each side of her, and not their cries and their hunger, but the fear of
his own shame and a dread of a police-court, forced him to give her a
maintenance. I never see the fellow but I loathe him, and long to kick
him out of window and this man is to marry a noble young lady because
forsooth he is a partner in a bank, and heir to seven or eight thousand a
year. Oh, it is a shame, it is a shame! It makes me sick when I think of
the lot which the poor thing is to endure."
"It is not a nice story," said Lord Kew, rolling a cigarette; "Barnes is
not a nice man. I give you that in. You have not heard it talked about in
the family, have you?"
"Good heavens! you don't suppose that I would speak to Ethel, to Miss
Newcome, about such a foul subject as that?" cries Clive. "I never
mentioned it to my own father. He would have turned Barnes out of his
doors if he had known it."
"It was the talk about town, I know," Kew said dryly. "Everything is told
in those confounded clubs. I told you I give up Barnes. I like him no
more than you do. He may have treated the woman ill, I suspect he has not
an angelical temper: but in this matter he has not been so bad, so very
bad as it would seem. The first step is wrong, of course--those factory
towns--that sort of thing, you know--well, well, the commencement of the
business is a sad one. But he is not the only sinner in London. He has
declared on his honour to me when the matter was talked about, and he was
coming on for election at Bays's, and was as nearly as any man I ever
knew in my life,--he declared on his word that he only parted from poor
Mrs. Delacy, (Mrs. Delacy, the devil used to call herself) because he
found that she had served him--as such women will serve men. He offered
to send his children to school in Yorkshire--rather a cheap school--but
she would not part with them. She made a scandal in order to get good
terms, and she succeeded. He was anxious to break the connexion: he owned
it had hung like a millstone round his neck and caused him a great deal
of remorse--annoyance you may call it. He was immensely cut up about it.
I remember, when that fellow was hanged for murdering a woman, Barnes
said he did not wonder at his having done it. Young men make those
connexions in their early lives and rue them all their days after. He was
heartily sorry, that we may take for granted. He wished to lead a proper
life. My grandmother managed this business with the Dorkings. Lady Kew
still pulls stroke oar in our boat, you know, and the old woman will not
give up her place. They know everything, the elders do. He is a clever
fellow. He is witty in his way. When he likes he can make himself quite
agreeable to some people. There has been no sort of force. You don't
suppose young ladies are confined in dungeons and subject to tortures, do
you? But there is a brood of Pulleyns at Chanticlere, and old Dorking has
nothing to give them. His daughter accepted Barnes of her own free will,
he knowing perfectly well of that previous affair with Jack. The poor
devil bursts into the place yesterday and the girl drops down in a faint.
She will see Belsize this very day if he likes. I took a note from Lady
Dorking to him at five o'clock this morning. If he fancies that there is
any constraint put upon Lady Clara's actions she will tell him with her
own lips that she has acted of her own free will. She will marry the
husband she has chosen and do her duty by him. You are quite a young un
who boil and froth up with indignation at the idea that a girl hardly off
with an old love should take on with a new----"
"I am not indignant with her," says Clive, "for breaking with Belsize,
but for marrying Barnes."
"You hate him, and you know he is your enemy; and, indeed, young fellow,
he does not compliment you in talking about you. A pretty young
scapegrace he has made you out to be, and very likely thinks you to be.
It depends on the colours in which a fellow is painted. Our friends and
our enemies draw us,--and I often think both pictures are like,"
continued the easy world-philosopher. "You hate Barnes, and cannot see
any good in him. He sees none in you. There have been tremendous shindies
in Park Lane a propos of your worship, and of a subject which I don't
care to mention," said Lord Kew, with some dignity; "and what is the
upshot of all this malevolence? I like you; I like your father, I think
he is a noble old boy; there are those who represented him as a sordid
schemer. Give Mr. Barnes the benefit of common charity at any rate; and
let others like him, if you do not.
"And as for this romance of love," the young nobleman went on, kindling
as he spoke, and forgetting the slang and colloquialisms with which we
garnish all our conversation--"this fine picture of Jenny and Jessamy
falling in love at first sight, billing and cooing in an arbour, and
retiring to a cottage afterwards to go on cooing and billing--Psha! what
folly is this! It is good for romances, and for misses to sigh about; but
any man who walks through the world with his eyes open, knows how
senseless is all this rubbish. I don't say that a young man and woman are
not to meet, and to fall in love that instant, and to marry that day
year, and love each other till they are a hundred; that is the supreme
lot--but that is the lot which the gods only grant to Baucis and
Philemon, and a very, very few besides. As for the rest, they must
compromise; make themselves as comfortable as they can, and take the good
and the bad together. And as for Jenny and Jessamy, by Jove! look round
among your friends, count up the love matches, and see what has been the
end of most of them! Love in a cottage! Who is to pay the landlord for
the cottage? Who is to pay for Jenny's tea and cream, and Jessamy's
mutton-chops? If he has cold mutton, he will quarrel with her. If there
is nothing in the cupboard, a pretty meal they make. No, you cry out
against people in our world making money marriages. Why, kings and queens
marry on the same understanding. My butcher has saved a stockingful of
money, and marries his daughter to a young salesman; Mr. and Mrs.
Salesman prosper in life, and get an alderman's daughter for their son.
My attorney looks out amongst his clients for an eligible husband for
Miss Deeds; sends his son to the bar, into Parliament, where he cuts a
figure and becomes attorney-general, makes a fortune, has a house in
Belgrave Square, and marries Miss Deeds of the second generation to a
peer. Do not accuse us of being more sordid than our neighbours. We do
but as the world does; and a girl in our society accepts the best party
which offers itself, just as Miss Chummey, when entreated by two young
gentlemen of the order of costermongers, inclines to the one who rides
from market on a moke, rather than to the gentleman who sells his greens
from a handbasket."
This tirade, which his lordship delivered with considerable spirit, was
intended no doubt to carry a moral for Clive's private hearing; and
which, to do him justice, the youth was not slow to comprehend. The point
was, "Young man, if certain persons of rank choose to receive you very
kindly, who have but a comely face, good manners, and three or four
hundred pounds a year, do not presume upon their good-nature, or indulge
in certain ambitious hopes which your vanity may induce you to form. Sail
down the stream with the brass-pots, Master Earthen-pot, but beware of
coming too near! You are a nice young man, but there are prizes which are
some too good for you, and are meant for your betters. And you might as
well ask the prime minister for the next vacant garter as expect to wear
on your breast such a star as Ethel Newcome."
Before Clive made his accustomed visit to his friends at the hotel
opposite, the last great potentiary had arrived who was to take part in
the family Congress of Baden. In place of Ethel's flushing cheeks and
bright eyes, Clive found, on entering Lady Anne Newcome's sitting-room,
the parchment-covered features and the well-known hooked beak of the old
Countess of Kew. To support the glances from beneath the bushy black
eyebrows on each side of that promontory was no pleasant matter. The
whole family cowered under Lady Kew's eyes and nose, and she ruled by
force of them. It was only Ethel whom these awful features did not
utterly subdue and dismay.
Besides Lady Kew, Clive had the pleasure of finding his lordship, her
grandson, Lady Anne and children of various sizes, and Mr. Barnes; not
one of whom was the person whom Clive desired to behold.
The queer glance in Kew's eye directed towards Clive, who was himself not
by any means deficient in perception, informed him that there had just
been a conversation in which his own name had figured. Having been
abusing Clive extravagantly as he did whenever he mentioned his cousin's
name, Barnes must needs hang his head when the young fellow came in. His
hand was yet on the chamber-door, and Barnes was calling his miscreant
and scoundrel within; so no wonder Barnes had a hangdog look. But as for
Lady Kew, that veteran diplomatist allowed no signs of discomfiture, or
any other emotion, to display themselves on her ancient countenance. Her
bushy eyebrows were groves of mystery, her unfathomable eyes were wells
of gloom.
She gratified Clive by a momentary loan of two knuckly old fingers, which
he was at liberty to hold or to drop; and then he went on to enjoy the
felicity of shaking hands with Mr. Barnes, who, observing and enjoying
his confusion over Lady Kew's reception, determined to try Clive in the
same way, and he gave Clive at the same time a supercilious "How de dah,"
which the other would have liked to drive down his throat. A constant
desire to throttle Mr. Barnes--to beat him on the nose--to send him
flying out of window, was a sentiment with which this singular young man
inspired many persons whom he accosted. A biographer ought to be
impartial, yet I own, in a modified degree, to have partaken of this
sentiment. He looked very much younger than his actual time of life, and
was not of commanding stature; but patronised his equals, nay, let us
say, his betters, so insufferably, that a common wish for his suppression
existed amongst many persons in society.
Clive told me of this little circumstance, and I am sorry to say of his
own subsequent ill behaviour. "We were standing apart from the ladies,"
so Clive narrated, "when Barnes and I had our little passage-of-arms. He
had tried the finger business upon me before, and I had before told him,
either to shake hands or to leave it alone. You know the way in which the
impudent little beggar stands astride, and sticks his little feet out. I
brought my heel well down on his confounded little varnished toe, and
gave it a scrunch which made Mr. Barnes shriek out one of his loudest
oaths."
"D--- clumsy ----!" screamed out Barnes.
Clive said, in a low voice, "I thought you only swore at women, Barnes."
"It is you that say things before women, Clive," cries his cousin,
looking very furious.
Mr. Clive lost all patience. "In what company, Barnes, would you like me
to say, that I think you are a snob? Will you have it on the Parade? Come
out and I will speak to you."
"Barnes can't go out on the Parade," cries Lord Kew, bursting out
laughing: "there's another gentleman there wanting him." And two of the
three young men enjoyed this joke exceedingly. I doubt whether Barnes
Newcome Newcome, Esq., of Newcome, was one of the persons amused.
"What wickedness are you three boys laughing at?" cries Lady Anne,
perfectly innocent and good-natured; "no good, I will be bound. Come
here, Clive." Our young friend, it must be premised, had no sooner
received the thrust of Lady Kew's two fingers on entering, than it had
been intimated to him that his interview with that gracious lady was at
an end. For she had instantly called her daughter to her, with whom her
ladyship fell a-whispering; and then it was that Clive retreated from
Lady Kew's hand, to fall into Barnes's.
"Clive trod on Barnes's toe," cries out cheery Lord Kew, "and has hurt
Barnes's favourite corn, so that he cannot go out, and is actually
obliged to keep the room. That's what we were laughing at."
"Hem!" growled Lady Kew. She knew to what her grandson alluded. Lord Kew
had represented Jack Belsize, and his thundering big stick, in the most
terrific colours to the family council. The joke was too good a one not
to serve twice.
Lady Anne, in her whispered conversation with the old Countess, had
possibly deprecated her mother's anger towards poor Clive, for when he
came up to the two ladies, the younger took his hand with great kindness,
and said, "My dear Clive, we are very sorry you are going. You were of
the greatest use to us on the journey. I am sure you have been uncommonly
good-natured and obliging, and we shall all miss you very much." Her
gentleness smote the generous young fellow, and an emotion of gratitude
towards her for being so compassionate to him in his misery, caused his
cheeks to blush and his eyes perhaps to moisten. "Thank you, dear aunt,"
says he, "you have been very good and kind to me. It is I that shall feel
lonely; but--but it is quite time that I should go to my work."
"Quite time!" said the severe possessor of the eagle beak. "Baden is a
bad place for young men. They make acquaintances here of which very
little good can come. They frequent the gambling-tables, and live with
the most disreputable French Viscounts. We have heard of your goings-on,
sir. It is a great pity that Colonel Newcome did not take you with him to
India."
"My dear mamma," cries Lady Anne, "I am sure Clive has been a very good
boy indeed." The old lady's morality put a stop to Clive's pathetic mood,
and he replied with a great deal of spirit, "Dear Lady Anne, you have
been always very good, and kindness is nothing surprising from you; but
Lady Kew's advice, which I should not have ventured to ask, is an
unexpected favour; my father knows the extent of the gambling
transactions to which your ladyship was pleased to allud
e, and introduced
me to the gentleman whose acquaintance you don't seem to think eligible."
"My good young man, I think it is time you were off," Lady Kew said, this
time with great good-humour; she liked Clive's spirit, and as long as he
interfered with none of her plans, was quite disposed to be friendly with
him. "Go to Rome, go to Florence, go wherever you like, and study very
hard, and make very good pictures, and come back again, and we shall all
be very glad to see you. You have very great talents--these sketches are
really capital."
"Is not he very clever, mamma?" said kind Lady Anne, eagerly. Clive felt
the pathetic mood coming on again, and an immense desire to hug Lady Anne
in his arms, and to kiss her. How grateful are we--how touched a frank
and generous heart is for a kind word extended to us in our pain! The
pressure of a tender hand nerves a man for an operation, and cheers him
for the dreadful interview with the surgeon.
That cool old operator, who had taken Mr. Clive's case in hand, now
produced her shining knife, and executed the first cut with perfect
neatness and precision. "We are come here, as I suppose you know, Mr.
Newcome, upon family matters, and I frankly tell you that I think, for
your own sake, you would be much better away. I wrote my daughter a great
scolding when I heard that you were in this place."
"But it was by the merest chance, mamma, indeed it was," cries Lady Anne.
"Of course, by the merest chance, and by the merest chance I heard of it
too. A little bird came and told me at Kissingen. You have no more sense,
Anne, than a goose. I have told you so a hundred times. Lady Anne
requested you to stay, and I, my good young friend, request you to go
away."
"I needed no request," said Clive. "My going, Lady Kew, is my own act. I
was going without requiring any guide to show me to the door."
"No doubt you were, and my arrival is the signal for Mr. Newcome's bon
jour. I am Bogey, and I frighten everybody away. By the scene which you
witnessed yesterday, my good young friend, and all that painful esclandre
on the promenade, you must see how absurd, and dangerous, and wicked--
yes, wicked it is for parents to allow intimacies to spring up between
young people, which can only lead to disgrace and unhappiness. Lady
Dorking was another good-natured goose. I had not arrived yesterday ten
minutes, when my maid came running in to tell me of what had occurred on
the promenade; and, tired as I was, I went that instant to Jane Dorking
and passed the evening with her, and that poor little creature to whom
Captain Belsize behaved so cruelly. She does not care a fig for him--not
one fig. Her childish inclination is passed away these two years, whilst
Mr. Jack was performing his feats in prison; and if the wretch flatters
himself that it was on his account she was agitated yesterday, he is
perfectly mistaken, and you may tell him Lady Kew said so. She is subject
to fainting fits. Dr. Finck has been attending her ever since she has
been here. She fainted only last Tuesday at the sight of a rat walking
about their lodgings (they have dreadful lodgings, the Dorkings), and no
wonder she was frightened at the sight of that great coarse tipsy wretch!
She is engaged, as you know, to your connexion, my grandson, Barnes:--in
all respects a most eligible union. The rank of life of the parties suits
them to one another. She is a good young woman, and Barnes has
experienced from persons of another sort such horrors, that he will know
the blessing of domestic virtue. It was high time he should. I say all
this in perfect frankness to you.
"Go back again and play in the garden, little brats" (this to the
innocents who came frisking in from the lawn in front of the windows).
"You have been? And Barnes sent you in here? Go up to Miss Quigley. No,
The Newcomes Page 45