enough the retirement to which, of course, he would betake himself, when
the melancholy proceedings consequent on the bankruptcy were brought to
an end. It was shown that he had been egregiously duped in the
transaction--that his credulity had cost him and his family a large
fortune--that he had given up every penny which belonged to him--that
there could not be any sort of stain upon his honest reputation. The
judge before whom he appeared spoke with feeling and regard of the
unhappy gentleman--the lawyer who examined him respected the grief and
fall of that simple old man. Thomas Newcome took a little room near the
court where his affairs and the affairs of the company were adjudged--
lived with a frugality which never was difficult to him--And once when
perchance I met him in the City, avoided me, with a bow and courtesy that
was quite humble, though proud and somehow inexpressibly touching to me.
Fred Bayham was the only person whom he admitted. Fred always faithfully
insisted upon attending him in and out of court. J. J. came to me
immediately after he heard of the disaster, eager to place all his
savings at the service of his friends. Laura and I came to London, and
were urgent with similar offers. Our good friend declined to see any of
us. F. B., again, with tears trickling on his rough cheeks, and a break
in his voice, told me he feared that affairs must be very bad indeed, for
the Colonel absolutely denied himself a cheroot to smoke. Laura drove to
his lodgings and took him a box, which was held up to him as he came to
open the door to my wife's knock by our smiling little boy, He patted the
child on his golden head and kissed him. My wife wished he would have
done as much for her--but he would not--though she owned she kissed his
hand. He drew it across his eyes and thanked her in a very calm and
stately manner--but he did not invite her within the threshold of his
door, saying simply, that such a room was not a fit place to receive a
lady, "as you ought to know very well, Mrs. Smith," he said to the
landlady, who had accompanied my wife up the stairs. "He will eat
scarcely anything," the woman told us, "his meals come down untouched;
his candles are burning all night, almost, as he sits poring over his
papers."
"He was bent--he who used to walk so uprightly," Laura said. He seemed to
have grown many years older, and was, indeed, quite a decrepit old man.
"I am glad they have left Clive out of the bankruptcy," the Colonel said
to Bayham; it was almost the only time when his voice exhibited any
emotion. "It was very kind of them to leave out Clive, poor boy, and I
have thanked the lawyers in court." Those gentlemen, and the judge
himself, were very much moved at this act of gratitude. The judge made a
very feeling speech to the Colonel when he came up for his certificate.
He passed very different comments on the conduct of the Manager of the
Bank, when that person appeared for examination. He wished that the law
had power to deal with those gentlemen who had come home with large
fortunes from India, realised but a few years before the bankruptcy.
Those gentlemen had known how to take care of themselves very well; and
as for the Manager, is not his wife giving elegant balls at her elegant
house at Cheltenham at this very day?
What weighed most upon the Colonel's mind, F. B. imagined, was the
thought that he had been the means of inducing many poor friends to
embark their money in this luckless speculation. Take J. J.'s money after
he had persuaded old Ridley to place 200 pounds in Indian shares! Good
God, he and his family should rather perish than he would touch a
farthing of it! Many fierce words were uttered to him by Mrs. Mackenzie,
for instance--by her angry daughter at Musselburgh--Josey's husband, by
Mr. Smee, R.A., and two or three Indian officers, friends of his own, who
had entered into the speculation on his recommendation. These rebukes
Thomas Newcome bore with an affecting meekness, as his faithful F. B.
described to me, striving with many oaths and much loudness to carry off
bis own emotion. But what moved the Colonel most of all, was a letter
which came at this time from Honeyman in India, saying that he was doing
well--that of course he knew of his benefactor's misfortune, and that he
sent a remittance which, D. V., should be annual, in payment of his debt
to the Colonel, and his good sister at Brighton. "On receipt of this
letter," said F. B., "the old man was fairly beaten--the letter, with the
bill in it, dropped out of his hands. He clasped them together, shaking
in every limb, and his head dropped down on his breast as he said, 'I
thank my God Almighty for this!' and he sent the cheque off to Mrs.
Honeyman by the post that night, sir, every shilling of it; and he passed
his old arm under mine--and we went out to Tom's Coffee-House, and he ate
some dinner the first time for ever so long, and drank a couple of
glasses of port wine, and F. B. stood it, sir, and would stand his
heart's blood that dear old boy."
It was on a Monday morning that those melancholy shutters were seen over
the offices of the Bundelcund Bank in Lothbury, which were not to come
down until the rooms were handed over to some other, and, let us trust,
more fortunate speculators. The Indian bills had arrived, and been
protested in the City on the previous Saturday. The Campaigner and Mrs.
Rosey had arranged a little party to the theatre that evening, and the
gallant Captain Goby had agreed to quit the delights of the Flag Club, in
order to accompany the ladies. Neither of them knew what was happening in
the City, or could account otherwise than by the common domestic causes,
for Clive's gloomy despondency and his father's sad reserve. Clive had
not been in the City on this day. He had spent it, as usual, in his
studio, boude by his wife, and not disturbed by the messroom raillery of
the Campaigner. They had dined early, in order to be in time for the
theatre. Goby entertained them with the latest jokes from the
smoking-room at the Flag, and was in his turn amused by the brilliant
plans for the season which Rosey and her mamma sketched out the
entertainments which Mrs. Clive proposed to give, the ball--she was
dying for a masked ball just such a one as that was described in the
Pall Mall Gazette of last week, out of that paper with the droll title,
the Bengal Hurkaru, which the merchant-prince, the head of the bank,
you know, in India, had given at Calcutta. "We must have a ball, too,"
says Mrs. Mackenzie; "society demands it of you." "Of course it does,"
echoes Captain Goby, and he bethought him of a brilliant circle of young
fellows from the Flag, whom he would bring in splendid uniform to dance
with the pretty Mrs. Clive Newcome.
After the dinner--they little knew it was to be their last in that fine
house--the ladies retired to give their parting kiss to baby--a parting
look to the toilettes, with which they proposed to fascinate the
inhabitants of the pit and the public boxes at the Olympic. Goby made
vigorous play with the clare
t-bottle during the brief interval of
potation allowed to him; he, too, little deeming that he should never
drink bumper there again; Clive looking on with the melancholy and silent
acquiescence which had, of late, been his part in the household. The
carriage was announced--the ladies came down--pretty capotes on the
lovely Campaigner, Goby vowed, looking as young and as handsome as her
daughter, by Jove, and the ball door was opened to admit the two
gentlemen and ladies to their carriage, when, as they were about to step
in, a hansom cab drove up rapidly, in which was perceived Thomas
Newcome's anxious face. He got out of the vehicle--his own carriage
making way for him--the ladies still on the steps. "Oh, the play! I
forgot," said the Colonel.
"Of course we are going to the play, papa," cries little Rosey, with a
gay little tap of her hand.
"I think you had better not," Colonel Newcome said gravely.
"Indeed my darling child has set her heart upon it, and I would not have
her disappointed for the world in her situation," cries the Campaigner,
tossing up her head.
The Colonel for reply bade his coachman drive to the stables, and come
for further orders; and, turning to his daughter's guest, expressed to
Captain Goby his regret that the proposed party could not take place on
that evening, as he had matter of very great importance to communicate to
his family. On hearing these news, and understanding that his further
company was not desirable, the Captain, a man of great presence of mind,
arrested the hansom cabman, who was about to take his departure, and who
blithely, knowing the Club and its inmates full well, carried off the
jolly Captain to finish his evening at the Flag.
"Has it come, father?" said Clive with a sure prescience, looking in his
father's face.
The father took and grasped the hand which his son held out. "Let us go
back into the dining-room," he said. They entered it, and he filled
himself a glass of wine out of the bottle still standing amidst the
sideboard, and only wanted to know whether his master would have dinner,
that was all. And, this gentleman having withdrawn, Colonel Newcome
finished his glass of sherry and broke a biscuit; the Campaigner assuming
an attitude of surprise and indignation, whilst Rosey had leisure to
remark that papa looked very ill, and that something must have happened.
The Colonel took both her hands and drew her towards him and kissed her,
whilst Rosey's mamma, flouncing down on a chair, beat a tattoo upon the
tablecloth with her fan. "Something has happened, my love," the Colonel
said very sadly; "you must show all your strength of mind, for a great
misfortune has befallen us."
"Good heavens, Colonel, what is it? don't frighten my beloved child,"
cries the Campaigner, rushing towards her darling, and enveloping her in
her robust arms. "What can have happened, don't agitate this darling
child, sir," and she looked indignantly towards the poor Colonel.
"We have received the very worst news from Calcutta, a confirmation of
the news by the last mail, Clivey, my boy."
"It is no news to me. I have always been expecting it, father," says
Clive, holding down his head.
"Expecting what? What have you been keeping back from us? In what have
you been deceiving us, Colonel Newcome?" shrieks the Campaigner; and
Rosa, crying out, "Oh, mamma, mamma!" begins to whimper.
"The chief of the bank in India is dead," the Colonel went on. "He has
left its affairs in worse than disorder. We are, I fear, ruined, Mrs.
Mackenzie." And the Colonel went on to tell how the bank could not open
on Monday morning, and its bills to a great amount had already been
protested in the City that day.
Rosey did not understand half these news, or comprehend the calamity
which was to follow; but Mrs. Mackenzie, rustling in great wrath, made a
speech, of which the anger gathered as he proceeded; in which she vowed
and protested that her money, which the Colonel, she did not know from
what motives, had induced her to subscribe, should not be sacrificed, and
that have it she would, the bank shut or not, the next Monday morning--
that her daughter had a fortune of her own which her poor dear brother
James should have divided and would have divided much more fairly, had he
not been wrongly influenced--she would not say by whom, and she commanded
Colonel Newcome upon that instant, if he was, as he always pretended to
be, an honourable man, to give an account of her blessed darling's
property, and to pay back her own, every sixpence of it. She would not
lend it for an hour longer, and to see that that dear blessed child now
sleeping unconsciously upstairs, and his dear brothers and sisters who
might follow, for Rosey was a young woman, a poor innocent creature, too
young to be married, and never would have been married had she listened
to her mamma's advice. She demanded that the baby, and all succeeding
babies, should have their rights, and should be looked to by their
grandmother, if their father's father was so unkind, and so wicked, and
so unnatural, as to give their money to rogues, and deprive them of their
just bread.
Rosey began to cry more loudly than ever during the utterance of mamma's
sermon, so loudly that Clive peevishly cried out, "Hold your tongue," on
which the Campaigner, clutching her daughter to her breast again, turned
on her son-in-law, and abused him as she had abused his father before
him, calling out that they were both in a conspiracy to defraud her
child, and the little darling upstairs of its bread, and she would speak,
yes, she would, and no power should prevent her, and her money she would
have on Monday, as sure as her poor dear husband, Captain Mackenzie, was
dead, and she never would have been cheated so, yes, cheated, if he had
been alive.
At the word "cheated" Clive broke out with an execration--the poor
Colonel with a groan of despair--the widow's storm continued, and above
that howling tempest of words rose Mrs. Clive's piping scream, who went
off into downright hysterics at last, in which she was encouraged by her
mother, and in which she gasped out frantic ejaculations regarding baby;
dear, darling, ruined baby, and so forth.
The sorrow-stricken Colonel had to quell the women's tongues and shrill
anger, and his son's wrathful replies, who could not bear the weight of
Mrs. Mackenzie upon him; and it was not until these three were allayed,
had happened, and what the actual state of the case was, and to oblige
the terror-stricken women at length to hear something like reason.
He then had to tell them, to their dismay, that he would inevitably be
declared a bankrupt in the ensuing week; that the whole of his property
in that house, as elsewhere, would be seized and sold for the creditors'
benefit; and that his daughter had best immediately leave a home where
she would be certainl
y subject to humiliation and annoyance. "I would
have Clive, my boy, take you out of the country, and--and return to me
when I have need of him, and shall send for him," the father said fondly
in reply to a rebellious look on his son's face. "I would have you quit
this house as soon as possible. Why not to-night? The law blood-hound may
be upon us ere an hour is over--at this moment for what I know."
At that moment the door-bell was heard to ring, and the women gave a
scream apiece, as if the bailiffs were actually coming to take
possession. Rosey went off in quite a series of screams, peevishly
repressed by her husband, and always encouraged by mamma, who called her
son-in-law an unfeeling wretch. It must be confessed that Mrs. Clive
Newcome did not exhibit much strength of mind, or comfort her husband
much at a moment when he needed consolation.
From angry rebellion and fierce remonstrance, this pair of women now
passed to an extreme terror and desire for instantaneous flight. They
would go that moment--they would wrap the blessed child up in its shawls
--and nurse should take it anywhere--anywhere, poor neglected thing. "My
trunks," cries Mrs. Mackenzie, "you know are ready packed--I am sure it
is not the treatment which I have received--it is nothing but my duty and
my religion--and the protection which I owe to this blessed unprotected--
yes, unprotected, and robbed, and cheated, darling child--which have made
me stay a single day in this house. I never thought I should have been
robbed in it, or my darlings with their fine fortunes flung naked on the
world. If my Mac was here, you never had dared to have done this, Colonel
Newcome--no, never. He had his faults--Mackenzie had--but he would never
have robbed his own children! Come away, Rosey, my blessed love, come let
us pack your things, and let us go and hide our heads in sorrow
somewhere. Ah! didn't I tell you to beware of all painters, and that
Clarence was a true gentleman, and loved you with all his heart, and
would never have cheated you out of your money, for which I will have
justice as sure as there is justice in England."
During this outburst the Colonel sat utterly scared and silent,
supporting his poor head between his hands. When the harem had departed
he turned sadly to his son. Clive did not believe that his father was a
cheat and a rogue. No, thank God! The two men embraced with tender
cordiality and almost happy emotion on the one side and the other. Never
for one moment could Clive think his dear old father meant wrong--though
the speculations were unfortunate in which he had engaged--though Clive
had not liked them; it was a relief to his mind that they were now come
to an end; they should all be happier now, thank God! those clouds of
distrust being removed. Clive felt not one moment's doubt but that they
should be able to meet fortune with a brave face; and that happier, much
happier days were in store for him than ever they had known since the
period of this confounded prosperity.
"Here's a good end to it," says Clive, with flashing eyes and a flushed
face, "and here's a good health till to-morrow, father!" and he filled
into two glasses the wine still remaining in the flask. "Good-bye to our
fortune, and bad luck go with her--I puff the prostitute away--Si celeres
quatit pennas, you remember what we used to say at Grey Friars--resign
quae dedit, et mea virtute me involve, probamque pauperiem sine dote
quaero." And he pledged his father, who drank his wine, his hand shaking
as he raised the glass to his lips, and his kind voice trembling as he
uttered the well-known old school words, with an emotion that was as
sacred as a prayer. Once more, and with hearts full of love, the two men
embraced. Clive's voice would tremble now if he told the story, as it did
when he spoke it to me in happier times, one calm summer evening when we
sat together and talked of dear old days.