The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

whether he found London was changed.

  "I don't know whether it's changed," says the Colonel, biting his nails;

  "I know it's not what I expected to find it."

  "To-day it's really as hot as I should thing it must be in India," says

  young Mr. Barnes Newcome.

  "Hot!" says the Colonel, with a grin. "It seems to me you are all cool

  enough here."

  "Just what Sir Thomas de Boots said, sir," says Barnes, turning round to

  his father. "Don't you remember when he came home from Bombay? I

  recollect his saying, at Lady Featherstone's, one dooced hot night, as it

  seemed to us; I recklect his saying that he felt quite cold. Did you know

  him in India, Colonel Newcome? He's liked at the Horse Guards, but he's

  hated in his regiment."

  Colonel Newcome here growled a wish regarding the ultimate fate of Sir

  Thomas de Boots, which we trust may never be realised by that

  distinguished cavalry officer.

  "My brother says he's going to Newcome, Barnes, next week," said the

  Baronet, wishing to make the conversation more interesting to the newly

  arrived Colonel. "He was saying so just when you came in, and I was

  asking him what took him there?"

  "Did you ever hear of Sarah Mason?" says the Colonel.

  "Really, I never did," the Baronet answered.

  "Sarah Mason? No, upon my word, I don't think I ever did, said the young

  man.

  "Well, that's a pity too," the Colonel said, with a sneer. "Mrs. Mason is

  a relation of yours--at least by marriage. She is my aunt or cousin--I

  used to call her aunt, and she and my father and mother all worked in the

  same mill at Newcome together."

  "I remember--God bless my soul--I remember now!" cried the Baronet. "We

  pay her forty pound a year on your account--don't you know, brother? Look

  to Colonel Newcome's account--I recollect the name quite well. But I

  thought she had been your nurse, and--and an old servant of my father's."

  "So she was my nurse, and an old servant of my father's," answered the

  Colonel. "But she was my mother's cousin too and very lucky was my mother

  to have such a servant, or to have a servant at all. There is not in the

  whole world a more faithful creature or a better woman."

  Mr. Hobson rather enjoyed his brother's perplexity, and to see when the

  Baronet rode the high horse, how he came down sometimes, "I am sure it

  does you very great credit," gasped the courtly head of the firm, "to

  remember a--a humble friend and connexion of our father's so well."

  "I think, brother, you might have recollected her too," the Colonel

  growled out. His face was blushing; he was quite angry and hurt at what

  seemed to him Sir Brian's hardness of heart.

  "Pardon me if I don't see the necessity," said Sir Brian. "I have no

  relationship with Mrs. Mason, and do not remember ever having seen her.

  Can I do anything for you, brother? Can I be useful to you in any way?

  Pray command me and Barnes here, who after City hours will be delighted

  if he can be serviceable to you--I am nailed to this counter all the

  morning, and to the House of Commons all night;--I will be with you in

  one moment, Mr. Quilter. Good-bye, my dear Colonel. How well India has

  agreed with you! how young you look! the hot winds are nothing to what we

  endure in Parliament.--Hobson," in a low voice, "you saw about that h'm,

  that power of attorney--and h'm and h'm will call here at twelve about

  that h'm.--I am sorry I must say good-bye--it seems so hard after not

  meeting for so many years."

  "Very," says the Colonel.

  "Mind and send for me whenever you want me, now."

  "Oh, of course," said the elder brother, and thought when will that ever

  be!

  "Lady Anne will be too delighted at hearing of your arrival. Give my love

  to Clive--a remarkable fine boy, Clive--good morning:" and the Baronet

  was gone, and his bald head might presently be seen alongside of Mr.

  Quilter's confidential grey poll, both of their faces turned into an

  immense ledger.

  Mr. Hobson accompanied the Colonel to the door, and shook him cordially

  by the hand as he got into his cab. The man asked whither be should

  drive? and poor Newcome hardly knew where he was or whither he should go.

  "Drive! a--oh--ah--damme, drive me anywhere away from this place!" was

  all he could say; and very likely the cabman thought he was a

  disappointed debtor who had asked in vain to renew a bill. In fact,

  Thomas Newcome had overdrawn his little account. There was no such

  balance of affection in that bank of his brothers, as the simple creature

  had expected to find there.

  When he was gone, Sir Brian went back to his parlour, where sate young

  Barnes perusing the paper. "My revered uncle seems to have brought back a

  quantity of cayenne pepper from India, sir," he said to his father.

  "He seems a very kind-hearted simple man," the Baronet said "eccentric,

  but he has been more than thirty years away from home. Of course you will

  call upon him to-morrow morning. Do everything you can to make him

  comfortable. Whom would he like to meet at dinner? I will ask some of the

  Direction. Ask him, Barnes, for next Wednesday or Saturday--no; Saturday

  I dine with the Speaker. But see that every attention is paid him."

  "Does he intend to have our relation up to town, sir? I should like to

  meet Mrs. Mason of all things. A venerable washerwoman, I daresay, or

  perhaps keeps a public-house," simpered out young Barnes.

  "Silence, Barnes; you jest at everything, you young men do--you do.

  Colonel Newcome's affection for his old nurse does him the greatest

  honour," said the Baronet, who really meant what he said.

  "And I hope my mother will have her to stay a good deal at Newcome. I'm

  sure she must have been a washerwoman, and mangled my uncle in early

  life. His costume struck me with respectful astonishment. He disdains the

  use of straps to his trousers, and is seemingly unacquainted with gloves.

  If he had died in India, would my late aunt have had to perish on a

  funeral pile?" Here Mr. Quilter, entering with a heap of bills, put an

  end to these sarcastic remarks, and young Newcome, applying himself to

  his business (of which he was a perfect master), forgot about his uncle

  till after City hours, when he entertained some young gentlemen of Bays's

  Club with an account of his newly arrived relative.

  Towards the City, whither he wended his way whatever had been the ball or

  the dissipation of the night before, young Barnes Newcome might be seen

  walking every morning, resolutely and swiftly, with his neat umbrella. As

  he passed Charing Cross on his way westwards, his little boots trailed

  slowly over the pavement, his head hung languid (bending lower still, and

  smiling with faded sweetness as he doffed his hat and saluted a passing

  carriage), his umbrella trailed after him. Not a dandy on all the Pall

  Mall pavement seemed to have less to do than he.

  Heavyside, a large young officer of the household troops--old Sir Thomas

  de Boots--and Horace Fogey, whom every one knows--are in the window of

  Bays's, yawning as widely as that window itself. Horses under the charge


  of men in red jackets are pacing up and down St. James's Street. Cabmen

  on the stand are regaling with beer. Gentlemen with grooms behind them

  pass towards the Park. Great dowager barouches roll along emblazoned with

  coronets, and driven by coachmen in silvery wigs. Wistful provincials

  gaze in at the clubs. Foreigners chatter and show their teeth, and look

  at the ladies in the carriages, and smoke and spit refreshingly round

  about. Policeman X slouches along the pavement. It is five o'clock, the

  noon in Pall Mall.

  "Here's little Newcome coming," says Mr. Horace Fogey. "He and the

  muffin-man generally make their appearance in public together."

  "Dashed little prig," says Sir Thomas de Boots, "why the dash did they

  ever let him in here? If I hadn't been in India, by dash--he should have

  been blackballed twenty times over, by dash." Only Sir Thomas used words

  far more terrific than dash, for this distinguished cavalry officer swore

  very freely.

  "He amuses me; he's such a mischievous little devil," says good-natured

  Charley Heavyside.

  "It takes very little to amuse you," remarks Fogey.

  "You don't, Fogey," answers Charley. "I know every one of your demd old

  stories, that are as old as my grandmother. How-dy-do, Barney?" (Enter

  Barnes Newcome.) "How are the Three per Cents, you little beggar? I wish

  you'd do me a bit of stiff; and just tell your father, if I may overdraw

  my account I'll vote with him--hanged if I don't."

  Barnes orders absinthe-and-water, and drinks: Heavyside resuming his

  elegant raillery. "I say, Barney, your name's Barney, and you're a

  banker. You must be a little Jew, hey? Vell, how mosh vill you to my

  little pill for?"

  "Do hee-haw in the House of Commons, Heavyside," says the young man with

  a languid air. "That's your place: you're returned for it." (Captain the

  Honourable Charles Heavyside is a member of the legislature, and eminent

  in the House for asinine imitations which delight his own, and confuse

  the other party.) "Don't bray here. I hate the shop out of shop hours."

  "Dash the little puppy," growls Sir de Boots, swelling in his waistband.

  "What do they say about the Russians in the City?" says Horace Fogey, who

  has been in the diplomatic service. "Has the fleet left Cronstadt, or has

  it not?"

  "How should I know?" asks Barney. "Ain't it all in the evening paper?"

  "That is very uncomfortable news from India, General," resumes Fogey--

  "there's Lady Doddington's carriage, how well she looks--that movement of

  Runjeet-Singh on Peshawur: that fleet on the Irrawaddy. It looks doocid

  queer, let me tell you, and Penguin is not the man to be Governor-General

  of India in a time of difficulty."

  "And Hustler's not the man to be Commander-in-Chief: dashder old fool

  never lived: a dashed old psalm-singing, blundering old woman," says Sir

  Thomas, who wanted the command himself.

  "You ain't in the psalm-singing line, Sir Thomas," says Mr. Barnes;

  "quite the contrary." In fact, Sir de Boots in his youth used to sing

  with the Duke of York, and even against Captain Costigan, but was beaten

  by that superior bacchanalian artist.

  Sir Thomas looks as if to ask what the dash is that to you? but wanting

  still to go to India again, and knowing how strong the Newcomes are in

  Leadenhall Street, he thinks it necessary to be civil to the young cub,

  and swallows his wrath once more into his waistband.

  "I've got an uncle come home from India--upon my word I have," says

  Barnes Newcome. "That is why I am so exhausted. I am going to buy him a

  pair of gloves, number fourteen--and I want a tailor for him--not a young

  man's tailor. Fogey's tailor rather. I'd take my father's; but he has all

  his things made in the country--all--in the borough, you know--he's a

  public man."

  "Is Colonel Newcome, of the Bengal Cavalry, your uncle?" asks Sir Thomas

  de Boots.

  "Yes; will you come and meet him at dinner next Wednesday week, Sir

  Thomas? and, Fogey, you come; you know you like a good dinner. You don't

  know anything against my uncle, do you, Sir Thomas? Have I any

  Brahminical cousins? Need we be ashamed of him?"

  "I tell you what, young man, if you were more like him it wouldn't hurt

  you. He's an odd man; they call him Don Quixote in India; I suppose

  you've read Don Quixote?"

  "Never heard of it, upon my word; and why do you wish I should be more

  like him? I don't wish to be like him at all, thank you."

  "Why, because he is one of the bravest officers that ever lived," roared

  out the old soldier. "Because he's one of the kindest fellows; because he

  gives himself no dashed airs, although he has reason to be proud if he

  chose. That's why, Mr. Newcome."

  "A topper for you, Barney, my boy," remarks Charles Heavyside, as the

  indignant General walks away gobbling and red. Barney calmly drinks the

  remains of his absinthe.

  "I don't know what that old muff means," he says innocently, when he has

  finished his bitter draught. "He's always flying out at me, the old

  turkey-cock. He quarrels with my play at whist, the old idiot, and can no

  more play than an old baby. He pretends to teach me billiards, and I'll

  give him fifteen in twenty and beat his old head off. Why do they let

  such fellows into clubs? Let's have a game at piquet till dinner,

  Heavyside. Hallo! That's my uncle, that tall man with the mustachios and

  the short trousers, walking with that boy of his. I dare say they are

  going to dine in Covent Garden, and going to the play. How-dy-do,

  Nunky?"--and so the worthy pair went up to the card-room, where they sate

  at piquet until the hour of sunset and dinner arrived.

  CHAPTER VII

  In which Mr. Clive's School-days are over

  Our good Colonel had luckily to look forward to a more pleasant meeting

  with his son, than that unfortunate interview with his other near

  relatives. He dismissed his cab at Ludgate Hill, and walked thence by the

  dismal precincts of Newgate, and across the muddy pavement of Smithfield,

  on his way back to the old school where his son was, a way which he had

  trodden many a time in his own early days. There was Cistercian Street,

  and the Red Cow of his youth: there was the quaint old Grey Friars

  Square, with its blackened trees and garden, surrounded by ancient houses

  of the build of the last century, now slumbering like pensioners in the

  sunshine.

  Under the great archway of the hospital he could look at the old Gothic

  building: and a black-gowned pensioner or two crawling over the quiet

  square, or passing from one dark arch to another. The boarding-houses of

  the school were situated in the square, hard by the more ancient

  buildings of the hospital. A great noise of shouting, crying, clapping

  forms and cupboards, treble voices, bass voices, poured out of the

  schoolboys' windows: their life, bustle, and gaiety contrasted strangely

  with the quiet of those old men creeping along in their black gowns under

  the ancient arches yonder, whose struggle of life was over, whose hope

  and noise and bustle had sunk into that grey ca
lm. There was Thomas

  Newcome arrived at the middle of life, standing between the shouting boys

  and the tottering seniors, and in a situation to moralise upon both, had

  not his son Clive, who has espied him from within Mr. Hopkinson's, or let

  us say at once Hopkey's house, come jumping down the steps to greet his

  sire. Clive was dressed in his very best; not one of those four hundred

  young gentlemen had a better figure, a better tailor, or a neater boot.

  Schoolfellows, grinning through the bars, envied him as he walked away;

  senior boys made remarks on Colonel Newcome's loose clothes and long

  mustachios, his brown hands and unbrushed hat. The Colonel was smoking a

  cheroot as he walked; and the gigantic Smith, the cock of the school, who

  happened to be looking majestically out of window, was pleased to say

  that he thought Newcome's governor was a fine manly-looking fellow.

  "Tell me about your uncles, Clive," said the Colonel, as they walked on

  arm in arm.

  "What about them, sir?" asks the boy. "I don't think I know much."

  "You have been to stay with them. You wrote about them. Were they kind to

  you?"

  "Oh, yes, I suppose they are very kind. They always tipped me: only you

  know when I go there I scarcely ever see them. Mr. Newcome asks me the

  oftenest--two or three times a quarter when he's in town, and gives me a

  sovereign regular."

  "Well, he must see you to give you the sovereign," says Clive's father,

  laughing.

  The boy blushed rather.

  "Yes. When it's time to go back to Smithfield on a Sunday night, I go

  into the dining-room to shake hands, and he gives it me; but he don't

  speak to me much, you know, and I don't care about going to Bryanstone

  Square, except for the tip, of course that's important, because I am made

  to dine with the children, and they are quite little ones; and a great

  cross French governess, who is always crying and shrieking after them,

  and finding fault with them. My uncle generally has his dinner-parties on

  Saturday, or goes out; and aunt gives me ten shillings and sends me to

  the play; that's better fun than a dinner-party." Here the lad blushed

  again. "I used," says he, "when I was younger, to stand on the stairs and

  prig things out of the dishes when they came out from dinner, but I'm

  past that now. Maria (that's my cousin) used to take the sweet things and

  give 'em to the governess. Fancy! she used to put lumps of sugar into her

  pocket and eat them in the schoolroom! Uncle Hobson don't live in such

  good society as Uncle Newcome. You see, Aunt Hobson, she's very kind, you

  know, and all that, but I don't think she's what you call comme il faut."

  "Why, how are you to judge?" asks the father, amused at the lad's candid

  prattle, "and where does the difference lie?"

  "I can't tell you what it is, or how it is," the boy answered, "only one

  can't help seeing the difference. It isn't rank and that; only somehow

  there are some men gentlemen and some not, and some women ladies and some

  not. There's Jones now, the fifth form master, every man sees he's a

  gentleman, though he wears ever so old clothes; and there's Mr. Brown,

  who oils his hair, and wears rings, and white chokers--my eyes! such

  white chokers!--and yet we call him the handsome snob! And so about Aunt

  Maria, she's very handsome and she's very finely dressed, only somehow

  she's not--she's not the ticket, you see."

  "Oh, she's not the ticket," says the Colonel, much amused.

  "Well, what I mean is--but never mind," says the boy. "I can't tell you

  what I mean. I don't like to make fun of her, you know, for after all,

  she is very kind to me; but Aunt Anne is different, and it seems as if

  what she says is more natural; and though she has funny ways of her own