The Newcomes

if you would see a noble account of this chaste and elegant specimen of

  British art, you are referred to the pages of the Pall Mall Gazette of

  that year, as well as to Fred Bayham's noble speech in the course of the

  evening, when it was exhibited. The East and its wars, and its heroes,

  Assaye and Seringapatam ("and Lord Lake and Laswaree too," calls out the

  Colonel greatly elated), tiger-hunting, palanquins, Juggernaut,

  elephants, the burning of widows--all passed before us in F. B.'s

  splendid oration. He spoke of the product of the Indian forest, the

  palm-tree, the cocoa-nut tree, the banyan-tree. Palms the Colonel had

  already brought back with him, the palms of valour, won in the field of

  war (cheers). Cocoa-nut trees he had never seen, though he had heard

  wonders related regarding the milky contents of their fruit. Here at any

  rate was one tree of the kind, under the branches of which he humbly

  trusted often to repose--and, if he might be so bold as to carry on the

  Eastern metaphor, he would say, knowing the excellence of the Colonel's

  claret and the splendour of his hospitality, that he would prefer a

  cocoa-nut day at the Colonel's to a banyan day anywhere else. Whilst

  F. B.'s speech went on, I remember J. J. eyeing the trophy, and the queer

  expression of his shrewd face. The health of British Artists was drunk a

  propos of this splendid specimen of their skill, and poor J. J. Ridley,

  Esq., A.R.A., had scarce a word to say in return. He and Clive sat by one

  another, the latter very silent and gloomy. When J. J. and I met in the

  world, we talked about our friend, and it was easy for both of us to see

  that neither was satisfied with Clive's condition.

  The fine house in Tyburnia was completed by this time, as gorgeous as

  money could make it. How different it was from the old Fitzroy Square

  mansion with its ramshackle furniture, and spoils of brokers' shops, and

  Tottenham Court Road odds and ends! An Oxford Street upholsterer had been

  let loose in the yet virgin chambers; and that inventive genius had

  decorated them with all the wonders his fancy could devise. Roses and

  cupids quivered on the ceilings, up to which golden arabesques crawled

  from the walls; your face (handsome or otherwise) was reflected by

  countless looking-glasses, so multiplied and arranged as, as it were, to

  carry you into the next street. You trod on velvet, pausing with respect

  in the centre of the carpet, where Rosey's cypher was worked in the sweet

  flowers which bear her name. What delightful crooked legs the chairs had!

  What corner cupboards there were filled with Dresden gimcracks, which it

  was a part of this little woman's business in life to purchase! What

  etageres, and bonbonnieres, and chiffonnieres! What awfully bad pastels

  there were on the walls! What frightful Boucher and Lancret shepherds and

  shepherdesses leered over the portieres! What velvet-bound volumes,

  mother-of-pearl albums, inkstands representing beasts of the field,

  prie-dieu chairs, and wonderful knick-knacks I can recollect! There was

  the most magnificent piano, though Rosey seldom sang any of her six songs

  now; and when she kept her couch at a certain most interesting period,

  the good Colonel, ever anxious to procure amusement for his darling,

  asked whether she would not like a barrel-organ grinding fifty or sixty

  favourite pieces, which a bearer could turn? And he mentioned how Windus,

  of their regiment, who loved music exceedingly, had a very fine

  instrument of this kind out to Barrackpore in the year 1810, and relays

  of barrels by each ship with all the new tunes from Europe. The

  Testimonial took its place in the centre of Mrs. Clive's table,

  surrounded by satellites of plate. The delectable parties were constantly

  gathered together, the grand barouche rolling in the Park, or stopping at

  the principal shops. Little Rosey bloomed in millinery, and was still the

  smiling little pet of her father-in-law, and poor Clive, in the midst of

  all these splendours, was gaunt, and sad, and silent; listless at most

  times, bitter and savage at others, pleased only when he was out of the

  society which bored him, and in the company of George and J. J., the

  simple friends of his youth.

  His careworn look and altered appearance mollified my wife towards him--

  who had almost taken him again into favour. But she did not care for Mrs.

  Clive, and the Colonel, somehow, grew cool towards us, and to look

  askance upon the little band of Clive's friends. It seemed as if there

  were two parties in the house. There was Clive's set--J. J., the shrewd,

  silent little painter; Warrington, the cynic; and the author of the

  present biography, who was, I believe, supposed to give himself

  contemptuous airs; and to have become very high and mighty since his

  marriage. Then there was the great, numerous, and eminently respectable

  set, whose names were all registered in little Rosey's little

  visiting-book, and to whose houses she drove round, duly delivering the

  cards of Mr. and Mrs. Clive Newcome, and Colonel Newcome;--the generals

  and colonels, the judges and the fogies. The only man who kept well with

  both sides of the house was F. Bayham, Esq., who, having got into clover,

  remained in the enjoyment of that welcome pasture; who really loved Clive

  and the Colonel too, and had a hundred pleasant things and funny stories

  (the droll old creature!) to tell to the little lady for whom we others

  could scarcely find a word. The old friends of the student-days were not

  forgotten, but they did not seem to get on in the new house. The Miss

  Gandishes came to one of Mrs. Clive's balls, still in blue crape, still

  with ringlets on their wizened old foreheads, accompanying papa, with his

  shirt-collars turned down--who gazed in mute wonder on the splendid

  scene. Warrington actually asked Miss Gandish to dance, making woeful

  blunders, however, in the quadrille, while Clive, with something like one

  of his old smiles on his face, took out Miss Zoe Gandish, her sister. We

  made Gandish overeat and overdrink himself in the supper-room, and Clive

  cheered him by ordering a full length of Mrs. Clive Newcome from his

  distinguished pencil. Never was seen a grander exhibition of white satin

  and jewels. Smee, R.A., was furious at the preference shown to his rival.

  We had Sandy M'Collop, too, at the party, who had returned from Rome,

  with his red beard, and his picture of the murder of the Red Comyn, which

  made but a dim effect in the Octagon Room of the Royal Academy, where the

  bleeding agonies of the dying warrior were veiled in an unkind twilight.

  On Sandy and his brethren little Rosey looked rather coldly. She tossed

  up her little head in conversation with me, and gave me to understand

  that this party was only an omnium gatherum, not one of the select

  parties, from which Heaven defend us. "We are Poins, and Nym, and

  Pistol," growled out George Warrington, as he strode away to finish the

  evening in Clive's painting- and smoking-room. "Now Prince Hal is

  married, and shares the paternal throne, his Princess is ashamed of his

  brigand associates of former days." She came and looked at us w
ith a

  feeble little smile, as we sat smoking, and let the daylight in on us

  from the open door, and hinted to Mr. Clive that it was time to go to

  bed.

  So Clive Newcome lay in a bed of down and tossed and tumbled there. He

  went to fine dinners, and sat silent over them; rode fine horses, and

  black Care jumped up behind the moody horseman. He was cut off in a great

  measure from the friends of his youth, or saw them by a kind of stealth

  and sufferance; was a very lonely, poor fellow, I am afraid, now that

  people were testimonialising his wife, and many an old comrade growling

  at his haughtiness and prosperity.

  In former days, when his good father recognised the difference which

  fate, and time, and temper, had set between him and his son, we have seen

  with what a gentle acquiescence the old man submitted to his inevitable

  fortune, and how humbly he bore that stroke of separation which afflicted

  the boy lightly enough, but caused the loving sire so much pain. Then

  there was no bitterness between them, in spite of the fatal division; but

  now, it seemed as if there was anger on Thomas Newcome's part, because,

  though come together again, they were not united, though with every

  outward appliance of happiness Clive was not happy. What young man on

  earth could look for more? a sweet young wife, a handsome home, of which

  the only encumbrance was an old father, who would give his last drop of

  blood in his son's behalf. And it was to bring about this end that Thomas

  Newcome had toiled and had amassed a fortune. Could not Clive, with his

  talents and education, go down once or twice a week to the City and take

  a decent part in the business by which his wealth was secured? He

  appeared at the various board-rooms and City conclaves, yawned at the

  meetings, and drew figures on the blotting-paper of the Company; had no

  interest in its transactions, no heart in its affairs; went away and

  galloped his horse alone; or returned to his painting-room, put on his

  old velvet jacket, and worked with his palettes and brushes. Palettes and

  brushes! Could he not give up these toys when he was called to a much

  higher station in the world? Could he not go talk with Rosey;--drive with

  Rosey, kind little soul, whose whole desire was to make him happy? Such

  thoughts as these, no doubt, darkened the Colonel's mind, and deepened

  the furrows round his old eyes. So it is, we judge men by our own

  standards; judge our nearest and dearest often wrong.

  Many and many a time did Clive try and talk with the little Rosey, who

  chirped and prattled so gaily to his father. Many a time would she come

  and sit by his easel, and try her little powers to charm him, bring him

  little tales about their acquaintances, stories about this ball and that

  concert, practise artless smiles upon him, gentle little bouderies,

  tears, perhaps, followed by caresses and reconciliation. At the end of

  which he would return to his cigar; and she, with a sigh and a heavy

  heart, to the good old man who had bidden her to go and talk with him. He

  used to feel that his father had sent her; the thought came across him in

  their conversations, and straightway his heart would shut up and his face

  grew gloomy. They were not made to mate with one another. This was the

  truth; the shoe was a very pretty little shoe, but Clive's foot was too

  big for it.

  Just before the testimonial, Mr. Clive was in constant attendance at

  home, and very careful and kind and happy with his wife, and the whole

  family party went very agreeably. Doctors were in constant attendance at

  Mrs. Clive Newcome's door; prodigious care was taken by the good Colonel

  in wrapping her and in putting her little feet on sofas, and in leading

  her to her carriage. The Campaigner came over in immense flurry from

  Edinburgh (where Uncle James was now very comfortably lodged in Picardy

  Place with the most agreeable society round about him), and all this

  circle was in a word very close and happy and intimate; but woe is me,

  Thomas Newcome's fondest hopes were disappointed this time: his little

  grandson lived but to see the light and leave it: and sadly, sadly, those

  preparations were put away, those poor little robes and caps, those

  delicate muslins and cambrics over which many a care had been forgotten,

  many a fond prayer thought, if not uttered. Poor little Rosey! she felt

  the grief very keenly; but she rallied from it very soon. In a very few

  months, her cheeks were blooming and dimpling with smiles again, and she

  was telling us how her party was an omnium gatherum.

  The Campaigner had ere this returned to the scene of her northern

  exploits; not, I believe, entirely of the worthy woman's own free will.

  Assuming the command of the household, whilst her daughter kept her sofa,

  Mrs. Mackenzie had set that establishment into uproar and mutiny. She had

  offended the butler, outraged the housekeeper, wounded the sensibilities

  of the footmen, insulted the doctor, and trampled on the inmost corns of

  the nurse. It was surprising what a change appeared in the Campaigner's

  conduct, and how little, in former days, Colonel Newcome had known her.

  What the Emperor Napoleon the First said respecting our Russian enemies,

  might be applied to this lady, Grattez-la, and she appeared a Tartar.

  Clive and his father had a little comfort and conversation in conspiring

  against her. The old man never dared to try, but was pleased with the

  younger's spirit and gallantry in the series of final actions which,

  commencing over poor little Rosey's prostrate body in the dressing-room,

  were continued in the drawing-room, resumed with terrible vigour on the

  enemy's part in the dining-room, and ended, to the triumph of the whole

  establishment, at the outside of the hall-door.

  When the routed Tartar force had fled back to its native north, Rosey

  made a confession, which Clive told me afterwards, bursting with bitter

  laughter. "You and papa seem to be very much agitated," she said. (Rosey

  called the Colonel papa in the absence of the Campaigner.) "I do not mind

  it a bit, except just at first, when it made me a little nervous. Mamma

  used always to be so; she used to scold and scold all day, both me and

  Josey, in Scotland, till grandmamma sent her away; and then in Fitzroy

  Square, and then in Brussels, she used to box my ears, and go into such

  tantrums; and I think," adds Rosey, with one of her sweetest smiles, "she

  had quarrelled with Uncle James before she came to us."

  "She used to box Rosey's ears," roars out poor Clive, "and go into such

  tantrums, in Fitzroy Square and Brussels afterwards, and the pair would

  come down with their arms round each other's waists, smirking and smiling

  as if they had done nothing but kiss each other all their mortal lives!

  This is what we know about women--this is what we get, and find years

  afterwards, when we think we have married a smiling, artless young

  creature! Are you all such hypocrites, Mrs. Pendennis?" and he pulled his

  mustachios in his wrath.

  "Poor Clive!" says Laura, very kindly. "You would not have had her tell

  tales of her mother, woul
d you?"

  "Oh, of course not," breaks out Clive; "that is what you all say, and so

  you are hypocrites out of sheer virtue."

  It was the first time Laura had called him Clive for many a day. She was

  becoming reconciled to him. We had our own opinion about the young

  fellow's marriage.

  And, to sum up all, upon a casual rencontre with the young gentleman in

  question, whom we saw descending from a hansom at the steps of the Flag,

  Pall Mall, I opined that dark thoughts of Hoby had entered into Clive

  Newcome's mind. Othello-like, he scowled after that unconscious Cassio as

  the other passed into the club in his lacquered boots.

  CHAPTER LXIV

  Absit Omen

  At the first of the Blackwall festivals, Hobson Newcome was present, in

  spite of the quarrel which had taken place between his elder brother and

  the chief of the firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcome. But it was the

  individual Barnes and the individual Thomas who had had a difference

  together; the Bundelcund Bank was not at variance with its chief house of

  commission in London; no man drank prosperity to the B. B. C., upon

  occasion of this festival, with greater fervour than Hobson Newcome, and

  the manner in which he just slightly alluded, in his own little speech of

  thanks, to the notorious differences between Colonel Newcome and his

  nephew, praying that these might cease some day, and, meanwhile, that the

  confidence between the great Indian establishment and its London agents

  might never diminish, was appreciated and admired by six-and-thirty

  gentlemen, all brimful of claret and enthusiasm, and in that happy state

  of mind in which men appreciate and admire everything.

  At the second dinner, when the testimonial was presented, Hobson was not

  present. Nor did his name figure amongst those engraven on the trunk of

  Mr. Newcome's allegorical silver cocoa-nut tree. As we travelled

  homewards in the omnibus, Fred Bayham noticed the circumstance to me. "I

  have looked over the list of names," says he, "not merely that on the

  trunk, sir, but the printed list; it was rolled up and placed in one of

  the nests on the top of the tree. Why is Hobson's name not there?--Ha! it

  mislikes me, Pendennis."

  F. B., who was now very great about City affairs, discoursed about stocks

  and companies with immense learning, and gave me to understand that he

  had transacted one or two little operations in Capel Court on his own

  account, with great present, and still larger prospective, advantages to

  himself. It is a fact that Mr. Ridley was paid, and that F. B.'s costume,

  though still eccentric, was comfortable, cleanly, and variegated. He

  occupied the apartments once tenanted by the amiable Honeyman. He lived

  in ease and comfort there. "You don't suppose," says he, "that the

  wretched stipend I draw from the Pall Mall Gazette enables me to maintain

  this kind of thing? F. B., sir, has a station in the world; F. B. moves

  among moneyers and City nobs, and eats cabobs with wealthy nabobs. He may

  marry, sir, and settle in life." We cordially wished every worldly

  prosperity to the brave F. B.

  Happening to descry him one day in the Park, I remarked that his

  countenance wore an ominous and tragic appearance, which seemed to deepen

  as he neared me. I thought he had been toying affably with a nursery-maid

  the moment before, who stood with some of her little charges watching the

  yachts upon the Serpentine. Howbeit, espying my approach, F. B. strode

  away from the maiden and her innocent companions, and advanced to greet

  his old acquaintance, enveloping his face with shades of funereal gloom.

  "Yon were the children of my good friend Colonel Huckaback of the Bombay

  Marines! Alas! unconscious of their doom, the little infants play. I was

  watching them at their sports. There is a pleasing young woman in

  attendance upon the poor children. They were sailing their little boats