The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

chance with the young lady was but a poor one, and that Sir Barnes

  Newcome, inclined to keep his uncle in good-humour, would therefore give

  him no disagreeable refusal.

  Now this gentleman could no more pardon a lie than he could utter one. He

  would believe all and everything a man told him until deceived once,

  after which he never forgave. And wrath being once roused in his simple

  mind and distrust firmly fixed there, his anger and prejudices gathered

  daily. He could see no single good quality in his opponent; and hated him

  with a daily increasing bitterness.

  As ill luck would have it, that very same evening, at his return to town,

  Thomas Newcome entered Bays's club, of which, at our request, he had

  become a member during his last visit to England, and there was Sir

  Barnes, as usual, on his way homewards from the City. Barnes was writing

  at a table, and sealing and closing a letter, as he saw the Colonel

  enter; he thought he had been a little inattentive and curt with his

  uncle in the morning; had remarked, perhaps, the expression of

  disapproval on the Colonel's countenance. He simpered up to his uncle as

  the latter entered the clubroom, and apologised for his haste when they

  met in the City in the morning--all City men were so busy! "And I have

  been writing about that little affair, just as you came in," he said;

  "quite a moving letter to Lady Kew, I assure you, and I do hope and trust

  we shall have a favourable answer in a day or two."

  "You said her ladyship was in the North, I think?" said the Colonel,

  drily.

  "Oh, yes--in the North, at--at Lord Wallsend's--great coal-proprietor,

  you know."

  "And your sister is with her?"

  "Ethel is always with her."

  "I hope you will send her my very best remembrances," said the Colonel.

  "I'll open the letter, and add 'em in a postscript," said Barnes.

  "Confounded liar?" cried the Colonel, mentioning the circumstance to me

  afterwards, "why does not somebody pitch him out of the bow-window?"

  If we were in the secret of Sir Barnes Newcome's correspondence, and

  could but peep into that particular letter to his grandmother, I dare say

  we should read that he had seen the Colonel, who was very anxious about

  his darling youth's suit, but, pursuant to Lady Kew's desire, Barnes had

  stoutly maintained that her ladyship was still in the North, enjoying the

  genial hospitality of Lord Wallsend. That of course he should say nothing

  to Ethel, except with Lady Kew's full permission: that he wished her a

  pleasant trip to ----, and was, etc. etc.

  Then if we could follow him, we might see him reach his Belgravian

  mansion, and fling an angry word to his wife as she sits alone in the

  darkling drawing-room, poring over the embers. He will ask her, probably

  with an oath, why the ----- she is not dressed? and if she always intends

  to keep her company waiting? An hour hence, each with a smirk, and the

  lady in smart raiment, with flowers in her hair, will be greeting their

  guests as they arrive. Then will come dinner and such conversation as it

  brings. Then at night Sir Barnes will issue forth, cigar in mouth; to

  return to his own chamber at his own hour; to breakfast by himself; to go

  Citywards, money-getting. He will see his children once a fortnight, and

  exchange a dozen sharp words with his wife twice in that time.

  More and more sad does the Lady Clara become from day to day; liking more

  to sit lonely over the fire; careless about the sarcasms of her husband;

  the prattle of her children. She cries sometimes over the cradle of the

  young heir. She is aweary, aweary. You understand, the man to whom her

  parents sold her does not make her happy, though she has been bought with

  diamonds, two carriages, several large footmen, a fine country-house with

  delightful gardens, and conservatories, and with all this she is

  miserable--is it possible?

  CHAPTER LIII

  In which Kinsmen fall out

  Not the least difficult part of Thomas Newcome's present business was to

  keep from his son all knowledge of the negotiation in which he was

  engaged on Clive's behalf. If my gentle reader has had sentimental

  disappointments, he or she is aware that the friends who have given him

  most sympathy under these calamities have been persons who have had

  dismal histories of their own at some time of their lives, and I conclude

  Colonel Newcome in his early days must have suffered very cruelly in that

  affair of which we have a slight cognisance, or he would not have felt so

  very much anxiety about Clive's condition.

  A few chapters back and we described the first attack, and Clive's manful

  cure: then we had to indicate the young gentleman's relapse, and the

  noisy exclamations of the youth under this second outbreak of fever.

  Calling him back after she had dismissed him, and finding pretext after

  pretext to see him,--why did the girl encourage him, as she certainly

  did? I allow, with Mrs. Grundy and most moralists, that Miss Newcome's

  conduct in this matter was highly reprehensible; that if she did not

  intend to marry Clive she should have broken with him--altogether; that a

  virtuous young woman of high principle, etc. etc., having once determined

  to reject a suitor, should separate from him utterly then and there--

  never give him again the least chance of a hope, or reillume the

  extinguished fire in the wretch's bosom.

  But coquetry, but kindness, but family affection, and a strong, very

  strong partiality for the rejected lover--are these not to be taken in

  account, and to plead as excuses for her behaviour to her cousin? The

  least unworthy part of her conduct, some critics will say, was that

  desire to see Clive and be well with him: as she felt the greatest regard

  for him, the showing it was not blameable; and every flutter which she

  made to escape out of the meshes which the world had cast about her was

  but the natural effort at liberty. It was her prudence which was wrong;

  and her submission wherein she was most culpable. In the early church

  story, do we not read how young martyrs constantly had to disobey worldly

  papas and mammas, who would have had them silent, and not utter their

  dangerous opinions? how their parents locked them up, kept them on

  bread-and-water, whipped and tortured them in order to enforce

  obedience?--nevertheless they would declare the truth: they would defy

  the gods by law established, and deliver themselves up to the lions or

  the tormentors. Are not there Heathen Idols enshrined among us still?

  Does not the world worship them, and persecute those who refuse to kneel?

  Do not many timid souls sacrifice to them; and other bolder spirits rebel

  and, with rage at their hearts, bend down their stubborn knees at their

  altars? See! I began by siding with Mrs. Grundy and the world, and at the

  next turn of the see-saw have lighted down on Ethel's side, and am

  disposed to think that the very best part of her conduct has been those

  escapades which--which right-minded persons most justly condemn. At

  least, that a young beauty should torture a man with alternate liking and

  in
difference; allure, dismiss, and call him back out of banishment;

  practise arts to please upon him, and ignore them when rebuked for her

  coquetry--these are surely occurrences so common in young women's history

  as to call for no special censure; and if on these charges Miss Newcome

  is guilty, is she, of all her sex, alone in her criminality?

  So Ethel and her duenna went away upon their tour of visits to mansions

  so splendid, and among hosts and guests so polite, that the present

  modest historian does not dare to follow them. Suffice it to say that

  Duke This and Earl That were, according to their hospitable custom,

  entertaining a brilliant circle of friends at their respective castles,

  all whose names the Morning Post gave; and among them those of the

  Dowager Countess of Kew and Miss Newcome.

  During her absence, Thomas Newcome grimly awaited the result of his

  application to Barnes. That Baronet showed his uncle a letter, or rather

  a postscript, from Lady Kew, which probably had been dictated by Barnes

  himself, in which the Dowager said she was greatly touched by Colonel

  Newcome's noble offer; that though she owned she had very different views

  for her granddaughter, Miss Newcome's choice of course lay with herself.

  Meanwhile, Lady K. and Ethel were engaged in a round of visits to the

  country, and there would be plenty of time to resume this subject when

  they came to London for the season. And, lest dear Ethel's feelings

  should be needlessly agitated by a discussion of the subject, and the

  Colonel should take a fancy to write to her privately, Lady Kew gave

  orders that all letters from London should be despatched under cover to

  her ladyship, and carefully examined the contents of the packet before

  Ethel received her share of the correspondence.

  To write to her personally on the subject of the marriage, Thomas Newcome

  had determined was not a proper course for him to pursue. "They consider

  themselves," says he, "above us, forsooth, in their rank of life (oh,

  mercy! what pigmies we are! and don't angels weep at the brief authority

  in which we dress ourselves up!) and of course the approaches on our side

  must be made in regular form, and the parents of the young people must

  act for them. Clive is too honourable a man to wish to conduct the affair

  in any other way. He might try the influence of his beaux yeux, and run

  off to Gretna with a girl who had nothing; but the young lady being

  wealthy, and his relation, sir, we must be on the point of honour; and

  all the Kews in Christendom shan't have more pride than we in this

  matter."

  All this time we are keeping Mr. Clive purposely in the background. His

  face is so woebegone that we do not care to bring it forward in the

  family picture. His case is so common that surely its lugubrious symptoms

  need not be described at length. He works away fiercely at his pictures,

  and in spite of himself improves in his art. He sent a "Combat of

  Cavalry," and a picture of "Sir Brian the Templar carrying off Rebecca,"

  to the British Institution this year; both of which pieces were praised

  in other journals besides the Pall Mall Gazette. He did not care for the

  newspaper praises. He was rather surprised when a dealer purchased his

  "Sir Brian the Templar." He came and went from our house a melancholy

  swain. He was thankful for Laura's kindness and pity. J. J.'s studio was

  his principal resort; and I dare say, as he set up his own easel there,

  and worked by his friend's side, he bemoaned his lot to his sympathising

  friend.

  Sir Barnes Newcome's family was absent from London during the winter. His

  mother, and his brothers and sisters, his wife and his two children, were

  gone to Newcome for Christmas. Some six weeks after seeing him, Ethel

  wrote her uncle a kind, merry letter. They had been performing private

  theatricals at the country-house where she and Lady Kew were staying.

  "Captain Crackthorpe made an admirable Jeremy Diddler in 'Raising the

  Wind.' Lord Farintosh broke down lamentably as Fusbos in 'Bombastes

  Furioso.'" Miss Ethel had distinguished herself in both of these

  facetious little comedies. "I should like Clive to paint me as Miss

  Plainways," she wrote. "I wore a powdered front, painted my face all over

  wrinkles, imitated old Lady Griffin as well as I could, and looked sixty

  at least."

  Thomas Newcome wrote an answer to his fair niece's pleasant letter;

  "Clive," he said, "would be happy to bargain to paint her, and nobody

  else but her, all the days of his life; and," the Colonel was sure,

  "would admire her at sixty as much as he did now, when she was forty

  years younger." But, determined on maintaining his appointed line of

  conduct respecting Miss Newcome, he carried his letter to Sir Barnes, and

  desired him to forward it to his sister. Sir Barnes took the note, and

  promised to despatch it. The communications between him and his uncle had

  been very brief and cold, since the telling of these little fibs

  concerning old Lady Kew's visits to London, which the Baronet dismissed

  from his mind as soon as they were spoken, and which the good Colonel

  never could forgive. Barnes asked his uncle to dinner once or twice, but

  the Colonel was engaged. How was Barnes to know the reason of the elder's

  refusal? A London man, a banker, and a Member of Parliament, has a

  thousand things to think of; and no time to wonder that friends refuse

  his invitations to dinner. Barnes continued to grin and smile most

  affectionately when he met the Colonel; to press his hand, to

  congratulate him on the last accounts from India, unconscious of the

  scorn and distrust with which his senior mentally regarded him. "Old boy

  is doubtful about the young cub's love-affair," the Baronet may have

  thought. "We'll ease his old mind on that point some time hence." No

  doubt Barnes thought he was conducting the business very smartly and

  diplomatically.

  I heard myself news at this period from the gallant Crackthorpe, which,

  being interested in my young friend's happiness, filled me with some

  dismay. "Our friend the painter and glazier has been hankering about our

  barracks at Knightsbridge" (the noble Life Guards Green had now pitched

  their tents in that suburb), "and pumping me about la belle cousin. I

  don't like to break it to him--I don't really, now. But it's all up with

  his chance, I think. Those private theatricals at Fallowfield have done

  Farintosh's business. He used to rave about the Newcomes to me, as we

  were riding home from hunting. He gave Bob Henchman the lie, who told a

  story which Bob got from his man, who had it from Miss Newcome's

  lady's-maid, about--about some journey to Brighton, which the cousins

  took." Here Mr. Crackthorpe grinned most facetiously. "Farintosh swore

  he'd knock Henchman down; and vows he will be the death of--will murder

  our friend Clive when he comes to town. As for Henchman, he was in a

  desperate way. He lives on the Marquis, you know, and Farintosh's anger

  or his marriage will be the loss of free quarters, and ever so many good

  dinners a year to him." I did not deem it necessary to impart
/>
  Crackthorpe's story to Clive, or explain to him the reason why Lord

  Farintosh scowled most fiercely upon the young painter, and passed him

  without any other sign of recognition one day as Clive and I were walking

  together in Pall Mall. If my lord wanted a quarrel, young Clive was not a

  man to balk him; and would have been a very fierce customer to deal with,

  in his actual state of mind.

  A pauper child in London at seven years old knows how to go to market, to

  fetch the beer, to pawn father's coat, to choose the largest fried fish

  or the nicest ham-bone, to nurse Mary Jane of three,--to conduct a

  hundred operations of trade or housekeeping, which a little Belgravian

  does not perhaps acquire in all the days of her life. Poverty and

  necessity force this precociousness on the poor little brat. There are

  children who are accomplished shoplifters and liars almost as soon as

  they can toddle and speak. I dare say little Princes know the laws of

  etiquette as regards themselves, and the respect due to their rank, at a

  very early period of their royal existence. Every one of us, according to

  his degree, can point to the Princekins of private life who are flattered

  and worshipped, and whose little shoes grown men kiss as soon almost as

  they walk upon ground.

  It is a wonder what human nature will support: and that, considering the

  amount of flattery some people are crammed with from their cradles, they

  do not grow worse and more selfish than they are. Our poor little pauper

  just mentioned is dosed with Daffy's Elixir, and somehow survives

  the drug. Princekin or lordkin from his earliest days has nurses,

  dependants, governesses, little friends, schoolfellows, schoolmasters,

  fellow-collegians, college tutors, stewards and valets, led captains of

  his suite, and women innumerable flattering him and doing him honour. The

  tradesman's manner, which to you and me is decently respectful, becomes

  straightway frantically servile before Princekin. Honest folks at railway

  stations whisper to their families, "That's the Marquis of Farintosh,"

  and look hard at him as he passes. Landlords cry, "This way, my lord;

  this room for your lordship." They say at public schools Princekin is

  taught the beauties of equality, and thrashed into some kind of

  subordination. Psha! Toad-eaters in pinafores surround Princekin. Do not

  respectable people send their children so as to be at the same school

  with him; don't they follow him to college, and eat his toads through

  life?

  And as for women--oh, my dear friends and brethren in this vale of tears

  --did you ever see anything so curious, monstrous, and amazing as the way

  in which women court Princekin when he is marriageable, and pursue him

  with their daughters? Who was the British nobleman in old old days who

  brought his three daughters to the King of Mercia, that His Majesty might

  choose one after inspection? Mercia was but a petty province, and its

  king in fact a Princekin. Ever since those extremely ancient and

  venerable times the custom exists not only in Mercia, but in all the rest

  of the provinces inhabited by the Angles, and before Princekins the

  daughters of our nobles are trotted out.

  There was no day of his life which our young acquaintance, the Marquis of

  Farintosh, could remember on which he had not been flattered; and no

  society which did not pay him court. At a private school he could

  recollect the master's wife stroking his pretty curls and treating him

  furtively to goodies; at college he had the tutor simpering and bowing as

  he swaggered over the grass-plat; old men at clubs would make way for him

  and fawn on him--not your mere pique-assiettes and penniless parasites,

  but most respectable toad-eaters, fathers of honest families, gentlemen

  themselves of good station, who respected this young gentleman as one of