The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

borne, very philosophically, delay after delay which had taken place in

  the devised union; and being quite sure of his mistress, had not cared to

  press on the marriage, but lingered over the dregs of his bachelor cup

  complacently still. We all know in what an affecting farewell he took

  leave of the associates of his vie de garcon: the speeches made (in both

  languages), the presents distributed, the tears and hysterics of some of

  the guests assembled; the cigar-boxes given over to this friend, the

  ecrin of diamonds to that, et caetera, et caetera, et caetera. Don't we

  know? If we don't it is not Henchman's fault, who has told the story of

  Farintosh's betrothals a thousand and one times at his clubs, at the

  houses where he is asked to dine, on account of his intimacy with the

  nobility, among the young men of fashion, or no fashion, whom this

  two-bottle Mentor, and burly admirer of youth, has since taken upon

  himself to form. The farewell at Greenwich was so affecting that all

  "traversed the cart," and took another farewell at Richmond, where there

  was crying too, but it was Eucharis cried because fair Calypso wanted to

  tear her eyes out; and where not only Telemachus (as was natural to his

  age), but Mentor likewise, quaffed the wine-cup too freely. You are

  virtuous, O reader! but there are still cakes and ale, Ask Henchman if

  there be not. You will find him in the Park any afternoon; he will dine

  with you if no better man ask him in the interval. He will tell you story

  upon story regarding young Lord Farintosh, and his marriage, and what

  happened before his marriage, and afterwards; and he will sigh, weep

  almost at some moments, as he narrates their subsequent quarrel, and

  Farintosh's unworthy conduct, and tells you how he formed that young man.

  My uncle and Captain Henchman disliked each other very much, I am sorry

  to say--sorry to add that it was very amusing to hear either one of them

  speak of the other.

  Lady Glenlivat, according to the Captain, then, had no success in the

  interview with her son; who, unmoved by the maternal tears, commands, and

  entreaties, swore he would marry Miss Newcome, and that no power on earth

  should prevent him. "As if trying to thwart that man could ever prevent

  his having his way!" ejaculated his quondam friend.

  But on the next day, after ten thousand men in clubs and coteries had

  talked the news over; after the evening had repeated and improved the

  delightful theme of our "morning contemporaries;" after Calypso and

  Eucharis driving together in the Park, and reconciled now, had kissed

  their hands to Lord Farintosh, and made him their compliments--after a

  night of natural doubt, disturbance, defiance, fury--as men whispered to

  each other at the club where his lordship dined, and at the theatre where

  he took his recreation--after an awful time at breakfast in which Messrs.

  Bowman, valet, and Todhunter and Henchman, captains of the Farintosh

  bodyguard, all got their share of kicks and growling--behold Lady

  Glenlivat came back to the charge again; and this time with such force

  that poor Lord Farintosh was shaken indeed.

  Her ladyship's ally was no other than Miss Newcome herself; from whom

  Lord Farintosh's mother received, by that day's post, a letter, which she

  was commissioned to read to her son.

  "Dear Madam" (wrote the young lady in her firmest handwriting)--"Mamma is

  at this moment in a state of such grief and dismay at the cruel

  misfortune and humiliation which has just befallen our family, that she

  is really not able to write to you as she ought, and this task, painful

  as it is, must be mine. Dear Lady Glenlivat, the kindness and confidence

  which I have ever received from you and yours, merit truth, and most

  grateful respect and regard from me. And I feel after the late fatal

  occurrence, what I have often and often owned to myself though I did not

  dare to acknowledge it, that I ought to release Lord F., at once and for

  ever, from an engagement which he could never think of maintaining with a

  family so unfortunate as ours. I thank him with all my heart for his

  goodness in bearing with my humours so long; if I have given him pain, as

  I know I have sometimes, I beg his pardon, and would do so on my knees. I

  hope and pray he may be happy, as I feared he never could be with me. He

  has many good and noble qualities; and, in bidding him farewell, I trust

  I may retain his friendship, and that he will believe in the esteem and

  gratitude of your most sincere, Ethel Newcome."

  A copy of this farewell letter was seen by a lady who happened to be a

  neighbour of Miss Newcome's when the family misfortune occurred, and to

  whom, in her natural dismay and grief, the young lady fled for comfort

  and consolation. "Dearest Mrs. Pendennis," wrote Miss Ethel to my wife,

  "I hear you are at Rosebury; do, do come to your affectionate E. N." The

  next day, it was--"Dearest Laura--If you can, pray, pray come to Newcome

  this morning. I want very much to speak to you about the poor children,

  to consult you about something most important." Madame de Moncontour's

  pony-carriage was constantly trotting between Rosebury and Newcome in

  these days of calamity.

  And my wife, as in duty bound, gave me full reports of all that happened

  in that house of mourning. On the very day of the flight, Lady Anne, her

  daughter, and some others of her family arrived at Newcome. The deserted

  little girl, Barnes's eldest child, ran, with tears and cries of joy, to

  her Aunt Ethel, whom she had always loved better than her mother; and

  clung to her and embraced her; and, in her artless little words, told her

  that mamma had gone away, and that Ethel should be her mamma now. Very

  strongly moved by the misfortune, as by the caresses and affection of the

  poor orphaned creature, Ethel took the little girl to her heart, and

  promised to be a mother to her, and that she would not leave her; in

  which pious resolve I scarcely need say Laura strengthened her, when, at

  her young friend's urgent summons, my wife came to her.

  The household at Newcome was in a state of disorganisation after the

  catastrophe. Two of Lady Clara's servants; it has been stated already,

  went away with her. The luckless master of the house was lying wounded in

  the neighbouring town. Lady Anne Newcome, his mother, was terribly

  agitated by the news, which was abruptly broken to her, of the flight of

  her daughter-in-law and her son's danger. Now she thought of flying to

  Newcome to nurse him; and then feared lest she should be ill received by

  the invalid--indeed, ordered by Sir Barnes to go home, and not to bother

  him. So at home Lady Anne remained, where the thoughts of the sufferings

  she had already undergone in that house, of Sir Barnes's cruel behaviour

  to her at her last visit, which he had abruptly requested her to shorten,

  of the happy days which she had passed as mistress of that house and wife

  of the defunct Sir Brian; the sight of that departed angel's picture in

  the dining-room and wheel-chair in the gallery; the recollection of

  little Barnes as a cherub of a child in that very gallery, and p
ulled out

  of the fire by a nurse in the second year of his age, when he was all

  that a fond mother could wish--these incidents and reminiscences so

  agitated Lady Anne Newcome, that she, for her part, went off in a series

  of hysterical fits, and acted as one distraught: her second daughter

  screamed in sympathy with her and Miss Newcome had to take the command of

  the whole of this demented household, hysterical mamma and sister,

  mutineering servants, and shrieking abandoned nursery, and bring young

  people and old to peace and quiet.

  On the morrow after his little concussion Sir Barnes Newcome came home,

  not much hurt in body, but woefully afflicted in temper, and venting his

  wrath upon everybody round about him in that strong language which he

  employed when displeased; and under which his valet, his housekeeper, his

  butler, his farm-bailiff, his lawyer, his doctor, his dishevelled mother

  herself--who rose from her couch and her sal-volatile to fling herself

  round her dear boy's knees--all had to suffer. Ethel Newcome, the

  Baronet's sister, was the only person in his house to whom Sir Barnes did

  not utter oaths or proffer rude speeches. He was afraid of offending her

  or encountering that resolute spirit, and lapsed into a surly silence in

  her presence. Indistinct maledictions growled about Sir Barnes's chair

  when he beheld my wife's pony-carriage drive up; and he asked what

  brought her here? But Ethel sternly told her brother that Mrs. Pendennis

  came at her particular request, and asked him whether he supposed anybody

  could come into that house for pleasure now, or for any other motive but

  kindness? Upon which, Sir Barnes fairly burst out into tears,

  intermingled with execrations against his enemies and his own fate, and

  assertions that he was the most miserable beggar alive. He would not see

  his children: but with more tears he would implore Ethel never to leave

  them, and, anon, would ask what he should do when she married, and he was

  left alone in that infernal house?

  T. Potts, Esq., of the Newcome Independent, used to say afterwards that

  the Baronet was in the direst terror of another meeting with Lord

  Highgate, and kept a policeman at the lodge-gate, and a second in the

  kitchen, to interpose in event of a collision. But Mr. Potts made this

  statement in after days, when the quarrel between his party and paper and

  Sir Barnes Newcome was flagrant. Five or six days after the meeting of

  the two rivals in Newcome market-place, Sir Barnes received a letter from

  the friend of Lord Highgate, informing him that his lordship, having

  waited for him according to promise, had now left England, and presumed

  that the differences between them were to be settled by their respective

  lawyers--infamous behaviour on a par with the rest of Lord Highgate's

  villainy, the Baronet said. "When the scoundrel knew I could lift my

  pistol arm," Barnes said, "Lord Highgate fled the country;"--thus hinting

  that death, and not damages, were what he intended to seek from his

  enemy.

  After that interview in which Ethel communicated to Laura her farewell

  letter to Lord Farintosh, my wife returned to Rosebury with an

  extraordinary brightness and gaiety in her face and her demeanour. She

  pressed Madame de Moncontour's hands with such warmth, she blushed and

  looked so handsome, she sang and talked so gaily, that our host was

  struck by her behaviour, and paid her husband more compliments regarding

  her beauty, amiability, and other good qualities, than need be set down

  here. It may be that I like Paul de Florac so much, in spite of certain

  undeniable faults of character, because of his admiration for my wife.

  She was in such a hurry to talk to me, that night, that Paul's game and

  Nicotian amusements were cut short by her visit to the billiard-room; and

  when we were alone by the cosy dressing-room fire, she told me what had

  happened during the day. Why should Ethel's refusal of Lord Farintosh

  have so much elated my wife?

  "Ah!" cries Mrs. Pendennis, "she has a generous nature, and the world has

  not had time to spoil it. Do you know there are many points that she

  never has thought of--I would say problems that she has to work out for

  herself, only you, Pen, do not like us poor ignorant women to use such a

  learned word as problems? Life and experience force things upon her mind

  which others learn from their parents or those who educate them, but, for

  which she has never had any teachers. Nobody has ever told her, Arthur,

  that it was wrong to marry without love, or pronounce lightly those awful

  vows which we utter before God at the altar. I believe, if she knew that

  her life was futile, it is but of late she has thought it could be

  otherwise, and that she might mend it. I have read (besides that poem of

  Goethe of which you are so fond) in books of Indian travels of Bayaderes,

  dancing-girls brought up by troops round about the temples, whose calling

  is to dance, and wear jewels, and look beautiful; I believe they are

  quite respected in--in Pagoda-land. They perform before the priests in

  the pagodas; and the Brahmins and the Indian princes marry them. Can we

  cry out against these poor creatures, or against the custom of their

  country? It seems to me that young women in our world are bred up in a

  way not very different. What they do they scarcely know to be wrong. They

  are educated for the world, and taught to display: their mothers will

  give them to the richest suitor, as they themselves were given before.

  How can these think seriously, Arthur, of souls to be saved, weak hearts

  to be kept out of temptation, prayers to be uttered, and a better world

  to be held always in view, when the vanities of this one are all their

  thought and scheme? Ethel's simple talk made me smile sometimes, do you

  know, and her strenuous way of imparting her discoveries. I thought of

  the shepherd boy who made a watch, and found on taking it into the town

  how very many watches there were, and how much better than his. But the

  poor child has had to make hers for herself, such as it is; and, indeed,

  is employed now in working on it. She told me very artlessly her little

  history, Arthur; it affected me to hear her simple talk, and--and I

  blessed God for our mother, my dear, and that my early days had had a

  better guide.

  "You know that for a long time it was settled that she was to marry her

  cousin, Lord Kew. She was bred to that notion from her earliest youth;

  about which she spoke as we all can about our early days. They were

  spent, she said, in the nursery and schoolroom for the most part. She was

  allowed to come to her mother's dressing-room, and sometimes to see more

  of her during the winter at Newcome. She describes her mother as always

  the kindest of the kind: but from very early times the daughter must have

  felt her own superiority, I think, though she does not speak of it. You

  should see her at home now in their dreadful calamity. She seems the only

  person of the house who keeps her head.

  "She told very nicely and modestly how it was Lord Kew who parted from

  her, not she who had d
ismissed him, as you know the Newcomes used to say.

  I have heard that--oh--that man Sir Barnes say so myself. She says humbly

  that her cousin Kew was a great deal too good for her; and so is every

  one almost, she adds, poor thing!"

  "Poor every one! Did you ask about him, Laura?" said Mr. Pendennis.

  "No; I did not venture. She looked at me out of her downright eyes, and

  went on with her little tale. 'I was scarcely more than a child then,'

  she continued, 'and though I liked Kew very much--who would not like such

  a generous honest creature? I felt somehow that I was taller than my

  cousin, and as if I ought not to marry him, or should make him unhappy if

  I did. When poor papa used to talk, we children remarked that mamma

  hardly listened to him; and so we did not respect him as we should, and

  Barnes was especially scoffing and odious with him. Why, when he was a

  boy, he used to sneer at papa openly before us younger ones. Now Harriet

  admires everything that Kew says, and that makes her a great deal happier

  at being with him.' And then," added Mrs. Pendennis, "Ethel said, 'I hope

  you respect your husband, Laura: depend on it, you will be happier if you

  do.' Was not that a fine discovery of Ethel's, Mr. Pen?

  "'Clara's terror of Barnes frightened me when I stayed in the house,'

  Ethel went on. 'I am sure I would not tremble before any man in the world

  as she did. I saw early that she used to deceive him, and tell him lies,

  Laura. I do not mean lies of words alone, but lies of looks and actions.

  Oh! I do not wonder at her flying from him. He was dreadful to be with:

  cruel, and selfish, and cold. He was made worse by marrying a woman he

  did not love; as she was, by that unfortunate union with him. Suppose he

  had found a clever woman who could have controlled him, and amused him,

  and whom he and his friends could have admired, instead of poor Clara,

  who made his home wearisome, and trembled when he entered it? Suppose she

  could have married that unhappy man to whom she was attached early? I was

  frightened, Laura, to think how ill this worldly marriage had prospered.

  "'My poor grandmother, whenever I spoke upon such a subject, would break

  out into a thousand gibes and sarcasms, and point to many of our friends

  who had made love-matches, and were quarrelling now as fiercely as though

  they had never loved each other. You remember that dreadful case in

  France Duc de ----, who murdered his duchess? That was a love-match, and

  I can remember the sort of screech with which Lady Kew used to speak

  about it; and of the journal which the poor duchess kept, and in which

  she noted down all her husband's ill-behaviour.'"

  "Hush, Laura! Do you remember where we are? If the Princess were to put

  down all Florac's culpabilities in an album, what a ledger it would be--

  as big as Dr. Portman's Chrysostom!" But this was parenthetical: and

  after a smile, and a little respite, the young woman proceeded in her

  narration of her friend's history.

  "'I was willing enough to listen,' Ethel said, 'to grandmamma then: for

  we are glad of an excuse to do what we like; and I liked admiration, and

  rank, and great wealth, Laura; and Lord Farintosh offered me these. I

  liked to surpass my companions, and I saw them so eager in pursuing him!

  You cannot think, Laura, what meannesses women in the world will commit--

  mothers and daughters too, in the pursuit of a person of his great rank.

  Those Miss Burrs, you should have seen them at the country-houses where

  we visited together, and how they followed him; how they would meet him

  in the parks and shrubberies; how they liked smoking though I knew it

  made them ill; how they were always finding pretexts for getting near

  him! Oh, it was odious!'"

  I would not willingly interrupt the narrative, but let the reporter be

  allowed here to state that at this point of Miss Newcome's story (which