The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  Miss Ethel, I have said, also professed a great fondness for Mrs.

  Pendennis; and there was that charm in the young lady's manner which

  speedily could overcome even female jealousy. Perhaps Laura determined

  magnanimously to conquer it; perhaps she hid it so as to vex me and prove

  the injustice of my suspicions: perhaps, honestly, she was conquered by

  the young beauty, and gave her a regard and admiration which the other

  knew she could inspire whenever she had the will. My wife was fairly

  captivated by her at length. The untameable young creature was docile and

  gentle in Laura's presence; modest, natural, amiable, full of laughter

  and spirits, delightful to see and to hear; her presence cheered our

  quiet little household; her charm fascinated my wife as it had subjugated

  poor Clive. Even the reluctant Farintosh was compelled to own her power,

  and confidentially told his male friends, that, hang it, she was so

  handsome, and so clever, and so confoundedly pleasant and fascinating,

  and that--that he had been on the point of popping the fatal question

  ever so many times, by Jove. "And hang it, you know," his lordship would

  say, "I don't want to marry until I have had my fling, you know." As for

  Clive, Ethel treated him like a boy, like a big brother. She was jocular,

  kind, pert, pleasant with him, ordered him on her errands, accepted his

  bouquets and compliments, admired his drawings, liked to hear him

  praised, and took his part in all companies; laughed at his sighs, and

  frankly owned to Laura her liking for him and her pleasure in seeing him.

  "Why," said she, "should not I be happy as long as the sunshine lasts?

  To-morrow, I know, will be glum and dreary enough. When grandmamma comes

  back I shall scarcely be able to come and see you. When I am settled in

  life--eh! I shall be settled in life! Do not grudge me my holiday, Laura.

  Oh, if you knew how stupid it is to be in the world, and how much

  pleasanter to come and talk, and laugh, and sing, and be happy with you,

  than to sit in that dreary Eaton Place with poor Clara!"

  "Why do you stay in Eaton Place?" asks Laura.

  "Why? because I must go out with somebody. What an unsophisticated little

  country creature you are! Grandmamma is away, and I cannot go about to

  parties by myself."

  "But why should you go to parties, and why not go back to your mother?"

  says Mrs. Pendennis, gently.

  "To the nursery, and my little sisters, and Miss Cann? I like being in

  London best, thank you. You look grave? You think a girl should like to

  be with her mother and sisters best? My dear mamma wishes me to be here,

  and I stay with Barnes and Clara by grandmamma's orders. Don't you know

  that I have been made over to Lady Kew, who has adopted me? Do you think

  a young lady of my pretensions can stop at home in a damp house in

  Warwickshire and cut bread-and-butter for little schoolboys? Don't look

  so very grave and shake your head so, Mrs. Pendennis! If you had been

  bred as I have, you would be as I am. I know what you are thinking,

  madam."

  "I am thinking," said Laura, blushing and bowing her head--"I am

  thinking, if it pleases God to give me children, I should like to live at

  home at Fairoaks." My wife's thoughts, though she did not utter them, and

  a certain modesty and habitual awe kept her silent upon subjects so very

  sacred, went deeper yet. She had been bred to measure her actions by a

  standard which the world may nominally admit, but which it leaves for the

  most part unheeded. Worship, love, duty, as taught her by the devout

  study of the Sacred Law which interprets and defines it--if these formed

  the outward practice of her life, they were also its constant and secret

  endeavours and occupation. She spoke but very seldom of her religion,

  though it filled her heart and influenced all her behaviour. Whenever she

  came to that sacred subject, her demeanour appeared to her husband so

  awful that he scarcely dared to approach it in her company, and stood

  without as this pure creature entered into the Holy of Holies. What must

  the world appear to such a person? Its ambitious rewards,

  disappointments, pleasures, worth how much? Compared to the possession of

  that priceless treasure and happiness unspeakable, a perfect faith, what

  has Life to offer? I see before me now her sweet grave face, as she looks

  out from the balcony of the little Richmond villa we occupied during the

  first happy year after our marriage, following Ethel Newcome, who rides

  away, with a staid groom behind her, to her brother's summer residence,

  not far distant. Clive had been with us in the morning, and had brought

  us stirring news. The good Colonel was by this time on his way home. "If

  Clive could tear himself away from London," the good man wrote (and we

  thus saw he was acquainted with the state of the young man's mind), "why

  should not Clive go and meet his father at Malta?" He was feverish and

  eager to go; and his two friends strongly counselled him to take the

  journey. In the midst of our talk Miss Ethel came among us. She arrived

  flushed and in high spirits; she rallied Clive upon his gloomy looks; she

  turned rather pale, as it seemed to us, when she heard the news. Then she

  coldly told him she thought the voyage must be a pleasant one, and would

  do him good: it was pleasanter than that journey she was going to take

  herself with her dreary grandmother, to those German springs which the

  old Countess frequented year after year. Mr. Pendennis having business,

  retired to his study, whither presently Mrs. Laura followed, having to

  look for her scissors, or a book she wanted, or upon some pretext or

  other. She sate down in the conjugal study; not one word did either of us

  say for a while about the young people left alone in the drawing-room

  yonder. Laura talked about our own home at Fairoaks, which our tenants

  were about to vacate. She vowed and declared that we must live at

  Fairoaks; that Clavering, with all its tittle-tattle and stupid

  inhabitants, was better than this wicked London. Besides, there were some

  new and very pleasant families settled in the neighbourhood. Clavering

  Park was taken by some delightful people--"and you know, Pen, you were

  always very fond of fly-fishing, and may fish the Brawl, as you used in

  old days, when--" The lips of the pretty satirist who alluded to these

  unpleasant bygones were silenced as they deserved to be by Mr. Pendennis.

  "Do you think, sir, I did not know," says the sweetest voice in the

  world, "when you went out on your fishing excursions with Miss Amory?"

  Again the flow of words is checked by the styptic previously applied.

  "I wonder," says Mr. Pendennis, archly, bending over his wife's fair

  hand--"I wonder whether this kind of thing is taking place in the

  drawing-room?"

  "Nonsense, Arthur. It is time to go back to them. Why, I declare, I have

  been three-quarters of an hour away!"

  "I don't think they will much miss you, my dear," says the gentleman.

  "She is certainly very fond of him. She is always coming here. I am sure

  it is not to hear you read Shakspeare, Arthur; or your new novel, t
hough

  it is very pretty. I wish Lady Kew and her sixty thousand pounds were at

  the bottom of the sea."

  "But she says she is going to portion her younger brothers with a part of

  it; she told Clive so," remarks Mr. Pendennis.

  "For shame! Why does not Barnes Newcome portion his younger brothers? I

  have no patience with that----Why! Goodness! There is Clive going away,

  actually! Clive! Mr. Newcome!" But though my wife ran to the study-window

  and beckoned our friend, he only shook his head, jumped on his horse, and

  rode away gloomily.

  "Ethel had been crying when I went into the room," Laura afterwards told

  me. "I knew she had; but she looked up from some flowers over which she

  was bending, began to laugh and rattle, would talk about nothing but Lady

  Hautboi's great breakfast the day before, and the most insufferable

  Mayfair jargon; and then declared it was time to go home and dress for

  Mrs. Booth's dejeuner, which was to take place that afternoon."

  And so Miss Newcome rode away--back amongst the roses and the rouges--

  back amongst the fiddling, flirting, flattery, falseness--and Laura's

  sweet serene face looked after her departing. Mrs. Booth's was a very

  grand dejeuner. We read in the newspapers a list of the greatest names

  there. A Royal Duke and Duchess; a German Highness, a Hindoo Nabob, etc.;

  and, amongst the Marquises, Farintosh; and, amongst the Lords, Highgate;

  and Lady Clara Newcome, and Miss Newcome, who looked killing, our

  acquaintance Captain Crackthorpe informs us, and who was in perfectly

  stunning spirits. "His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke of Farintosh is

  wild about her," the Captain said, "and our poor young friend Clive may

  just go and hang himself. Dine with us at the Gar and Starter? Jolly

  party. Oh! I forgot! married man now!" So saying, the Captain entered the

  hostelry near which I met him, leaving this present chronicler to return

  to his own home.

  CHAPTER LI

  An Old Friend

  I might open the present chapter as a contemporary writer of Romance is

  occasionally in the habit of commencing his tales of Chivalry, by a

  description of a November afternoon falling leaves, tawny forests,

  gathering storms, and other autumnal phenomena; and two horsemen winding

  up the romantic road which leads from--from Richmond Bridge to the Star

  and Garter. The one rider is youthful, and has a blonde moustache. The

  cheek of the other has been browned by foreign suns; it is easy to see by

  the manner in which he bestrides his powerful charger that he has

  followed the profession of arms. He looks as if he had faced his

  country's enemies on many a field of Eastern battle. The cavaliers alight

  before the gate of a cottage on Richmond Hill, where a gentleman receives

  them with eager welcome. Their steeds are accommodated at a neighbouring

  hostelry,--I pause in the midst of the description, for the reader has

  made the acquaintance of our two horsemen long since. It is Clive

  returned from Malta, from Gibraltar, from Seville, from Cadiz, and with

  him our dear old friend the Colonel. His campaigns are over, his sword is

  hung up, he leaves Eastern suns and battles to warm younger blood.

  Welcome back to England, dear Colonel and kind friend! How quickly the

  years have passed since he has been gone! There is a streak or two more

  silver in his hair. The wrinkles about his honest eyes are somewhat

  deeper, but their look is as steadfast and kind as in the early, almost

  boyish days when first we knew them.

  We talk a while about the Colonel's voyage home, the pleasures of the

  Spanish journey, the handsome new quarters in which Clive has installed

  his father and himself, my own altered condition in life, and what not.

  During the conversation a little querulous voice makes itself audible

  above-stairs, at which noise Mr. Clive begins to laugh, and the Colonel

  to smile. It is for the first time in his life Mr. Clive listens to the

  little voice; indeed, it is only since about six weeks that that small

  organ has been heard in the world at all. Laura Pendennis believes its

  tunes to be the sweetest, the most interesting, the most mirth-inspiring,

  the most pitiful and pathetic, that ever baby uttered; which opinions, of

  course, are backed by Mrs. Hokey, the confidential nurse. Laura's husband

  is not so rapturous; but, let us trust, behaves in a way becoming a man

  and a father. We forgo the description of his feelings as not pertaining

  to the history at present under consideration. A little while before the

  dinner is served, the lady of the cottage comes down to greet her

  husband's old friends.

  And here I am sorely tempted to a third description, which has nothing to

  do with the story, to be sure, but which, if properly his off might fill

  half a page very prettily. For is not a young mother one of the sweetest

  sights which life shows us? If she has been beautiful before, does not

  her present pure joy give a character of refinement and sacredness almost

  to her beauty, touch her sweet cheeks with fairer blushes, and impart I

  know not what serene brightness to her eyes? I give warning to the artist

  who designs the pictures for this veracious story, to make no attempt at

  this subject. I never would be satisfied with it were his drawing ever so

  good.

  When Sir Charles Grandison stepped up and made his very beautifullest bow

  to Miss Byron, I am sure his gracious dignity never exceeded that of

  Colonel Newcome's first greeting to Mrs. Pendennis. Of course from the

  very moment they beheld one another they became friends. Are not most of

  our likings thus instantaneous? Before she came down to see him, Laura

  had put on one of the Colonel's shawls--the crimson one, with the red

  palm-leaves and the border of many colours. As for the white one, the

  priceless, the gossamer, the fairy web, which might pass through a ring,

  that, every lady must be aware, was already appropriated to cover the

  cradle, or what I believe is called the bassinet, of Master Pendennis.

  So we all became the very best of friends; and during the winter months

  whilst we still resided at Richmond, the Colonel was my wife's constant

  visitor. He often came without Clive. He did not care for the world which

  the young gentleman frequented, and was more pleased and at home by my

  wife's fireside than at more noisy and splendid entertainments. And,

  Laura being a sentimental person interested in pathetic novels and all

  unhappy attachments, of course she and the Colonel talked a great deal

  about Mr. Clive's little affair, over which they would have such deep

  confabulations that even when the master of the house appeared, Pater

  Familias, the man whom, in the presence of the Rev. Dr. Portman, Mrs.

  Laura had sworn to love and honour these two guilty ones would be silent, or

  change the subject of conversation, not caring to admit such an

  unsympathising person as myself into their conspiracy.

  From many a talk which they have had together since the Colonel and his

  son embraced at Malta, Clive's father had been led to see how strongly

  the passion which our friend had once
fought and mastered, had now taken

  possession of the young man. The unsatisfied longing left him indifferent

  to all other objects of previous desire or ambition. The misfortune

  darkened the sunshine of his spirit, and clouded the world before his

  eyes. He passed hours in his painting-room, though he tore up what he did

  there. He forsook his usual haunts, or appeared amongst his old comrades

  moody and silent. From cigar-smoking, which I own to be a reprehensible

  practice, he plunged into still deeper and darker dissipation; for I am

  sorry to say, he took to pipes and the strongest tobacco, for which there

  is no excuse. Our young man was changed. During the last fifteen or

  twenty months, the malady had been increasing on him, of which we have

  not chosen to describe at length the stages; knowing very well that the

  reader (the male reader at least) does not care a fig about other

  people's sentimental perplexities, and is not wrapped up heart and soul

  in Clive's affairs like his father, whose rest was disturbed if the boy

  had a headache, or who would have stripped the coat off his back to keep

  his darling's feet warm.

  The object of this hopeless passion had, meantime, returned to the

  custody of the dark old duenna, from which she had been liberated for a

  while. Lady Kew had got her health again, by means of the prescriptions

  of some doctors, or by the efficacy of some baths; and was again on foot

  and in the world, tramping about in her grim pursuit of pleasure. Lady

  Julia, we are led to believe, had retired upon half-pay, and into an

  inglorious exile at Brussels, with her sister, the outlaw's wife, by

  whose bankrupt fireside she was perfectly happy. Miss Newcome was now her

  grandmother's companion, and they had been on a tour of visits in

  Scotland, and were journeying from country-house to country-house about

  the time when our good Colonel returned to his native shores.

  The Colonel loved his nephew Barnes no better than before, perhaps,

  though we must say that since his return from India the young Baronet's

  conduct had been particularly friendly. "No doubt marriage had improved

  him; Lady Clara seemed a good-natured young woman enough; besides," says

  the Colonel, wagging his good old head knowingly, "Tom Newcome, of the

  Bundelcund Bank, is a personage to be conciliated; whereas Tom Newcome,

  of the Bengal Cavalry, was not worth Master Barnes's attention. He has

  been very good and kind on the whole; so have his friends been uncommonly

  civil. There was Clive's acquaintance, Mr. Belsize that was, Lord

  Highgate who is now, entertained our whole family sumptuously last week--

  wants us and Barnes and his wife to go to his country-house at Christmas

  --is as hospitable, my dear Mrs. Pendennis, as man can be. He met you at

  Barnes's, and as soon as we are alone," says the Colonel, turning round

  to Laura's husband, "I will tell you in what terms Lady Clara speaks of

  your wife. Yes. She is a good-natured, kind little woman, that Lady

  Clara." Here Laura's face assumed that gravity and severeness, which it

  always wore when Lady Clara's name was mentioned, and the conversation

  took another turn.

  Returning home from London one afternoon, I met the Colonel, who hailed

  me on the omnibus, and rode on his way towards the City, I knew, of

  course, that he had been colloquying with my wife; and taxed that young

  woman with these continued flirtations. "Two or three times a week, Mrs.

  Laura, you dare to receive a Colonel of Dragoons. You sit for hours

  closeted with the young fellow of sixty; you change the conversation when

  your own injured husband enters the room, and pretend to talk about the

  weather, or the baby. You little arch hypocrite, you know you do. Don't

  try to humbug me, miss; what will Richmond, what will society, what will

  Mrs. Grundy in general say to such atrocious behaviour?"