you
know he is married to Rosa and not to her mamma; and so, and so I think
it will be quite best that they shall have their menage as before."
The cheapness of the lodgings which the prize landlady let, the quantity
of neat new furniture which she put in, the consultations which she had
with my wife regarding these supplies, were quite singular to me. "Have
you pawned your diamonds, you reckless little person, in order to supply
all this upholstery?" "No, sir, I have not pawned my diamonds," Mrs.
Laura answers; and I was left to think (if I thought on the matter at
all) that the landlady's own benevolence had provided these good things
for Clive. For the wife of Laura's husband was perforce poor; and she
asked me for no more money at this time than at any other.
At first, in spite of his grumbling, Clive's affairs looked so
prosperous, and so many sitters came to him from amongst his old friends,
that I was half inclined to believe with the Colonel and my wife, that he
was a prodigious genius, and that his good fortune would go on
increasing. Laura was for having Rosey return to her husband. Every wife
ought to be with her husband. J. J. shook his head about the prosperity.
"Let us see whether the Academy will have his pictures this year, and
what a place they will give him," said Ridley. To do him justice, Clive
th
ought far more humbly of his compositions than Ridley did. Not a little
touching was it to us, who had known the young men in former days, to see
them in their changed positions. It was Ridley, whose genius and industry
had put him in the rank of a patron--Ridley, the good industrious
apprentice, who had won the prize of his art--and not one of his many
admirers saluted his talent and success with such a hearty recognition as
Clive, whose generous soul knew no envy, and who always fired and kindled
at the success of his friends.
When Mr. Clive used to go over to Boulogne from time to time to pay his
dutiful visits to his wife, the Colonel did not accompany his son, but,
during the latter's absence, would dine with Mrs. Pendennis.
Though the preparations were complete in Howland Street, and Clive
dutifully went over to Boulogne, Mrs. Pendennis remarked that he seemed
still to hesitate about bringing his wife to London.
Upon this Mr. Pendennis observed that some gentlemen were not
particularly anxious about the society of their wives, and that this pair
were perhaps better apart. Upon which Mrs. Pendennis, drubbing on the
ground with a little foot, said, "Nonsense, for shame, Arthur! How can
you speak so flippantly? Did he not swear before Heaven to love and
cherish her, never to leave her, sir? Is not his duty his duty, sir?" (a
most emphatic stamp of the foot). "Is she not his for better, or for
worse?"
"Including the Campaigner, my dear?" says Mr. P.
"Don't laugh, sir! She must come to him. There is no room in Howland
Street for Mrs. Mackenzie."
"You artful scheming creature! We have some spare rooms. Suppose we ask
Mrs. Mackenzie to come and live with us, my dear? and we could then have
the benefit of the garrison anecdotes, and mess jocularities of your
favourite, Captain Goby."
"I could never bear the horrid man!" cried Mrs. Pendennis. And how can I
tell why she disliked him?
Everything being now ready for the reception of Clive's little family, we
counselled our friend to go over to Boulogne, and bring back his wife and
child, and then to make some final stipulation with the Campaigner. He
saw, as well as we, that the presence and tyranny of that fatal woman
destroyed his father's health and spirits--that the old man knew no peace
or comfort in her neighbourhood, and was actually hastening to his grave
under that dreadful and unremitting persecution. Mrs. Mackenzie made
Clive scarcely less wretched than his father--she governed his household
--took away his weak wife's allegiance and affection from him--and caused
the wretchedness of every single person round about her. They ought to
live apart. If she was too poor to subsist upon her widow's pension,
which, in truth, was but a very small pittance, let Clive give up to her,
say, the half of his wife's income of one hundred pounds a year. His
prospects and present means of earning money were such that he might
afford to do without that portion of his income; at any rate, he and his
father would be cheaply ransomed at that price from their imprisonment to
this intolerable person. "Go, Clive," said his counsellors, "and bring
back your wife and child, and let us all be happy together." For, you
see, those advisers opined that if we had written over to Mrs. Newcome
--"Come"--she would have come with the Campaigner in her suite.
Vowing that he would behave like a man of courage--and we knew that Clive
had shown himself to be such in two or three previous battles--Clive
crossed the water to bring back his little Rosey. Our good Colonel agreed
to dine at our house during the days of his son's absence. I have said
how beloved he was by young and old there--and he was kind enough to say
afterwards, that no woman had made him so happy as Laura. We did not tell
him--I know not from what reticence--that we had advised Clive to offer a
bribe of fifty pounds a year to Mrs. Mackenzie; until about a fortnight
after Clive's absence, and a week after his return, when news came that
poor old Mrs. Mason was dead at Newcome, whereupon we informed the
Colonel that he had another pensioner now in the Campaigner.
Colonel Newcome was thankful that his dear old friend had gone out of the
world in comfort and without pain. She had made a will long since,
leaving all her goods and chattels to Thomas Newcome--but having no money
to give, the Colonel handed over these to the old lady's faithful
attendant, Keziah.
Although many of the Colonel's old friends had parted from him or
quarrelled with him in consequence of the ill success of the B. B. C.,
there were two old ladies who yet remained faithful to him--Miss Cann,
namely, and honest little Miss Honeyman of Brighton, who, when she heard
of the return to London of her nephew and brother-in-law, made a railway
journey to the metropolis (being the first time she ever engaged in that
kind of travelling), rustled into Clive's apartments in Howland Street in
her neatest silks, and looking not a day older than on that when we last
beheld her; and after briskly scolding the young man for permitting his
father to enter into money affairs--of which the poor dear Colonel was as
ignorant as a baby--she gave them both to understand that she had a
little sum at her banker's at their disposal--and besought the Colonel to
remember that her house was his, and that she should be proud and happy
to receive him as soon and as often and for as long a time as he would
honour her with his company. "Is not my house full of your presents"--
cried the stout little old lady--"have I not reason to be grateful to all
the Newcomes--yes, to all the Newcomes;--for Miss Ethel and her family
have come to me every year for months, and I don't quarrel with them, and
I won't, although you do, sir? Is not this shawl--are not these jewels
that I wear," she continued, pointing to those well-known ornaments, "my
dear Colonel's gift? Did you not relieve my brother Charles in this
country and procure for him his place in India? Yes, my dear friend--and
though you have been imprudent in money matters, my obligations towards
you, and my gratitude, and my affection are always the same." Thus Miss
Honeyman spoke, with somewhat of a quivering voice at the end of her
little oration, but with exceeding state and dignity--for she believed
that her investment of two hundred pounds in that unlucky B. B. C., which
failed for half a million, was a sum of considerable importance, and gave
her a right to express her opinion to the Managers.
Clive came back from Boulogne in a week, as we have said--but he came
back without his wife, much to our alarm, and looked so exceedingly
fierce and glum when we demanded the reason of his return without his
family, that we saw wars and battles had taken place, and thought that in
this last continental campaign the Campaigner had been too much for her
friend.
The Colonel, to whom Clive communicated, though with us the poor lad held
his tongue, told my wife what had happened:--not all the battles; which
no doubt raged at breakfast, di
nner, supper, during the week of Clive's
visit to Boulogne,--but the upshot of these engagements. Rosey, not
unwilling in her first private talk with her husband to come to England
with him and the boy, showed herself irresolute on the second day at
breakfast, when the fire was opened on both sides; cried at dinner when
fierce assaults took place, in which Clive had the advantage; slept
soundly, but besought him to be very firm, and met the enemy at breakfast
with a quaking heart; cried all that day during which, pretty well
without cease, the engagement lasted; and when Clive might have conquered
and brought her off, but the weather was windy and the sea was rough, and
he was pronounced a brute to venture on it with a wife in Rosey's
situation.
Behind that "situation" the widow shielded herself. She clung to her
adored child, and from that bulwark discharged abuse and satire at Clive
and his father. He could not rout her out of her position. Having had the
advantage on the first two or three days, on the four last he was beaten,
and lost ground in each action. Rosey found that in her situation she
could not part from her darling mamma. The Campaigner for her part
averred that she might be reduced to beggary; that she might be robbed of
her last farthing and swindled and cheated; that she might see her
daughter's fortune flung away by unprincipled adventurers, and her
blessed child left without even the comforts of life; but desert her in
such a situation, she never would--no, never! Was not dear Rosa's health
already impaired by the various shocks which she had undergone? Did she
not require every comfort, every attendance? Monster! ask the doctor! She
would stay with her darling child in spite of insult and rudeness and
vulgarity. (Rosey's father was a King's officer, not a Company's officer,
thank God!) She would stay as long at least as Rosey's situation
continued, at Boulogne, if not in London, but with her child. They might
refuse to send her money, having robbed her of all her own, but she would
pawn her gown off her back for her child. Whimpers from Rosey--cries of
"Mamma, mamma, compose yourself,"--convulsive sobs--clenched knuckles--
flashing eyes--embraces rapidly clutched--laughs--stamps--snorts--from
the dishevelled Campaigner; grinding teeth--livid fury and repeated
breakages of the third commandment by Clive--I can fancy the whole scene.
He returned to London without his wife, and when she came she brought
Mrs. Mackenzie with her.
CHAPTER LXXV
Founder's Day at the Grey Friars
Rosey came, bringing discord and wretchedness with her to her husband,
and the sentence of death or exile to his dear old father, all of which
we foresaw--all of which Clive's friends would have longed to prevent--
all of which were inevitable under the circumstances. Clive's domestic
affairs were often talked over by our little set. Warrington and F. B.
knew of his unhappiness. We three had strongly opined that the women
being together at Boulogne, should stay there and live there, Clive
sending them over pecuniary aid as his means permitted. "They must hate
each other pretty well by this time," growls George Warrington. "Why on
earth should they not part?" "What a woman that Mrs. Mackenzie is!" cries
F. B. "What an infernal tartar and catamaran! She who was so uncommonly
smiling and soft-spoken, and such a fine woman, by jingo! What puzzles
all women are!" F. B. sighed, and drowned further reflection in beer.
On the other side, and most strongly advocating Rosey's return to Clive,
was Mrs. Laura Pendennis; with certain arguments for which she had
chapter and verse, and against which we of the separatist party had no
appeal. "Did he marry her only for the days of her prosperity?" asked
Laura. "Is it right, is it manly, that he should leave her now she is
unhappy--poor little creature--no woman had ever more need of protection;
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