It may be imagined that the intelligence which I brought alarmed and
afflicted my wife and Madame de Florac, our guest. Laura immediately went
away to Rosa's house to offer her services if needed. The accounts which
she brought thence were very bad: Clive came to her for a minute or two,
but Mr. Mackenzie could not see her. Should she not bring the little boy
home to her children? Laura asked; and Clive thankfully accepted that
offer. The little man slept in our nursery that night, and was at play
with our young ones on the morrow--happy and unconscious of the fate
impending over his home.
* * * * * *
Yet two more days passed, and I had to take two advertisements to The
Times newspaper on the part of poor Clive. Among the announcements of
Births was printed, "On the 28th, in Howland Street, Mrs. Clive Newcome
of a son, still-born." And a little lower, in the third division of the
same column, appeared the words, "On the 29th, in Howland Street, aged
26, Rosa, wife of Clive Newcome, Esq." So, one day, shall the names of
all of us be written there; to be deplored by how many?--to be remembered
how long?--to occasion what tears, praises, sympathy, censure?--yet for a
day or two, while the busy world has time to recollect us who have passed
beyond it. So this poor little flower had bloomed for its little day, and
pined, and withered, and perished. There was only one friend by Clive's
side following the humble procession which laid poor Rosa and her child
out of sight of a world that had been but unkind to her. Not many tears
were there to water her lonely little grave. A grief that was akin to
shame and remorse humbled him as he knelt over her. Poor little harmless
lady! no more childish triumphs and vanities, no more hidden griefs are
you to enjoy or suffer; and earth closes over your simple pleasures and
tears! The snow was falling and whitening the coffin as they lowered it
into the ground. It was at the same cemetery in which Lady Kew was
buried. I dare say the same clergyman read the same service over the two
graves, as he will read it for you or any of us to-morrow, and until his
own turn comes. Come away from the place, poor Clive! Come sit with your
orphan little boy; and bear him on your knee, and hug him to your heart.
He seems yours now, and all a father's love may pour out upon him. Until
this hour, Fate uncontrollable and homely tyranny had separated him from
you.
It was touching to see the eagerness and tenderness with which the great
strong man now assumed the guardianship of the child, and endowed him
with his entire wealth of affection. The little boy now ran to Clive
whenever he came in, and sat for hours prattling to him. He would take
the boy out to walk, and from our windows we could see Clive's black
figure striding over the snow in St. James's Park, the little man
trotting beside him, or perched on his father's shoulder. My wife and I
looked at them one morning as they were making their way towards the
City.
"He has inherited that loving heart from his father," Laura said; "and he
is paying over the whole property to his son."
Clive, and the boy sometimes with him, used to go daily to Grey Friars,
where the Colonel still lay ill. After some days the fever which had
attacked him left him, but left him so weak and enfeebled that he could
only go from his bed to the chair by his fireside. The season was
exceedingly bitter, the chamber which he inhabited was warm and spacious;
it was considered unadvisable to move him until he had attained greater
strength, and till warmer weather. The medical men of the House hoped he
might rally in spring. My friend, Dr. Goodenough, came to him; he hoped
too: but not with a hopeful face. A chamber, luckily vacant, hard by the
Colonel's, was assigned to his friends, where we sate when we were too
many for him. Besides his customary attendant, he had two dear and
watchful nurses, who were almost always with him--Ethel and Madame de
Florac, who had passed many a faithful year by an old man's bedside; who
would have come, as to a work of religion, to any sick couch, much more
to this one, where he lay for whose life she would once gladly have given
her own.
But our Colonel, we all were obliged to acknowledge, was no more our
friend of old days. He knew us again, and was good to every one round
him, as his wont was; especially when Boy came, his old eyes lighted up
with simple happiness, and, with eager trembling hands, he would seek
under his bedclothes, or the pockets of his dressing-gown, for toys or
cakes, which he had caused to be purchased for his grandson. There was a
little laughing, red-cheeked, white-headed gown-boy of the school, to
whom the old man had taken a great fancy. One of the symptoms of his
returning consciousness and recovery, as we hoped, was his calling for
this child, who pleased our friend by his archness and merry ways; and
who, to the old gentleman's unfailing delight, used to call him, "Codd
Colonel." "Tell little F----, that Codd Colonel wants to see him;" and
the little gown-boy was brought to him; and the Colonel would listen to
him for hours; and hear all about his lessons and his play; and prattle
almost as childishly about Dr. Raine, and his own early school-days. The
boys of the school, it must be said, had heard the noble old gentleman's
touching history, and had all got to know and love him. They came every
day to hear news of him; sent him in books and papers to amuse him; and
some benevolent young souls,--God's blessing on all honest boys, say I,--
painted theatrical characters, and sent them in to Codd Colonel's
grandson. The little fellow was made free of gown-boys, and once came
thence to his grandfather in a little gown, which delighted the old man
hugely. Boy said he would like to be a little gown-boy; and I make no
doubt, when he is old enough, his father will get him that post, and put
him under the tuition of my friend Dr. Senior.
So, weeks passed away, during which our dear old friend still remained
with us. His mind was gone at intervals, but would rally feebly; and with
his consciousness returned his love, his simplicity, his sweetness. He
would talk French with Madame de Florac, at which time, his memory
appeared to awaken with surprising vividness, his cheek flushed, and he
was a youth again,--a youth all love and hope,--a stricken old man, with
a beard as white as snow covering the noble careworn face. At such times
he called her by her Christian name of Leonore; he addressed courtly old
words of regard and kindness to the aged lady; anon he wandered in his
talk, and spoke to her as if they still were young. Now, as in those
early days, his heart was pure; no anger remained in it; no guile tainted
it; only peace and goodwill dwelt in it.
Rosa's death had seemed to shock him for a while when the unconscious
little boy spoke of it. Before that circumstance, Clive had even forbore
to wear mourning, lest the news should agitate his father. The Colonel
remained silent
and was very much disturbed all that day, but he never
appeared to comprehend the fact quite; and, once or twice afterwards,
asked, why she did not come to see him? She was prevented, he supposed--
she was prevented, he said, with a look of terror: he never once
otherwise alluded to that unlucky tyrant of his household, who had made
his last years so unhappy.
The circumstance of Clive's legacy he never understood: but more than
once spoke of Barnes to Ethel, and sent his compliments to him, and said
he should like to shake him by the hand. Barnes Newcome never once
offered to touch that honoured hand, though his sister bore her uncle's
message to him. They came often from Bryanstone Square; Mrs. Hobson even
offered to sit with the Colonel, and read to him, and brought him books
for his improvement. But her presence disturbed him; he cared not for her
books; the two nurses whom he loved faithfully watched him; and my wife
and I were admitted to him sometimes, both of whom he honoured with
regard and recognition. As for F. B., in order to be near his Colonel,
did not that good fellow take up his lodging in Cistercian Lane, at the
Red Cow? He is one whose errors, let us hope, shall be pardoned, quia
multum amavit. I am sure he felt ten times more joy at hearing of Clive's
legacy, than if thousands had been bequeathed to himself. May good health
and good fortune speed him!
The days went on, and our hopes, raised sometimes, began to flicker and
fail. One evening the Colonel left his chair for his bed in pretty good
spirits, but passed a disturbed night, and the next morning was too weak
to rise. Then he remained in his bed, and his friends visited him there.
One afternoon he asked for his little gown-boy, and the child was brought
to him, and sate by the bed with a very awestricken face; and then
gathered courage, and tried to amuse him by telling him how it was a
half-holiday, and they were having a cricket-match with the St. Peter's
boys in the green, and Grey Friars was in and winning. The Colonel quite
understood about it; he would like to see the game; he had played many a
game on that green when he was a boy. He grew excited; Clive dismissed
his father's little friend, and put a sovereign into his hand; and away
he ran to say that Codd Colonel had come into a fortune, and to buy
tarts, and to see the match out. I, curre, little white-haired gown-boy!
Heaven speed you, little friend!
After the child had gone, Thomas Newcome began to wander more and more.
He talked louder; he gave the word of command, spoke Hindustanee as if to
his men. Then he spoke words in French rapidly, seizing a hand that was
near him and crying, "Toujours, toujours!" But it was Ethel's hand which
he took.
Ethel and Clive and the nurse were in the room with him; the latter came
to us, who were sitting in the adjoining apartment; Madame de Florac was
there, with my wife and Bayham.
At the look in the woman's countenance Madame de Florac started up. "He
is very bad, he wanders a great deal," the nurse whispered. The French
lady fell instantly on her knees, and remained rigid in prayer.
Some time afterwards Ethel came in with a scared face to our pale group.
"He is calling for you again, dear lady," she said, going up to Madame de
Florac, who was still kneeling; "and just now he said he wanted Pendennis
to take care of his boy. He will not know you." She hid her tears as she
spoke.
She went into the room, where Clive was at the bed's foot; the old man
within it talked on rapidly for a while: then again he would sigh and be
still: once more I heard him say hurriedly, "Take care of him while I'm
in India;" and then with a heart-rending voice he called out, "Leonore,
Leonore!" She was kneeling by his side now. The patient's voice sank into
faint murmurs; only a moan now and then announced that he was not asleep.
At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, and Thomas
Newcome's hands outside the bed feebly beat a time. And just as the last
bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone over his face, and he lifted up
his head a little, and quickly said, "Adsum!" and fell back. It was the
word we used at school, when names were called; and lo, he, whose heart
was as that of a little child, had answered to his name, and stood in the
presence of The Master.
* * * * * *
Two years ago, walking with my children in some pleasant fields, near to
Berne in Switzerland, I strayed from them into a little wood; and, coming
out of it presently, told them how the story had been revealed to me
somehow, which for three-and-twenty months the reader has been pleased to
follow. As I write the last line with a rather sad heart, Pendennis and
Laura, and Ethel and Clive, fade away into Fable-land. I hardly know
whether they are not true: whether they do not live near us somewhere.
They were alive, and I heard their voices, but five minutes since was
touched by their grief. And have we parted with them here on a sudden,
and without so much as a shake of the hand? Is yonder line (----) which I
drew with my own pen, a barrier between me and Hades as it were, across
which I can see those figures retreating and only dimly glimmering?
Before taking leave of Mr. Arthur Pendennis, might he not have told us
whether Miss Ethel married anybody finally? It was provoking that he
should retire to the shades without answering that sentimental question.
But though he has disappeared as irrevocably as Eurydice, these minor
questions may settle the major one above mentioned. How could Pendennis
have got all that information about Ethel's goings-on at Baden, and with
Lord Kew, unless she had told somebody--her husband, for instance, who,
having made Pendennis an early confidant in his amour, gave him the whole
story? Clive, Pendennis writes expressly, is travelling abroad with his
wife. Who is that wife? By a most monstrous blunder, Mr. Pendennis killed
Lord Farintosh's mother at one page and brought her to life again at
another; but Rosey, who is so lately consigned to Kensal Green, it is not
surely with her that Clive is travelling, for then Mrs. Mackenzie would
probably be with them to a live certainty, and the tour would be by no
means pleasant. How could Pendennis have got all those private letters,
etc., but that the Colonel kept them in a teak box, which Clive inherited
and made over to his friend? My belief then is, that in Fable-land
somewhere Ethel and Clive are living most comfortably together: that she
is immensely fond of his little boy, and a great deal happier now than
they would have been had they married at first, when they took a liking
to each other as young people. That picture of J. J.'s of Mrs. Clive
not in the least like Rosey, who we read was fair; but it represents a
tall, handsome, dark lady, who must be Mrs. Ethel.
Again, why did Pendennis introduce J. J. with such a flourish, giving us,
as it were, an overture, and no piece to follow it? J. J.'s histor
y, let
me confidentially state, has been revealed to me too, and may be told
some of these fine summer months, or Christmas evenings, when the kind
reader has leisure to hear.
What about Sir Barnes Newcome ultimately? My impression is that he is
married again, and it is my fervent hope that his present wife bullies
him. Mrs. Mackenzie cannot have the face to keep that money which Clive
paid over to her, beyond her lifetime; and will certainly leave it and
her savings to little Tommy. I should not be surprised if Madame de
Moncontour left a smart legacy to the Pendennis children; and Lord Kew
stood godfather in case--in case Mr. and Mrs. Clive wanted such an
article. But have they any children? I, for my part, should like her best
without, and entirely devoted to little Tommy. But for you, dear friend,
it is as you like. You may settle your Fable-land in your own fashion.
Anything you like happens in Fable-land. Wicked folks die a propos (for
instance, that death of Lady Kew was most artful, for if she had not
died, don't you see that Ethel would have married Lord Farintosh the next
week?)--annoying folks are got out of the way; the poor are rewarded--the
upstarts are set down in Fable-land,--the frog bursts with wicked rage,
the fox is caught in his trap, the lamb is rescued from the wolf, and so
forth, just in the nick of time. And the poet of Fable-land rewards and
punishes absolutely. He splendidly deals out bags of sovereigns, which
won't buy anything; belabours wicked backs with awful blows, which do not
hurt; endows heroines with preternatural beauty, and creates heroes, who,
if ugly sometimes, yet possess a thousand good qualities, and usually end
by being immensely rich; makes the hero and heroine happy at last, and
happy ever after. Ah, happy, harmless Fable-land, where these things are!
Friendly reader! may you and the author meet there on some future day. He
hopes so; as he yet keeps a lingering hold of your hand, and bids you
farewell with a kind heart.
Paris, 28th June 1855.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Newcomes, by William Makepeace Thackeray
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