chance with the young lady was but a poor one, and that Sir Barnes
Newcome, inclined to keep his uncle in good-humour, would therefore give
him no disagreeable refusal.
Now this gentleman could no more pardon a lie than he could utter one. He
would believe all and everything a man told him until deceived once,
after which he never forgave. And wrath being once roused in his simple
mind and distrust firmly fixed there, his anger and prejudices gathered
daily. He could see no single good quality in his opponent; and hated him
with a daily increasing bitterness.
As ill luck would have it, that very same evening, at his return to town,
Thomas Newcome entered Bays's club, of which, at our request, he had
become a member during his last visit to England, and there was Sir
Barnes, as usual, on his way homewards from the City. Barnes was writing
at a table, and sealing and closing a letter, as he saw the Colonel
enter; he thought he had been a little inattentive and curt with his
uncle in the morning; had remarked, perhaps, the expression of
disapproval on the Colonel's countenance. He simpered up to his uncle as
the latter entered the clubroom, and apologised for his haste when they
met in the City in the morning--all City men were so busy! "And I have
been writing about that little affair, just as you came in," he said;
"quite a moving letter to Lady Kew, I assure you, and I do hope and trust
we shall have a favourable answer in a day or two."
"You said her ladyship was in the North, I think?" said the Colonel,
drily.
"Oh, yes--in the North, at--at Lord Wallsend's--great coal-proprietor,
you know."
"And your sister is with her?"
"Ethel is always with her."
"I hope you will send her my very best remembrances," said the Colonel.
"I'll open the letter, and add 'em in a postscript," said Barnes.
"Confounded liar?" cried the Colonel, mentioning the circumstance to me
afterwards, "why does not somebody pitch him out of the bow-window?"
If we were in the secret of Sir Barnes Newcome's correspondence, and
could but peep into that particular letter to his grandmother, I dare say
we should read that he had seen the Colonel, who was very anxious about
his darling youth's suit, but, pursuant to Lady Kew's desire, Barnes had
stoutly maintained that her ladyship was still in the North, enjoying the
genial hospitality of Lord Wallsend. That of course he should say nothing
to Ethel, except with Lady Kew's full permission: that he wished her a
pleasant trip to ----, and was, etc. etc.
Then if we could follow him, we might see him reach his Belgravian
mansion, and fling an angry word to his wife as she sits alone in the
darkling drawing-room, poring over the embers. He will ask her, probably
with an oath, why the ----- she is not dressed? and if she always intends
to keep her company waiting? An hour hence, each with a smirk, and the
lady in smart raiment, with flowers in her hair, will be greeting their
guests as they arrive. Then will come dinner and such conversation as it
brings. Then at night Sir Barnes will issue forth, cigar in mouth; to
return to his own chamber at his own hour; to breakfast by himself; to go
Citywards, money-getting. He will see his children once a fortnight, and
exchange a dozen sharp words with his wife twice in that time.
More and more sad does the Lady Clara become from day to day; liking more
to sit lonely over the fire; careless about the sarcasms of her husband;
the prattle of her children. She cries sometimes over the cradle of the
young heir. She is aweary, aweary. You understand, the man to whom her
parents sold her does not make her happy, though she has been bought with
diamonds, two carriages, several large footmen, a fine country-house with
delightful gardens, and conservatories, and with all this she is
miserable--is it possible?
CHAPTER LIII
In which Kinsmen fall out
Not the least difficult part of Thomas Newcome's present business was to
keep from his son all knowledge of the negotiation in which he was
engaged on Clive's behalf. If my gentle reader has had sentimental
disappointments, he or she is aware that the friends who have given him
most sympathy under these calamities have been persons who have had
dismal histories of their own at some time of their lives, and I conclude
Colonel Newcome in his early days must have suffered very cruelly in that
affair of which we have a slight cognisance, or he would not have felt so
very much anxiety about Clive's condition.
A few chapters back and we described the first attack, and Clive's manful
cure: then we had to indicate the young gentleman's relapse, and the
noisy exclamations of the youth under this second outbreak of fever.
Calling him back after she had dismissed him, and finding pretext after
pretext to see him,--why did the girl encourage him, as she certainly
did? I allow, with Mrs. Grundy and most moralists, that Miss Newcome's
conduct in this matter was highly reprehensible; that if she did not
intend to marry Clive she should have broken with him--altogether; that a
virtuous young woman of high principle, etc. etc., having once determined
to reject a suitor, should separate from him utterly then and there--
never give him again the least chance of a hope, or reillume the
extinguished fire in the wretch's bosom.
But coquetry, but kindness, but family affection, and a strong, very
strong partiality for the rejected lover--are these not to be taken in
account, and to plead as excuses for her behaviour to her cousin? The
least unworthy part of her conduct, some critics will say, was that
desire to see Clive and be well with him: as she felt the greatest regard
for him, the showing it was not blameable; and every flutter which she
made to escape out of the meshes which the world had cast about her was
but the natural effort at liberty. It was her prudence which was wrong;
and her submission wherein she was most culpable. In the early church
story, do we not read how young martyrs constantly had to disobey worldly
papas and mammas, who would have had them silent, and not utter their
dangerous opinions? how their parents locked them up, kept them on
bread-and-water, whipped and tortured them in order to enforce
obedience?--nevertheless they would declare the truth: they would defy
the gods by law established, and deliver themselves up to the lions or
the tormentors. Are not there Heathen Idols enshrined among us still?
Does not the world worship them, and persecute those who refuse to kneel?
Do not many timid souls sacrifice to them; and other bolder spirits rebel
and, with rage at their hearts, bend down their stubborn knees at their
altars? See! I began by siding with Mrs. Grundy and the world, and at the
next turn of the see-saw have lighted down on Ethel's side, and am
disposed to think that the very best part of her conduct has been those
escapades which--which right-minded persons most justly condemn. At
least, that a young beauty should torture a man with alternate liking and
in
difference; allure, dismiss, and call him back out of banishment;
practise arts to please upon him, and ignore them when rebuked for her
coquetry--these are surely occurrences so common in young women's history
as to call for no special censure; and if on these charges Miss Newcome
is guilty, is she, of all her sex, alone in her criminality?
So Ethel and her duenna went away upon their tour of visits to mansions
so splendid, and among hosts and guests so polite, that the present
modest historian does not dare to follow them. Suffice it to say that
Duke This and Earl That were, according to their hospitable custom,
entertaining a brilliant circle of friends at their respective castles,
all whose names the Morning Post gave; and among them those of the
Dowager Countess of Kew and Miss Newcome.
During her absence, Thomas Newcome grimly awaited the result of his
application to Barnes. That Baronet showed his uncle a letter, or rather
a postscript, from Lady Kew, which probably had been dictated by Barnes
himself, in which the Dowager said she was greatly touched by Colonel
Newcome's noble offer; that though she owned she had very different views
for her granddaughter, Miss Newcome's choice of course lay with herself.
Meanwhile, Lady K. and Ethel were engaged in a round of visits to the
country, and there would be plenty of time to resume this subject when
they came to London for the season. And, lest dear Ethel's feelings
should be needlessly agitated by a discussion of the subject, and the
Colonel should take a fancy to write to her privately, Lady Kew gave
orders that all letters from London should be despatched under cover to
her ladyship, and carefully examined the contents of the packet before
Ethel received her share of the correspondence.
To write to her personally on the subject of the marriage, Thomas Newcome
had determined was not a proper course for him to pursue. "They consider
themselves," says he, "above us, forsooth, in their rank of life (oh,
mercy! what pigmies we are! and don't angels weep at the brief authority
in which we dress ourselves up!) and of course the approaches on our side
must be made in regular form, and the parents of the young people must
act for them. Clive is too honourable a man to wish to conduct the affair
in any other way. He might try the influence of his beaux yeux, and run
off to Gretna with a girl who had nothing; but the young lady being
wealthy, and his relation, sir, we must be on the point of honour; and
all the Kews in Christendom shan't have more pride than we in this
matter."
All this time we are keeping Mr. Clive purposely in the background. His
face is so woebegone that we do not care to bring it forward in the
family picture. His case is so common that surely its lugubrious symptoms
need not be described at length. He works away fiercely at his pictures,
and in spite of himself improves in his art. He sent a "Combat of
Cavalry," and a picture of "Sir Brian the Templar carrying off Rebecca,"
to the British Institution this year; both of which pieces were praised
in other journals besides the Pall Mall Gazette. He did not care for the
newspaper praises. He was rather surprised when a dealer purchased his
"Sir Brian the Templar." He came and went from our house a melancholy
swain. He was thankful for Laura's kindness and pity. J. J.'s studio was
his principal resort; and I dare say, as he set up his own easel there,
and worked by his friend's side, he bemoaned his lot to his sympathising
friend.
Sir Barnes Newcome's family was absent from London during the winter. His
mother, and his brothers and sisters, his wife and his two children, were
gone to Newcome for Christmas. Some six weeks after seeing him, Ethel
wrote her uncle a kind, merry letter. They had been performing private
theatricals at the country-house where she and Lady Kew were staying.
"Captain Crackthorpe made an admirable Jeremy Diddler in 'Raising the
Wind.' Lord Farintosh broke down lamentably as Fusbos in 'Bombastes
Furioso.'" Miss Ethel had distinguished herself in both of these
facetious little comedies. "I should like Clive to paint me as Miss
Plainways," she wrote. "I wore a powdered front, painted my face all over
wrinkles, imitated old Lady Griffin as well as I could, and looked sixty
at least."
Thomas Newcome wrote an answer to his fair niece's pleasant letter;
"Clive," he said, "would be happy to bargain to paint her, and nobody
else but her, all the days of his life; and," the Colonel was sure,
"would admire her at sixty as much as he did now, when she was forty
years younger." But, determined on maintaining his appointed line of
conduct respecting Miss Newcome, he carried his letter to Sir Barnes, and
desired him to forward it to his sister. Sir Barnes took the note, and
promised to despatch it. The communications between him and his uncle had
been very brief and cold, since the telling of these little fibs
concerning old Lady Kew's visits to London, which the Baronet dismissed
from his mind as soon as they were spoken, and which the good Colonel
never could forgive. Barnes asked his uncle to dinner once or twice, but
the Colonel was engaged. How was Barnes to know the reason of the elder's
refusal? A London man, a banker, and a Member of Parliament, has a
thousand things to think of; and no time to wonder that friends refuse
his invitations to dinner. Barnes continued to grin and smile most
affectionately when he met the Colonel; to press his hand, to
congratulate him on the last accounts from India, unconscious of the
scorn and distrust with which his senior mentally regarded him. "Old boy
is doubtful about the young cub's love-affair," the Baronet may have
thought. "We'll ease his old mind on that point some time hence." No
doubt Barnes thought he was conducting the business very smartly and
diplomatically.
I heard myself news at this period from the gallant Crackthorpe, which,
being interested in my young friend's happiness, filled me with some
dismay. "Our friend the painter and glazier has been hankering about our
barracks at Knightsbridge" (the noble Life Guards Green had now pitched
their tents in that suburb), "and pumping me about la belle cousin. I
don't like to break it to him--I don't really, now. But it's all up with
his chance, I think. Those private theatricals at Fallowfield have done
Farintosh's business. He used to rave about the Newcomes to me, as we
were riding home from hunting. He gave Bob Henchman the lie, who told a
story which Bob got from his man, who had it from Miss Newcome's
lady's-maid, about--about some journey to Brighton, which the cousins
took." Here Mr. Crackthorpe grinned most facetiously. "Farintosh swore
he'd knock Henchman down; and vows he will be the death of--will murder
our friend Clive when he comes to town. As for Henchman, he was in a
desperate way. He lives on the Marquis, you know, and Farintosh's anger
or his marriage will be the loss of free quarters, and ever so many good
dinners a year to him." I did not deem it necessary to impart
/>
Crackthorpe's story to Clive, or explain to him the reason why Lord
Farintosh scowled most fiercely upon the young painter, and passed him
without any other sign of recognition one day as Clive and I were walking
together in Pall Mall. If my lord wanted a quarrel, young Clive was not a
man to balk him; and would have been a very fierce customer to deal with,
in his actual state of mind.
A pauper child in London at seven years old knows how to go to market, to
fetch the beer, to pawn father's coat, to choose the largest fried fish
or the nicest ham-bone, to nurse Mary Jane of three,--to conduct a
hundred operations of trade or housekeeping, which a little Belgravian
does not perhaps acquire in all the days of her life. Poverty and
necessity force this precociousness on the poor little brat. There are
children who are accomplished shoplifters and liars almost as soon as
they can toddle and speak. I dare say little Princes know the laws of
etiquette as regards themselves, and the respect due to their rank, at a
very early period of their royal existence. Every one of us, according to
his degree, can point to the Princekins of private life who are flattered
and worshipped, and whose little shoes grown men kiss as soon almost as
they walk upon ground.
It is a wonder what human nature will support: and that, considering the
amount of flattery some people are crammed with from their cradles, they
do not grow worse and more selfish than they are. Our poor little pauper
just mentioned is dosed with Daffy's Elixir, and somehow survives
the drug. Princekin or lordkin from his earliest days has nurses,
dependants, governesses, little friends, schoolfellows, schoolmasters,
fellow-collegians, college tutors, stewards and valets, led captains of
his suite, and women innumerable flattering him and doing him honour. The
tradesman's manner, which to you and me is decently respectful, becomes
straightway frantically servile before Princekin. Honest folks at railway
stations whisper to their families, "That's the Marquis of Farintosh,"
and look hard at him as he passes. Landlords cry, "This way, my lord;
this room for your lordship." They say at public schools Princekin is
taught the beauties of equality, and thrashed into some kind of
subordination. Psha! Toad-eaters in pinafores surround Princekin. Do not
respectable people send their children so as to be at the same school
with him; don't they follow him to college, and eat his toads through
life?
And as for women--oh, my dear friends and brethren in this vale of tears
--did you ever see anything so curious, monstrous, and amazing as the way
in which women court Princekin when he is marriageable, and pursue him
with their daughters? Who was the British nobleman in old old days who
brought his three daughters to the King of Mercia, that His Majesty might
choose one after inspection? Mercia was but a petty province, and its
king in fact a Princekin. Ever since those extremely ancient and
venerable times the custom exists not only in Mercia, but in all the rest
of the provinces inhabited by the Angles, and before Princekins the
daughters of our nobles are trotted out.
There was no day of his life which our young acquaintance, the Marquis of
Farintosh, could remember on which he had not been flattered; and no
society which did not pay him court. At a private school he could
recollect the master's wife stroking his pretty curls and treating him
furtively to goodies; at college he had the tutor simpering and bowing as
he swaggered over the grass-plat; old men at clubs would make way for him
and fawn on him--not your mere pique-assiettes and penniless parasites,
but most respectable toad-eaters, fathers of honest families, gentlemen
themselves of good station, who respected this young gentleman as one of