The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

wife's mother, whom my imprudence had impoverished,--that here was an

  honourable asylum which my friend could procure for me, and was not that

  better than to drain his purse? She was very much moved, sir--she is a

  very kind lady, though she passed for being very proud and haughty in

  India--so wrongly are people judged. And Lord H. said, in his rough way,

  'that, by Jove, if Tom Newcome took a thing into his obstinate old head

  no one could drive it out.' And so," said the Colonel, with his sad

  smile, "I had my own way. Lady H. was good enough to come and see me the

  very next day--and do you know, Pen, she invited me to go and live with

  them for the rest of my life--made me the most generous, the most

  delicate offers. But I knew I was right, and held my own. I am too old to

  work, Arthur: and better here whilst I am to stay, than elsewhere. Look!

  all this furniture came from H. House--and that wardrobe is full of

  linen, which she sent me. She has been twice to see me, and every officer

  in this hospital is as courteous to me as if I had my fine house."

  I thought of the psalm we had heard on the previous evening, and turned

  to it in the opened Bible, and pointed to the verse, "Though he fall, he

  shall not be utterly cast down: for the Lord upholdeth him." Thomas

  Newcome seeing my occupation, laid a kind, trembling hand on my shoulder;

  and then, putting on his glasses, with a smile bent over the volume. And

  who that saw him then, and knew him and loved him as I did--who would not

  have humbled his own heart, and breathed his inward prayer, confessing

  and adoring the Divine Will, which ordains these trials, these triumphs,

  these humiliations, these blest griefs, this crowning Love?

  I had the happiness of bringing Clive and his little boy to Thomas

  Newcome that evening; and heard the child's cry of recognition and

  surprise, and the old man calling the boy's name, as I closed the door

  upon that meeting; and by the night's mail I went down to Newcome, to the

  friends with whom my own family was already staying.

  Of course, my conscience-keeper at Rosebury was anxious to know about the

  school-dinner, and all the speeches made, and the guests assembled there;

  but she soot ceased to inquire about these when I came to give her the

  news of the discovery of our dear old friend in the habit of a Poor

  Brother of Grey Friars. She was very glad to hear that Clive and his

  little son had been reunited to the Colonel; and appeared to imagine at

  first, that there was some wonderful merit upon my part in bringing the

  three together.

  "Well--no great merit, Pen, as you will put it," says the Confessor; "but

  it was kindly thought, sir--and I like my husband when he is kind best;

  and don't wonder at your having made a stupid speech at the dinner, as

  you say you did, when you had this other subject to think of. That is a

  beautiful psalm, Pen, and those verses which you were reading when you

  saw him, especially beautiful."

  "But in the presence of eighty old gentlemen, who have all come to decay,

  and have all had to beg their bread in a manner, don't you think the

  clergyman might choose some other psalm?" asks Mr. Pendennis.

  "They were not forsaken utterly, Arthur," says Mrs. Laura, gravely: but

  rather declines to argue the point raised by me; namely, that the

  selection of that especial thirty-seventh psalm was not complimentary to

  those decayed old gentlemen.

  "All the psalms are good, sir," she says, "and this one, of course, is

  included," and thus the discussion closed.

  I then fell to a description of Howland Street, and poor Clive, whom I

  had found there over his work. A dubious maid scanned my appearance

  rather eagerly when I asked to see him. I found a picture-dealer

  chaffering with him over a bundle of sketches, and his little boy,

  already pencil in hand, lying in one corner of the room, the sun playing

  about his yellow hair. The child looked languid and pale, the father worn

  and ill. When the dealer at length took his bargains away, I gradually

  broke my errand to Clive, and told him from whence I had just come.

  He had thought his father in Scotland with Lord H.: and was immensely

  moved with the news which I brought.

  "I haven't written to him for a month. It's not pleasant the letters I

  have to write, Pen, and I can't make them pleasant. Up, Tommykin, and put

  on your cap." Tommykin jumps up. "Put on your cap, and tell them to take

  off your pinafore, tell grandmamma----"

  At that name Tommykin begins to cry.

  "Look at that!" says Clive, commencing to speak in the French language,

  which the child interrupts by calling out in that tongue. "I speak also

  French, papa."

  "Well, my child! You will like to come out with papa, and Betsy can dress

  you." He flings off his own paint-stained shooting-jacket as he talks,

  takes a frock-coat out of a carved wardrobe, and a hat from a helmet on

  the shelf. He is no longer the handsome splendid boy of old times. Can

  that be Clive, with that haggard face and slouched handkerchief? "I am

  not the dandy I was, Pen," he says bitterly.

  A little voice is heard crying overhead--and giving a kind of gasp the

  wretched father stops in some indifferent speech he was trying to make.

  "I can't help myself," he groans out; "my wife is so ill, she can't

  attend to the child. Mrs. Mackenzie manages the house for me--and--here!

  Tommy, Tommy! papa is coming!" Tommy has been crying again; and flinging

  open the studio door, Clive calls out, and dashes upstairs.

  I hear scuffling, stamping, loud voices, poor Tommy's scared little pipe

  --Clive's fierce objurgations, and the Campaigner's voice barking out--

  "Do, sir, do! with my child suffering in the next room. Behave like a

  brute to me, do. He shall not go! He shall not have the hat"--"He shall"

  --"Ah--ah!" A scream is heard. It is Clive tearing a child's hat out of

  the Campaigner's hands, with which, and a flushed face, he presently

  rushes downstairs, bearing little Tommy on his shoulder.

  "You see what I am come to, Pen," he says with a heartbroken voice,

  trying, with hands all of a tremble, to tie the hat on the boy's head. He

  laughs bitterly at the ill success of his endeavours. "Oh, you silly

  papa!" laughs Tommy, too.

  The door is flung open, and the red-faced Campaigner appears. Her face is

  mottled with wrath, her bandeaux of hair are disarranged upon her

  forehead, the ornaments of her cap, cheap, and dirty, and numerous, only

  give her a wilder appearance. She is in a large and dingy wrapper, very

  different from the lady who had presented herself a few months back to my

  wife--how different from the smiling Mrs. Mackenzie of old days!

  "He shall not go out of a winter day, sir," she breaks out. "I have his

  mother's orders, whom you are killing. Mr. Pendennis!" She starts,

  perceiving me for the first time, and her breast heaves, and she prepares

  for combat, and looks at me over her shoulder.

  "You and his father are the best judges upon this point, ma'am," said Mr.

  Pendennis, with a bow.

  "The child is delicate, sir," cries Mrs. Mackenzie; "and this
winter----"

  "Enough of this," says Clive with a stamp, and passes through her guard

  with Tommy, and we descend the stairs, and at length are in the free

  street. Was it not best not to describe at full length this portion of

  poor Clive's history?

  CHAPTER LXXVI

  Christmas at Rosebury

  We have known our friend Florac under two aristocratic names, and might

  now salute him by a third, to which he was entitled, although neither he

  nor his wife ever chose to assume it. His father was lately dead, and M.

  Paul de Florac might sign himself Duc d'Ivry if he chose, but he was

  indifferent as to the matter, and his wife's friends indignant at the

  idea that their kinswoman, after having been a Princess, should descend

  to the rank of a mere Duchess. So Prince and Princess these good folks

  remained, being exceptions to that order, inasmuch as their friends could

  certainly put their trust in them.

  On his father's death Florac went to Paris, to settle the affairs of the

  paternal succession; and, having been for some time absent in his native

  country, returned to Rosebury for the winter, to resume that sport of

  which he was a distinguished amateur. He hunted in black during the

  ensuing season; and, indeed, henceforth laid aside his splendid attire

  and his allurements as a young man. His waist expanded, or was no longer

  confined by the cestus which had given it a shape. When he laid aside his

  black, his whiskers, too, went into a sort of half-mourning, and appeared

  in grey. "I make myself old, my friend," he said, pathetically; "I have

  no more neither twenty years nor forty." He went to Rosebury Church no

  more; but, with great order and sobriety, drove every Sunday to the

  neighbouring Catholic chapel at C---- Castle. We had an ecclesiastic or

  two to dine with us at Rosebury, one of whom I inclined to think was

  Florac's director.

  A reason, perhaps, for Paul's altered demeanour, was the presence of his

  mother at Rosebury. No politeness or respect could be greater than Paul's

  towards the Countess. Had she been a sovereign princess, Madame de Florac

  could not have been treated with more profound courtesy than she now

  received from her son. I think the humble-minded lady could have

  dispensed with some of his attentions; but Paul was a personage who

  demonstrated all his sentiments, and performed his various parts in life

  with the greatest vigour. As a man of pleasure, for instance, what more

  active roue than he? As a jeune homme, who could be younger, and for a

  longer time? As a country gentleman, or an l'homme d'affaires, he

  insisted upon dressing each character with the most rigid accuracy, and

  an exactitude that reminded one somewhat of Bouffe, or Ferville, at the

  play. I wonder whether, when is he quite old, he will think proper to

  wear a pigtail, like his old father? At any rate, that was a good part

  which the kind fellow was now acting, of reverence towards his widowed

  mother, and affectionate respect for her declining days. He not only felt

  these amiable sentiments, but he imparted them to his friends most

  freely, as his wont was. He used to weep freely,--quite unrestrained by

  the presence of the domestics, as English sentiment would be:--and when

  Madame de Florac quitted the room after dinner, would squeeze my hand and

  tell me with streaming eyes, that his mother was an angel. "Her life has

  been but a long trial, my friend," he would say. "Shall not I, who have

  caused her to shed so many tears, endeavour to dry some?" Of course the

  friends who liked him best encouraged him in an intention so pious.

  The reader has already been made acquainted with this lady by the letters

  of hers, which came into my possession some time after the events which I

  am at present narrating: my wife, through our kind friend, Colonel

  Newcome, had also had the honour of an introduction to Madame de Florac

  at Paris; and, on coming to Rosebury for the Christmas holidays, I found

  Laura and the children greatly in favour with the good Countess. She

  treated her son's wife with a perfect though distant courtesy. She was

  thankful to Madame de Moncontour for the latter's great goodness to her

  son. Familiar with but very few persons, she could scarcely be intimate

  with her homely daughter-in-law. Madame de Moncontour stood in the

  greatest awe of her; and, to do that good lady justice, admired and

  reverenced Paul's mother with all her simple heart. In truth, I think

  almost every one had a certain awe of Madame de Florac, except children,

  who came to her trustingly, and, as it were, by instinct. The habitual

  melancholy of her eyes vanished as they lighted upon young faces and

  infantile smiles. A sweet love beamed out of her countenance: an angelic

  smile shone over her face, as she bent towards them and caressed them.

  Her demeanour then, nay, her looks and ways at other times;--a certain

  gracious sadness, a sympathy with all grief, and pity for all pain; a

  gentle heart, yearning towards all children; and, for her own especially,

  feeling a love that was almost an anguish: in the affairs of the common

  world only a dignified acquiescence, as if her place was not in it, and

  her thoughts were in her Home elsewhere;--these qualities, which we had

  seen exemplified in another life, Laura and her husband watched in Madame

  de Florac, and we loved her because she was like our mother. I see in

  such women, the good and pure, the patient and faithful, the tried and

  meek, the followers of Him whose earthly life was divinely sad and

  tender.

  But, good as she was to us and to all, Ethel Newcome was the French

  lady's greatest favourite. A bond of extreme tenderness and affection

  united these two. The elder friend made constant visits to the younger at

  Newcome; and when Miss Newcome, as she frequently did, came to Rosebury,

  we used to see that they preferred to be alone; divining and respecting

  the sympathy which brought those two faithful hearts together. I can

  imagine now the two tall forms slowly pacing the garden walks, or

  turning, as they lighted on the young ones in their play. What was their

  talk! I never asked it. Perhaps Ethel never said what was in her heart,

  though, be sure, the other knew it. Though the grief of those they love

  is untold, women hear it; as they soothe it with unspoken consolations.

  To see the elder lady embrace her friend as they parted was something

  holy--a sort of saintlike salutation.

  Consulting the person from whom I had no secrets, we had thought best at

  first not to mention to our friends the place and position in which we

  had found our dear Colonel; at least to wait for a fitting opportunity on

  which we might break the news to those who held him in such affection. I

  told how Clive was hard at work, and hoped the best for him. Good-natured

  Madame de Moncontour was easily satisfied with my replies to her

  questions concerning our friend. Ethel only asked if he and her uncle

  were well, and once or twice made inquiries respecting Rosa and her

  child. And now it was that my wife told me, what I need no longer keep

  secret, of Ethel's extrem
e anxiety to serve her distressed relatives, and

  how she, Laura, had already acted as Miss Newcome's almoner in furnishing

  and hiring those apartments, which Ethel believed were occupied by Clive

  and his father, and wife and child. And my wife further informed me with

  what deep grief Ethel had heard of her uncle's misfortune, and how, but

  that she feared to offend his pride, she longed to give him assistance.

  She had even ventured to offer to send him pecuniary help; but the

  Colonel (who never mentioned the circumstance to me any other of his

  friends), in a kind but very cold letter, had declined to be beholden to

  his niece for help.

  So I may have remained some days at Rosebury, and the real position of

  the two Newcomes was unknown to our friends there. Christmas Eve was

  come, and, according to a long-standing promise, Ethel Newcome and her

  two children had arrived from the Park, which dreary mansion, since his

  double defeat, Sir Barnes scarcely ever visited. Christmas was come, and

  Rosebury hall was decorated with holly. Florac did his best to welcome

  his friends, and strove to make the meeting gay, though in truth it was

  rather melancholy. The children, however, were happy: and they had

  pleasure enough, in the school festival, in the distribution of cloaks

  and blankets to the poor, and in Madame de Moncontour's gardens,

  delightful and beautiful though the winter was there.

  It was only a family meeting, Madame de Florac's widowhood not permitting

  her presence in large companies. Paul sate at his table between his

  mother and Mrs. Pendennis; Mr. Pendennis opposite to him, with Ethel and

  Madame de Moncontour on each side. The four children were placed between

  these personages, on whom Madame de Florac looked with her tender

  glances, and to whose little wants the kindest of hosts ministered with

  uncommon good-nature and affection. He was very soft-hearted about

  children. "Pourquoi n'en avons-nous pas, Jeanne? He! quoi n'en avons-nous

  pas?" he said, addressing his wife by her Christian name. The poor little

  lady looked kindly at her husband, and then gave a sigh, and turned and

  heaped cake upon the plate of the child next to her. No mamma or Aunt

  Ethel could interpose. It was a very light wholesome cake. Brown made it

  on purpose for the children, "the little darlings!" cries the Princess.

  The children were very happy at being allowed to sit up so late to

  dinner, at all the kindly amusements of the day, at the holly and

  mistletoe clustering round the lamps--the mistletoe, under which the

  gallant Florac, skilled in all British usages, vowed he would have his

  privilege. But the mistletoe was clustered round the lamp, the lamp was

  over the centre of the great round table--the innocent gratification

  which he proposed to himself was denied to M. Paul.

  In the greatest excitement and good-humour, our host at the dessert made

  us des speech. He carried a toast to the charming Ethel, another to the

  charming Mistriss Laura, another to his good fren', his brave frren', his

  'appy fren', Pendennis--'appy as possessor of such a wife, 'appy as

  writer of works destined to the immortality, etc. etc. The little

  children round about clapped their happy little hands, and laughed and

  crowed in chorus. And now the nursery and its guardians were about to

  retreat, when Florac said he had yet a speech, yet a toast--and he bade

  the butler pour wine into every one's glass--yet a toast--and he carried

  it to the health of our dear friends, of Clive and his father,--the good,

  the brave Colonel! "We who are happy," says he, "shall we not think of

  those who are good? We who love each other, shall we not remember those

  whom we all love?" He spoke with very great tenderness and feeling. "Ma

  bonne mere, thou too shalt drink this toast!" he said, taking his

  mother's hand, and kissing it. She returned his caress gently, and tasted