The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  Before he saw Ethel, Clive vowed he was aware of her. Indeed, had not

  Lady Fareham told him Miss Newcome was coming? Ethel, on the contrary,

  not expecting him, or not having the prescience of love, exhibited signs

  of surprise when she beheld him, her eyebrows arching, her eyes darting

  looks of pleasure. When grandmamma happened to be in another room, she

  beckoned Clive to her, dismissing Crackthorpe and Fobsby, Farintosh and

  Bustington, the amorous youth who around her bowed, and summoning Mr.

  Clive to an audience with the air of a young princess.

  And so she was a princess; and this the region of her special dominion.

  The wittiest and handsomest, she deserved to reign in such a place, by

  right of merit and by general election. Clive felt her superiority, and

  his own shortcomings: he came up to her as to a superior person. Perhaps

  she was not sorry to let him see how she ordered away grandees and

  splendid Bustingtons, informing them, with a superb manner, that she

  wished to speak to her cousin--that handsome young man with the light

  moustache yonder.

  "Do you know many people? This is your first appearance in society? Shall

  I introduce you to some nice girls to dance with?" What very pretty

  buttons!"

  "Is that what you wanted to say?" asked Clive, rather bewildered.

  "What does one say at a ball? One talks conversation suited to the place.

  If I were to say to Captain Crackthorpe, 'What pretty buttons!' he would

  be delighted. But you--you have a soul above buttons, I suppose."

  "Being, as you say, a stranger in this sort of society, you see I am not

  accustomed to--to the exceeding brilliancy of its conversation," said

  Clive.

  "What! you want to go away, and we haven't seen each other for near a

  year!" cries Ethel, in quite a natural voice. "Sir John Fobsby, I'm very

  sorry--but do let me off this dance. I have just met my cousin, whom I

  have not seen for a whole year, and I want to talk to him."

  "It was not my fault that you did not see me sooner. I wrote to you that

  I only got your letter a month ago. You never answered the second I wrote

  you from Rome. Your letter lay there at the post ever so long, and was

  forwarded to me at Naples."

  "Where?" asked Ethel.

  "I saw Lord Kew there." Ethel was smiling with all her might, and kissing

  her hand to the twins, who passed at that moment with their mamma. "Oh,

  indeed, you saw--how do you do?--Lord Kew."

  "And, having seen him, I came over to England," said Clive.

  Ethel looked at him, gravely. "What am I to understand by that, Clive?--

  You came over because it was very hot at Naples, and because you wanted

  to see your friends here, n'est-ce pas? How glad mamma was to see you!

  You know she loves you as if you were her own son."

  "What, as much as that angel, Barnes!" cries Clive, bitterly;

  "impossible."

  Ethel looked once more. Her present mood and desire was to treat Clive as

  a chit, as a young fellow without consequence--a thirteenth younger

  brother. But in his looks and behaviour there was that which seemed to

  say not too many liberties were to be taken with him.

  "Why weren't you here a month sooner, and you might have seen the

  marriage? It was a very pretty thing. Everybody was there. Clara, and so

  did Barnes really, looked quite handsome."

  "It must have been beautiful," continued Clive; "quite a touching sight,

  I am sure. Poor Charles Belsize could not be present because his brother

  was dead; and----"

  "And what else, pray, Mr. Newcome!" cries Miss, in great wrath, her pink

  nostrils beginning to quiver. "I did not think, really, that when we met

  after so many months, I was to be insulted; yes, insulted, by the mention

  of that name."

  "I most humbly ask pardon," said Clive, with a grave bow. "Heaven forbid

  that I should wound your sensibility, Ethel! It is, as you say, my first

  appearance in society. I talk about things or persons that I should not

  mention. I should talk about buttons, should I? which you were good

  enough to tell me was the proper subject of conversation. Mayn't I even

  speak of connexions of the family? Mr. Belsize, through this marriage,

  has the honour of being connected with you; and even I, in a remote

  degree, may boast of a sort of an ever--so--distant cousinship with him.

  What an honour for me!"

  "Pray, what is the meaning of all this?" cries Miss Ethel, surprised, and

  perhaps alarmed. Indeed, Clive scarcely knew. He had been chafing all the

  while he talked with her; smothering anger as he saw the young men round

  about her; revolting against himself for the very humility of his

  obedience, and angry at the eagerness and delight with which he had come

  at her call.

  "The meaning is, Ethel"--he broke out, seizing the opportunity--"that

  when a man comes a thousand miles to see you, and shake your hand, you

  should give it him a little more cordially than you choose to do to me;

  that when a kinsman knocks at your door, time after time, you should try

  and admit him; and that when you meet him you should treat him like an

  old friend not as you treated me when my Lady Kew vouchsafed to give me

  admittance; not as you treat these fools that are fribbling round about

  you," cries Mr. Clive, in a great rage, folding his arms, and glaring

  round on a number of the most innocent young swells; and he continued

  looking as if he would like to knock a dozen of their heads together. "Am

  I keeping Miss Newcome's admirers from her?"

  "That is not for me to say," she said, quite gently. He was; but to see

  him angry did not displease Miss Newcome.

  "That young man who came for you just now," Clive went on--"that Sir

  John----"

  "Are you angry with me because I sent him away?" said Ethel, putting out

  a hand. "Hark! there is the music. Take me in and waltz with me. Don't

  you know it is not my door at which you knocked?" she said, looking up

  into his face as simply and kindly as of old. She whirled round the

  dancing-room with him in triumph, the other beauties dwindling before

  her: she looked more and more beautiful with each rapid move of the

  waltz, her colour heightening and her eyes seeming to brighten. Not till

  the music stopped did she sink down on a seat, panting, and smiling

  radiant--as many many hundred years ago I remember to have seen Taglioni

  after a conquering pas seul. She nodded a "thank you" to Clive. It

  seemed that there was a perfect reconciliation. Lady Kew came in just at

  the end of the dance, scowling when she beheld Ethel's partner; but in

  reply to her remonstrances, Ethel shrugged her fair shoulders, with a

  look which seemed to say je le veux, gave an arm to her grandmother, an

  walked off, saucily protecting her.

  Clive's friend had been looking on observingly and curiously as the scene

  between them had taken place, and at the dance with which the

  reconciliation had been celebrated. I must tell you that this arch young

  creature had formed the object of my observation for some months past,

  and that I watched her as I have watched a beautiful panther at the
/>
  Zoological Gardens, so bright of eye, so sleek of coat, so slim in form,

  so sweet and agile in her spring.

  A more brilliant young coquette than Miss Newcome, in her second season,

  these eyes never looked upon, that is the truth. In her first year, being

  engaged to Lord Kew, she was perhaps a little more reserved and quiet.

  Besides, her mother went out with her that first season, to whom Miss

  Newcome except for a little occasional flightiness, was invariably

  obedient and ready to come to call. But when Lady Kew appeared as her

  duenna, the girl's delight seemed to be to plague the old lady, and she

  would dance with the very youngest sons merey to put grandmamma in a

  passion. In this way poor young Cubley (who has two hundred a year of

  allowance, besides eighty, and an annual rise of five in the Treasury)

  actually thought that Ethel was in love with him, and consulted with the

  young men in his room in Downing Street, whether two hundred and eighty a

  year, with five pound more next year, would be enough for them to keep

  house on? Young Tandy of the Temple, Lord Skibbereen's younger son, who

  sate in the House for some time on the Irish Catholic side, was also

  deeply smitten, and many a night in our walks home from the parties at

  the other end of the town, would entertain me with his admiration and

  passion for her.

  "If you have such a passion for her, why not propose?" it was asked of

  Mr. Tandy.

  "Propose! propose to a Russian Archduchess," cries young Tandy. "She's

  beautiful, she's delightful, she's witty. I have never seen anything like

  her eyes; they send me wild--wild," says Tandy--(slapping his waistcoat

  under Temple Bar)--"but a more audacious little flirt never existed since

  the days of Cleopatra."

  With this opinion likewise in my mind, I had been looking on during

  Clive's proceedings with Miss Ethel--not, I say, without admiration of

  the young lady who was leading him such a dance. The waltz over, I

  congratulated him on his own performance. His Continental practice had

  greatly improved him. "And as for your partner, it is delightful to see

  her," I went on. "I always like to be by when Miss Newcome dances. I had

  sooner see her than anybody since Taglioni. Look at her now, with her

  neck up, and her little foot out, just as she is preparing to start!

  Happy Lord Bustington!"

  "You are angry with her because she cut you," growls Clive. "You know you

  said she cut you, or forgot you; and your vanity's wounded, that is why

  you are so satirical."

  "How can Miss Newcome remember all the men who are presented to her?"

  says the other. "Last year she talked to me because she wanted to know

  about you. This year she doesn't talk: because I suppose she doesn't want

  to know about you any more."

  "Hang it. Do--on't, Pen," cries Clive, as a schoolboy cries out to

  another not to hit him.

  "She does not pretend to observe: and is in full conversation with the

  amiable Bustington. Delicious interchange of noble thoughts! But she is

  observing us talking, and knows that we are talking about her. If ever

  you marry her, Clive, which is absurd, I shall lose you for a friend. You

  will infallibly tell her what I think of her: and she will order you to

  give me up." Clive had gone off in a brown study, as his interlocutor

  continued. "Yes, she is a flirt. She can't help her nature. She tries to

  vanquish every one who comes near her. She is a little out of breath from

  waltzing, and so she pretends to be listening to poor Bustington, who is

  out of breath too, but puffs out his best in order to make himself

  agreeable, with what a pretty air she appears to listen! Her eyes

  actually seem to brighten."

  "What?" says Clive, with a start.

  I could not comprehend the meaning of the start: nor did I care much to

  know: supposing that the young man was waking up from some lover's

  reverie: and the evening sped away, Clive not quitting the ball until

  Miss Newcome and the Countess of Kew had departed. No further

  communication appeared to take place between the cousins that evening. I

  think it was Captain Crackthorpe who gave the young lady an arm into her

  carriage; Sir John Fobsby having the happiness to conduct the old

  Countess, and carrying the pink bag for the shawls, wrappers, etc., on

  which her ladyship's coronet and initials are emblazoned. Clive may have

  made a movement as if to step forward, but a single finger from Miss

  Newcome warned him back.

  Clive and his two friends in Lamb Court had made an engagement for the

  next Saturday to dine at Greenwich; but on the morning of that day there

  came a note from him to say that he thought of going down to see his

  aunt, Miss Honeyman, and begged to recall his promise to us. Saturday is

  a holiday with gentlemen of our profession. We had invited F. Bayham,

  Esquire, and promised ourselves a merry evening, and were unwilling to

  baulk ourselves of the pleasure on account of the absence of our young

  Roman. So we three went to London Bridge Station at an early hour,

  proposing to breathe the fresh air of Greenwich Park before dinner. And,

  at London Bridge, by the most singular coincidence, Lady Kew's carriage

  drove up to the Brighton entrance, and Miss Ethel and her maid stepped

  out of the brougham.

  When Miss Newcome and her maid entered the Brighton station, did Mr.

  Clive, by another singular coincidence, happen also to be there? What

  more natural and dutiful than that he should go and see his aunt, Miss

  Honeyman? What more proper than that Miss Ethel should pass the Saturday

  and Sunday with her sick father; and take a couple of wholesome nights'

  rest after those five weary past evenings, for each of which we may

  reckon a couple of soirees and a ball? And that relations should travel

  together, the young lady being protected by her femme-de-chambre; that

  surely, as every one must allow, was perfectly right and proper.

  That a biographer should profess to know everything which passes, even in

  a confidential talk in a first-class carriage between two lovers, seems

  perfectly absurd; not that grave historians do not pretend to the same

  wonderful degree of knowledge--reporting meetings of the most occult of

  conspirators; private interviews between monarchs and their ministers,

  even the secret thoughts and motives of those personages, which possibly

  the persons themselves did not know;--all for which the present writer

  will pledge his known character for veracity is, that on a certain day

  certain parties had a conversation, of which the upshot was so-and-so. He

  guesses, of course, at a great deal of what took place; knowing the

  characters, and being informed at some time of their meeting. You do not

  suppose that I bribed the femme-de-chambre, or that those two City gents,

  who sate in the same carriage with our young friends, and could not hear

  a word they said, reported their talk to me? If Clive and Ethel had had a

  coupe to themselves, I would yet boldly tell what took place, but the

  coupe was taken by other three young City gents who smoked the whole way.

 
"Well, then," the bonnet begins close up to the hat, "tell me, sir, is it

  true that you were so very much epris of the Miss Freemans at Rome; and

  that afterwards you were so wonderfully attentive to the third Miss

  Baliol? Did you draw her portrait? You know you drew her portrait. You

  painters always pretend to admire girls with auburn hair, because Titian

  and Raphael painted it. Has the Fornarina red hair? Why, we are at

  Croydon, I declare!"

  "The Fornarina"--the hat replies to the bonnet, "if that picture at the

  Borghese Palace be an original, or a likeness of her--is not a

  handsome woman, with vulgar eyes and mouth, and altogether a most

  mahogany-coloured person. She is so plain, in fact, I think that very

  likely it is the real woman; for it is with their own fancies that men

  fall in love,--or rather every woman is handsome to the lover. You know

  how old Helen must have been."

  "I don't know any such thing, or anything about her. Who was Helen?" asks

  the bonnet; and indeed she did not know.

  "It's a long story, and such an old scandal now, that there is no use in

  repeating it," says Clive.

  "You only talk about Helen because you wish to turn away the conversation

  from Miss Freeman," cries the young lady--"from Miss Baliol, I mean."

  "We will talk about whichever you please. Which shall we begin to pull to

  pieces?" says Clive. You see, to be in this carriage--to be actually with

  her--to be looking into those wonderful lucid eyes--to see her sweet

  mouth dimpling, and hear her sweet voice ringing with its delicious

  laughter--to have that hour and a half his own, in spite of all the

  world-dragons, grandmothers, convenances, the future--made the young

  fellow so happy, filled his whole frame and spirit with a delight so

  keen, that no wonder he was gay, and brisk, and lively.

  "And so you knew of my goings-on?" he asked. O me! they were at Reigate

  by this time; there was Gatton Park flying before them on the wings of

  the wind.

  "I know of a number of things," says the bonnet, nodding with ambrosial

  curls.

  "And you would not answer the second letter I wrote to you?

  "We were in great perplexity. One cannot be always answering young

  gentlemen's letters. I had considerable doubt about answering a note I

  got from Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square," says the lady's chapeau. "No,

  Clive, we must not write to one another," she continued more gravely, "or

  only very, very seldom. Nay, my meeting you here to-day is by the merest

  chance, I am sure; for when I mentioned at Lady Fareham's the other

  evening that I was going to see papa at Brighton to-day, I never for one

  moment thought of seeing you in the train. But as you are here, it can't

  be helped; and I may as well tell you that there are obstacles."

  "What, other obstacles?" Clive gasped out.

  "Nonsense--you silly boy! No other obstacles but those which always have

  existed, and must. When we parted--that is, when you left us at Baden,

  you knew it was for the best. You had your profession to follow, and

  could not go on idling about--about a family of sick people and children.

  Every man has his profession, and you yours, as you would have it. We are

  so nearly allied that we may--we may like each other like brother and

  sister almost. I don't know what Barnes would say if he heard me!

  Wherever you and your father are, how can I ever think of you but--but

  you know how? I always shall, always. There are certain feelings we have

  which I hope never can change; though, if you please, about them I intend

  never to speak any more. Neither you nor I can alter our conditions, but

  must make the best of them. You shall be a fine clever painter; and I,--

  who knows what will happen to me? I know what is going to happen to-day;

  I am going to see papa and mamma, and be as happy as I can till Monday