Page 8 of The Newcomes

consequence? They had a quarrel with Sir Thomas Newcome's own son, a

  harum-scarum lad, who ran away, and then was sent to India; and, between

  ourselves, Mr. Hobson and Mr. Brian both, the present Baronet, though at

  home they were as mum as Quakers at a meeting, used to go out on the sly,

  sir, and be off to the play, sir, and sowed their wild oats like any

  other young men, sir, like any other young men. Law bless me, once, as I

  was going away from the Haymarket, if I didn't see Mr. Hobson coming out

  of the Opera, in tights and an opera-hat, sir, like 'Froggy would wooing

  go,' of a Saturday-night, too, when his ma thought him safe in bed in the

  City! I warrant he hadn't his opera-hat on when he went to chapel with

  her ladyship the next morning--that very morning, as sure as my name's

  John Giles.

  "When the old lady was gone, Mr. Hobson had no need of any more

  humbugging, but took his pleasure freely. Fighting, tandems,

  four-in-hand, anything. He and his brother--his elder brother by a

  quarter of an hour--were always very good friends; but after Mr. Brian

  married, and there was only court-cards at his table, Mr. Hobson couldn't

  stand it. They weren't of his suit, he said; and for some time he said he

  wasn't a marrying man--quite the contrary; but we all come to our fate,

  you know, and his time came as mine did. You know we married sisters? It

  was thought a fine match for Polly Smith, when she married the great Mr.

  Newcome; but I doubt whether my old woman at home hasn't had the best of

  it, after all; and if ever you come Bernard Street way on a Sunday, about

  six o'clock, and would like a slice of beef and a glass of port, I hope

  you'll come and see us."

  Do not let us be too angry with Colonel Newcome's two most respectable

  brothers, if for some years they neglected their Indian relative, or held

  him in slight esteem. Their mother never pardoned him, or at least by any

  actual words admitted his restoration to favour. For many years, as far

  as they knew, poor Tom was an unrepentant prodigal, wallowing in bad

  company, and cut off from all respectable sympathy. Their father had

  never had the courage to acquaint them with his more true, and kind, and

  charitable version of Tom's story. So he passed at home for no better

  than a black sheep; his marriage with a penniless young lady did not tend

  to raise him in the esteem of his relatives at Clapham; it was not until

  he was a widower, until he had been mentioned several times in the

  Gazette for distinguished military service, until they began to speak

  very well of him in Leadenhall Street, where the representatives of

  Hobson Brothers were of course East India proprietors, and until he

  remitted considerable sums of money to England, that the bankers his

  brethren began to be reconciled to him.

  I say, do not let us be hard upon them. No people are so ready to give a

  man a bad name as his own kinsfolk; and having made him that present,

  they are ever most unwilling to take it back again. If they give him

  nothing else in the days of his difficulty, he may be sure of their pity,

  and that he is held up as an example to his young cousins to avoid. If he

  loses his money they call him poor fellow, and point morals out of him.

  If he falls among thieves, the respectable Pharisees of his race turn

  their heads aside and leave him penniless and bleeding. They clap him on

  the back kindly enough when he returns, after shipwreck, with money in

  his pocket. How naturally Joseph's brothers made salaams to him, and

  admired him, and did him honour, when they found the poor outcast a prime

  minister, and worth ever so much money! Surely human nature is not much

  altered since the days of those primeval Jews. We would not thrust

  brother Joseph down a well and sell him bodily, but--but if he has

  scrambled out of a well of his own digging, and got out of his early

  bondage into renown and credit, at least we applaud him and respect him,

  and are proud of Joseph as a member of the family.

  Little Clive was the innocent and lucky object upon whom the increasing

  affection of the Newcomes for their Indian brother was exhibited. When he

  was first brought home a sickly child, consigned to his maternal aunt,

  the kind old maiden lady at Brighton, Hobson Brothers scarce took any

  notice of the little man, but left him to the entire superintendence of his

  own family. Then there came a large remittance from his father, and the

  child was asked by Uncle Newcome at Christmas. Then his father's name was

  mentioned in general orders, and Uncle Hobson asked little Clive at

  Midsummer. Then Lord H., a late Governor-General, coming home, and

  meeting the brothers at a grand dinner at the Albion, given by the Court

  of Directors to his late Excellency, spoke to the bankers about that most

  distinguished officer their relative; and Mrs. Hobson drove over to see

  his aunt, where the boy was; gave him a sovereign out of her purse, and

  advised strongly that he should be sent to Timpany's along wit her own

  boy. Then Clive went from one uncle's house to another; and was liked at

  both; and much preferred ponies to ride, going out after rabbits with the

  keeper, money in his pocket (charge to the debit of Lieut.-Col. T.

  Newcome), and clothes from the London tailor, to the homely quarters and

  conversation of poor kind old Aunt Honeyman at Brighton. Clive's uncles

  were not unkind; they liked each other; their wives, who hated each

  other, united in liking Clive when they knew him, and petting the wayward

  handsome boy: they were only pursuing the way of the world, which huzzas

  all prosperity, and turns away from misfortune as from some contagious

  disease. Indeed, how can we see a man's brilliant qualities if he is what

  we call in the shade?

  The gentlemen, Clive's uncles, who had their affairs to mind during the

  day, society and the family to occupy them of evenings and holidays,

  treated their young kinsman, the Indian Colonel's son, as other wealthy

  British uncles treat other young kinsmen. They received him in his

  vacations kindly enough. They tipped him when he went to school; when he

  had the hooping-cough, a confidential young clerk went round by way of

  Grey Friars Square to ask after him; the sea being recommended to him,

  Mrs. Newcome gave him change of air in Sussex, and transferred him to his

  maternal aunt at Brighton. Then it was bonjour. As the lodge-gates closed

  upon him, Mrs. Newcome's heart shut up too and confined itself within the

  firs, laurels, and palings which bound the home precincts. Had not she

  her own children and affairs? her brood of fowls, her Sunday-school, her

  melon-beds, her rose-garden, her quarrel with the parson, etc., to attend

  to? Mr. Newcome, arriving on a Saturday night; hears he is gone, says

  "Oh!" and begins to ask about the new gravel-walk along the cliff, and

  whether it is completed, and if the China pig fattens kindly upon the new

  feed.

  Clive, in the avuncular gig, is driven over the downs to Brighton to his

  maternal aunt there; and there he is a king. He has the best bedroom,

  Uncle Honeyman turning out for him sweetbreads fo
r dinner; no end of jam

  for breakfast; excuses from church on the plea of delicate health; his

  aunt's maid to see him to bed; his aunt to come smiling in when he rings

  his bell of a morning. He is made much of, and coaxed, and dandled and

  fondled, as if he were a young duke. So he is to Miss Honeyman. He is the

  son of Colonel Newcome, C.B., who sends her shawls, ivory chessmen,

  scented sandalwood workboxes and kincob scarfs; who, as she tells Martha

  the maid, has fifty servants in India; at which Martha constantly

  exclaims, "Lor', mum, what can he do with 'em, mum?" who, when in

  consequence of her misfortunes she resolved on taking a house at

  Brighton, and letting part of the same furnished, sent her an order for a

  hundred pounds towards the expenses thereof; who gave Mr. Honeyman, her

  brother, a much larger sum of money at the period of his calamity. Is it

  gratitude for past favours? is it desire for more? is it vanity of

  relationship? is it love for the dead sister--or tender regard for her

  offspring which makes Mrs. Martha Honeyman so fond of her nephew? I never

  could count how many causes went to produce any given effect or action in

  a person's life, and have been for my own part many a time quite misled

  in my own case, fancying some grand, some magnanimous, some virtuous

  reason, for an act of which I was proud, when lo! some pert little

  satirical monitor springs up inwardly, upsetting the fond humbug which I

  was cherishing--the peacock's tail wherein my absurd vanity had clad

  itself--and says, "Away with this boasting! I am the cause of your

  virtue, my lad. You are pleased that yesterday at dinner you refrained

  from the dry champagne? My name is Worldly Prudence, not Self-denial, and

  I caused you to refrain. You are pleased because you gave a guinea to

  Diddler? I am Laziness, not Generosity, which inspired you. You hug

  yourself because you resisted other temptation? Coward! it was because

  you dared not run the risk of the wrong. Out with your peacock's plumage!

  walk off in the feathers which Nature gave you, and thank Heaven they are

  not altogether black." In a word, Aunt Honeyman was a kind soul, and such

  was the splendour of Clive's father, of his gifts, his generosity, his

  military services, and companionship of the battles, that the lad did

  really appear a young duke to her. And Mrs. Newcome was not unkind: and

  if Clive had been really a young duke, I am sure he would have had the

  best bedroom at Marble Hill, and not one of the far-off little rooms in

  the boys' wing; I am sure he would have had jellies and Charlottes

  Russes, instead of mere broth, chicken, and batter-pudding, as fell to

  his lot; and when he was gone (in the carriage, mind you, not in the gig

  driven by a groom), I am sure Mrs. Newcome would have written a letter

  that night to Her Grace the Duchess Dowager his mamma, full of praise of

  the dear child, his graciousness, his beauty, and his wit, and declaring

  that she must love him henceforth and for ever after as a son of her own.

  You toss down the page with scorn, and say, "It is not true. Human nature

  is not so bad as this cynic would have it to be. You would make no

  difference between the rich and the poor." Be it so. You would not. But

  own that your next-door neighbour would. Nor is this, dear madam,

  addressed to you; no, no, we are not so rude as to talk about you to your

  face; but if we may not speak of the lady who has just left the room,

  what is to become of conversation and society?

  We forbear to describe the meeting between the Colonel and his son--the

  pretty boy from whom he had parted more than seven years before with such

  pangs of heart; and of whom he had thought ever since with such a

  constant longing affection. Half an hour after the father left the boy,

  and in his grief and loneliness was rowing back to shore, Clive was at

  play with a dozen of other children on the sunny deck of the ship. When

  two bells rang for their dinner, they were all hurrying to the cuddy

  table, and busy over their meal. What a sad repast their parents had that

  day! How their hearts followed the careless young ones home across the

  great ocean! Mothers' prayers go with them. Strong men, alone on their

  knees, with streaming eyes and broken accents, implore Heaven for those

  little ones, who were prattling at their sides but a few hours since.

  Long after they are gone, careless and happy, recollections of the sweet

  past rise up and smite those who remain: the flowers they had planted in

  their little gardens, the toys they played with, the little vacant cribs

  they slept in as fathers' eyes looked blessings down on them. Most of us

  who have passed a couple of score of years in the world, have had such

  sights as these to move us. And those who have will think none the worse

  of my worthy Colonel for his tender and faithful heart.

  With that fidelity which was an instinct of his nature, this brave man

  thought ever of his absent child, and longed after him. He never forsook

  the native servants and nurses who had had charge of the child, but

  endowed them with money sufficient (and indeed little was wanted by

  people of that frugal race) to make all their future lives comfortable.

  No friends went to Europe, nor ship departed, but Newcome sent presents

  and remembrances to the boy, and costly tokens of his love and thanks to

  all who were kind to his son. What a strange pathos seems to me to

  accompany all our Indian story! Besides that official history which fills

  Gazettes, and embroiders banners with names of victory; which gives

  moralists and enemies cause to cry out at English rapine; and enables

  patriots to boast of invincible British valour--besides the splendour and

  conquest, the wealth and glory, the crowned ambition, the conquered

  danger, the vast prize, and the blood freely shed in winning it--should

  not one remember the tears, too? Besides the lives of myriads of British

  men, conquering on a hundred fields, from Plassey to Meanee, and bathing

  them cruore nostro: think of the women, and the tribute which they

  perforce must pay to those victorious achievements. Scarce a soldier goes

  to yonder shores but leaves a home and grief in it behind him. The lords

  of the subject province find wives there; but their children cannot live

  on the soil. The parents bring their children to the shore, and part from

  them. The family must be broken up--keep the flowers of your home beyond

  a certain time, and the sickening buds wither and die. In America it is

  from the breast of a poor slave that a child is taken. In India it is

  from the wife, and from under the palace, of a splendid proconsul.

  The experience of this grief made Newcome's naturally kind heart only the

  more tender, and hence he had a weakness for children which made him the

  laughing-stock of old maids, old bachelors, and sensible persons; but the

  darling of all nurseries, to whose little inhabitants he was uniformly

  kind: were they the collectors' progeny in their palanquins, or the

  sergeants' children tumbling about the cantonment, or the dusky little

  heathens in the huts of his servants round his gate.

&n
bsp; It is known that there is no part of the world where ladies are more

  fascinating than in British India. Perhaps the warmth of the sun kindles

  flames in the hearts of both sexes, which would probably beat quite

  coolly in their native air: else why should Miss Brown be engaged ten

  days after her landing at Calcutta? or why should Miss Smith have half a

  dozen proposals before she has been a week at the station? And it is not

  only bachelors on whom the young ladies confer their affections; they

  will take widowers without any difficulty; and a man so generally liked

  as Major Newcome, with such a good character, with a private fortune of

  his own, so chivalrous, generous, good-looking, eligible in a word, you

  may be sure would have found a wife easily enough, had he any mind for

  replacing the late Mrs. Casey.

  The Colonel, as has been stated, had an Indian chum or companion, with

  whom he shared his lodgings; and from many jocular remarks of this latter

  gentleman (who loved good jokes, and uttered not a few) I could gather

  that the honest widower Colonel Newcome had been often tempted to alter

  his condition, and that the Indian ladies had tried numberless attacks

  upon his bereaved heart, and devised endless schemes of carrying it by

  assault, treason, or other mode of capture. Mrs. Casey (his defunct wife)

  had overcome it by sheer pity and helplessness. He had found her so

  friendless, that he took her into the vacant place, and installed her

  there as he would have received a traveller into his bungalow. He divided

  his meal with her, and made her welcome to his best. "I believe Tom

  Newcome married her," sly Mr. Binnie used to say, "in order that he might

  have permission to pay her milliner's bills;" and in this way he was

  amply gratified until the day of her death. A feeble miniature of the

  lady, with yellow ringlets and a guitar, hung over the mantelpiece of the

  Colonel's bedchamber, where I have often seen that work of art; and

  subsequently, when he and Mr. Binnie took a house, there was hung up in

  the spare bedroom a companion portrait to the miniature--that of the

  Colonel's predecessor, Jack Casey, who in life used to fling plates at

  his Emma's head, and who perished from a fatal attachment to the bottle.

  I am inclined to think that Colonel Newcome was not much cast down by the

  loss of his wife, and that they lived but indifferently together. Clive

  used to say in his artless way that his father scarcely ever mentioned

  his mother's name; and no doubt the union was not happy, although Newcome

  continued piously to acknowledge it, long after death had brought it to a

  termination, by constant benefactions and remembrances to the departed

  lady's kindred.

  Those widows or virgins who endeavoured to fill Emma's place found the

  door of Newcombe's heart fast and barred, and assailed it in vain. Miss

  Billing sat down before it with her piano, and, as the Colonel was a

  practitioner on the flute, hoped to make all life one harmonious duet

  with him; but she played her most brilliant sonatas and variations in

  vain; and, as everybody knows, subsequently carried her grand piano to

  Lieutenant and Adjutant Hodgkin's house, whose name she now bears. The

  lovely widow Wilkins, with two darling little children, stopped at

  Newcome's hospitable house, on her way to Calcutta; and it was thought

  she might never leave it; but her kind host, as was his wont, crammed her

  children with presents and good things, consoled and entertained the fair

  widow, and one morning, after she had remained three months at the

  station, the Colonel's palanquins and bearers made their appearance, and

  Elvira Wilkins went away weeping as a widow should. Why did she abuse

  Newcome ever after at Calcutta, Bath, Cheltenham, and wherever she went,

  calling him selfish, pompous, Quixotic, and a Bahawder? I could mention

  half a dozen other names of ladies of most respectable families connected

  with Leadenhall Street, who, according to Colonel Newcome's chum--that