stage of this history, long before Clive Newcome's fine moustache had
grown. If Vidler the apothecary was old and infirm then, he is near ten
years older now; he has had various assistants, of course, and one of
them of late years had his become his partner, though the firm continues
to be known by Viller's ancient and respectable name. A jovial fellow was
this partner--a capital convivial member of the Jolly Britons, where he
used to sit very late, so as to be in readiness for any night-work that
might come in.
So the Britons were all sitting, smoking, drinking, and making merry, in
the Boscawen Room, when Jenkins enters with a note, which he straightway
delivers to Mr. Vidler's partner. "From Rosebury? The Princess ill again,
I suppose," says the surgeon, not sorry to let the company know that he
attends her. "I wish the old girl would be ill in the daytime. Confound
it," says he, "what's this----" and he reads out, "'Sir Newcome est de
retour. Bon voyage, mon ami.--F.' What does this mean?"
"I thought you knew French, Jack Harris," says Tom Potts; "you're always
bothering us with your French songs."
"Of course I know French," says the other; "but what's the meaning of
this?"
"Screwcome came back by the five o'clock train. I was in it, and his
royal highness would scarcely speak to me. Took Brown's fly from the
station. Brown won't enrich his family much by the operation," says Mr.
Potts.
"But what do I care?" cries Jack Harris; "we don't attend him, and we
don't lose much by that. Howell attends him, ever since Vidler and he had
that row."
"Hulloh! I say, it's a mistake," cries Mr. Taplow, smoking in his chair.
"This letter is for the party in the Benbow. The gent which the Prince
spoke to him, and called him Jack the other day when he was here. Here's
a nice business, and the seal broke, and all. Is the Benbow party gone to
bed? John, you must carry him in this here note." John, quite innocent of
the note and its contents, for he that moment had entered the clubroom
with Mr. Potts's supper, took the note to the Benbow, from which he
presently returned to his master with a very scared countenance. He said
the gent in the Benbow was a most harbitrary gent. He had almost choked
John after reading the letter, and John wouldn't stand it; and when John
said he supposed that Mr. Harris in the Boscawen--that Mr. Jack Harris,
had opened the letter, the other gent cursed and swore awful.
"Potts," said Taplow, who was only too communicative on some occasions
after he had imbibed too much of his own brandy-and-water, "it's my
belief that that party's name is no more Harris than mine is. I have sent
his linen to the wash, and there was two white pocket-handkerchiefs with
H. and a coronet."
On the next day we drove over to Newcome, hoping perhaps to find that
Lord Highgate had taken the warning sent to him and quitted the place.
But we were disappointed. He was walking in front of the hotel, where a
thousand persons might see him as well as ourselves.
We entered into his private apartment with him, and there expostulated
upon his appearance in the public street, where Barnes Newcome or any
passer-by might recognise him. He then told us of the mishap which had
befallen Florac's letter on the previous night.
"I can't go away now, whatever might have happened previously: by this
time that villain knows that I am here. If I go, he will say I was afraid
of him, and ran away. Oh, how I wish he would come and find me!" He broke
out with a savage laugh.
"It is best to run away," one of us interposed sadly.
"Pendennis," he said with a tone of great softness, "your wife is a good
woman. God bless her! God bless her for all she has said and done--would
have done, if that villain had let her! Do you know the poor thing hasn't
a single friend in the world, not one, one--except me, and that girl they
are selling to Farintosh, and who does not count for much. He has driven
away all her friends from her: one and all turn upon her. Her relations,
of course; when did they ever fail to hit a poor fellow or a poor girl
when she was down? The poor angel! The mother who sold her comes and
preaches at her; Kew's wife turns up her little cursed nose and scorns
her; Rooster, forsooth, must ride high the horse, now he is married and
lives at Chanticlere, and give her warning to avoid my company or his! Do
you know the only friend she ever had was that old woman with the stick--
old Kew; the old witch whom they buried four months ago after nobbling
her money for the beauty of the family? She used to protect her--that old
woman; heaven bless her for it, wherever she is now, the old hag--a good
word won't do her any harm. Ha! ha!" His laughter was cruel to hear.
"Why did I come down?" he continued in reply to our sad queries. "Why did
I come down, do you ask? Because she was wretched, and sent for me.
Because if I was at the end of the world, and she was to say, 'Jack,
come!' I'd come."
"And if she bade you go?" asked his friends.
"I would go; and I have gone. If she told me to jump into the sea, do you
think I would not do it? But I go; and when she is alone with him, do you
know what he does? He strikes her. Strikes that poor little thing! He has
owned to it. She fled from him and sheltered with the old woman who's
dead. He may be doing it now. Why did I ever shake hands with him? that's
humiliation sufficient, isn't it? But she wished it; and I'd black his
boots, curse him, if she told me. And because he wanted to keep my money
in his confounded bank; and because he knew he might rely upon my honour
and hers, poor dear child, he chooses to shake hands with me--me, whom he
hates worse than a thousand devils--and quite right too. Why isn't there
a place where we can go and meet, like man to man, and have it over! If I
had a ball through my brains I shouldn't mind, I tell you. I've a mind to
do it for myself, Pendennis. You don't understand me, Viscount."
"Il est vrai," said Florac, with a shrug, "I comprehend neither the
suicide nor the chaise-de-poste. What will you? I am not yet enough
English, my friend. We make marriages of convenance in our country, que
diable, and what follows follows; but no scandal afterwards! Do not adopt
our institutions a demi, my friend. Vous ne me comprenez pas non plus,
men pauvre Jack!"
"There is one way still, I think," said the third of the speakers in this
scene. "Let Lord Highgate come to Rosebury in his own name, leaving that
of Mr. Harris behind him. If Sir Barnes Newcome wants you, he can seek
you there. If you will go, as go you should, and God speed you, you can
go, and in your own name, too."
"Parbleu, c'est ca," cries Florac, "he speaks like a book--the
romancier!" I confess, for my part, I thought that a good woman might
plead with him, and touch that manly not disloyal heart now trembling on
the awful balance between evil and good.
"Allons! let us make to come the drague!" cries Florac. "Jack, thou
returnest with us, my friend! Madame Pendennis, a
n angel, my friend, a
quakre the most charming, shall roucoule to thee the sweetest sermons. My
wife shall tend thee like a mother--a grandmother. Go make thy packet!"
Lord Highgate was very much pleased and relieved seemingly. He shook our
hands, he said he should never forget our kindness, never! In truth, the
didactic part of our conversation was carried on at much greater length
than as here noted down: and he would come that evening, but not with us,
thank you; he had a particular engagement, some letters he must write.
Those done, he would not fail us, and would be at Rosebury by
dinner-time.
CHAPTER LVIII
"One more Unfortunate"
The Fates did not ordain that the plan should succeed which Lord
Highgate's friends had devised for Lady Clara's rescue or respite. He was
bent upon one more interview with the unfortunate lady; and in that
meeting the future destiny of their luckless lives was decided. On the
morning of his return home, Barnes Newcome had information that Lord
Highgate, under a feigned name, had been staying in the neighbourhood of
his house, and had repeatedly been seen in the company of Lady Clara. She
may have gone out to meet him but for one hour more. She had taken no
leave of her children on the day when she left her home, and, far from
making preparations for her own departure, had been engaged in getting
the house ready for the reception of members of the family, whose arrival
her husband announced as speedily to follow his own. Ethel and Lady Anne
and some of the children were coming. Lord Farintosh's mother and sisters
were to follow. It was to be a reunion previous to the marriage which was
closer to unite the two families. Lady Clara said Yes to her husband's
orders; rose mechanically to obey his wishes and arrange for the
reception of the guests; and spoke tremblingly to the housekeeper as her
husband gibed at her. The little ones had been consigned to bed early and
before Sir Barnes's arrival. He did not think fit to see them in their
sleep; nor did their mother. She did not know, as the poor little
creatures left her room in charge of their nurses, that she looked on
them for the last time. Perhaps, had she gone to their bedsides that
evening, had the wretched panic-stricken soul been allowed leisure to
pause, and to think, and to pray, the fate of the morrow might have been
otherwise, and the trembling balance of the scale have inclined to
right's side. But the pause was not allowed her. Her husband came and
saluted her with his accustomed greetings of scorn, and sarcasm, and
brutal insult. On a future day he never dared to call a servant of his
household to testify to his treatment of her; though many were ready to
attend to prove his cruelty and her terror. On that very last night, Lady
Clara's maid, a country girl from her father's house at Chanticlere, told
Sir Barnes in the midst of a conjugal dispute that her lady might bear
his conduct but she could not, and that she would no longer live under
the roof of such a brute. The girl's interference was not likely to
benefit her mistress much: the wretched Lady Clara passed the last night
under the roof of her husband and children, unattended save by this poor
domestic who was about to leave her, in tears and hysterical outcries,
and then in moaning stupor. Lady Clara put to sleep with laudanum, her
maid carried down the story of her wrongs to the servants' quarters; and
half a dozen of them took in their resignation to Sir Barnes as he sat
over his breakfast the next morning--in his ancestral hall--surrounded by
the portraits of his august forefathers--in his happy home.
Their mutiny of course did not add to their master's good-humour; and his
letters brought him news which increased Barnes's fury. A messenger
arrived with a letter from his man of business at Newcome, upon the
receipt of which be started up with such an execration as frightened the
servant waiting on him, and letter in hand he ran to Lady Clara's
sitting-room. Her ladyship was up. Sir Barnes breakfasted rather late on
the first morning after an arrival at Newcome. He had to look over the
bailiff's books, and to look about him round the park and grounds; to
curse the gardeners; to damn the stable and kennel grooms; to yell at the
woodman for clearing not enough or too much; to rail at the poor old
workpeople brooming away the fallen leaves, etc. So Lady Clara was up and
dressed when her husband went to her room, which lay at the end of the
house as we have said, the last of a suite of ancestral halls.
The mutinous servant heard high voices and curses within; then Lady
Clara's screams; then Sir Barnes Newcome burst out of the room, locking
the door and taking the key with him, and saluting with more curses
James, the mutineer, over whom his master ran.
"Curse your wife, and don't curse me, Sir Barnes Newcome!" said James,
the mutineer; and knocked down a hand which the infuriated Baronet raised
against him, with an arm that was twice as strong as Barnes's own. This
man and maid followed their mistress in the sad journey upon which she
was bent. They treated her with unalterable respect. They never could be
got to see that her conduct was wrong. When Barnes's counsel subsequently
tried to impugn their testimony, they dared him; and hurt the plaintiff's
case very much. For the balance had weighed over; and it was Barnes
himself who caused what now ensued; and what we learned in a very few
hours afterwards from Newcome, where it was the talk of the whole
neighbourhood.
Florac and I, as yet ignorant of all that was occurring, met Barnes near
his own lodge-gate riding in the direction of Newcome, as we were
ourselves returning to Rosebury. The Prince de Moncontour, who was
driving, affably saluted the Baronet, who gave us a scowling recognition,
and rode on, his groom behind him. "The figure of the garcon," says
Florac, as our acquaintance passed, "is not agreeable. Of pale, he has
become livid. I hope these two men will not meet, or evil will come!"
Evil to Barnes there might be, Florac's companion thought, who knew the
previous little affairs between Barnes and his uncle and cousin; and that
Lord Highgate was quite able to take care of himself.
In half an hour after Florac spoke, that meeting between Barnes and
Highgate actually had taken place--in the open square of Newcome, within
four doors of the King's Arms inn, close to which lives Sir Barnes
Newcome's man of business; and before which, Mr. Harris, as he was
called, was walking, and waiting till a carriage which he had ordered
came round from the inn yard. As Sir Barnes Newcome rode into the place
many people touched their hats to him, however little they loved him. He
was bowing and smirking to one of these, when he suddenly saw Belsize.
He started back, causing his horse to back with him on to the pavement,
and it may have been rage and fury, or accident and nervousness merely,
but at this instant Barnes Newcome, looking towards Lord Highgate, shook
his whip.
"You cowardly villain!" said th
e other, springing forward. "I was going
to your house."
"How dare you, sir," cries Sir Barnes, still holding up that unlucky
cane, "how dare you to--to----"
"Dare, you scoundrel!" said Belsize. "Is that the cane you strike your
wife with, you ruffian!" Belsize seized and tore him out of the saddle,
flinging him screaming down on the pavement. The horse, rearing and
making way for himself, galloped down the clattering street; a hundred
people were round Sir Barnes in a moment.
The carriage which Belsize had ordered came round at this very juncture.
Amidst the crowd, shrinking, bustling, expostulating, threatening, who
pressed about him, he shouldered his way. Mr. Taplow, aghast, was one of
the hundred spectators of the scene.
"I am Lord Highgate," said Barnes's adversary. "If Sir Barnes Newcome
wants me, tell him I will send him word where he may hear of me." And
getting into the carriage, he told the driver to go "to the usual place."
Imagine the hubbub in the town, the conclaves at the inns, the talks in
the counting-houses, the commotion amongst the factory people, the
paragraphs in the Newcome papers, the bustle of surgeons and lawyers,
after this event. Crowds gathered at the King's Arms, and waited round
Mr. Speers the lawyer's house, into which Sir Barnes was carried. In vain
policemen told them to move on; fresh groups gathered after the seceders.
On the next day, when Barnes Newcome, who was not much hurt, had a fly to
go home, a factory man shook his fist in at the carriage window, and,
with a curse, said, "Serve you right, you villain." It was the man whose
sweetheart this Don Juan had seduced and deserted years before; whose
wrongs were well known amongst his mates, a leader in the chorus of
hatred which growled round Barnes Newcome.
Barnes's mother and sister Ethel had reached Newcome shortly before the
return of the master of the house. The people there were in disturbance.
Lady Anne and Miss Newcome came out with pallid looks to greet him. He
laughed and reassured them about his accident: indeed his hurt had been
trifling; he had been bled by the surgeon, a little jarred by the fall
from his horse; but there was no sort of danger. Still their pale and
doubtful looks continued. What caused them? In the open day, with a
servant attending her Lady Clara Newcome had left her husband's house;
and a letter was forwarded to him that same evening from my Lord
Highgate, informing Sir Barnes Newcome that Lady Clara Pulleyn could bear
his tyranny no longer, and had left his roof; that Lord Highgate proposed
to leave England almost immediately, but would remain long enough to
afford Sir Barnes Newcome the opportunity for an interview, in case he
should be disposed to demand one: and a friend (of Lord Highgate's late
regiment) was named who would receive letters and act in any way
necessary for his lordship.
The debates of the House of Lords must tell what followed afterwards in
the dreary history of Lady Clara Pulleyn. The proceedings in the Newcome
Divorce Bill filled the usual number of columns in the papers,--
especially the Sunday papers. The witnesses were examined by learned
peers whose business--nay, pleasure--it seems to be to enter into such
matters; and, for the ends of justice and morality, doubtless, the whole
story of Barnes Newcome's household was told to the British public. In
the previous trial in the Court of Queen's Bench, how grandly Serjeant
Rowland stood up for the rights of British husbands! with what pathos he
depicted the conjugal paradise, the innocent children prattling round
their happy parents, the serpent, the destroyer, entering into that
Belgravian Eden; the wretched and deserted husband alone by his
desecrated hearth, and calling for redress on his country! Rowland wept