Page 113 of The Newcomes

blasphemies, Clive Newcome! They are loud enough."

  "Do let us have a quiet life," groans out Clive; and for me, I must

  confess, I kept my eyes steadily down upon my plate, nor dared to lift

  them until my portion of cold beef had vanished.

  No further outbreak took place until the appearance of the second

  course, which consisted, as the ingenious reader may suppose, of the

  plum-pudding, now in a grilled state, and the remanent of mince-pies from

  yesterday's meal. Maria, I thought, looked particularly guilty as these

  delicacies were placed on the table: she set them down hastily, and was

  for operating an instant retreat.

  But the Campaigner shrieked after her, "Who has eaten that pudding? I

  insist upon knowing who has eaten it. I saw it at two o'clock when I went

  down to the kitchen and fried a bit for my darling child, and there's

  pounds of it gone since then! There were five mince-pies! Mr. Pendennis!

  you saw yourself there were five that went away from table yesterday--

  where's the other two Maria? You leave the house this night, you

  thieving, wicked wretch--and I'll thank you to come back to me afterwards

  for a character. Thirteen servants have we had in nine months, Mr.

  Pendennis, and this girl is the worst of them all, and the greatest liar

  and the greatest thief."

  At this charge the outraged Maria stood up in arms, and as the phrase is,

  gave the Campaigner as good as she got. Go! wouldn't she go? Pay her her

  wages, and let her go out of that ell upon hearth, was Maria's prayer.

  "It isn't you, sir," she said, turning to Clive. "You are good enough,

  and works hard enough to git the guineas which you give out to pay that

  doctor; and she don't pay him--and I see five of them in her purse

  wrapped up in paper, myself I did, and she abuses you to him--and I heard

  her, and Jane Black, who was here before, told me she heard her. Go!

  won't I just go, I dispises your puddens and pies!" and with a laugh of

  scorn this rude Maria snapped her black fingers in the immediate vicinity

  of the Campaigner's nose.

  "I will pay her her wages, and she shall go this instant!" says Mrs.

  Mackenzie, taking her purse out.

  "Pay me with them suvverings that you have got in it, wrapped up in

  paper. See if she haven't, Mr. Newcome," the refractory waiting-woman

  cried out, and again she laughed a strident laugh.

  Mrs. Mackenzie briskly shut her portemonnaie, and rose up from table,

  quivering with indignant virtue. "Go!" she exclaimed, "go and pack your

  trunks this instant! you quit the house this night, and a policeman shall

  see to your boxes before you leave it!"

  Whilst uttering this sentence against the guilty Maria, the Campaigner

  had intended, no doubt, to replace her purse in her pocket,--a handsome

  filagree gimcrack of poor Ross's, one of the relics of former

  splendours,--but, agitated by Maria's insolence, the trembling hand

  missed the mark, and the purse fell to the ground.

  Maria dashed at the purse in a moment, with a scream of laughter shook

  its contents upon the table, and sure enough, five little packets wrapped

  in paper rolled out upon the cloth, besides bank-notes and silver and

  golden coin. "I'm to go, am I? I'm a thief, am I?" screamed the girl,

  clapping her hands. "I sor 'em yesterday when I was a-lacing of her; and

  thought of that pore young man working night and day to get the money;--

  me a thief, indeed!--I despise you, and I give you warning."

  "Do you wish to see me any longer insulted by this woman, Clive? Mr.

  Pendennis, I am shocked that you should witness such horrible vulgarity,"

  cries the Campaigner, turning to her guest. "Does the wretched creature

  suppose that I, I who have given thousands, I who have denied myself

  everything, I who have spent my all in support of this house; and Colonel

  Newcome knows whether I have given thousands or not, and who has spent

  them, and who has been robbed, I say, and----"

  "Here! you! Maria! go about your business," shouted out Clive Newcome,

  starting up; "go and pack your trunks if you like, and pack this woman's

  trunks too. Mrs. Mackenzie, I can bear you no more; go in peace, and if

  you wish to see your daughter she shall come to you; but I will never, so

  help me God! sleep under the same roof with you; or break the same crust

  with you; or bear your infernal cruelty; or sit to hear my father

  insulted; or listen to your wicked pride and folly more. There has not

  been a day since you thrust your cursed foot into our wretched house, but

  you have tortured one and all of us. Look here, at the best gentleman,

  and the kindest heart in all the world, you fiend! and see to what a

  condition you have brought him! Dearest father! she is going, do you

  hear? She leaves us, and you will come back to me, won't you? Great God,

  woman," he gasped out, "do you know what you have made me suffer--what

  you have done to this good man? Pardon, father, pardon!"--and he sank

  down by his father's side, sobbing with passionate emotion. The old man

  even now did not seem to comprehend the scene. When he heard that woman's

  voice in anger, a sort of stupor came over him.

  "I am a fiend, am I?" cries the lady. "You hear, Mr. Pendennis, this is

  the language to which I am accustomed; I am a widow, and I trusted my

  child and my all to that old man; he robbed me and my darling of almost

  every farthing we had; and what has been my return for such baseness? I

  have lived in this house and toiled like a slave; I have acted as servant

  to my blessed child; night after night I have sat with her; and month

  after month, when her husband has been away, I have nursed that poor

  innocent; and the father having robbed me, the son turns me out of

  doors!"

  A sad thing it was to witness, and a painful proof how frequent were

  these battles, that, as this one raged, the poor little boy sat almost

  careless, whilst his bewildered grandfather stroked his golden head. "It

  is quite clear to me, madam," I said, turning to Mrs. Mackenzie, "that

  you and your son-in-law are better apart; and I came to tell him to-day

  of a most fortunate legacy, which has been left to him, and which will

  enable him to pay you to-morrow morning every shilling, every shilling

  which he does NOT owe you?"

  "I will not leave this house until I am paid every shilling of which I

  have been robbed," hissed out Mrs. Mackenzie; and she sat down, folding

  her arms across her chest.

  "I am sorry," groaned out Clive, wiping the sweat off his brow, I used a

  harsh word; I will never sleep under the same roof with you. To-morrow I

  will pay you what you claim; and the best chance I have of forgiving you

  the evil which you have done me, is that we never should meet again. Will

  you give me a bed at your house, Arthur? Father, will you come out and

  walk? Good night, Mrs. Mackenzie; Pendennis will settle with you in the

  morning. You will not be here, if you please, when I return; and so God

  forgive you, and farewell."

  Mrs. Mackenzie in a tragic manner dashed aside the hand which poor Clive

  held out to her, and disappeared from the scene of this dismal di
nner.

  Boy presently fell a-crying; in spite of all the battle and fury, there

  was sleep in his eyes.

  "Maria is too busy, I suppose, to put him to bed," said Clive, with a sad

  smile; "shall we do it, father? Come, Tommy, my son!" and he folded his

  arms round the child, and walked with him to the upper regions. The old

  man's eyes lighted up; his seared thoughts returned to him; he followed

  his two children up the stairs, and saw his grandson in his little bed;

  and, as we walked home with him, he told me how sweetly Boy said "Our

  Father," and prayed God bless all those who loved him, as they laid him

  to rest.

  So these three generations had joined in that supplication: the strong

  man, humbled by trial and grief, whose loyal heart was yet full of love;

  --the child, of the sweet age of those little ones whom the Blessed

  Speaker of the prayer first bade to come unto Him;--and the old man,

  whose heart was well-nigh as tender and as innocent; and whose day was

  approaching, when he should be drawn to the bosom of the Eternal Pity.

  CHAPTER LXXX

  In which the Colonel says "Adsum" when his Name is called

  The vow which Clive had uttered, never to share bread with his

  mother-in-law, or sleep under the same roof with her, was broken on the

  very next day. A stronger will than the young man's intervened, and he

  had to confess the impotence of his wrath before that superior power. In

  the forenoon of the day following that unlucky dinner, I went with my

  friend to the banking-house whither Mr. Luce's letter directed us, and

  carried away with me the principal sum, in which the Campaigner said

  Colonel Newcome was indebted to her, with the interest accurately

  computed and reimbursed. Clive went off with a pocketful of money to the

  dear old Poor Brother of Grey Friars; and he promised to return with his

  father, and dine with my wife in Queen Square. I had received a letter

  from Laura by the morning's post, announcing her return by the express

  train from Newcome, and desiring that a spare bedroom should be got ready

  for a friend who accompanied her.

  On reaching Howland Street, Clive's door was opened, rather to my

  surprise, by the rebellious maid-servant who had received her dismissal

  on the previous night; and the doctor's carriage drove up as she was

  still speaking to me. The polite practitioner sped upstairs to Mrs.

  Newcome's apartment. Mrs. Mackenzie, in a robe-de-chambre and cap very

  different from yesterday's, came out eagerly to meet the physician on the

  landing. Ere they had been a quarter of an hour together, arrived a cab,

  which discharged an elderly person with her bandbox and bundles; I had no

  difficulty in recognising a professional nurse in the new-comer. She too

  disappeared into the sick-room, and left me sitting in the neighbouring

  chamber, the scene of the last night's quarrel.

  Hither presently came to me Maria, the maid. She said she had not the

  heart to go away now she was wanted; that they had passed a sad night,

  and that no one had been to bed. Master Tommy was below, and the landlady

  taking care of him: the landlord had gone out for the nurse. Mrs. Clive

  had been taken bad after Mr. Clive went away the night before. Mrs.

  Mackenzie had gone to the poor young thing, and there she went on,

  crying, and screaming, and stamping, as she used to do in her tantrums,

  which was most cruel of her, and made Mrs. Clive so ill. And presently

  the young lady began: my informant told me. She came screaming into the

  sitting-room, her hair over her shoulders, calling out she was deserted,

  deserted, and would like to die. She was like a mad woman for some time.

  She had fit after fit of hysterics: and there was her mother, kneeling,

  and crying, and calling out to her darling child to calm herself;--which

  it was all her own doing, and she had much better have held her own

  tongue, remarked the resolute Maria. I understood only too well from the

  girl's account what had happened, and that Clive, if resolved to part

  with his mother-in-law, should not have left her, even for twelve hours,

  in possession of his house. The wretched woman, whose Self was always

  predominant, and who, though she loved her daughter after her own

  fashion, never forgot her own vanity or passion, had improved the

  occasion of Clive's absence: worked upon her child's weakness, jealousy,

  ill-health, and driven her, no doubt, into the fever which yonder

  physician was called to quell.

  The doctor presently enters to write a prescription, followed by Clive's

  mother-in-law, who had cast Rosa's fine Cashmere shawl over her

  shoulders, to hide her disarray. "You here still, Mr. Pendennis!" she

  exclaims. She knew I was there. Had not she changed her dress in order to

  receive me?

  "I have to speak to you for two minutes on important business, and then I

  shall go," I replied gravely.

  "Oh, sir! to what a scene you have come! To what a state has Clive's

  conduct last night driven my darling child!"

  As the odious woman spoke so, the doctor's keen eyes, looking up from the

  prescription, caught mine. "I declare before Heaven, madam," I said

  hotly, "I believe you yourself are the cause of your daughter's present

  illness, as you have been of the misery of my friends."

  "Is this, sir," she was breaking out, "is this language to be used

  to----?"

  "Madam, will you be silent?" I said. "I am come to bid you farewell on

  the part of those whom your temper has driven into infernal torture. I am

  come to pay you every halfpenny of the sum which my friends do not owe

  you, but which they restore. Here is the account, and here is the money

  to settle it. And I take this gentleman to witness, to whom, no doubt,

  you have imparted what you call your wrongs" (the doctor smiled, and

  shrugged his shoulders) "that now you are paid."

  "A widow--a poor, lonely, insulted widow!" cries the Campaigner, with

  trembling hands taking possession of the notes.

  "And I wish to know," I continued, "when my friend's house will be free

  to him, and he can return in peace."

  Here Rosa's voice was heard from the inner apartment, screaming, "Mamma,

  mamma!"

  "I go to my child, sir," she said. "If Captain Mackenzie had been alive,

  you would not have dared to insult me so." And carrying off her money,

  she left us.

  "Cannot she be got out of the house?" I said to the doctor. "My friend

  will never return until she leaves it. It is my belief she is the cause

  of her daughter's present illness."

  "Not altogether, my dear sir. Mrs. Newcome was in a very, very delicate

  state of health. Her mother is a lady of impetuous temper, who expresses

  herself very strongly--too strongly, I own. In consequence of unpleasant

  family discussions, which no physician can prevent, Mrs. Newcome has been

  wrought up to a state of--of agitation. Her fever is, in fact, at

  present very high. You know her condition. I am apprehensive of ulterior

  consequences. I have recommended an excellent and experienced nurse to

  her. Mr. Smith, the medical man at the corner, is a most able
/>
  practitioner. I shall myself call again in a few hours, and I trust that,

  after the event which I apprehend, everything will go well.

  "Cannot Mrs. Mackenzie leave the house, sir?" I asked.

  "Her daughter cries out for her at every moment. Mrs. Mackenzie is

  certainly not a judicious nurse, but in Mrs. Newcome's present state I

  cannot take upon myself to separate them. Mr. Newcome may return, and I

  do think and believe that his presence may tend to impose silence and

  restore tranquillity."

  I had to go back to Clive with these gloomy tidings. The poor fellow must

  put up a bed in his studio, and there await the issue of his wife's

  illness. I saw Thomas Newcome could not sleep under his son's roof that

  night. That dear meeting, which both so desired, was delayed, who could

  say for how long?

  "The Colonel may come to us," I thought; "our old house is big enough." I

  guessed who was the friend coming in my wife's company; and pleased

  myself by thinking that two friends so dear should meet in our home. Bent

  upon these plans, I repaired to Grey Friars, and to Thomas Newcome's

  chamber there.

  Bayham opened the door when I knocked, and came towards me with a finger

  on his lip, and a sad, sad countenance. He closed the door gently behind

  him, and led me into the court. "Clive is with him, and Miss Newcome. He

  is very ill. He does not know them," said Bayham with a sob. "He calls

  out for both of them: they are sitting there and he does not know them."

  In a brief narrative, broken by more honest tears, Fred Bayham, as we

  paced up and down the court, told me what had happened. The old man must

  have passed a sleepless night, for on going to his chamber in the

  morning, his attendant found him dressed in his chair, and his bed

  undisturbed. He must have sat all through the bitter night without a

  fire: but his hands were burning hot, and he rambled in his talk. He

  spoke of some one coming to drink tea with him, pointed to the fire, and

  asked why it was not made; he would not go to bed, though the nurse

  pressed him. The bell began to ring for morning chapel; he got up and

  went towards his gown, groping towards it as though he could hardly see,

  and put it over his shoulders, and would go out, but he would have fallen

  in the court if the good nurse had not given him her arm; and the

  physician of the hospital, passing fortunately at this moment, who had

  always been a great friend of Colonel Newcome's, insisted upon leading

  him back to his room again, and got him to bed. "When the bell stopped,

  he wanted to rise once more; he fancied he was a boy at school again,"

  said the nurse, "and that he was going in to Dr. Raine, who was

  schoolmaster here ever so many years ago." So it was, that when happier

  days seemed to be dawning for the good man, that reprieve came too late.

  Grief, and years, and humiliation, and care, and cruelty had been too

  strong for him, and Thomas Newcome was stricken down.

  Bayham's story told, I entered the room, over which the twilight was

  falling, and saw the figures of Clive and Ethel seated at each end of the

  bed. The poor old man within it was calling incoherent sentences. I had

  to call Clive from the present grief before him, with intelligence of

  further sickness awaiting him at home. Our poor patient did not heed what

  I said to his son. "You must go home to Rosa," Ethel said. "She will be

  sure to ask for her husband, and forgiveness is best, dear Clive. I will

  stay with uncle. I will never leave him. Please God, he will be better in

  the morning when you come back." So Clive's duty called him to his own

  sad home; and, the bearer of dismal tidings, I returned to mine. The

  fires were lit there and the table spread; and kind hearts were waiting

  to welcome the friend who never more was to enter my door.