Clackmannanshire so much good, and he was not in the least disquiet.
On this I cut into the conversation with anecdotes concerning the family
of the Duchess of Clackmannanshire, remembering early days, when it used
to be my sport to entertain the Campaigner with anecdotes of the
aristocracy, about whose proceedings she still maintained a laudable
curiosity. Indeed, one of few the books escaped out of the wreck of
Tyburn Gardens was a Peerage, now a well-worn volume, much read by Rosa
and her mother.
The anecdotes were very politely received--perhaps it was the season
which made Mrs. Mack and her son-in-law on more than ordinarily good
terms. When, turning to the Campaigner, Clive said he wished that she
could persuade me to stay to dinner, she acquiesced graciously and at
once in that proposal, and vowed that her daughter would be delighted if
I could condescend to eat their humble fare. "It is not such a dinner as
you have seen at her house, with six side-dishes, two flanks, that
splendid epergne, and the silver dishes top and bottom; but such as my
Rosa has she offers with a willing heart," cries the Campaigner.
"And Tom may sit to dinner, mayn't he, grandmamma?" asks Clive, in a
humble voice.
"Oh, if you wish it, sir."
"His grandfather will like to sit by him," said Clive. "I will go out and
meet him; he comes through Guildford Street and Russell Square," says
Clive. "Will you walk, Pen?"
"Oh, pray don't let us detain you," says Mrs. Mackenzie, with a toss of
her head: and when she retreated Clive whispered that she would not want
me; for she looked to the roasting of the beef and the making of the
pudding and the mince-pie.
"I thought she might have a finger in it," I said; and we set forth to
meet the dear old father, who presently came, walking very slowly, along
the line by which we expected him. His stick trembled as it fell on the
pavement: so did his voice, as he called out Clive's name: so did his
hand, as he stretched it to me. His body was bent, and feeble. Twenty
years had not weakened him so much as the last score of months. I walked
by the side of my two friends as they went onwards, linked lovingly
together. How I longed for the morrow, and hoped they might be united
once more! Thomas Newcome's voice, once so grave, went up to a treble,
and became almost childish, as he asked after Boy. His white hair hung
over his collar. I could see it by the gas under which we walked--and
Clive's great back and arm, as his father leaned on it, and his brave
face turned towards the old man. Oh, Barnes Newcome, Barnes Newcome! Be
an honest man for once, and help your kinsfolk! thought I.
The Christmas meal went off in a friendly manner enough. The Campaigner's
eyes were everywhere: it was evident that the little maid who served the
dinner, and had cooked a portion of it under their keen supervision,
cowered under them, as well as other folks. Mrs. Mack did not make more
than ten allusions to former splendours during the entertainment, or half
as many apologies to me for sitting down to a table very different from
that to which I was accustomed. Good, faithful F. Bayham was the only
other guest. He complimented the mince-pies, so that Mrs. Mackenzie owned
she had made them. The Colonel was very silent, but he tried to feed Boy,
and was only once or twice sternly corrected by the Campaigner. Boy, in
the best little words he could muster, asked why grandpapa wore a black
cloak? Clive nudged my foot under the table. The secret of the Poor
Brothership was very nearly out. The Colonel blushed, and with great
presence of mind said he wore a cloak to keep him warm in winter.
Rosey did not say much. She had grown lean and languid: the light of her
eyes had gone out: all her pretty freshness had faded. She ate scarce
anything, though her mother pressed her eagerly, and whispered loudly
that a woman in her situation ought to strengthen herself. Poor Rosey was
always in a situation.
When the cloth was withdrawn, the Colonel bending his head said, "Thank
God for what we have received," so reverently, and with an accent so
touching, that Fred Bayham's big eyes as he turned towards the old man
filled up with tears. When his mother and grandmother rose to go away,
poor little Boy cried to stay longer, and the Colonel would have meekly
interposed, but the domineering Campaigner cried, "Nonsense, let him go
to bed!" and flounced him out of the room: and nobody appealed against
that sentence. Then we three remained, and strove to talk as cheerfully
as we might, speaking now of old times, and presently of new. Without the
slightest affectation, Thomas Newcome told us that his life was
comfortable, and that he was happy in it. He wished that many others of
the old gentlemen, he said, were as contented as himself, but some of
them grumbled sadly, he owned and quarrelled with their bread-and-butter.
He, for his part, had everything he could desire: all the officers of the
Establishment were most kind to him; an excellent physician came to him
when wanted; a most attentive woman waited on him. "And if I wear a black
gown," said he, "is not that uniform as good as another, and if we have
to go to church every day, at which some of the Poor Brothers grumble, I
think an old fellow can't do better; and I can say my prayers with a
thankful heart, Clivey my boy, and should be quite happy but for my--for
my past imprudence, God forgive me. Think of Bayham here coming to our
chapel to-day!--he often comes--that was very right, sir--very right."
Clive, filling a glass of wine, looked at F. B. with eyes that said God
bless you. F. B. gulped down another bumper. "It is almost a merry
Christmas," said I; "and oh, I hope it will be a happy New Year!"
Shortly after nine o'clock the Colonel rose to depart, saying he must be
"in barracks" by ten; and Clive and F. B. went a part of the way with
him. I would have followed them, but he whispered me to stay and talk to
Mrs. Mack, for Heaven's sake, and that he would be back ere long. So I
went and took tea with the two ladies; and as we drank it, Mrs. Mackenzie
took occasion to tell me she did not know what amount of income the
Colonel had from his wealthy brother, but that they never received any
benefit from it; and again she computed to me all the sums, principal and
interest, which ought at that moment to belong to her darling Rosey.
Rosey now and again made a feeble remark. She did not seem pleased or
sorry when her husband came in; and presently, dropping me a little
curtsey, went to bed under charge of the Campaigner. So Bayham and I and
Clive retired to the studio, where smoking was allowed, and where we
brought that Christmas day to an end.
At the appointed time on the next forenoon I called upon Miss Newcome at
her brother's house. Sir Barnes Newcome was quitting his own door as I
entered it, and he eyed me with such a severe countenance, as made me
augur but ill of the business upon which I came. The expression of
Ethel's face was scarcely more cheering: she was standing at the window,
sternly looking at Sir Barnes, who yet lingered at his own threshold,
having some altercation with his cab-boy ere he mounted his vehicle to
drive into the City.
Miss Newcome was very pale when she advanced and gave me her hand. I
looked with some alarm into her face, and inquired what news?
"It is as you expected, Mr. Pendennis," she said--"not as I did. My
brother is averse to making restitution. He just now parted from me in
some anger. But it does not matter; the restitution must be made, if not
by Barnes, by one of our family--must it not?"
"God bless you for a noble creature, my dear, dear Miss Newcome!" was all
I could say.
"For doing what is right? Ought I not to do it? I am the eldest of our
family after Barnes: I am the richest after him. Our father left all his
younger children the very sum of money which Mrs. Newcome here devises to
Clive; and you know, besides, I have all my grandmother's, Lady Kew's,
property. Why, I don't think I could sleep if this act of justice were
not done. Will you come with me to my lawyer's? He and my brother Barnes
are trustees of my property; and I have been thinking, dear Mr.
Pendennis--and you are very good to be so kind, and to express so kind an
opinion of me, and you and Laura have always, always been the best
friends to me"--(she says this, taking one of my hands and placing her
other hand over it)--"I have been thinking, you know, that this transfer
had better be made through Mr. Luce, you understand, and as coming from
the family, and then I need not appear in it at all, you see; and--and my
dear good uncle's pride need not be wounded." She fairly gave way to
tears as she spoke--and for me, I longed to kiss the hem of her robe, or
anything else she would let me embrace, I was so happy, and so touched by
the simple demeanour and affection of the noble young lady.
"Dear Ethel," I said, "did I not say I would go to the end of the world
with you--and won't I go to Lincoln's Inn?"
A cab was straightway sent for, and in another half-hour we were in the
presence of the courtly little old Mr. Luce in his chambers in Lincoln's
Inn Fields.
He knew the late Mrs. Newcome's handwriting at once. He remembered having
seen the little boy at the Hermitage, had talked with Mr. Newcome
regarding his son in India, and had even encouraged Mrs. Newcome in her
idea of leaving some token of goodwill to the latter. "I was to have
dined with your grandmamma on the Saturday, with my poor wife. Why, bless
my soul! I remember the circumstance perfectly well, my dear young lady.
There can't be a doubt about the letter, but of course the bequest is no
bequest at all, and Colonel Newcome has behaved so ill to your brother
that I suppose Sir Barnes will not go out of his way to benefit the
Colonel."
"What would you do, Mr. Luce?" asks the young lady.
"H'm! And pray why should I tell you what I should do under the
circumstances?" replied the little lawyer. "Upon my word, Miss Newcome, I
think I should leave matters as they stand. Sir Barnes and I, you are
aware, are not the very best of friends--as your father's, your
grandmother's old friend and adviser, your own too, my dear young lady, I
and Sir Barnes Newcome remain on civil terms. But neither is over much
pleased with the other, to say the truth; and, at any rate, I cannot be
accused--nor can any one else that I know of--of being a very warm
partisan of your brother's. But candidly, were his case mine--had I a
relation who had called me unpleasant names, and threatened me I don't
know with what, with sword and pistol--who had put me to five or six
thousand pounds' expense in contesting an election which I had lost,--I
should give him, I think, no more than the law obliged me to give him;
and that, my dear Miss Newcome, is not one farthing."
"I am very glad you say so," said Miss Newcome, rather to my
astonishment.
"Of course, my dear young lady; and so you need not be alarmed at showing
your brother this document. Is not that the point about which you came to
consult me? You wished that I should prepare him for the awful
disclosure, did you not? You know, perhaps, that he does not like to part
with his money, and thought the appearance of this note might agitate
him? It has been a long time coming to its address, but nothing can be
done, don't you see? and be sure Sir Barnes Newcome will not be the least
agitated when I tell him its contents."
"I mean I am very glad you think my brother is not called upon to obey
Mrs. Newcome's wishes, because I need not think so hardly of him as I was
disposed to do," Miss Newcome said. "I showed him the paper this morning,
and he repelled it with scorn; and not kind words passed between us, Mr.
Luce, and unkind thoughts remained in my mind. But if he, you think, is
justified, it is I who have been in the wrong for saying that he was
self--for upbraiding him as I own I did."
"You called him selfish!--You had words with him! Such things have
happened before, my dear Miss Newcome, in the best-regulated families."
"But if he is not wrong, sir, holding his opinions, surely I should be
wrong, sir, with mine, not to do as my conscience tells me; and having
found this paper only yesterday at Newcome, in the library there, in one
of my grandmother's books, I consulted with this gentleman, the husband
of my dearest friend, Mrs. Pendennis--the most intimate friend of my
uncle and cousin Clive; and I wish, and I desire and insist, that my
share of what my poor father left us girls should be given to my cousin,
Mr. Clive Newcome, in accordance with my grandmother's dying wishes."
"My dear, you gave away your portion to your brothers and sisters ever so
long ago!" cried the lawyer.
"I desire, sir, that six thousand pounds may be given to my cousin," Miss
Newcome said, blushing deeply. "My dear uncle, the best man in the world,
whom I love with all my heart, sir, is in the most dreadful poverty. Do
you know where he is, sir? My dear, kind, generous uncle!"--and, kindling
as she spoke, and with eyes beaming a bright kindness, and flushing
cheeks, and a voice that thrilled to the heart of those two who heard
her, Miss Newcome went on to tell of her uncle's and cousin's
misfortunes, and of her wish, under God, to relieve them. I see before me
now the figure of the noble girl as she speaks; the pleased little old
lawyer, bobbing his white head, looking up at her with his twinkling
eyes--patting his knees, patting his snuff-box--as he sits before his
tapes and his deeds, surrounded by a great background of tin boxes.
"And I understand you want this money paid as coming from the family, and
not from Miss Newcome?" says Mr. Luce.
"Coming from the family--exactly," answers Miss Newcome.
Mr. Luce rose up from his old chair--his worn-out old horsehair chair--
where he had sat for half a century and listened to many a speaker, very
different from this one. "Mr. Pendennis," he said, "I envy you your
journey along with this young lady. I envy you the good news you are
going to carry to your friends--and, Miss Newcome, as I am an old--old
gentleman who have known your family these sixty years, and saw your
father in his long-clothes, may I tell you how heartily and sincerely I--
I love and respect you, my dear? When should you wish Mr. Clive Newcome
to have his legacy?"
"I think I should like Mr. Pendennis to have it this instant, Mr. Luce,
please," said the young lady--and her veil dropped over her face as she
bent her head down, and clasped her hands together for a moment, as if
she was praying.
Mr. Luce laughed at her impetuosity; but said that if she was bent upon
having the money, it was at her instant service; and before we left the
room, Mr. Luce prepared a letter, addressed to Clive Newcome, Esquire, in
which he stated, that amongst the books of the late Mrs. Newcome a paper
had only just been found, of which a copy was enclosed, and that the
family of the late Sir Brian Newcome, desirous to do honour to the wishes
of the late Mrs. Newcome, had placed the sum of 6000 pounds at the bank
of Messrs. H. W----, at the disposal of Mr. Clive Newcome, of whom Mr.
Luce had the honour to sign himself the most obedient servant, etc. And,
the letter approved and copied, Mr. Luce said Mr. Pendennis might be the
postman thereof; if Miss Newcome so willed it; and, with this document in
my pocket, I quitted the lawyer's chambers, with my good and beautiful
young companion.
Our cab had been waiting several hours in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and I
asked Miss Ethel whither I now should conduct her?
"Where is Grey Friars?" she said. "Mayn't I go to see my uncle?"
CHAPTER LXXIX
In which Old Friends come together
We made the descent of Snowhill, we passed by the miry pens of
Smithfield; we travel through the street of St. John, and presently reach
the ancient gateway, in Cistercian Square, where lies the old Hospital of
Grey Friars. I passed through the gate, my fair young companion on my
arm, and made my way to the rooms occupied by brother Newcome.
As we traversed the court the Poor Brothers were coming from dinner. A
couple of score, or more, of old gentlemen in black gowns, issued from
the door of their refectory, and separated over the court, betaking
themselves to their chambers. Ethel's arm trembled under mine as she
looked at one and another, expecting to behold her dear uncle's familiar
features. But he was not among the brethren. We went to his chamber, of
which the door was open: a female attendant was arranging the room; she
told us Colonel Newcome was out for the day, and thus our journey had
been made in vain.
Ethel went round the apartment and surveyed its simple decorations; she
looked at the pictures of Clive and his boy; the two sabres crossed over
the mantelpiece, the Bible laid on the table, by the old latticed window.
She walked slowly up to the humble bed, and sat down on a chair near it.
No doubt her heart prayed for him who slept there; she turned round where
his black pensioner's cloak was hanging on the wall, and lifted up the
homely garment, and kissed it. The servant looked on admiring, I should
think, her melancholy and her gracious beauty. I whispered to the woman
that the young lady was the Colonel's niece. "He has a son who comes
here, and is very handsome, too," said the attendant.
The two women spoke together for a while. "Oh, miss!" cried the elder and
humbler, evidently astonished at some gratuity which Miss Newcome
bestowed upon her, "I didn't want this to be good to him. Everybody here
loves him for himself; and I would sit up for him for weeks--that I
would."
My companion took a pencil from her bag, and wrote "Ethel" on a piece of
paper, and laid the paper on the Bible. Darkness had again fallen by this