The Newcomes

  Thomas Newcome explained to his son the plan, which, to his mind, as he

  came away from the City after the day's misfortunes, he thought it was

  best to pursue. The women and the child were clearly best out of the way.

  "And you too, my boy, must be on duty with them until I send for you,

  which I will do if your presence can be of the least service to me, or is

  called for by--by--our honour," said the old man with a drop in his

  voice. "You must obey me in this, dear Clive, as you have done in

  everything, and been a good and dear, and obedient son to me. God pardon

  me for having trusted to my own simple old brains too much, and not to

  you who know so much better. You will obey me this once more, my boy--you

  will promise me this?" and the old man as he spoke took Clive's hand in

  both his, and fondly caressed it.

  Then with a shaking hand he took out of his pocket his old purse with the

  steel rings, which he had worn for many and many a long year. Clive

  remembered it, and his father's face how it would beam with delight, when

  he used to take that very purse out in Clive's boyish days and tip him

  just after he left school. "Here are some notes and some gold," he said.

  "It is Rosey's, honestly, Clive dear, her half-year's dividend, for which

  you will give an order, please, to Sherrick. He has been very kind and

  good, Sherrick. All the servants were providentially paid last week--

  there are only the outstanding week's bills out--we shall manage to meet

  those, I dare say. And you will see that Rosey only takes away such

  clothes for herself and her baby as are actually necessary, won't you,

  dear? the plain things, you know--none of the fineries--they may be

  packed in a petara or two, and you will take them with you--but the pomps

  and vanities, you know, we will leave behind--the pearls and bracelets,

  and the plate, and all that rubbish--and I will make an inventory of them

  to-morrow when you are gone, and give them up, every rupee's worth, sir,

  every anna, by Jove, to the creditors."

  The darkness had fallen by this time, and the obsequious butler entered

  to light the dining-room lamps. "You have been a very good and kind

  servant to us, Martin," says the Colonel, making him a low bow. "I should

  like to shake you by the hand. We must part company now, and I have no

  doubt you and your fellow servants will find good places, all of you, as

  you merit, Martin--as you merit. Great losses have fallen upon our

  family--we are ruined, sir--we are ruined! The great Bundelcund Banking

  Company has stopped payment in India, and our branch here must stop on

  Monday. Thank my friends downstairs for their kindness to me and my

  family." Martin bowed in silence with great respect. He and his comrades

  in the servants'-hall had been expecting this catastrophe, quite as long

  as the Colonel himself who thought he had kept his affairs so profoundly

  secret.

  Clive went up into his women's apartments, looking with but little

  regret, I dare say, round those cheerless nuptial chambers with all their

  gaudy fittings; the fine looking-glasses, in which poor Rosey's little

  person had been reflected; the silken curtains under which he had lain by

  the poor child's side, wakeful and lonely. Here he found his child's

  nurse, and his wife, and wife's mother, busily engaged with a

  multiplicity of boxes; with flounces, feathers, fal-lals, and finery,

  which they were stowing away in this trunk and that; while the baby lay

  on its little pink pillow breathing softly, a little pearly fist placed

  close to its mouth. The aspect of the tawdry vanities scattered here and

  there chafed and annoyed the young man. He kicked the robes over with his

  foot. When Mrs. Mackenzie interposed with loud ejaculations, he sternly

  bade her to be silent, and not wake the child. His words were not to be

  questioned when he spoke in that manner. "You will take nothing with you,

  Rosey, but what is strictly necessary--only two or three of your plainest

  dresses, and what is required for the boy. What is in this trunk?" Mrs.

  Mackenzie stepped forward and declared, and the nurse vowed upon her

  honour, and the lady's-maid asserted really now upon honour too, that

  there was nothing but what was most strictly necessary in that trunk, to

  which affidavits, when Clive applied to his wife, she gave a rather timid

  assent.

  "Where are the keys of that trunk?" Upon Mrs. Mackenzie's exclamation of

  "What nonsense!" Clive, putting his foot upon the flimsy oil-covered box,

  vowed he would kick the lid off unless it was instantly opened. Obeying

  this grim summons, the fluttering women produced the keys, and the black

  box was opened before him.

  The box was found to contain a number of objects which Clive pronounced

  to be by no means necessary to his wife's and child's existence.

  Trinket-boxes and favourite little gimcracks, chains, rings and pearl

  necklaces, the tiara poor Rosey had worn at court--the feathers and the

  gorgeous train which had decorated the little person--all these were

  found packed away in this one receptacle; and in another box, I am sorry

  to say, were the silver forks and spoons (the butler wisely judging that

  the rich and splendid electrotype ware might as well be left behind)--all

  the silver forks, spoons, and ladles, and our poor old friend the

  cocoa-nut tree, which these female robbers would have carried out of

  the premises.

  Mr. Clive Newcome burst out into fierce laughter when he saw the

  cocoa-nut tree; he laughed so loud that baby woke, and his mother-in-law

  called him a brute, and the nurse ran to give its accustomed quietus to

  the little screaming infant. Rosey's eyes poured forth a torrent of

  little protests, and she would have cried yet more loudly than the other

  baby, had not her husband, again fiercely checking her, sworn with a

  dreadful oath, that unless she told him the whole truth, "By heavens she

  should leave the house with nothing but what covered her." Even the

  Campaigner could not make head against Clive's stern resolution; and the

  incipient insurrection of the maids and the mistresses was quelled by his

  spirit. The lady's-maid, a flighty creature, received her wages and took

  her leave: but the nurse could not find it in her heart to quit her

  little nursling so suddenly, and accompanied Clive's household in the

  journey upon which those poor folks were bound. What stolen goods were

  finally discovered when the family reached foreign parts were found in

  Mrs. Mackenzie's trunks, not in her daughter's: a silver filigree basket,

  a few teaspoons, baby's gold coral, and a costly crimson velvet-bound

  copy of the Hon. Miss Grimstone's Church Service, to which articles,

  having thus appropriated them, Mrs. Mackenzie henceforward laid claim as

  her own.

  So when the packing was done a cab was called to receive the modest

  trunks of this fugitive family--the coachman was bidden to put his horses

  to again, and for the last time poor Rosey Newcome sate in her own

  carriage, to which the Colonel conducted her with his courtly old bow,

  kissing the baby as it slept once more uncons
cious in its nurse's

  embrace, and bestowing a very grave and polite parting salute upon the

  Campaigner.

  Then Clive and his father entered a cab on which the trunks were borne,

  and they drove to the Tower Stairs, where the ship lay which was to

  convey them out of England; and, during that journey, no doubt, they

  talked over their altered prospects, and I am sure Clive's father blessed

  his son fondly, and committed him and his family to a good God's gracious

  keeping, and thought of him with sacred love when they had parted, and

  Thomas Newcome had returned to his lonely house to watch and to think of

  his ruined fortunes, and to pray that he might have courage under them;

  that he might bear his own fate honourably; and that a gentle one might

  be dealt to those beloved beings for whom his life had been sacrificed in

  vain.

  CHAPTER LXXII

  Belisarius

  When the sale of Colonel Newcome's effects took place, a friend of the

  family bought in for a few shillings those two swords which had hung, as

  we have said, in the good man's chamber, and for which no single broker

  present had the heart to bid. The head of Clive's father, painted by

  himself, which had always kept its place in the young man's studio,

  together with a lot of his oil-sketchings, easels, and painting

  apparatus, were purchased by the faithful J. J., who kept them until his

  friend should return to London and reclaim them, and who showed the most

  generous solicitude in Clive's behalf. J. J. was elected of the Royal

  Academy this year, and Clive, it was evident, was working hard at the

  profession which he had always loved; for he sent over three pictures to

  the Academy, and I never knew man more mortified than the affectionate

  J. J., when two of these unlucky pieces were rejected by the committee

  for the year. One pretty little piece, called "The Stranded Boat," got a

  fair place on the Exhibition walls, and, you may be sure, was loudly

  praised by a certain critic in the Pall Mall Gazette. The picture was

  sold on the first day of the exhibition at the price of twenty-five

  pounds, which the artist demanded; and when the kind J. J. wrote to

  inform his friend of this satisfactory circumstance, and to say that he

  held the money at Clive's disposal, the latter replied with many

  expressions of sincere gratitude, at the same time begging him directly

  to forward the money, with our old friend Thomas Newcome's love, to Mrs.

  Sarah Mason, at Newcome. But J. J. never informed his friend that he

  himself was the purchaser of the picture; nor was Clive made acquainted

  with the fact until some time afterwards, when he found it hanging in

  Ridley's studio.

  I have said that we none of us were aware at this time what was the real

  state of Colonel Newcome's finances, and hoped that, after giving up

  every shilling of his property which was confiscated to the creditors of

  the Bank, he had still, from his retiring pension and military

  allowances, at least enough reputably to maintain him. On one occasion,

  having business in the City, I there met Mr. Sherrick. Affairs had been

  going ill with that gentleman--he had been let in terribly, he informed

  me, by Lord Levant's insolvency--having had large money transactions with

  his lordship. "There's none of them so good as old Newcome," Mr. Sherrick

  said with a sigh; "that was a good one--that was an honest man if ever I

  saw one--with no more guile, and no more idea of business than a baby.

  Why didn't he take my advice, poor old cove?--he might be comfortable

  now. Why did he sell away that annuity, Pendennis? I got it done for him

  when nobody else perhaps could have got it done for him--for the security

  ain't worth twopence if Newcome wasn't an honest man;--but I know he is,

  and would rather starve and eat the nails off his fingers than not keep

  his word, the old trump. And when he came to me, a good two months before

  the smash of the Bank, which I knew it, sir, and saw that it must come--

  when he came and raised three thousand pounds to meet them d--d

  electioneering bills, having to pay lawyers, commission, premium,

  life-insurance--you know the whole game, Mr. P.--I as good as went down

  on my knees to him--I did--at the North and South American Coffee-house,

  where he was to meet the party about the money, and said, 'Colonel, don't

  raise it--I tell you, let it stand over--let it go in along with the

  bankruptcy that's a-coming,'--but he wouldn't--he went on like an old

  Bengal tiger, roaring about his honour; he paid the bills every shilling

  --infernal long bills they were, and it's my belief that, at this minute,

  he ain't got fifty pounds a year of his own to spend. I would send him

  back my commission--I would by Jove--only times is so bad, and that

  rascal Levant let me in. It went to my heart to take the old cock's

  money--but it's gone--that and ever so much more--and Lady Whittlesea's

  Chapel too, Mr. P. Hang that young Levant."

  Squeezing my hand after this speech, Sherrick ran across the street after

  some other capitalist who was entering the Diddlesex Insurance Office,

  and left me very much grieved and dismayed at finding that my worst fears

  in regard to Thomas Newcome were confirmed. Should we confer with his

  wealthy family respecting the Colonel's impoverished condition? Was his

  brother Hobson Newcome aware of it? As for Sir Barnes, the quarrel

  between him and his uncle had been too fierce to admit of hopes of relief

  from that quarter. Barnes had been put to very heavy expenses in the

  first contested election; had come forward again immediately on his

  uncle's resignation, but again had been beaten by a more liberal

  candidate, his quondam former friend, Mr. Higg--who formally declared

  against Sir Barnes, and who drove him finally out of the representation

  of Newcome. From this gentleman it was vain of course for Colonel

  Newcome's friends to expect relief.

  How to aid him? He was proud--past work--nearly seventy years old. "Oh,

  why did those cruel Academicians refuse Clive's pictures?" cries Laura.

  "I have no patience with them--had the pictures been exhibited I know who

  might have bought them--but that is vain now. He would suspect at once,

  and send her money away. Oh, Pen! why, why didn't he come when I wrote

  that letter to Brussels?"

  From persons so poorly endowed with money as ourselves, any help, but of

  the merest temporary nature, was out of the question. We knew our friends

  too well not to know that they would disdain to receive it. It was agreed

  between me and Laura that at any rate I should go and see Clive. Our

  friends indeed were at a very short distance from us, and, having exiled

  themselves from England, could yet see its coasts from their windows upon

  any clear day. Boulogne was their present abiding-place--refuge of how

  many thousands of other unfortunate Britons--and to this friendly port

  I betook myself speedily, having the address of Colonel Newcome. His

  quarters were in a quiet grass-grown old street of the Old Town. None

  of the family were at home when I called. There was indeed no servant to

&nb
sp; answer the bell, but the good-natured French domestic of a neighbouring

  lodger told me that the young monsieur went out every day to make his

  designs, and that I should probably find the elder gentleman upon the

  rampart, where he was in the custom of going every day. I strolled along

  by those pretty old walks and bastions, under the pleasant trees which

  shadow them, and the grey old gabled houses from which you look down

  upon the gay new city, and the busy port, and the piers stretching into

  the shining sea, dotted with a hundred white sails or black smoking

  steamers, and bounded by the friendly lines of the bright English shore.

  There are few prospects more charming than the familiar view from those

  old French walls--few places where young children may play, and

  ruminating old age repose more pleasantly than on those peaceful

  rampart gardens.

  I found our dear old friend seated on one of the benches, a newspaper on

  his knees, and by his side a red-cheeked little French lass, upon whose

  lap Thomas Newcome the younger lay sleeping. The Colonel's face flushed

  up when he saw me. As he advanced a step or two towards me I could see

  that he trembled in his walk. His hair had grown almost quite white. He

  looked now to be more than his age--he whose carriage last year had been

  so erect, whose figure had been so straight and manly. I was very much

  moved at meeting him, and at seeing the sad traces which pain and grief

  had left in the countenance of the dear old man.

  "So you are come to see me, my good young friend," cried the Colonel,

  with a trembling voice. "It is very, very kind of you. Is not this a

  pretty drawing-room to receive our friends in? We have not many of them

  now; Boy and I come and sit here for hours every day. Hasn't he grown a

  fine boy? He can say several words now, sir, and can walk surprisingly

  well. Soon he will be able to walk with his grandfather, and then Marie

  will not have the trouble to wait upon either of us." He repeated this

  sentiment in his pretty old French, and turning with a bow to Marie. The

  girl said monsieur knew very well that she did not desire better than to

  come out with baby; that it was better than staying at home, pardieu;

  and, the clock striking at this moment, she rose up with her child,

  crying out that it was time to return or madame would scold.

  "Mrs. Mackenzie has rather a short temper," the Colonel said with a

  gentle smile. "Poor thing, she has had a great deal to bear in

  consequence, Pen, of my imprudence. I am glad you never took shares in

  our bank. I should not be so glad to see you as I am now, if I had

  brought losses upon you as I have upon so many of my friends." I, for my

  part, trembled to hear the good old man was under the domination of the

  Campaigner.

  "Bayham sends me the paper regularly; he is a very kind faithful

  creature. How glad I am that he has got a snug berth in the City! His

  company really prospers, I am happy to think, unlike some companies you

  know of, Pen. I have read your two speeches, sir, and Clive and I liked

  them very much. The poor boy works all day at his pictures. You know he

  has sold one at the exhibition, which has given us a great deal of heart

  --and he has completed two or three more--and I am sitting to him now

  for--what do you think, sir? for Belisarius. Will you give Belisarius and

  the Obolus kind word?"

  "My dear, dear old friend," I said in great emotion, "if you will do me

  the kindness to take my Obolus or to use my services in any way, you will

  give me more pleasure than ever I had from your generous bounties in old

  days. Look, sir, I wear the watch which you gave me when you went to

  India. Did you not tell me then to look over Clive and serve him if I

  could? Can't I serve him now?" and I went on further in this strain,

  asseverating with great warmth and truth that my wife's affection and my

  own were most sincere for both of them, and that our pride would be to be