is the best: I have borrowed that from you Pen, old boy. That puzzles
her: that would beat her if I could but go on with it. But there comes a
tone of her sweet voice, a look out of those killing grey eyes, and all
my frame is in a thrill and a tremble. When she was engaged to Lord Kew I
did battle with the confounded passion--and I ran away from it like an
honest man, and the gods rewarded me with ease of mind after a while. But
now the thing rages worse than ever. Last night, I give you my honour, I
heard every one of the confounded hurs toll, except the last, when I was
dreaming of my father, and the chambermaid woke me with a hot water jug."
"Did she scald you? What a cruel chambermaid! I see you have shaven the
mustachios off."
"Farintosh asked me whether I was going in the army," said Clive, "and
she laughed. I thought I had best dock them. Oh, I would like to cut my
head off as well as my hair!"
"Have you ever asked her to marry you?" asked Clive's friend.
"I have seen her but five times since my return from abroad," the lad
went on; "there has been always somebody by. Who am I? a painter with
five hundred a year for an allowance. Isn't she used to walk up on velvet
and dine upon silver; and hasn't she got marquises and barons, and all
sorts of swells, in her train? I daren't ask her----"
Here his friend hummed Montrose's lines--"He either fears his fate too
much, or his desert is small, who dares not put it to the touch, and win
or lose it all."
"I own I dare not ask her. If she were to refuse me, I know I should
never ask again. This isn't the moment, when all Swelldom is at her feet,
for me to come forward and say, 'Maiden, I have watched thee daily, and I
think thou lovest me well.' I read that ballad to her at Baden, sir. I
drew a picture of the Lord of Burleigh wooing the maiden, and asked what
she would have done?"
"Oh, you did? I thought, when we were at Baden, we were so modest that we
did not even whisper our condition?"
"A fellow can't help letting it be seen and hinting it," says Clive, with
another blush. "They can read it in our looks fast enough; and what is
going on in our minds, hang them! I recollect she said, in her grave,
cool way, that after all the Lord and Lady of Burleigh did not seem to
have made a very good marriage, and that the lady would have been much
happier in marrying one of her own degree."
"That was a very prudent saying for a young lady of eighteen," remarks
Clive's friend.
"Yes; but it was not an unkind one. Say Ethel thought--thought what was
the case; and being engaged herself, and knowing how friends of mine had
provided a very pretty little partner for me--she is a dear, good little
girl, little Rosey; and twice as good, Pen, when her mother is away--
knowing this and that, I say, suppose Ethel wanted to give me a hint to
keep quiet, was she not right in the counsel she gave me? She is not fit
to be a poor man's wife. Fancy Ethel Newcome going into the kitchen and
making pies like Aunt Honeyman!"
"The Circassian beauties don't sell under so many thousand purses,"
remarked Mr. Pendennis. "If there's a beauty in a well-regulated Georgian
family, they fatten her; they feed her with the best Racahout des Arabes.
They give her silk robes, and perfumed baths; have her taught to play on
the dulcimer and dance and sing; and when she is quite perfect, send her
down to Constantinople for the Sultan's inspection. The rest of the
family think never of grumbling, but eat coarse meat, bathe in the river,
wear old clothes, and praise Allah for their sister's elevation. Bah! Do
you suppose the Turkish system doesn't obtain all over the world? My poor
Clive, this article in the Mayfair Market is beyond your worship's price.
Some things in this world are made for our betters, young man. Let Dives
say grace for his dinner, and the dogs and Lazarus be thankful for the
crumbs. Here comes Warrington, shaven and smart as if he was going out
a-courting."
Thus it will be seen, that in his communication with certain friends who
approached nearer to his own time of life, Clive was much more eloquent
and rhapsodical than in the letter which he wrote to his father,
regarding his passion for Miss Ethel. He celebrated her with pencil and
pen. He was for ever drawing the outline of her head, the solemn eyebrow,
the nose (that wondrous little nose), descending from the straight
neck, etc. etc. A frequenter of his studio might see a whole gallery of
Ethels there represented: when Mrs. Mackenzie visited that place, and
remarked one face and figure repeated on a hundred canvases and papers,
grey, white, and brown, I believe she was told that the original was a
famous Roman model, from whom Clive had studied a great deal during his
residence in Italy; on which Mrs. Mack gave it as her opinion that Clive
was a sad wicked young fellow. The widow thought rather the better of him
for being a sad wicked young fellow; and as for Miss Rosey, she, was of
course of mamma's way of thinking. Rosey went through the world
constantly smiling at whatever occurred. She was good-humoured through
the dreariest long evenings at the most stupid parties; sate
good-humouredly for hours at Shoolbred's whilst mamma was making
purchases; heard good-humouredly those old old stories of her mother's
day after day; bore an hour's joking or an hour's scolding with equal
good-humour; and whatever had been the occurrences of her simple day,
whether there was sunshine or cloudy weather, or flashes of lightning and
bursts of rain, I fancy Miss Mackenzie slept after them quite
undisturbedly, and was sure to greet the morrow's dawn with a smile.
Had Clive become more knowing in his travels, had Love or Experience
opened his eyes, that they looked so differently now upon objects which
before used well enough to please them? It is a fact that, until he went
abroad, he thought widow Mackenzie a dashing, lively, agreeable woman: he
used to receive her stories about Cheltenham, the colonies, the balls at
Government House, the observations which the bishop made, and the
peculiar attention of the Chief Justice to Mrs. Major M'Shane, with the
Major's uneasy behaviour--all these to hear at one time did Clive not
ungraciously incline. "Our friend, Mrs. Mack," the good old Colonel used
to say, "is a clever woman of the world, and has seen a great deal of
company." That story of Sir Thomas Sadman dropping a pocket-handkerchief
in his court at Colombo, which the Queen's Advocate O'Goggarty picked up,
and on which Laura MacS. was embroidered, whilst the Major was absolutely
in the witness-box giving evidence against a native servant who had
stolen one of his cocked-hats--that story always made good Thomas Newcome
laugh, and Clive used to enjoy it too, and the widow's mischievous fun in
narrating it; and now, behold, one day when Mrs. Mackenzie recounted the
anecdote in her best manner to Messrs. Pendennis and Warrington, and
Frederick Bayham, who had been inv
ited to meet Mr. Clive in Fitzroy
Square--when Mr. Binnie chuckled, when Rosey, as in duty bound, looked
discomposed and said, "Law, mamma!"--not one sign of good-humour, not one
ghost of a smile, made its apparition on Clive's dreary face. He painted
imaginary portraits with a strawberry stalk; he looked into his
water-glass as though he would plunge and drown there; and Bayham had to
remind him that the claret jug was anxious to have another embrace from
its constant friend, F. B. When Mrs. Mack went away distributing smiles,
Clive groaned out, "Good heavens! how that story does bore me!" and
lapsed into his former moodiness, not giving so much as a glance to
Rosey, whose sweet face looked at him kindly for a moment, as she
followed in the wake of her mamma.
"The mother's the woman for my money," I heard F. B. whisper to
Warrington. "Splendid figure-head, sir--magnificent build, sir, from bows
to stern--I like 'em of that sort. Thank you, Mr. Binnie, I will take a
back-hander, as Clive don't seem to drink. The youth, sir, has grown
melancholy with his travels; I'm inclined to think some noble Roman has
stolen the young man's heart. Why did you not send us over a picture of
the charmer, Clive? Young Ridley, Mr. Binnie, you will be happy to hear,
is bidding fair to take a distinguished place in the world of arts. His
picture has been greatly admired; and my good friend Mrs. Ridley tells me
that Lord Todmorden has sent him over an order to paint him a couple of
pictures at a hundred guineas apiece."
"I should think so. J. J.'s pictures will be worth five times a hundred
guineas ere five years are over," says Clive.
"In that case it wouldn't be a bad speculation for our friend Sherrick,"
remarked F. B., "to purchase a few of the young man's works. I would,
only I haven't the capital to spare. Mine has been vested in an Odessa
venture, sir, in a large amount of wild oats, which up to the present
think that I have been the means--the humble means--of furthering that
deserving young man's prospects in life."
"You, F. B.! and how?" we asked.
"By certain humble contributions of mine to the press," answered Bayham,
majestically. "Mr. Warrington, the claret happens to stand with you; and
exercise does it good, sir. Yes, the articles, trifling as they may
appear, have attracted notice," continued F. B., sipping his wine with
great gusto. "They are noticed, Pendennis, give me leave to say, by
parties who don't value so much the literary or even the political part
of the Pall Mall Gazette, though both, I am told by those who read them,
are conducted with considerable--consummate ability. John Ridley sent a
hundred pounds over to his father, the other day, who funded it in his
son's name. And Ridley told the story to Lord Todmorden, when the
venerable nobleman congratulated him on having such a child. I wish F. B.
had one of the same sort, sir." In which sweet prayer we all of us joined
with a laugh.
One of us had told Mrs. Mackenzie (let the criminal blush to own that
quizzing his fellow-creatures used at one time to form part of his
youthful amusement) that F. B. was the son of a gentleman of most ancient
family and vast landed possessions, and as Bayham was particularly
attentive to the widow, and grandiloquent in his remarks, she was greatly
pleased by his politeness, and pronounced him a most distinque man--
reminding her, indeed, of General Hopkirk, who commanded in Canada. And
she bade Rosey sing for Mr. Bayham, who was in a rapture at the young
lady's performances, and said no wonder such an accomplished daughter
came from such a mother, though how such a mother could have a daughter
of such an age he, F. B., was at a loss to understand. Oh, sir! Mrs.
Mackenzie was charmed and overcome at this novel compliment. Meanwhile
the little artless Rosey warbled on her pretty ditties.
"It is a wonder," growled out Mr. Warrington, "that that sweet girl can
belong to such a woman. I don't understand much about women, but that one
appears to me to be--hum!"
"What, George?" asked Warrington's friend.
"Well, an ogling, leering, scheming, artful old campaigner," grumbled the
misogynist. "As for the little girl, I should like to have her to sing to
me all night long. Depend upon it she would make a much better wife for
Clive than that fashionable cousin of his he is hankering after. I heard
him bellowing about her the other day in chambers, as I was dressing.
What the deuce does the boy want with a wife at all?" And Rosey's song
being by this time finished, Warrington went up with a blushing face and
absolutely paid a compliment to Miss Mackenzie--an almost unheard-of
effort on George's part.
"I wonder whether it is every young fellow's lot," quoth George, as we
trudged home together, "to pawn his heart away to some girl that's not
worth the winning? Psha! it's all mad rubbish this sentiment. The women
ought not to be allowed to interfere with us: married if a man must be, a
suitable wife should be portioned out to him, and there an end of it. Why
doesn't the young man marry this girl, and get back to his business and
paint his pictures? Because his father wishes it--and the old Nabob
yonder, who seems a kindly-disposed, easy-going, old heathen philosopher.
Here's a pretty little girl: money I suppose in sufficiency--everything
satisfactory, except, I grant you, the campaigner. The lad might daub his
canvases, christen a child a year, and be as happy as any young donkey
that browses on this common of ours--but he must go and heehaw after a
zebra forsooth! a lusus naturae is she! I never spoke to a woman of
fashion, thank my stars--I don't know the nature of the beast; and since
I went to our race-balls, as a boy, scarcely ever saw one; as I don't
frequent operas and parties in London like you young flunkeys of the
aristocracy. I heard you talking about this one; I couldn't help it, as
my door was open and the young one was shouting like a madman. What! does
he choose to hang on on sufferance and hope to be taken, provided Miss
can get no better? Do you mean to say that is the genteel custom, and
that women in your confounded society do such things every day? Rather
than have such a creature I would take a savage woman, who should nurse
my dusky brood; and rather than have a daughter brought up to the trade I
would bring her down from the woods and sell her in Virginia." With which
burst of indignation our friend's anger ended for that night.
Though Mr. Clive had the felicity to meet his cousin Ethel at a party or
two in the ensuing weeks of the season, every time he perused the
features of Lady Kew's brass knocker in Queen Street, no result came of
the visit. At one of their meetings in the world Ethel fairly told him
that her grandmother would not receive him. "You know, Clive, I can't
help myself: nor would it be proper to make you signs out of the window.
But you must call for all that: grandmamma may become more good-humoured:
or if you d
on't come she may suspect I told you not to come: and to
battle with her day after day is no pleasure, sir, I assure you. Here is
Lord Farintosh coming to take me to dance. You must not speak to me all
the evening, mind that, sir," and away goes the young lady in a waltz
with the Marquis.
On the same evening--as he was biting his nails, or cursing his fate, or
wishing to invite Lord Farintosh into the neighbouring garden of Berkeley
Square, whence the policeman might carry to the station-house the corpse
of the survivor,--Lady Kew would bow to him with perfect graciousness; on
other nights her ladyship would pass and no more recognise him than the
servant who opened the door.
If she was not to see him at her grandmother's house, and was not
particularly unhappy at his exclusion, why did Miss Newcome encourage Mr.
Clive so that he should try and see her? If Clive could not get into the
little house in Queen Street, why was Lord Farintosh's enormous cab-horse
looking daily into the first-floor windows of that street? Why were
little quiet dinners made for him, before the opera, before going to the
play, upon a half-dozen occasions, when some of the old old Kew port was
brought out of the cellar, where cobwebs had gathered round it ere
Farintosh was born? The dining-room was so tiny that not more than five
people could sit at the little round table: that is, not more than Lady
Kew and her granddaughter, Miss Crochet, the late vicar's daughter, at
Kewbury, one of the Miss Toadins, and Captain Walleye, or Tommy Henchman,
Farintosh's kinsman, and admirer, who were of no consequence, or old Fred
Tiddler, whose wife was an invalid, and who was always ready at a
moment's notice? Crackthorpe once went to one of these dinners, but that
young soldier being a frank and high-spirited youth, abused the
entertainment and declined more of them. "I tell you what I was wanted
for," the Captain told his mess and Clive at the Regent's Park barracks
afterwards, "I was expected to go as Farintosh's Groom of the Stole,
don't you know, to stand, or if I could sit, in the back seat of the box,
whilst his Royal Highness made talk with the Beauty; to go out and fetch
the carriage, and walk downstairs with that d----- crooked old dowager,
that looks as if she usually rode on a broomstick, by Jove, or else with
that bony old painted sheep-faced companion, who's raddled like an old
bell-wether. I think, Newcome, you seem rather hit by the Belle Cousine--
so was I last season; so were ever so many of the fellows. By Jove, sir!
there's nothing I know more comfortable or inspiritin' than a younger
son's position, when a marquis cuts in with fifteen thousand a year! We
fancy we've been making running, and suddenly we find ourselves nowhere.
Miss Mary, or Miss Lucy, or Miss Ethel, saving your presence, will no
more look at us, than my dog will look at a bit of bread, when I offer
her this cutlet. Will you--old woman! no, you old slut, that you won't!"
(to Mag, an Isle of Skye terrier, who, in fact, prefers the cutlet,
having snuffed disdainfully at the bread)--"that you won't, no more than
any of your sex. Why, do you suppose, if Jack's eldest brother had been
dead--Barebones Belsize they used to call him (I don't believe he was a
bad fellow, though he was fond of psalm-singing)--do you suppose that
Lady Clara would have looked at that cock-tail Barney Newcome? Beg your
pardon, if he's your cousin--but a more odious little snob I never saw."
"I give you up Barnes," said Clive, laughing; "anybody may shy at him and
I shan't interfere."
"I understand, but at nobody else of the family. Well, what I mean is,
that that old woman is enough to spoil any young girl she takes in hand.
She dries 'em up, and poisons 'em, sir; and I was never more glad than
when I heard that Kew had got out of her old clutches. Frank is a fellow