The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

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 pointr />
  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,