Page 103 of The Newcomes

enough the retirement to which, of course, he would betake himself, when

  the melancholy proceedings consequent on the bankruptcy were brought to

  an end. It was shown that he had been egregiously duped in the

  transaction--that his credulity had cost him and his family a large

  fortune--that he had given up every penny which belonged to him--that

  there could not be any sort of stain upon his honest reputation. The

  judge before whom he appeared spoke with feeling and regard of the

  unhappy gentleman--the lawyer who examined him respected the grief and

  fall of that simple old man. Thomas Newcome took a little room near the

  court where his affairs and the affairs of the company were adjudged--

  lived with a frugality which never was difficult to him--And once when

  perchance I met him in the City, avoided me, with a bow and courtesy that

  was quite humble, though proud and somehow inexpressibly touching to me.

  Fred Bayham was the only person whom he admitted. Fred always faithfully

  insisted upon attending him in and out of court. J. J. came to me

  immediately after he heard of the disaster, eager to place all his

  savings at the service of his friends. Laura and I came to London, and

  were urgent with similar offers. Our good friend declined to see any of

  us. F. B., again, with tears trickling on his rough cheeks, and a break

  in his voice, told me he feared that affairs must be very bad indeed, for

  the Colonel absolutely denied himself a cheroot to smoke. Laura drove to

  his lodgings and took him a box, which was held up to him as he came to

  open the door to my wife's knock by our smiling little boy, He patted the

  child on his golden head and kissed him. My wife wished he would have

  done as much for her--but he would not--though she owned she kissed his

  hand. He drew it across his eyes and thanked her in a very calm and

  stately manner--but he did not invite her within the threshold of his

  door, saying simply, that such a room was not a fit place to receive a

  lady, "as you ought to know very well, Mrs. Smith," he said to the

  landlady, who had accompanied my wife up the stairs. "He will eat

  scarcely anything," the woman told us, "his meals come down untouched;

  his candles are burning all night, almost, as he sits poring over his

  papers."

  "He was bent--he who used to walk so uprightly," Laura said. He seemed to

  have grown many years older, and was, indeed, quite a decrepit old man.

  "I am glad they have left Clive out of the bankruptcy," the Colonel said

  to Bayham; it was almost the only time when his voice exhibited any

  emotion. "It was very kind of them to leave out Clive, poor boy, and I

  have thanked the lawyers in court." Those gentlemen, and the judge

  himself, were very much moved at this act of gratitude. The judge made a

  very feeling speech to the Colonel when he came up for his certificate.

  He passed very different comments on the conduct of the Manager of the

  Bank, when that person appeared for examination. He wished that the law

  had power to deal with those gentlemen who had come home with large

  fortunes from India, realised but a few years before the bankruptcy.

  Those gentlemen had known how to take care of themselves very well; and

  as for the Manager, is not his wife giving elegant balls at her elegant

  house at Cheltenham at this very day?

  What weighed most upon the Colonel's mind, F. B. imagined, was the

  thought that he had been the means of inducing many poor friends to

  embark their money in this luckless speculation. Take J. J.'s money after

  he had persuaded old Ridley to place 200 pounds in Indian shares! Good

  God, he and his family should rather perish than he would touch a

  farthing of it! Many fierce words were uttered to him by Mrs. Mackenzie,

  for instance--by her angry daughter at Musselburgh--Josey's husband, by

  Mr. Smee, R.A., and two or three Indian officers, friends of his own, who

  had entered into the speculation on his recommendation. These rebukes

  Thomas Newcome bore with an affecting meekness, as his faithful F. B.

  described to me, striving with many oaths and much loudness to carry off

  bis own emotion. But what moved the Colonel most of all, was a letter

  which came at this time from Honeyman in India, saying that he was doing

  well--that of course he knew of his benefactor's misfortune, and that he

  sent a remittance which, D. V., should be annual, in payment of his debt

  to the Colonel, and his good sister at Brighton. "On receipt of this

  letter," said F. B., "the old man was fairly beaten--the letter, with the

  bill in it, dropped out of his hands. He clasped them together, shaking

  in every limb, and his head dropped down on his breast as he said, 'I

  thank my God Almighty for this!' and he sent the cheque off to Mrs.

  Honeyman by the post that night, sir, every shilling of it; and he passed

  his old arm under mine--and we went out to Tom's Coffee-House, and he ate

  some dinner the first time for ever so long, and drank a couple of

  glasses of port wine, and F. B. stood it, sir, and would stand his

  heart's blood that dear old boy."

  It was on a Monday morning that those melancholy shutters were seen over

  the offices of the Bundelcund Bank in Lothbury, which were not to come

  down until the rooms were handed over to some other, and, let us trust,

  more fortunate speculators. The Indian bills had arrived, and been

  protested in the City on the previous Saturday. The Campaigner and Mrs.

  Rosey had arranged a little party to the theatre that evening, and the

  gallant Captain Goby had agreed to quit the delights of the Flag Club, in

  order to accompany the ladies. Neither of them knew what was happening in

  the City, or could account otherwise than by the common domestic causes,

  for Clive's gloomy despondency and his father's sad reserve. Clive had

  not been in the City on this day. He had spent it, as usual, in his

  studio, boude by his wife, and not disturbed by the messroom raillery of

  the Campaigner. They had dined early, in order to be in time for the

  theatre. Goby entertained them with the latest jokes from the

  smoking-room at the Flag, and was in his turn amused by the brilliant

  plans for the season which Rosey and her mamma sketched out the

  entertainments which Mrs. Clive proposed to give, the ball--she was

  dying for a masked ball just such a one as that was described in the

  Pall Mall Gazette of last week, out of that paper with the droll title,

  the Bengal Hurkaru, which the merchant-prince, the head of the bank,

  you know, in India, had given at Calcutta. "We must have a ball, too,"

  says Mrs. Mackenzie; "society demands it of you." "Of course it does,"

  echoes Captain Goby, and he bethought him of a brilliant circle of young

  fellows from the Flag, whom he would bring in splendid uniform to dance

  with the pretty Mrs. Clive Newcome.

  After the dinner--they little knew it was to be their last in that fine

  house--the ladies retired to give their parting kiss to baby--a parting

  look to the toilettes, with which they proposed to fascinate the

  inhabitants of the pit and the public boxes at the Olympic. Goby made

  vigorous play with the clare
t-bottle during the brief interval of

  potation allowed to him; he, too, little deeming that he should never

  drink bumper there again; Clive looking on with the melancholy and silent

  acquiescence which had, of late, been his part in the household. The

  carriage was announced--the ladies came down--pretty capotes on the

  lovely Campaigner, Goby vowed, looking as young and as handsome as her

  daughter, by Jove, and the ball door was opened to admit the two

  gentlemen and ladies to their carriage, when, as they were about to step

  in, a hansom cab drove up rapidly, in which was perceived Thomas

  Newcome's anxious face. He got out of the vehicle--his own carriage

  making way for him--the ladies still on the steps. "Oh, the play! I

  forgot," said the Colonel.

  "Of course we are going to the play, papa," cries little Rosey, with a

  gay little tap of her hand.

  "I think you had better not," Colonel Newcome said gravely.

  "Indeed my darling child has set her heart upon it, and I would not have

  her disappointed for the world in her situation," cries the Campaigner,

  tossing up her head.

  The Colonel for reply bade his coachman drive to the stables, and come

  for further orders; and, turning to his daughter's guest, expressed to

  Captain Goby his regret that the proposed party could not take place on

  that evening, as he had matter of very great importance to communicate to

  his family. On hearing these news, and understanding that his further

  company was not desirable, the Captain, a man of great presence of mind,

  arrested the hansom cabman, who was about to take his departure, and who

  blithely, knowing the Club and its inmates full well, carried off the

  jolly Captain to finish his evening at the Flag.

  "Has it come, father?" said Clive with a sure prescience, looking in his

  father's face.

  The father took and grasped the hand which his son held out. "Let us go

  back into the dining-room," he said. They entered it, and he filled

  himself a glass of wine out of the bottle still standing amidst the

  dessert. He bade the butler retire, who was lingering about the room and

  sideboard, and only wanted to know whether his master would have dinner,

  that was all. And, this gentleman having withdrawn, Colonel Newcome

  finished his glass of sherry and broke a biscuit; the Campaigner assuming

  an attitude of surprise and indignation, whilst Rosey had leisure to

  remark that papa looked very ill, and that something must have happened.

  The Colonel took both her hands and drew her towards him and kissed her,

  whilst Rosey's mamma, flouncing down on a chair, beat a tattoo upon the

  tablecloth with her fan. "Something has happened, my love," the Colonel

  said very sadly; "you must show all your strength of mind, for a great

  misfortune has befallen us."

  "Good heavens, Colonel, what is it? don't frighten my beloved child,"

  cries the Campaigner, rushing towards her darling, and enveloping her in

  her robust arms. "What can have happened, don't agitate this darling

  child, sir," and she looked indignantly towards the poor Colonel.

  "We have received the very worst news from Calcutta, a confirmation of

  the news by the last mail, Clivey, my boy."

  "It is no news to me. I have always been expecting it, father," says

  Clive, holding down his head.

  "Expecting what? What have you been keeping back from us? In what have

  you been deceiving us, Colonel Newcome?" shrieks the Campaigner; and

  Rosa, crying out, "Oh, mamma, mamma!" begins to whimper.

  "The chief of the bank in India is dead," the Colonel went on. "He has

  left its affairs in worse than disorder. We are, I fear, ruined, Mrs.

  Mackenzie." And the Colonel went on to tell how the bank could not open

  on Monday morning, and its bills to a great amount had already been

  protested in the City that day.

  Rosey did not understand half these news, or comprehend the calamity

  which was to follow; but Mrs. Mackenzie, rustling in great wrath, made a

  speech, of which the anger gathered as he proceeded; in which she vowed

  and protested that her money, which the Colonel, she did not know from

  what motives, had induced her to subscribe, should not be sacrificed, and

  that have it she would, the bank shut or not, the next Monday morning--

  that her daughter had a fortune of her own which her poor dear brother

  James should have divided and would have divided much more fairly, had he

  not been wrongly influenced--she would not say by whom, and she commanded

  Colonel Newcome upon that instant, if he was, as he always pretended to

  be, an honourable man, to give an account of her blessed darling's

  property, and to pay back her own, every sixpence of it. She would not

  lend it for an hour longer, and to see that that dear blessed child now

  sleeping unconsciously upstairs, and his dear brothers and sisters who

  might follow, for Rosey was a young woman, a poor innocent creature, too

  young to be married, and never would have been married had she listened

  to her mamma's advice. She demanded that the baby, and all succeeding

  babies, should have their rights, and should be looked to by their

  grandmother, if their father's father was so unkind, and so wicked, and

  so unnatural, as to give their money to rogues, and deprive them of their

  just bread.

  Rosey began to cry more loudly than ever during the utterance of mamma's

  sermon, so loudly that Clive peevishly cried out, "Hold your tongue," on

  which the Campaigner, clutching her daughter to her breast again, turned

  on her son-in-law, and abused him as she had abused his father before

  him, calling out that they were both in a conspiracy to defraud her

  child, and the little darling upstairs of its bread, and she would speak,

  yes, she would, and no power should prevent her, and her money she would

  have on Monday, as sure as her poor dear husband, Captain Mackenzie, was

  dead, and she never would have been cheated so, yes, cheated, if he had

  been alive.

  At the word "cheated" Clive broke out with an execration--the poor

  Colonel with a groan of despair--the widow's storm continued, and above

  that howling tempest of words rose Mrs. Clive's piping scream, who went

  off into downright hysterics at last, in which she was encouraged by her

  mother, and in which she gasped out frantic ejaculations regarding baby;

  dear, darling, ruined baby, and so forth.

  The sorrow-stricken Colonel had to quell the women's tongues and shrill

  anger, and his son's wrathful replies, who could not bear the weight of

  Mrs. Mackenzie upon him; and it was not until these three were allayed,

  that Thomas Newcome was able to continue his sad story, to explain what

  had happened, and what the actual state of the case was, and to oblige

  the terror-stricken women at length to hear something like reason.

  He then had to tell them, to their dismay, that he would inevitably be

  declared a bankrupt in the ensuing week; that the whole of his property

  in that house, as elsewhere, would be seized and sold for the creditors'

  benefit; and that his daughter had best immediately leave a home where

  she would be certainl
y subject to humiliation and annoyance. "I would

  have Clive, my boy, take you out of the country, and--and return to me

  when I have need of him, and shall send for him," the father said fondly

  in reply to a rebellious look on his son's face. "I would have you quit

  this house as soon as possible. Why not to-night? The law blood-hound may

  be upon us ere an hour is over--at this moment for what I know."

  At that moment the door-bell was heard to ring, and the women gave a

  scream apiece, as if the bailiffs were actually coming to take

  possession. Rosey went off in quite a series of screams, peevishly

  repressed by her husband, and always encouraged by mamma, who called her

  son-in-law an unfeeling wretch. It must be confessed that Mrs. Clive

  Newcome did not exhibit much strength of mind, or comfort her husband

  much at a moment when he needed consolation.

  From angry rebellion and fierce remonstrance, this pair of women now

  passed to an extreme terror and desire for instantaneous flight. They

  would go that moment--they would wrap the blessed child up in its shawls

  --and nurse should take it anywhere--anywhere, poor neglected thing. "My

  trunks," cries Mrs. Mackenzie, "you know are ready packed--I am sure it

  is not the treatment which I have received--it is nothing but my duty and

  my religion--and the protection which I owe to this blessed unprotected--

  yes, unprotected, and robbed, and cheated, darling child--which have made

  me stay a single day in this house. I never thought I should have been

  robbed in it, or my darlings with their fine fortunes flung naked on the

  world. If my Mac was here, you never had dared to have done this, Colonel

  Newcome--no, never. He had his faults--Mackenzie had--but he would never

  have robbed his own children! Come away, Rosey, my blessed love, come let

  us pack your things, and let us go and hide our heads in sorrow

  somewhere. Ah! didn't I tell you to beware of all painters, and that

  Clarence was a true gentleman, and loved you with all his heart, and

  would never have cheated you out of your money, for which I will have

  justice as sure as there is justice in England."

  During this outburst the Colonel sat utterly scared and silent,

  supporting his poor head between his hands. When the harem had departed

  he turned sadly to his son. Clive did not believe that his father was a

  cheat and a rogue. No, thank God! The two men embraced with tender

  cordiality and almost happy emotion on the one side and the other. Never

  for one moment could Clive think his dear old father meant wrong--though

  the speculations were unfortunate in which he had engaged--though Clive

  had not liked them; it was a relief to his mind that they were now come

  to an end; they should all be happier now, thank God! those clouds of

  distrust being removed. Clive felt not one moment's doubt but that they

  should be able to meet fortune with a brave face; and that happier, much

  happier days were in store for him than ever they had known since the

  period of this confounded prosperity.

  "Here's a good end to it," says Clive, with flashing eyes and a flushed

  face, "and here's a good health till to-morrow, father!" and he filled

  into two glasses the wine still remaining in the flask. "Good-bye to our

  fortune, and bad luck go with her--I puff the prostitute away--Si celeres

  quatit pennas, you remember what we used to say at Grey Friars--resign

  quae dedit, et mea virtute me involve, probamque pauperiem sine dote

  quaero." And he pledged his father, who drank his wine, his hand shaking

  as he raised the glass to his lips, and his kind voice trembling as he

  uttered the well-known old school words, with an emotion that was as

  sacred as a prayer. Once more, and with hearts full of love, the two men

  embraced. Clive's voice would tremble now if he told the story, as it did

  when he spoke it to me in happier times, one calm summer evening when we

  sat together and talked of dear old days.