The Newcomes

terror.

  "Fighting is Jack Belsize's business, Barnes Newcome; banking is yours,

  luckily," said the dowager. "As old Lord Highgate was to die and his

  eldest son, too, it is a pity certainly they had not died a year or two

  earlier, and left poor Clara and Charles to come together. You should

  have married some woman in the serious way; my daughter Walham could have

  found you one. Frank, I am told, and his wife go on very sweetly

  together; her mother-in-law governs the whole family. They have turned

  the theatre back into a chapel again: they have six little ploughboys

  dressed in surplices to sing the service; and Frank and the Vicar of

  Kewbury play at cricket with them on holidays. Stay, why should not Clara

  go to Kewbury?"

  "She and her sister have quarrelled about this very affair with Lord

  Highgate. Some time ago it appears they had words about it and when I

  told Kew that bygones had best be bygones, that Highgate was very sweet

  upon Ethel now, and that I did not choose to lose such a good account as

  his, Kew was very insolent to me; his conduct was blackguardly, ma'am,

  quite blackguardly, and you may be sure but for our relationship I would

  have called him to----"

  Here the talk between Barnes and his ancestress was interrupted by the

  appearance of Miss Ethel Newcome, taper in hand, who descended from the

  upper regions enveloped in a shawl.

  "How do you do, Barnes? How is Clara? I long to see my little nephew. Is

  he like his pretty papa?" cries the young lady, giving her fair cheek to

  her brother.

  "Scotland has agreed with our Newcome rose," says Barnes, gallantly. "My

  dear Ethel, I never saw you in greater beauty."

  "By the light of one bedroom candle! what should I be if the whole room

  were lighted? You would see my face then was covered all over with

  wrinkles, and quite pale and woebegone, with the dreariness of the Scotch

  journey. Oh, what a time we have spent! haven't we, grandmamma? I never

  wish to go to a great castle again; above all, I never wish to go to a

  little shooting-box. Scotland may be very well for men; but for women--

  allow me to go to Paris when next there is talk of a Scotch expedition. I

  had rather be in a boarding-school in the Champs Elysees than in the

  finest castle in the Highlands. If it had not been for a blessed quarrel

  with Fanny Follington, I think I should have died at Glen Shorthorn. Have

  you seen my dear, dear uncle, the Colonel? When did he arrive?"

  "Is he come? Why is he come?" asks Lady Kew.

  "Is he come? Look here, grandmamma! did you ever see such a darling

  shawl! I found it in a packet in my room."

  "Well, it is beautiful," cries the Dowager, bending her ancient nose over

  the web. "Your Colonel is a galant homme. That must be said of him; and

  in this does not quite take after the rest of the family. Hum! hum! is he

  going away again soon?"

  "He has made a fortune, a very considerable fortune for a man in that

  rank in life," says Sir Barnes. "He cannot have less than sixty thousand

  pounds."

  "Is that much?" asks Ethel.

  "Not in England, at our rate of interest; but his money is in India,

  where he gets a great percentage. His income must be five or six thousand

  pounds, ma'am," says Barnes, turning to Lady Kew.

  "A few of the Indians were in society in my time, my dear," says Lady

  Kew, musingly. "My father has often talked to me about Barbell of

  Stanstead, and his house in St. James's Square; the man who ordered more

  curricles when there were not carriages enough for his guests. I was

  taken to Mr. Hastings's trial. It was very stupid and long. The young

  man, the painter, I suppose will leave his paint-pots now, and set up as

  a gentleman. I suppose they were very poor, or his father would not have

  put him to such a profession. Barnes, why did you not make him a clerk in

  the bank, and save him from the humiliation?"

  "Humiliation! why, he is proud of it. My uncle is as proud as a

  Plantagenet; though he is as humble as--as what! Give me a simile Barnes.

  Do you know what my quarrel with Fanny Follington was about? She said we

  were not descended from the barber-surgeon, and laughed at the Battle of

  Bosworth. She says our great-grandfather was a weaver. Was he a weaver?"

  "How should I know? and what on earth does it matter, my child? Except

  the Gaunts, the Howards, and one or two more, there is scarcely any good

  blood in England. You are lucky in sharing some of mine. My poor Lord

  Kew's grandfather was an apothecary at Hampton Court, and founded the

  family by giving a dose of rhubarb to Queen Caroline. As a rule, nobody

  is of a good family. Didn't that young man, that son of the Colonel's, go

  about last year? How did he get in society? Where did we meet him? Oh! at

  Baden, yes; when Barnes was courting, and my grandson--yes, my grandson,

  acted so wickedly." Here she began to cough, and to tremble so, that her

  old stick shook under her hand. "Ring the bell for Ross. Ross, I will go

  to bed. Go you too, Ethel. You have been travelling enough to-day."

  "Her memory seems to fail her a little," Ethel whispered to her brother;

  "or she will only remember what she wishes. Don't you see that she has

  grown very much older?"

  "I will be with her in the morning. I have business with her," said

  Barnes.

  "Good night. Give my love to Clara, and kiss the little ones for me. Have

  you done what you promised me, Barnes?"

  "What?"

  "To be--to be kind to Clara. Don't say cruel things to her. She has a

  high spirit, and she feels them, though she says nothing."

  "Doesn't she?" said Barnes, grimly.

  "Ah, Barnes, be gentle with her. Seldom as I saw you together, when I

  lived with you in the spring, I could see that you were harsh, though she

  affected to laugh when she spoke of your conduct to her. Be kind. I am

  sure it is the best, Barnes; better than all the wit in the world. Look

  at grandmamma, how witty she was and is; what a reputation she had, how

  people were afraid of her; and see her now--quite alone."

  "I'll see her in the morning quite alone, my dear," says Barnes, waving a

  little gloved hand. "Bye-bye!" and his brougham drove away. While Ethel

  Newcome had been under her brother's roof, where I and friend Clive, and

  scores of others, had been smartly entertained, there had been quarrels

  and recriminations, misery and heart-burning, cruel words and shameful

  struggles, the wretched combatants in which appeared before the world

  with smiling faces, resuming their battle when the feast was concluded

  and the company gone.

  On the next morning, when Barnes came to visit his grandmother, Miss

  Newcome was gone away to see her sister-in-law, Lady Kew said, with whom

  she was going to pass the morning; so Barnes and Lady Kew had an

  uninterrupted tete-a-tete, in which the former acquainted the old lady

  with the proposal which Colonel Newcome had made to him on the previous

  night.

  Lady Kew wondered what the impudence of the world's would come to. An

  artist propose for Ethel! One of her footmen might propose next, and sh
e

  supposed Barnes would bring the message. "The father came and proposed

  for this young painter, and you didn't order him out of the room!"

  Barnes laughed. "The Colonel is one of my constituents. I can't afford to

  order the Bundelcund Banking Company out of its own room."

  "You did not tell Ethel this pretty news, I suppose?"

  "Of course I didn't tell Ethel. Nor did I tell the Colonel that Ethel was

  in London. He fancies her in Scotland with your ladyship at this moment."

  "I wish the Colonel were at Calcutta, and his son with him. I wish he was

  in the Ganges, I wish he was under Juggernaut's car," cried the old lady.

  "How much money has the wretch really got? If he is of importance to the

  bank, of course you must keep well with him. Five thousand a year, and he

  says he will settle it all on his son? He must be crazy. There is nothing

  some of these people will not do, no sacrifice they will not make, to

  ally themselves with good families. Certainly you must remain on good

  terms with him and his bank. And we must say nothing of the business to

  Ethel, and trot out of town as quickly as we can. Let me see? We go to

  Drummington on Saturday. This is Tuesday. Barkins, you will keep the

  front drawing-room shutters shut, and remember we are not in town, unless

  Lady Glenlivat or Lord Farintosh should call."

  "Do you think Farintosh will--will call, ma'am?" asked Sir Barnes

  demurely.

  "He will be going through to Newmarket. He has been where we have been at

  two or three places in Scotland," replies the lady, with equal gravity.

  "His poor mother wishes him to give up his bachelor's life--as well she

  may--for you young men are terribly dissipated. Rossmont is quite a regal

  place. His Norfolk house is not inferior. A young man of that station

  ought to marry, and live at his places, and be an example to his people,

  instead of frittering away his time at Paris and Vienna amongst the most

  odious company."

  "Is he going to Drummington?" asks the grandson.

  "I believe he has been invited. We shall go to Paris for November: he

  probably will be there," answered the Dowager casually; "and tired of the

  dissipated life he has been leading, let us hope he will mend his ways,

  and find a virtuous, well-bred young woman to keep him right." With this

  her ladyship's apothecary is announced, and her banker and grandson takes

  his leave.

  Sir Barnes walked into the City with his umbrella, read his letters,

  conferred with his partners and confidential clerks; was for a while not

  the exasperated husband, or the affectionate brother, or the amiable

  grandson, but the shrewd, brisk banker, engaged entirely with his

  business. Presently he had occasion to go on 'Change, or elsewhere, to

  confer with brother-capitalists, and in Cornhill behold he meets his

  uncle, Colonel Newcome, riding towards the India House, a groom behind

  him.

  The Colonel springs off his horse, and Barnes greets him in the blandest

  manner. "Have you any news for me, Barnes?" cries the officer.

  "The accounts from Calcutta are remarkably good. That cotton is of

  admirable quality really. Mr. Briggs, of our house, who knows cotton as

  well as any man in England, says----"

  "It's not the cotton, my dear Sir Barnes," cries the other.

  "The bills are perfectly good; there is no sort of difficulty about them.

  Our house will take half a million of 'em, if----"

  "You are talking of bills, and I am thinking of poor Clive," the Colonel

  interposes. "I wish you could give me good news for him, Barnes."

  "I wish I could. I heartily trust that I may some day. My good wishes you

  know are enlisted in your son's behalf," cries Barnes, gallantly. "Droll

  place to talk sentiment in--Cornhill, isn't it? But Ethel, as I told you,

  is in the hands of higher powers, and we must conciliate Lady Kew if we

  can. She has always spoken very highly of Clive; very."

  "Had I not best go to her?" asks the Colonel.

  "Into the North, my good sir? She is--ah--she is travelling about. I

  think you had best depend upon me, Good morning. In the City we have no

  hearts, you know, Colonel. Be sure you shall hear from me as soon as Lady

  Kew and Ethel come to town."

  And the banker hurried away, shaking his finger-tips to his uncle, and

  leaving the good Colonel utterly surprised at his statements. For the

  fact is, the Colonel knew that Lady Kew was in London, having been

  apprised of the circumstance in the simplest manner in the world, namely,

  by a note from Miss Ethel, which billet he had in his pocket, whilst he

  was talking with the head of the house of Hobson Brothers:--

  "My dear uncle" (the note said), "how glad I shall be to see you! How

  shall I thank you for the beautiful shawl, and the kind, kind remembrance

  of me? I found your present yesterday evening, on our arrival from the

  North. We are only here en passant, and see nobody in Queen Street but

  Barnes, who has just been about business, and he does not count, you

  know. I shall go and see Clara to-morrow, and make her take me to see

  your pretty friend, Mrs. Pendennis. How glad I should be if you happened

  to pay Mrs. P. a visit about two! Good-night. I thank you a thousand

  times, and am always your affectionate E."

  "Queen Street. Tuesday night. Twelve o'clock."

  This note came to Colonel Newcome's breakfast-table, and he smothered the

  exclamation of wonder which was rising to his lips, not choosing to

  provoke the questions of Clive, who sate opposite to him. Clive's father

  was in a woeful perplexity all that forenoon. "Tuesday night, twelve

  o'clock," thought he. "Why, Barnes must have gone to his grandmother from

  my dinner-table; and he told me she was out of town, and said so again

  just now when we met in the City." (The Colonel was riding towards

  Richmond at this time.) "What cause had the young man to tell me these

  lies? Lady Kew may not wish to be at home for me, but need Barnes Newcome

  say what is untrue to mislead me? The fellow actually went away

  simpering, and kissing his hand to me, with a falsehood on his lips! What

  a pretty villain! A fellow would deserve, and has got, a horse-whipping

  for less. And to think of a Newcome doing this to his own flesh and

  blood; a young Judas!" Very sad and bewildered, the Colonel rode towards

  Richmond, where he was to happen to call on Mrs. Pendennis.

  It was not much of a fib that Barnes had told. Lady Kew announcing that

  she was out of town, her grandson, no doubt, thought himself justified in

  saying so, as any other of her servants would have done. But if he had

  recollected how Ethel came down with the Colonel's shawl on her

  shoulders, how it was possible she might have written to thank her uncle,

  surely Barnes Newcome would not have pulled that unlucky long-bow. The

  banker had other things to think of than Ethel and her shawl.

  When Thomas Newcome dismounted at the door of Honeymoon Cottage,

  Richmond, the temporary residence of A. Pendennis, Esq., one of the

  handsomest young women in England ran into the passage with outstretched

  arms, called him her dear old uncle, an
d gave him two kisses, that I dare

  say brought blushes on his lean sunburnt cheeks. Ethel clung always to

  his affection. She wanted that man, rather than any other in the whole

  world, to think well of her. When she was with him, she was the amiable

  and simple, the loving impetuous creature of old times. She chose to

  think of no other. Worldliness, heartlessness, eager scheming, cold

  flirtations, marquis-hunting and the like, disappeared for a while--and

  were not, as she sate at that honest man's side. O me! that we should

  have to record such charges against Ethel Newcome!

  "He was come home for good now? He would never leave that boy he spoiled

  so, who was a good boy, too: she wished she could see him oftener. At

  Paris, at Madame de Florac's--I found out all about Madame de Florac,

  sir," says Miss Ethel, with a laugh--"we used often to meet there; and

  here, sometimes, in London. But in London it was different. You know what

  peculiar notions some people have; and as I live with grandmamma, who is

  most kind to me and my brothers, of course I must obey her, see her,"

  etc. etc. That the young lady went on talking, defending herself, whom

  nobody attacked, protesting her dislike to gaiety and dissipation--you

  would have fancied her an artless young country lass, only longing to

  trip back to her village, milk her cows at sunrise, and sit spinning of

  winter evenings by the fire.

  "Why do you come and spoil my tete-a-tete with my uncle, Mr. Pendennis?"

  cries the young lady to the master of the house, who happens to enter "Of

  all the men in the world the one I like best to talk to! Does he not look

  younger than when he went to India? When Clive marries that pretty little

  Miss Mackenzie, you will marry again, uncle, and I will be jealous of

  your wife."

  "Did Barnes tell you that we had met last night, my dear?" asks the

  Colonel.

  "Not one word. Your shawl and your dear kind note told me you were come.

  Why did not Barnes tell us? Why do you look so grave?"

  "He has not told her that I was here, and would have me believe her

  absent," thought Newcome, as his countenance fell. "Shall I give her my

  own message, and plead my poor boy's cause with her?" I know not whether

  he was about to lay his suit before her; he said himself subsequently

  that his mind was not made up; but at this juncture, a procession of

  nurses and babies made their appearance, followed by the two mothers, who

  had been comparing their mutual prodigies (each lady having her own

  private opinion)--Lady Clara and my wife--the latter for once gracious to

  Lady Clara Newcome, in consideration of the infantine company with which

  she came to visit Mrs. Pendennis.

  Luncheon was served presently. The carriage of the Newcomes drove away,

  my wife smilingly pardoning Ethel for the assignation which the young

  person had made at our house. And when those ladies were gone, our good

  Colonel held a council of war with us his two friends, and told us what

  had happened between him and Barnes on that morning and the previous

  night. His offer to sacrifice every shilling of his fortune to young

  Clive seemed to him to be perfectly simple (though the recital of the

  circumstance brought tears into my wife's eyes)--he mentioned it by the

  way, and as a matter that was scarcely to call for comment, much less

  praise.

  Barnes's extraordinary statements respecting Lady Kew's absence puzzled

  the elder Newcome; and he spoke of his nephew's conduct with much

  indignation. In vain I urged that her ladyship desiring to be considered

  absent from London, her grandson was bound to keep her secret. "Keep her

  secret, yes! Tell me lies, no!" cries out the Colonel. Sir Barnes's

  conduct was in fact indefensible, though not altogether unusual--the

  worst deduction to be drawn from it, in my opinion, was, that Clive's