The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

the wine with her pale lips. Ethel's head bent in silence over her glass;

  and, as for Laura, need I say what happened to her! When the ladies went

  away my heart was opened to my friend Florac, and I told him where and

  how I had left my dear Clive's father.

  The Frenchman's emotion on hearing this tale was such that I have loved

  him ever since. Clive in want! Why had he not sent to his friend? Grands

  Dieux! Clive who had helped him in his greatest distress! Clive's father,

  ce preux chevalier, ce parfait gentilhomme! In a hundred rapid

  exclamations Florac exhibited his sympathy, asking of Fate, why such men

  as he and I were sitting surrounded by splendours--before golden vases

  crowned with flowers--with valets to kiss our feet--(those were merely

  figures of speech in which Paul expressed his prosperity)--whilst our

  friend the Colonel, so much better than we, spent his last days in

  poverty, and alone.

  I liked Florac none the less, I own, because that one of the conditions

  of the Colonel's present life, which appeared the hardest to most people,

  affected Florac but little. To be a Pensioner of an Ancient Institution?

  Why not? Might not a man retire without shame to the Invalides at the

  close of his campaigns, and, had not Fortune conquered our old friend,

  and age and disaster overcome him? It never once entered Thomas Newcome's

  head; nor Clive's, nor Florac's, nor his mother's, that the Colonel

  demeaned himself at all by accepting that bounty; and I recollect

  Warrington sharing our sentiment and trowling out those noble lines of

  the old poet:--

  "His golden locks time hath to silver turned;

  O time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!

  His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned,

  But spurned in vain; youth waneth by encreasing.

  Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen.

  Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

  His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,

  And lovers' songs be turned to holy psalms;

  A man at arms must now serve on his knees,

  And feed on prayers, which are old age's alms."

  These, I say, respected our friend, whatever was the coat he wore;

  whereas, among the Colonel's own kinsfolk, dire was the dismay, and

  indignation even, which they expressed when they came to hear of this,

  what they were pleased to call degradation to their family. Clive's dear

  mother-in-law made outcries over the good old man as over a pauper, and

  inquired of Heaven, what she had done that her blessed child should have

  a mendicant for a father? And Mrs. Hobson, in subsequent confidential

  communication with the writer of these memoirs, improved the occasion

  religiously as her wont was; referred the matter to Heaven too, and

  thought fit to assume that the celestial powers had decreed this

  humiliation, this dreadful trial for the Newcome family, as a warning to

  them all that they should not be too much puffed up with prosperity, nor

  set their affections too much upon things of this earth. Had they not

  already received one chastisement in Barnes's punishment, and Lady

  Clara's awful falling away? They had taught her a lesson, which the

  Colonel's lamentable errors had confirmed,--the vanity of trusting in all

  earthly grandeurs! Thus it was this worthy woman plumed herself, as it

  were, on her relative's misfortunes; and was pleased to think the latter

  were designed for the special warning and advantage of her private

  family. But Mrs. Hobson's philosophy is only mentioned by the way. Our

  story, which is drawing to its close, has to busy itself with other

  members of the house of The Newcomes.

  My talk with Florac lasted for some time: at its close, when we went to

  join the ladies in the drawing-room, we found Ethel cloaked and shawled,

  and prepared for her departure with her young ones, who were already

  asleep. The little festival was over, and had ended in melancholy--even

  in weeping. Our hostess sate in her accustomed seat by her lamp and her

  worktable; but, neglecting her needle, she was having perpetual recourse

  to her pocket-handkerchief, and uttering ejaculations of pity between the

  intervals of her gushes of tears. Madame de Florac was in her usual

  place, her head cast downwards, and her hands folded. My wife was at her

  side, a grave commiseration showing itself in Laura's countenance, whilst

  I read a yet deeper sadness in Ethel's pale face. Miss Newcome's carriage

  had been announced; the attendants had already carried the young ones

  asleep to the vehicle; and she was in the act of taking leave. We looked

  round at this disturbed party, guessing very likely what the subject of

  their talk had been, to which, however, Miss Ethel did not allude: but,

  announcing that she had intended to depart without disturbing the two

  gentlemen, she bade us farewell and good night. "I wish I could say a

  merry Christmas," she added gravely, "but none of us, I fear, can hope

  for that." It was evident that Laura had told the last chapter of the

  Colonel's story.

  Madame de Floras rose up and embraced Miss Newcome, and, that farewell

  over, she sank back on the sofa exhausted, and with such an expression of

  affliction in her countenance, that my wife ran eagerly towards her. "It

  is nothing, my dear," she said, giving a cold hand to the younger lady,

  and sate silent for a few moments, during which we heard Florac's voice

  without crying Adieu! and the wheels of Miss Newcome's carriage when it

  drove away.

  Our host entered a moment afterwards; and remarking, as Laura had done,

  his mother's pallor and look of anguish, went up and spoke to her with

  the utmost tenderness and anxiety.

  She gave her hand to her son, and a faint blush rose up out of the past

  as it were, and trembled upon her wan cheek. "He was the first friend I

  ever had in the world, Paul," she said "the first and the best. He shall

  not want, shall he, my son?"

  No signs of that emotion in which her daughter-in-law had been indulging

  were as yet visible in Madame de Florac's eyes, but, as she spoke,

  holding her son's hand in hers, the tears at length overflowed, and with

  a sob, her head fell forwards. The impetuous Frenchman flung himself on

  his knees before his mother, uttered a hundred words of love and respect

  for her, and with tears and sobs of his own called God to witness that

  their friend should never want. And so this mother and son embraced each

  other, and clung together in a sacred union of love, before which we who

  had been admitted as spectators of that scene, stood hushed and

  respectful.

  That night Laura told me, how, when the ladies left us, the talk had been

  entirely about the Colonel and Clive. Madame de Florac had spoken

  especially, and much more freely than was her wont. She had told many

  reminiscences of Thomas Newcome, and his early days; how her father

  taught him mathematics when they were quite poor, and living in their

  dear little cottage at Blackheath; how handsome he was then, with bright

  eyes, and long black hair flowing over his shoulders; how milita
ry glory

  was his boyish passion, and he was for ever talking of India, and the

  famous deeds of Clive and Lawrence. His favourite book was a history of

  India--the history of Orme. "He read it, and I read it also, my

  daughter," the French lady said, turning to Ethel; "ah! I may say so

  after so many years."

  Ethel remembered the book as belonging to her grandmother, and now in the

  library at Newcome. Doubtless the same sympathy which caused me to speak

  about Thomas Newcome that evening, impelled my wife likewise. She told

  her friends, as I had told Florac, all the Colonel's story; and it was

  while these good women were under the impression of the melancholy

  history, that Florac and his guest found them.

  Retired to our rooms, Laura and I talked on the same subject until the

  clock tolled Christmas, and the neighbouring church bells rang out a

  jubilation. And, looking out into the quiet night, where the stars were

  keenly shining, we committed ourselves to rest with humbled hearts;

  praying, for all those we loved, a blessing of peace and goodwill.

  CHAPTER LXXVII

  The Shortest and Happiest in the Whole History

  In the ensuing Christmas morning I chanced to rise betimes, and entering

  my dressing-room, opened the windows and looked out on the soft

  landscape, over which mists were still lying; whilst the serene sky

  above, and the lawns and leafless woods in the foreground near, were

  still pink with sunrise. The grey had not even left the west yet, and I

  could see a star or two twinkling there, to vanish with that twilight.

  As I looked out, I saw the not very distant lodge-gate open after a brief

  parley, and a lady on horseback, followed by a servant, rode rapidly up

  to the house. This early visitor was no other than Miss Ethel Newcome.

  The young lady espied me immediately. "Come down; come down to me this

  moment, Mr. Pendennis," she cried out. I hastened down to her, supposing

  rightly that news of importance had brought her to Rosebury so early.

  The news were of importance indeed. "Look here!" she said, "read this;"

  and she took a paper from the pocket of her habit. "When I went home last

  night, after Madame de Florac had been talking to us about Orme's India,

  I took the volumes from the bookcase and found this paper. It is in my

  grandmother's--Mrs. Newcome's--handwriting; I know it quite well, it is

  dated on the very day of her death. She had been writing and reading in

  her study on that very night; I have often heard papa speak of the

  circumstance. Look and read. You are a lawyer, Mr. Pendennis; tell me

  about this paper."

  I seized it eagerly, and cast my eyes over it; but having read it, my

  countenance fell.

  "My dear Miss Newcome, it is not worth a penny," I was obliged to own.

  "Yes, it is, sir, to honest people!" she cried out. "My brother and uncle

  will respect it as Mrs. Newcome's dying wish. They must respect it."

  The paper in question was a letter in ink that had grown yellow from

  time, and was addressed by the late Mrs. Newcome, to "my dear Mr. Luce."

  "That was her solicitor, my solicitor still," interposes Miss Ethel.

  "THE HERMITAGE, March 14, 182-.

  "My Dear Mr. Luce" (the defunct lady wrote)--"My late husband's grandson

  has been staying with me lately, and is a most pleasing, handsome, and

  engaging little boy. He bears a strong likeness to his grandfather, I

  think; and though he has no claims upon me, and I know is sufficiently

  provided for by his father Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, C.B., of the East

  India Company's Service, I am sure my late dear husband will be pleased

  that I should leave his grandson, Clive Newcome, a token of peace and

  goodwill; and I can do so with the more readiness, as it has pleased

  Heaven greatly to increase my means since my husband was called away

  hence.

  "I desire to bequeath a sum equal to that which Mr Newcome willed to my

  eldest son, Brian Newcome, Esq., to Mr. Newcome's grandson, Clive

  Newcome; and furthermore, that a token of my esteem and affection, a

  ring, or a piece of plate, of the value of one hundred pounds, be given

  to Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Newcome, my stepson, whose excellent conduct

  for many years, and whose repeated acts of gallantry in the service of

  his sovereign, have long obliterated the just feelings of displeasure

  with which I could not but view his early disobedience and misbehaviour,

  before he quitted England against my will, and entered the

  military service.

  "I beg you to prepare immediately a codicil to my will providing for the

  above bequests; and desire that the amount of these legacies should be

  taken from the property bequeathed to my eldest son. You will be so good

  as to prepare the necessary document, and bring it with you when you come

  on Saturday, to yours very truly,

  Sophia Alethea Newcome.

  "Tuesday night."

  I gave back the paper with a sigh to the finder. "It is but a wish of

  Mrs. Newcome, my dear Miss Ethel," I said. "Pardon me, if I say, I think

  I know your elder brother too well to supposes that he will fulfil it."

  "He will fulfil it, sir, I am sure he will," Miss Newcome said, in a

  haughty manner. "He would do as much without being asked, I am certain he

  would, did he know the depth of my dear uncle's misfortune. Barnes is in

  London now, and----"

  "And you will write to him? I know what the answer will be."

  "I will go to him this very day, Mr. Pendennis! I will go to my dear,

  dear uncle. I cannot bear to think of him in that place," cried the young

  lady, the tears starting into her honest eyes. "It was the will of

  Heaven. Oh, God be thanked for it! Had we found my grandmamma's letter

  earlier, Barnes would have paid the legacy immediately, and the money

  would have gone in that dreadful bankruptcy. I will go to Barnes to-day.

  Will you come with me? Won't you come to your old friends? We may be at

  his--at Clive's house this evening; and oh, praise be to God! there need

  be no more want in his family."

  "My dear friend, I will go with you round the world on such an errand," I

  said, kissing her hand. How beautiful she looked; the generous colour

  rose in her face, her voice thrilled with happiness. The music of

  Christmas church bells leaped up at this moment with joyful gratulations;

  the face of the old house, before which we stood talking, shone out in

  the morning sun.

  "You will come I thank you! I must run and tell Madame de Florac," cried

  the happy young lady, and we entered the house together. "How came you to

  be kissing Ethel's hand, sir; and what is the meaning of this early

  visit?" asks Mrs. Laura, as soon as I had returned to my own apartments.

  "Martha, get me a carpet-bag! I am going to London in an hour," cries Mr.

  Pendennis. If I had kissed Ethel's hand jus now, delighted at the news

  which she brought to me, was not one a thousand times dearer to me, as

  happy as her friend? I know who prayed with a thankful heart that day as

  we sped, in the almost solitary train, towards London.

  CHAPTER LXXVIII

&
nbsp; In which the Author goes on a Pleasant Errand

  Before I parted with Miss Newcome at the station, she made me promise to

  see her on the morrow at an early hour at her brother's house; and having

  bidden her farewell and repaired to my own solitary residence, which

  presented but a dreary aspect on that festive day, I thought I would pay

  Howland Street a visit; and, if invited, eat my Christmas dinner with

  Clive.

  I found my friend at home, and at work still, in spite of the day. He had

  promised a pair of pictures to a dealer for the morrow. "He pays me

  pretty well, and I want all the money he will give me, Pen," the painter

  said, rubbing on at his canvas. "I am pretty easy in my mind since I have

  become acquainted with a virtuous dealer. I sell myself to him, body and

  soul, for some half-dozen pounds a week. I know I can get my money, and

  he is regularly supplied with his pictures. But for Rosey's illness we

  might carry on well enough."

  Rosey's illness? I was sorry to hear of that: and poor Clive, entering

  into particulars, told me how he had spent upon doctors rather more than

  a fourth of his year's earnings. "There is a solemn fellow, to whom the

  women have taken a fancy, who lives but a few doors off in Gower Street;

  and who, for his last sixteen visits, has taken sixteen pounds sixteen

  shillings out of my pocket, and as if guineas grew there, with the most

  admirable gravity. He talks the fashions to my mother-in-law. My poor

  wife hangs on every word he says. Look! There is his carriage coming up

  now! and there is his fee, confound him!" says Clive, casting a rueful

  look towards a little packet lying upon the mantelpiece, by the side of

  that skinned figure in plaster of Paris which we have seen in most

  studios.

  I looked out of window and saw a certain Fashionable Doctor tripping out

  of his chariot; that Ladies' Delight, who has subsequently migrated from

  Bloomsbury to Belgravia; and who has his polite foot now in a thousand

  nurseries and boudoirs. What Confessors were in old times, Quackenboss

  and his like are in our Protestant country. What secrets they know! into

  what mystic chambers do they not enter! I suppose the Campaigner made a

  special toilette to receive her fashionable friend, for that lady attired

  in considerable splendour, and with the precious jewel on her head, which

  I remembered at Boulogne, came into the studio two minutes after the

  Doctor's visit was announced, and made him a low curtsey. I cannot

  describe the overpowering civilities of that woman.

  Clive was very gracious and humble to her. He adopted a lively air in

  addressing her--"Must work, you know, Christmas Day and all--for the

  owner of the pictures will call for them in the morning. Bring me a good

  report about Rosey, Mrs. Mackenzie, please--and if you will have the

  kindness to look by the ecorche there, you will see that little packet

  which I have left for you." Mrs. Mack, advancing, took the money. "I

  thought that plaster of Paris figure was not the only ecorche in the

  room."

  "I want you to stay to dinner. You must stay, Pen, please," cried Clive;

  "and be civil to her, will you? My dear old father is coming to dine

  here. They fancy that he has lodgings at the other end of the town, and

  that his brothers do something for him. Not a word about Grey Friars. It

  might agitate Rosa, you know. Ah! isn't he noble, the dear old boy! and

  isn't it fine to see him in that place?" Clive worked on as he talked,

  using up the last remnant of the light of Christmas Day, and was cleaning

  his palette and brushes, when Mrs. Mackenzie returned to us.

  Darling Rosey was very delicate, but Doctor Quackenboss was going to give

  her the very same medicine which had done the charming young Duchess of