Before he saw Ethel, Clive vowed he was aware of her. Indeed, had not
Lady Fareham told him Miss Newcome was coming? Ethel, on the contrary,
not expecting him, or not having the prescience of love, exhibited signs
of surprise when she beheld him, her eyebrows arching, her eyes darting
looks of pleasure. When grandmamma happened to be in another room, she
beckoned Clive to her, dismissing Crackthorpe and Fobsby, Farintosh and
Bustington, the amorous youth who around her bowed, and summoning Mr.
Clive to an audience with the air of a young princess.
And so she was a princess; and this the region of her special dominion.
The wittiest and handsomest, she deserved to reign in such a place, by
right of merit and by general election. Clive felt her superiority, and
his own shortcomings: he came up to her as to a superior person. Perhaps
she was not sorry to let him see how she ordered away grandees and
splendid Bustingtons, informing them, with a superb manner, that she
wished to speak to her cousin--that handsome young man with the light
moustache yonder.
"Do you know many people? This is your first appearance in society? Shall
I introduce you to some nice girls to dance with?" What very pretty
buttons!"
"Is that what you wanted to say?" asked Clive, rather bewildered.
"What does one say at a ball? One talks conversation suited to the place.
If I were to say to Captain Crackthorpe, 'What pretty buttons!' he would
be delighted. But you--you have a soul above buttons, I suppose."
"Being, as you say, a stranger in this sort of society, you see I am not
accustomed to--to the exceeding brilliancy of its conversation," said
Clive.
"What! you want to go away, and we haven't seen each other for near a
year!" cries Ethel, in quite a natural voice. "Sir John Fobsby, I'm very
sorry--but do let me off this dance. I have just met my cousin, whom I
have not seen for a whole year, and I want to talk to him."
"It was not my fault that you did not see me sooner. I wrote to you that
I only got your letter a month ago. You never answered the second I wrote
you from Rome. Your letter lay there at the post ever so long, and was
forwarded to me at Naples."
"Where?" asked Ethel.
"I saw Lord Kew there." Ethel was smiling with all her might, and kissing
her hand to the twins, who passed at that moment with their mamma. "Oh,
indeed, you saw--how do you do?--Lord Kew."
"And, having seen him, I came over to England," said Clive.
Ethel looked at him, gravely. "What am I to understand by that, Clive?--
You came over because it was very hot at Naples, and because you wanted
to see your friends here, n'est-ce pas? How glad mamma was to see you!
You know she loves you as if you were her own son."
"What, as much as that angel, Barnes!" cries Clive, bitterly;
"impossible."
Ethel looked once more. Her present mood and desire was to treat Clive as
a chit, as a young fellow without consequence--a thirteenth younger
brother. But in his looks and behaviour there was that which seemed to
say not too many liberties were to be taken with him.
"Why weren't you here a month sooner, and you might have seen the
marriage? It was a very pretty thing. Everybody was there. Clara, and so
did Barnes really, looked quite handsome."
"It must have been beautiful," continued Clive; "quite a touching sight,
I am sure. Poor Charles Belsize could not be present because his brother
was dead; and----"
"And what else, pray, Mr. Newcome!" cries Miss, in great wrath, her pink
nostrils beginning to quiver. "I did not think, really, that when we met
after so many months, I was to be insulted; yes, insulted, by the mention
of that name."
"I most humbly ask pardon," said Clive, with a grave bow. "Heaven forbid
that I should wound your sensibility, Ethel! It is, as you say, my first
appearance in society. I talk about things or persons that I should not
mention. I should talk about buttons, should I? which you were good
enough to tell me was the proper subject of conversation. Mayn't I even
speak of connexions of the family? Mr. Belsize, through this marriage,
has the honour of being connected with you; and even I, in a remote
degree, may boast of a sort of an ever--so--distant cousinship with him.
What an honour for me!"
"Pray, what is the meaning of all this?" cries Miss Ethel, surprised, and
while he talked with her; smothering anger as he saw the young men round
about her; revolting against himself for the very humility of his
obedience, and angry at the eagerness and delight with which he had come
at her call.
"The meaning is, Ethel"--he broke out, seizing the opportunity--"that
when a man comes a thousand miles to see you, and shake your hand, you
should give it him a little more cordially than you choose to do to me;
that when a kinsman knocks at your door, time after time, you should try
and admit him; and that when you meet him you should treat him like an
old friend not as you treated me when my Lady Kew vouchsafed to give me
admittance; not as you treat these fools that are fribbling round about
you," cries Mr. Clive, in a great rage, folding his arms, and glaring
round on a number of the most innocent young swells; and he continued
looking as if he would like to knock a dozen of their heads together. "Am
I keeping Miss Newcome's admirers from her?"
"That is not for me to say," she said, quite gently. He was; but to see
him angry did not displease Miss Newcome.
"That young man who came for you just now," Clive went on--"that Sir
John----"
"Are you angry with me because I sent him away?" said Ethel, putting out
a hand. "Hark! there is the music. Take me in and waltz with me. Don't
you know it is not my door at which you knocked?" she said, looking up
into his face as simply and kindly as of old. She whirled round the
dancing-room with him in triumph, the other beauties dwindling before
her: she looked more and more beautiful with each rapid move of the
waltz, her colour heightening and her eyes seeming to brighten. Not till
the music stopped did she sink down on a seat, panting, and smiling
radiant--as many many hundred years ago I remember to have seen Taglioni
after a conquering pas seul. She nodded a "thank you" to Clive. It
seemed that there was a perfect reconciliation. Lady Kew came in just at
the end of the dance, scowling when she beheld Ethel's partner; but in
reply to her remonstrances, Ethel shrugged her fair shoulders, with a
look which seemed to say je le veux, gave an arm to her grandmother, an
walked off, saucily protecting her.
Clive's friend had been looking on observingly and curiously as the scene
between them had taken place, and at the dance with which the
reconciliation had been celebrated. I must tell you that this arch young
creature had formed the object of my observation for some months past,
and that I watched her as I have watched a beautiful panther at the
Zoological Gardens, so bright of eye, so sleek of coat, so slim in form,
so sweet and agile in her spring.
A more brilliant young coquette than Miss Newcome, in her second season,
these eyes never looked upon, that is the truth. In her first year, being
engaged to Lord Kew, she was perhaps a little more reserved and quiet.
Besides, her mother went out with her that first season, to whom Miss
Newcome except for a little occasional flightiness, was invariably
obedient and ready to come to call. But when Lady Kew appeared as her
duenna, the girl's delight seemed to be to plague the old lady, and she
would dance with the very youngest sons merey to put grandmamma in a
passion. In this way poor young Cubley (who has two hundred a year of
allowance, besides eighty, and an annual rise of five in the Treasury)
actually thought that Ethel was in love with him, and consulted with the
young men in his room in Downing Street, whether two hundred and eighty a
year, with five pound more next year, would be enough for them to keep
house on? Young Tandy of the Temple, Lord Skibbereen's younger son, who
sate in the House for some time on the Irish Catholic side, was also
deeply smitten, and many a night in our walks home from the parties at
the other end of the town, would entertain me with his admiration and
passion for her.
"If you have such a passion for her, why not propose?" it was asked of
Mr. Tandy.
"Propose! propose to a Russian Archduchess," cries young Tandy. "She's
beautiful, she's delightful, she's witty. I have never seen anything like
her eyes; they send me wild--wild," says Tandy--(slapping his waistcoat
under Temple Bar)--"but a more audacious little flirt never existed since
the days of Cleopatra."
With this opinion likewise in my mind, I had been looking on during
Clive's proceedings with Miss Ethel--not, I say, without admiration of
the young lady who was leading him such a dance. The waltz over, I
congratulated him on his own performance. His Continental practice had
greatly improved him. "And as for your partner, it is delightful to see
her," I went on. "I always like to be by when Miss Newcome dances. I had
sooner see her than anybody since Taglioni. Look at her now, with her
neck up, and her little foot out, just as she is preparing to start!
Happy Lord Bustington!"
"You are angry with her because she cut you," growls Clive. "You know you
said she cut you, or forgot you; and your vanity's wounded, that is why
you are so satirical."
"How can Miss Newcome remember all the men who are presented to her?"
says the other. "Last year she talked to me because she wanted to know
about you. This year she doesn't talk: because I suppose she doesn't want
to know about you any more."
"Hang it. Do--on't, Pen," cries Clive, as a schoolboy cries out to
another not to hit him.
"She does not pretend to observe: and is in full conversation with the
amiable Bustington. Delicious interchange of noble thoughts! But she is
observing us talking, and knows that we are talking about her. If ever
you marry her, Clive, which is absurd, I shall lose you for a friend. You
will infallibly tell her what I think of her: and she will order you to
give me up." Clive had gone off in a brown study, as his interlocutor
continued. "Yes, she is a flirt. She can't help her nature. She tries to
vanquish every one who comes near her. She is a little out of breath from
waltzing, and so she pretends to be listening to poor Bustington, who is
out of breath too, but puffs out his best in order to make himself
agreeable, with what a pretty air she appears to listen! Her eyes
actually seem to brighten."
"What?" says Clive, with a start.
I could not comprehend the meaning of the start: nor did I care much to
know: supposing that the young man was waking up from some lover's
reverie: and the evening sped away, Clive not quitting the ball until
Miss Newcome and the Countess of Kew had departed. No further
communication appeared to take place between the cousins that evening. I
think it was Captain Crackthorpe who gave the young lady an arm into her
carriage; Sir John Fobsby having the happiness to conduct the old
Countess, and carrying the pink bag for the shawls, wrappers, etc., on
which her ladyship's coronet and initials are emblazoned. Clive may have
made a movement as if to step forward, but a single finger from Miss
Newcome warned him back.
Clive and his two friends in Lamb Court had made an engagement for the
next Saturday to dine at Greenwich; but on the morning of that day there
came a note from him to say that he thought of going down to see his
aunt, Miss Honeyman, and begged to recall his promise to us. Saturday is
a holiday with gentlemen of our profession. We had invited F. Bayham,
Esquire, and promised ourselves a merry evening, and were unwilling to
baulk ourselves of the pleasure on account of the absence of our young
Roman. So we three went to London Bridge Station at an early hour,
proposing to breathe the fresh air of Greenwich Park before dinner. And,
at London Bridge, by the most singular coincidence, Lady Kew's carriage
drove up to the Brighton entrance, and Miss Ethel and her maid stepped
out of the brougham.
When Miss Newcome and her maid entered the Brighton station, did Mr.
Clive, by another singular coincidence, happen also to be there? What
more natural and dutiful than that he should go and see his aunt, Miss
Honeyman? What more proper than that Miss Ethel should pass the Saturday
and Sunday with her sick father; and take a couple of wholesome nights'
rest after those five weary past evenings, for each of which we may
reckon a couple of soirees and a ball? And that relations should travel
together, the young lady being protected by her femme-de-chambre; that
surely, as every one must allow, was perfectly right and proper.
That a biographer should profess to know everything which passes, even in
a confidential talk in a first-class carriage between two lovers, seems
perfectly absurd; not that grave historians do not pretend to the same
wonderful degree of knowledge--reporting meetings of the most occult of
conspirators; private interviews between monarchs and their ministers,
even the secret thoughts and motives of those personages, which possibly
the persons themselves did not know;--all for which the present writer
will pledge his known character for veracity is, that on a certain day
certain parties had a conversation, of which the upshot was so-and-so. He
guesses, of course, at a great deal of what took place; knowing the
characters, and being informed at some time of their meeting. You do not
suppose that I bribed the femme-de-chambre, or that those two City gents,
who sate in the same carriage with our young friends, and could not hear
a word they said, reported their talk to me? If Clive and Ethel had had a
coupe to themselves, I would yet boldly tell what took place, but the
coupe was taken by other three young City gents who smoked the whole way.
"Well, then," the bonnet begins close up to the hat, "tell me, sir, is it
true that you were so very much epris of the Miss Freemans at Rome; and
that afterwards you were so wonderfully attentive to the third Miss
Baliol? Did you draw her portrait? You know you drew her portrait. You
painters always pretend to admire girls with auburn hair, because Titian
and Raphael painted it. Has the Fornarina red hair? Why, we are at
Croydon, I declare!"
"The Fornarina"--the hat replies to the bonnet, "if that picture at the
Borghese Palace be an original, or a likeness of her--is not a
handsome woman, with vulgar eyes and mouth, and altogether a most
mahogany-coloured person. She is so plain, in fact, I think that very
likely it is the real woman; for it is with their own fancies that men
fall in love,--or rather every woman is handsome to the lover. You know
how old Helen must have been."
"I don't know any such thing, or anything about her. Who was Helen?" asks
the bonnet; and indeed she did not know.
"It's a long story, and such an old scandal now, that there is no use in
repeating it," says Clive.
"You only talk about Helen because you wish to turn away the conversation
from Miss Freeman," cries the young lady--"from Miss Baliol, I mean."
"We will talk about whichever you please. Which shall we begin to pull to
pieces?" says Clive. You see, to be in this carriage--to be actually with
her--to be looking into those wonderful lucid eyes--to see her sweet
mouth dimpling, and hear her sweet voice ringing with its delicious
laughter--to have that hour and a half his own, in spite of all the
world-dragons, grandmothers, convenances, the future--made the young
fellow so happy, filled his whole frame and spirit with a delight so
keen, that no wonder he was gay, and brisk, and lively.
"And so you knew of my goings-on?" he asked. O me! they were at Reigate
by this time; there was Gatton Park flying before them on the wings of
the wind.
"I know of a number of things," says the bonnet, nodding with ambrosial
curls.
"And you would not answer the second letter I wrote to you?
"We were in great perplexity. One cannot be always answering young
gentlemen's letters. I had considerable doubt about answering a note I
got from Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square," says the lady's chapeau. "No,
Clive, we must not write to one another," she continued more gravely, "or
only very, very seldom. Nay, my meeting you here to-day is by the merest
chance, I am sure; for when I mentioned at Lady Fareham's the other
evening that I was going to see papa at Brighton to-day, I never for one
moment thought of seeing you in the train. But as you are here, it can't
be helped; and I may as well tell you that there are obstacles."
"What, other obstacles?" Clive gasped out.
"Nonsense--you silly boy! No other obstacles but those which always have
existed, and must. When we parted--that is, when you left us at Baden,
you knew it was for the best. You had your profession to follow, and
could not go on idling about--about a family of sick people and children.
Every man has his profession, and you yours, as you would have it. We are
so nearly allied that we may--we may like each other like brother and
sister almost. I don't know what Barnes would say if he heard me!
Wherever you and your father are, how can I ever think of you but--but
you know how? I always shall, always. There are certain feelings we have
which I hope never can change; though, if you please, about them I intend
never to speak any more. Neither you nor I can alter our conditions, but
must make the best of them. You shall be a fine clever painter; and I,--
who knows what will happen to me? I know what is going to happen to-day;
I am going to see papa and mamma, and be as happy as I can till Monday