borne, very philosophically, delay after delay which had taken place in
the devised union; and being quite sure of his mistress, had not cared to
press on the marriage, but lingered over the dregs of his bachelor cup
complacently still. We all know in what an affecting farewell he took
leave of the associates of his vie de garcon: the speeches made (in both
languages), the presents distributed, the tears and hysterics of some of
the guests assembled; the cigar-boxes given over to this friend, the
ecrin of diamonds to that, et caetera, et caetera, et caetera. Don't we
know? If we don't it is not Henchman's fault, who has told the story of
Farintosh's betrothals a thousand and one times at his clubs, at the
houses where he is asked to dine, on account of his intimacy with the
nobility, among the young men of fashion, or no fashion, whom this
two-bottle Mentor, and burly admirer of youth, has since taken upon
himself to form. The farewell at Greenwich was so affecting that all
"traversed the cart," and took another farewell at Richmond, where there
was crying too, but it was Eucharis cried because fair Calypso wanted to
tear her eyes out; and where not only Telemachus (as was natural to his
age), but Mentor likewise, quaffed the wine-cup too freely. You are
virtuous, O reader! but there are still cakes and ale, Ask Henchman if
there be not. You will find him in the Park any afternoon; he will dine
with you if no better man ask him in the interval. He will tell you story
upon story regarding young Lord Farintosh, and his marriage, and what
happened before his marriage, and afterwards; and he will sigh, weep
almost at some moments, as he narrates their subsequent quarrel, and
Farintosh's unworthy conduct, and tells you how he formed that young man.
My uncle and Captain Henchman disliked each other very much, I am sorry
to say--sorry to add that it was very amusing to hear either one of them
speak of the other.
Lady Glenlivat, according to the Captain, then, had no success in the
interview with her son; who, unmoved by the maternal tears, commands, and
entreaties, swore he would marry Miss Newcome, and that no power on earth
should prevent him. "As if trying to thwart that man could ever prevent
his having his way!" ejaculated his quondam friend.
But on the next day, after ten thousand men in clubs and coteries had
talked the news over; after the evening had repeated and improved the
delightful theme of our "morning contemporaries;" after Calypso and
Eucharis driving together in the Park, and reconciled now, had kissed
their hands to Lord Farintosh, and made him their compliments--after a
night of natural doubt, disturbance, defiance, fury--as men whispered to
each other at the club where his lordship dined, and at the theatre where
he took his recreation--after an awful time at breakfast in which Messrs.
Bowman, valet, and Todhunter and Henchman, captains of the Farintosh
bodyguard, all got their share of kicks and growling--behold Lady
Glenlivat came back to the charge again; and this time with such force
that poor Lord Farintosh was shaken indeed.
Her ladyship's ally was no other than Miss Newcome herself; from whom
Lord Farintosh's mother received, by that day's post, a letter, which she
was commissioned to read to her son.
"Dear Madam" (wrote the young lady in her firmest handwriting)--"Mamma is
at this moment in a state of such grief and dismay at the cruel
misfortune and humiliation which has just befallen our family, that she
is really not able to write to you as she ought, and this task, painful
as it is, must be mine. Dear Lady Glenlivat, the kindness and confidence
which I have ever received from you and yours, merit truth, and most
grateful respect and regard from me. And I feel after the late fatal
occurrence, what I have often and often owned to myself though I did not
dare to acknowledge it, that I ought to release Lord F., at once and for
ever, from an engagement which he could never think of maintaining with a
family so unfortunate as ours. I thank him with all my heart for his
goodness in bearing with my humours so long; if I have given him pain, as
I know I have sometimes, I beg his pardon, and would do so on my knees. I
hope and pray he may be happy, as I feared he never could be with me. He
has many good and noble qualities; and, in bidding him farewell, I trust
I may retain his friendship, and that he will believe in the esteem and
gratitude of your most sincere, Ethel Newcome."
A copy of this farewell letter was seen by a lady who happened to be a
neighbour of Miss Newcome's when the family misfortune occurred, and to
whom, in her natural dismay and grief, the young lady fled for comfort
and consolation. "Dearest Mrs. Pendennis," wrote Miss Ethel to my wife,
"I hear you are at Rosebury; do, do come to your affectionate E. N." The
next day, it was--"Dearest Laura--If you can, pray, pray come to Newcome
this morning. I want very much to speak to you about the poor children,
to consult you about something most important." Madame de Moncontour's
pony-carriage was constantly trotting between Rosebury and Newcome in
these days of calamity.
And my wife, as in duty bound, gave me full reports of all that happened
in that house of mourning. On the very day of the flight, Lady Anne, her
daughter, and some others of her family arrived at Newcome. The deserted
little girl, Barnes's eldest child, ran, with tears and cries of joy, to
her Aunt Ethel, whom she had always loved better than her mother; and
clung to her and embraced her; and, in her artless little words, told her
that mamma had gone away, and that Ethel should be her mamma now. Very
strongly moved by the misfortune, as by the caresses and affection of the
poor orphaned creature, Ethel took the little girl to her heart, and
promised to be a mother to her, and that she would not leave her; in
which pious resolve I scarcely need say Laura strengthened her, when, at
her young friend's urgent summons, my wife came to her.
The household at Newcome was in a state of disorganisation after the
catastrophe. Two of Lady Clara's servants; it has been stated already,
went away with her. The luckless master of the house was lying wounded in
the neighbouring town. Lady Anne Newcome, his mother, was terribly
agitated by the news, which was abruptly broken to her, of the flight of
her daughter-in-law and her son's danger. Now she thought of flying to
Newcome to nurse him; and then feared lest she should be ill received by
the invalid--indeed, ordered by Sir Barnes to go home, and not to bother
him. So at home Lady Anne remained, where the thoughts of the sufferings
she had already undergone in that house, of Sir Barnes's cruel behaviour
to her at her last visit, which he had abruptly requested her to shorten,
of the happy days which she had passed as mistress of that house and wife
of the defunct Sir Brian; the sight of that departed angel's picture in
the dining-room and wheel-chair in the gallery; the recollection of
little Barnes as a cherub of a child in that very gallery, and p
ulled out
of the fire by a nurse in the second year of his age, when he was all
that a fond mother could wish--these incidents and reminiscences so
agitated Lady Anne Newcome, that she, for her part, went off in a series
of hysterical fits, and acted as one distraught: her second daughter
screamed in sympathy with her and Miss Newcome had to take the command of
the whole of this demented household, hysterical mamma and sister,
mutineering servants, and shrieking abandoned nursery, and bring young
people and old to peace and quiet.
On the morrow after his little concussion Sir Barnes Newcome came home,
not much hurt in body, but woefully afflicted in temper, and venting his
wrath upon everybody round about him in that strong language which he
employed when displeased; and under which his valet, his housekeeper, his
butler, his farm-bailiff, his lawyer, his doctor, his dishevelled mother
herself--who rose from her couch and her sal-volatile to fling herself
round her dear boy's knees--all had to suffer. Ethel Newcome, the
Baronet's sister, was the only person in his house to whom Sir Barnes did
not utter oaths or proffer rude speeches. He was afraid of offending her
or encountering that resolute spirit, and lapsed into a surly silence in
her presence. Indistinct maledictions growled about Sir Barnes's chair
when he beheld my wife's pony-carriage drive up; and he asked what
brought her here? But Ethel sternly told her brother that Mrs. Pendennis
came at her particular request, and asked him whether he supposed anybody
could come into that house for pleasure now, or for any other motive but
kindness? Upon which, Sir Barnes fairly burst out into tears,
intermingled with execrations against his enemies and his own fate, and
assertions that he was the most miserable beggar alive. He would not see
his children: but with more tears he would implore Ethel never to leave
them, and, anon, would ask what he should do when she married, and he was
left alone in that infernal house?
T. Potts, Esq., of the Newcome Independent, used to say afterwards that
the Baronet was in the direst terror of another meeting with Lord
Highgate, and kept a policeman at the lodge-gate, and a second in the
kitchen, to interpose in event of a collision. But Mr. Potts made this
statement in after days, when the quarrel between his party and paper and
Sir Barnes Newcome was flagrant. Five or six days after the meeting of
the two rivals in Newcome market-place, Sir Barnes received a letter from
the friend of Lord Highgate, informing him that his lordship, having
waited for him according to promise, had now left England, and presumed
that the differences between them were to be settled by their respective
lawyers--infamous behaviour on a par with the rest of Lord Highgate's
villainy, the Baronet said. "When the scoundrel knew I could lift my
pistol arm," Barnes said, "Lord Highgate fled the country;"--thus hinting
that death, and not damages, were what he intended to seek from his
enemy.
After that interview in which Ethel communicated to Laura her farewell
letter to Lord Farintosh, my wife returned to Rosebury with an
extraordinary brightness and gaiety in her face and her demeanour. She
pressed Madame de Moncontour's hands with such warmth, she blushed and
looked so handsome, she sang and talked so gaily, that our host was
struck by her behaviour, and paid her husband more compliments regarding
her beauty, amiability, and other good qualities, than need be set down
here. It may be that I like Paul de Florac so much, in spite of certain
undeniable faults of character, because of his admiration for my wife.
She was in such a hurry to talk to me, that night, that Paul's game and
Nicotian amusements were cut short by her visit to the billiard-room; and
when we were alone by the cosy dressing-room fire, she told me what had
happened during the day. Why should Ethel's refusal of Lord Farintosh
have so much elated my wife?
"Ah!" cries Mrs. Pendennis, "she has a generous nature, and the world has
not had time to spoil it. Do you know there are many points that she
never has thought of--I would say problems that she has to work out for
herself, only you, Pen, do not like us poor ignorant women to use such a
learned word as problems? Life and experience force things upon her mind
which others learn from their parents or those who educate them, but, for
which she has never had any teachers. Nobody has ever told her, Arthur,
that it was wrong to marry without love, or pronounce lightly those awful
vows which we utter before God at the altar. I believe, if she knew that
her life was futile, it is but of late she has thought it could be
otherwise, and that she might mend it. I have read (besides that poem of
Goethe of which you are so fond) in books of Indian travels of Bayaderes,
dancing-girls brought up by troops round about the temples, whose calling
is to dance, and wear jewels, and look beautiful; I believe they are
quite respected in--in Pagoda-land. They perform before the priests in
the pagodas; and the Brahmins and the Indian princes marry them. Can we
cry out against these poor creatures, or against the custom of their
country? It seems to me that young women in our world are bred up in a
way not very different. What they do they scarcely know to be wrong. They
are educated for the world, and taught to display: their mothers will
give them to the richest suitor, as they themselves were given before.
How can these think seriously, Arthur, of souls to be saved, weak hearts
to be kept out of temptation, prayers to be uttered, and a better world
to be held always in view, when the vanities of this one are all their
thought and scheme? Ethel's simple talk made me smile sometimes, do you
know, and her strenuous way of imparting her discoveries. I thought of
the shepherd boy who made a watch, and found on taking it into the town
how very many watches there were, and how much better than his. But the
poor child has had to make hers for herself, such as it is; and, indeed,
is employed now in working on it. She told me very artlessly her little
history, Arthur; it affected me to hear her simple talk, and--and I
blessed God for our mother, my dear, and that my early days had had a
better guide.
"You know that for a long time it was settled that she was to marry her
cousin, Lord Kew. She was bred to that notion from her earliest youth;
about which she spoke as we all can about our early days. They were
spent, she said, in the nursery and schoolroom for the most part. She was
allowed to come to her mother's dressing-room, and sometimes to see more
of her during the winter at Newcome. She describes her mother as always
the kindest of the kind: but from very early times the daughter must have
felt her own superiority, I think, though she does not speak of it. You
should see her at home now in their dreadful calamity. She seems the only
person of the house who keeps her head.
"She told very nicely and modestly how it was Lord Kew who parted from
her, not she who had d
ismissed him, as you know the Newcomes used to say.
I have heard that--oh--that man Sir Barnes say so myself. She says humbly
that her cousin Kew was a great deal too good for her; and so is every
one almost, she adds, poor thing!"
"Poor every one! Did you ask about him, Laura?" said Mr. Pendennis.
"No; I did not venture. She looked at me out of her downright eyes, and
went on with her little tale. 'I was scarcely more than a child then,'
she continued, 'and though I liked Kew very much--who would not like such
a generous honest creature? I felt somehow that I was taller than my
cousin, and as if I ought not to marry him, or should make him unhappy if
I did. When poor papa used to talk, we children remarked that mamma
hardly listened to him; and so we did not respect him as we should, and
Barnes was especially scoffing and odious with him. Why, when he was a
boy, he used to sneer at papa openly before us younger ones. Now Harriet
admires everything that Kew says, and that makes her a great deal happier
at being with him.' And then," added Mrs. Pendennis, "Ethel said, 'I hope
you respect your husband, Laura: depend on it, you will be happier if you
do.' Was not that a fine discovery of Ethel's, Mr. Pen?
"'Clara's terror of Barnes frightened me when I stayed in the house,'
Ethel went on. 'I am sure I would not tremble before any man in the world
as she did. I saw early that she used to deceive him, and tell him lies,
Laura. I do not mean lies of words alone, but lies of looks and actions.
Oh! I do not wonder at her flying from him. He was dreadful to be with:
cruel, and selfish, and cold. He was made worse by marrying a woman he
did not love; as she was, by that unfortunate union with him. Suppose he
had found a clever woman who could have controlled him, and amused him,
and whom he and his friends could have admired, instead of poor Clara,
who made his home wearisome, and trembled when he entered it? Suppose she
could have married that unhappy man to whom she was attached early? I was
frightened, Laura, to think how ill this worldly marriage had prospered.
"'My poor grandmother, whenever I spoke upon such a subject, would break
out into a thousand gibes and sarcasms, and point to many of our friends
who had made love-matches, and were quarrelling now as fiercely as though
they had never loved each other. You remember that dreadful case in
France Duc de ----, who murdered his duchess? That was a love-match, and
I can remember the sort of screech with which Lady Kew used to speak
about it; and of the journal which the poor duchess kept, and in which
she noted down all her husband's ill-behaviour.'"
"Hush, Laura! Do you remember where we are? If the Princess were to put
down all Florac's culpabilities in an album, what a ledger it would be--
as big as Dr. Portman's Chrysostom!" But this was parenthetical: and
after a smile, and a little respite, the young woman proceeded in her
narration of her friend's history.
"'I was willing enough to listen,' Ethel said, 'to grandmamma then: for
we are glad of an excuse to do what we like; and I liked admiration, and
rank, and great wealth, Laura; and Lord Farintosh offered me these. I
liked to surpass my companions, and I saw them so eager in pursuing him!
You cannot think, Laura, what meannesses women in the world will commit--
mothers and daughters too, in the pursuit of a person of his great rank.
Those Miss Burrs, you should have seen them at the country-houses where
we visited together, and how they followed him; how they would meet him
in the parks and shrubberies; how they liked smoking though I knew it
made them ill; how they were always finding pretexts for getting near
him! Oh, it was odious!'"
I would not willingly interrupt the narrative, but let the reporter be
allowed here to state that at this point of Miss Newcome's story (which