wicked Mr. Binnie--had all conspired more or less to give Clive Newcome a
stepmother.
But he had had an unlucky experience in his own case; and thought within
himself, "No, I won't give Clive a stepmother. As Heaven has taken his
own mother from him, why, I must try to be father and mother too to the
lad." He kept the child as long as ever the climate would allow of his
remaining, and then sent him home. Then his aim was to save money for the
youngster. He was of a nature so uncontrollably generous, that to be sure
he spent five rupees where another would save them, and make a fine show
besides; but it is not a man's gifts or hospitalities that generally
injure his fortune. It is on themselves that prodigals spend most. And as
Newcome had no personal extravagances, and the smallest selfish wants;
could live almost as frugally as a Hindoo; kept his horses not to race
but to ride; wore his old clothes and uniforms until they were the
laughter of his regiment; did not care for show, and had no longer an
extravagant wife; he managed to lay by considerably out of his liberal
allowances, and to find himself and Clive growing richer every year.
"When Clive has had five or six years at school"--that was his scheme--
"he will be a fine scholar, and have at least as much classical learning
as a gentleman in the world need possess. Then I will go to England, and
we will pass three or four years together, in which he will learn to be
intimate with me, and, I hope, to like me. I shall be his pupil for Latin
and Greek, and try and make up for lost time. I know there is nothing
like a knowledge of the classics to give a man good breeding--Ingenuas
didicisse fideliter artes emollunt mores, nec sinuisse feros. I shall be
able to help him with my knowledge of the world, and to keep him out of
the way of sharpers and a pack of rogues who commonly infest young men. I
will make myself his companion, and pretend to no superiority; for,
indeed, isn't he my superior? Of course he is, with his advantages. He
hasn't been an idle young scamp as I was. And we will travel together,
first through England, Scotland, and Ireland, for every man should know
his own country, and then we will make the grand tour. Then, by the time
he is eighteen, he will be able to choose his profession. He can go into
the army, and emulate the glorious man after whom I named him; or if he
prefers the church, or the law, they are open to him; and when he goes to
the university, by which time I shall be in all probability a
major-general, I can come back to India for a few years, and return by
the time he has a wife and a home for his old father; or if I die I shall
have done the best for him, and my boy will be left with the best
education, a tolerable small fortune, and the blessing of his old
father."
Such were the plans of our kind schemer. How fondly he dwelt on them, how
affectionately he wrote of them to his boy! How he read books of travels
and looked over the maps of Europe! and said, "Rome, sir, glorious Rome;
it won't be very long, Major, before my boy and I see the Colosseum, and
kiss the Pope's toe. We shall go up the Rhine to Switzerland, and over
the Simplon, the work of the great Napoleon. By Jove, sir, think of the
Turks before Vienna, and Sobieski clearing eighty thousand of 'em off the
face of the earth! How my boy will rejoice in the picture-galleries
there, and in Prince Eugene's prints! You know, I suppose, that Prince
Eugene, one of the greatest generals in the world, was also one of the
greatest lovers of the fine arts. Ingenuas didicisse, hey, Doctor! you
know the rest,--emollunt mores nec----"
"Emollunt mores! Colonel," says Doctor McTaggart, who perhaps was too
canny to correct the commanding officer's Latin. "Don't ye noo that
Prence Eugene was about as savage a Turrk as iver was? Have ye niver rad
the mimores of the Prants de Leen?"
"Well, he was a great cavalry officer," answers the Colonel, "and he left
a great collection of prints--that you know. How Clive will delight in
them! The boy's talent for drawing is wonderful, sir, wonderful. He sent
me a picture of our old school--the very actual thing, sir; the
cloisters, the school, the head gown-boy going in with the rods, and the
Doctor himself. It would make you die of laughing!"
He regaled the ladies of the regiment with Clive's letters, and those of
Miss Honeyman, which contained an account of the boy. He even bored some
of his bearers with this prattle; and sporting young men would give or
take odds that the Colonel would mention Clive's name, once before five
minutes, three times in ten minutes, twenty-five times in the course of
dinner, and so on. But they who laughed at the Colonel laughed very
kindly; and everybody who knew him, loved him; everybody, that is, who
loved modesty, and generosity, and honour.
At last the happy time came for which the kind father had been longing
more passionately than any prisoner for liberty, or schoolboy for
holiday. Colonel Newcome has taken leave of his regiment, leaving Major
Tomkinson, nothing loth, in command. He has travelled to Calcutta; and
the Commander-in-Chief, in general orders, has announced that in giving
to Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Newcome, C.B., of the Bengal Cavalry, leave
for the first time, after no less than thirty-four years' absence from
home, "he (Sir George Hustler) cannot refrain from expressing his sense
of the great and meritorious services of this most distinguished officer,
who has left his regiment in a state of the highest discipline and
efficiency." And now the ship has sailed, the voyage is over, and once
more, after so many long years, the honest soldier's foot is on his
native shore.
CHAPTER VI
Newcome Brothers
Besides his own boy, whom he worshipped, this kind Colonel had a score,
at least, of adopted children, to whom he chose to stand in the light of
a father. He was for ever whirling away in postchaises to this school and
that, to see Jack Brown's boys, of the Cavalry; or Mrs. Smith's girls, of
the Civil Service; or poor Tom Hicks's orphan, who had nobody to look
after him now that the cholera had carried off Tom, and his wife too. On
board the ship in which he returned from Calcutta were a dozen of little
children, of both sexes, some of whom he actually escorted to their
friends before he visited his own; and though his heart was longing for
his boy at Grey Friars. The children at the schools seen, and largely
rewarded out of his bounty (his loose white trousers had great pockets,
always heavy with gold and silver, which he jingled when he was not
pulling his mustachios--to see the way in which he tipped children made
one almost long to be a boy again); and when he had visited Miss
Pinkerton's establishment, or Doctor Ramshorn's adjoining academy at
Chiswick, and seen little Tom Davis or little Fanny Holmes the honest
fellow would come home and write off straightway a long letter to Tom's
or Fanny's parents, far away in the Indian country, whose hearts he made
happy by his accounts of
their children, as he had delighted the children
themselves by his affection and bounty. All the apple- and orange-women
(especially such as had babies as well as lollipops at their stalls), all
the street-sweepers on the road between Nerot's and the Oriental, knew
him, and were his pensioners. His brothers in Threadneedle Street cast up
their eyes at the cheques which he drew.
One of the little people of whom the kind Newcome had taken charge
luckily dwelt near Portsmouth; and when the faithful Colonel consigned
Miss Fipps to her grandmother, Mrs. Admiral Fipps, at Southampton, Miss
Fipps clung to her guardian, and with tears and howls was torn away from
him. Not until her maiden aunts had consoled her with strawberries, which
she never before had tasted, was the little Indian comforted for the
departure of her dear Colonel. Master Cox, Tom Cox's boy, of the Native
Infantry, had to be carried asleep from the "George" to the mail that
night. Master Cox woke up at the dawn wondering, as the coach passed
through the pleasant green roads of Bromley. The good gentleman consigned
the little chap to his uncle, Dr. Cox, Bloomsbury Square, before he went
to his own quarters, and then on the errand on which his fond heart was
bent.
He had written to his brothers from Portsmouth, announcing his arrival,
and three words to Clive, conveying the same intelligence. The letter was
served to the boy along with one bowl of tea and one buttered roll, of
eighty such which were distributed to fourscore other boys, boarders of
the same house with our young friend. How the lad's face must have
flushed, and his eyes brightened, when he read the news! When the master
of the house, the Rev. Mr. Popkinson, came into the long-room, with a
good-natured face, and said, "Newcome, you're wanted," he knows who is
come. He does not heed that notorious bruiser, Old Hodge, who roars out,
"Confound you, Newcome: I'll give it you for upsetting your tea over my
new trousers." He runs to the room where the stranger is waiting for him.
We will shut the door, if you please, upon that scene.
If Clive had not been as fine and handsome a young lad as any in that
school or country, no doubt his fond father would have been just as well
pleased, and endowed him with a hundred fanciful graces; but in truth, in
looks and manners he was every thing which his parent could desire; and I
hope the artist who illustrates this work will take care to do justice to
his portrait. Mr. Clive himself, let that painter be assured, will not be
too well pleased if his countenance and figure do not receive proper
attention. He is not yet endowed with those splendid mustachios and
whiskers which he has himself subsequently depicted, but he is the
picture of health, strength, activity, and good-humour. He has a good
forehead, shaded with a quantity of waving light hair; a complexion which
ladies might envy; a mouth which seems accustomed to laughing; and a pair
of blue eyes that sparkle with intelligence and frank kindness. No wonder
the pleased father cannot refrain from looking at him. He is, in a word,
just such a youth as has a right to be the hero of a novel.
The bell rings for second school, and Mr. Popkinson, arrayed in cap and
gown, comes in to shake Colonel Newcome by the hand, and to say he
supposes it's to be a holiday for Newcome that day. He does not say a
word about Clive's scrape of the day before, and that awful row in the
bedrooms, where the lad and three others were discovered making a supper
off a pork-pie and two bottles of prime old port from the Red Cow
public-house in Grey Friars Lane. When the bell has done ringing, and all
these busy little bees have swarmed into their hive, there is a solitude
in the place. The Colonel and his son walked the playground together,
that gravelly flat, as destitute of herbage as the Arabian desert, but,
nevertheless, in the language of the place called the green. They walk
the green, and they pace the cloisters, and Clive shows his father his
own name of Thomas Newcome carved upon one of the arches forty years ago.
As they talk, the boy gives sidelong glances at his new friend, and
wonders at the Colonel's loose trousers, long mustachios, and yellow
face. He looks very odd, Clive thinks, very odd and very kind, and he
looks like a gentleman, every inch of him:--not like Martin's father, who
came to see his son lately in high-lows, and a shocking bad hat, and
actually flung coppers amongst the boys for a scramble. He bursts out
a-laughing at the exquisitely ludicrous idea of a gentleman of his
fashion scrambling for coppers.
And now, enjoining the boy to be ready against his return (and you may be
sure Mr. Clive was on the look-out long before his sire appeared), the
Colonel whirled away in his cab to the City to shake hands with his
brothers, whom he had not seen since they were demure little men in blue
jackets, under charge of a serious tutor.
He rushed through the clerks and the banking-house, he broke into the
parlour where the lords of the establishment were seated. He astonished
those trim quiet gentlemen by the warmth of his greeting, by the vigour
of his hand-shake, and the loud high tones of his voice, which penetrated
the glass walls of the parlour, and might actually be heard by the busy
clerks in the hall without. He knew Brian from Hobson at once--that
unlucky little accident in the go-cart having left its mark for ever on
the nose of Sir Brian Newcome, the elder of the twins. Sir Brian had a
bald head and light hair, a short whisker cut to his cheek, a buff
waistcoat, very neat boots and hands. He looked like the "Portrait of a
Gentleman" at the Exhibition, as the worthy is represented: dignified in
attitude, bland, smiling, and statesmanlike, sitting at a table unsealing
letters, with a despatch-box and a silver inkstand before him, a column
and a scarlet curtain behind, and a park in the distance, with a great
thunderstorm lowering in the sky. Such a portrait, in fact, hangs over
the great sideboard at Newcome to this day, and above the three great
silver waiters, which the gratitude of as many Companies has presented to
their respected director and chairman.
In face, Hobson Newcome, Esq., was like his elder brother, but was more
portly in person. He allowed his red whiskers to grow wherever nature had
planted them, on his cheeks and under his chin. He wore thick shoes with
nails in them, or natty round-toed boots, with tight trousers and a
single strap. He affected the country gentleman in his appearance. His
hat had a broad brim, and the ample pockets of his cut-away coat were
never destitute of agricultural produce, samples of beans or corn, which
he used to bite and chew even on 'Change, or a whip-lash, or balls for
horses: in fine, he was a good old country gentleman. If it was fine in
Threadneedle Street, he would say it was good weather for the hay; if it
rained, the country wanted rain; if it was frosty, "No hunting to-day,
Tomkins, my boy," and so forth. As he rode from Bryanstone Square to the
City you would take
him--and he was pleased to be so taken--for a jolly
country squire. He was a better man of business than his more solemn and
stately brother, at whom he laughed in his jocular way; and he said
rightly, that a gentleman must get up very early in the morning who
wanted to take him in.
The Colonel breaks into the sanctum of these worthy gentlemen; and each
receives him in a manner consonant with his peculiar nature. Sir Brian
regretted that Lady Anne was away from London, being at Brighton with the
children, who were all ill of the measles. Hobson said, "Maria can't
treat you to such good company as my lady could give you, but when will
you take a day and come and dine with us? Let's see, to-day's Wednesday;
to-morrow we've a party. No, we're engaged." He meant that his table was
full, and that he did not care to crowd it; but there was no use in
imparting this circumstance to the Colonel. "Friday, we dine at Judge
Budge's--queer name, Judge Budge, ain't it? Saturday, I'm going down to
Marblehead, to look after the hay. Come on Monday, Tom, and I'll
introduce you to the missus and the young 'uns."
"I will bring Clive," says Colonel Newcome, rather disturbed at this
reception. "After his illness my sister-in-law was very kind to him."
"No, hang it, don't bring boys; there's no good in boys; they stop the
talk downstairs, and the ladies don't want 'em in the drawing-room. Send
him to dine with the children on Sunday, if you like, and come along down
with me to Marblehead, and I'll show you such a crop of hay as will make
your eyes open. Are you fond of farming?"
"I have not seen my boy for years," says the Colonel; "I had rather pass
Saturday and Sunday with him, if you please, and some day we will go to
Marblehead together."
"Well, an offer's an offer. I don't know any pleasanter thing than
getting out of this confounded City and smelling the hedges, and looking
at the crops coming up, and passing the Sunday in quiet." And his own
tastes being thus agricultural, the honest gentleman thought that
everybody else must delight in the same recreation.
"In the winter, I hope we shall see you at Newcome," says the elder
brother, blandly smiling. "I can't give you any tiger-shooting, but I'll
promise you that you shall find plenty of pheasants in our jungle," and
he laughed very gently at this mild sally.
The Colonel gave him a queer look. "I shall be at Newcome before the
winter. I shall be there, please God, before many days are over."
"Indeed!" says the Baronet, with an air of great surprise. "You are going
down to look at the cradle of our race. I believe the Newcomes were there
before the Conqueror. It was but a village in our grandfather's time, and
it is an immense flourishing town now, for which I hope to get--I expect
to get--a charter."
"Do you?" says the Colonel. "I am going down there to see a relation."
"A relation! What relatives have we there?" cries the Baronet. "My
children, with the exception of Barnes. Barnes, this is your uncle
Colonel Thomas Newcome. I have great pleasure, brother, in introducing
you to my eldest son."
A fair-haired young gentleman, languid and pale, and arrayed in the very
height of fashion, made his appearance at this juncture in the parlour,
and returned Colonel Newcome's greeting with a smiling acknowledgment of
his own. "Very happy to see you, I'm sure," said the young man. "You find
London very much changed since you were here? Very good time to come--the
very full of the season."
Poor Thomas Newcome was quite abashed by this strange reception. Here was
a man, hungry for affection, and one relation asked him to dinner next
Monday, and another invited him to shoot pheasants at Christmas. Here was
a beardless young sprig, who patronised him, and vouchsafed to ask him