terror.
"Fighting is Jack Belsize's business, Barnes Newcome; banking is yours,
luckily," said the dowager. "As old Lord Highgate was to die and his
eldest son, too, it is a pity certainly they had not died a year or two
earlier, and left poor Clara and Charles to come together. You should
have married some woman in the serious way; my daughter Walham could have
found you one. Frank, I am told, and his wife go on very sweetly
together; her mother-in-law governs the whole family. They have turned
the theatre back into a chapel again: they have six little ploughboys
dressed in surplices to sing the service; and Frank and the Vicar of
Kewbury play at cricket with them on holidays. Stay, why should not Clara
go to Kewbury?"
"She and her sister have quarrelled about this very affair with Lord
Highgate. Some time ago it appears they had words about it and when I
told Kew that bygones had best be bygones, that Highgate was very sweet
upon Ethel now, and that I did not choose to lose such a good account as
his, Kew was very insolent to me; his conduct was blackguardly, ma'am,
quite blackguardly, and you may be sure but for our relationship I would
have called him to----"
Here the talk between Barnes and his ancestress was interrupted by the
appearance of Miss Ethel Newcome, taper in hand, who descended from the
upper regions enveloped in a shawl.
"How do you do, Barnes? How is Clara? I long to see my little nephew. Is
he like his pretty papa?" cries the young lady, giving her fair cheek to
her brother.
"Scotland has agreed with our Newcome rose," says Barnes, gallantly. "My
dear Ethel, I never saw you in greater beauty."
"By the light of one bedroom candle! what should I be if the whole room
were lighted? You would see my face then was covered all over with
wrinkles, and quite pale and woebegone, with the dreariness of the Scotch
journey. Oh, what a time we have spent! haven't we, grandmamma? I never
wish to go to a great castle again; above all, I never wish to go to a
little shooting-box. Scotland may be very well for men; but for women--
allow me to go to Paris when next there is talk of a Scotch expedition. I
had rather be in a boarding-school in the Champs Elysees than in the
finest castle in the Highlands. If it had not been for a blessed quarrel
with Fanny Follington, I think I should have died at Glen Shorthorn. Have
you seen my dear, dear uncle, the Colonel? When did he arrive?"
"Is he come? Why is he come?" asks Lady Kew.
"Is he come? Look here, grandmamma! did you ever see such a darling
shawl! I found it in a packet in my room."
"Well, it is beautiful," cries the Dowager, bending her ancient nose over
the web. "Your Colonel is a galant homme. That must be said of him; and
in this does not quite take after the rest of the family. Hum! hum! is he
going away again soon?"
"He has made a fortune, a very considerable fortune for a man in that
rank in life," says Sir Barnes. "He cannot have less than sixty thousand
pounds."
"Is that much?" asks Ethel.
"Not in England, at our rate of interest; but his money is in India,
where he gets a great percentage. His income must be five or six thousand
pounds, ma'am," says Barnes, turning to Lady Kew.
"A few of the Indians were in society in my time, my dear," says Lady
Kew, musingly. "My father has often talked to me about Barbell of
Stanstead, and his house in St. James's Square; the man who ordered more
curricles when there were not carriages enough for his guests. I was
taken to Mr. Hastings's trial. It was very stupid and long. The young
man, the painter, I suppose will leave his paint-pots now, and set up as
a gentleman. I suppose they were very poor, or his father would not have
put him to such a profession. Barnes, why did you not make him a clerk in
the bank, and save him from the humiliation?"
"Humiliation! why, he is proud of it. My uncle is as proud as a
Plantagenet; though he is as humble as--as what! Give me a simile Barnes.
Do you know what my quarrel with Fanny Follington was about? She said we
were not descended from the barber-surgeon, and laughed at the Battle of
Bosworth. She says our great-grandfather was a weaver. Was he a weaver?"
"How should I know? and what on earth does it matter, my child? Except
the Gaunts, the Howards, and one or two more, there is scarcely any good
blood in England. You are lucky in sharing some of mine. My poor Lord
Kew's grandfather was an apothecary at Hampton Court, and founded the
family by giving a dose of rhubarb to Queen Caroline. As a rule, nobody
is of a good family. Didn't that young man, that son of the Colonel's, go
about last year? How did he get in society? Where did we meet him? Oh! at
Baden, yes; when Barnes was courting, and my grandson--yes, my grandson,
acted so wickedly." Here she began to cough, and to tremble so, that her
old stick shook under her hand. "Ring the bell for Ross. Ross, I will go
to bed. Go you too, Ethel. You have been travelling enough to-day."
"Her memory seems to fail her a little," Ethel whispered to her brother;
"or she will only remember what she wishes. Don't you see that she has
grown very much older?"
"I will be with her in the morning. I have business with her," said
Barnes.
"Good night. Give my love to Clara, and kiss the little ones for me. Have
you done what you promised me, Barnes?"
"What?"
"To be--to be kind to Clara. Don't say cruel things to her. She has a
high spirit, and she feels them, though she says nothing."
"Doesn't she?" said Barnes, grimly.
"Ah, Barnes, be gentle with her. Seldom as I saw you together, when I
lived with you in the spring, I could see that you were harsh, though she
affected to laugh when she spoke of your conduct to her. Be kind. I am
sure it is the best, Barnes; better than all the wit in the world. Look
at grandmamma, how witty she was and is; what a reputation she had, how
people were afraid of her; and see her now--quite alone."
"I'll see her in the morning quite alone, my dear," says Barnes, waving a
little gloved hand. "Bye-bye!" and his brougham drove away. While Ethel
Newcome had been under her brother's roof, where I and friend Clive, and
scores of others, had been smartly entertained, there had been quarrels
and recriminations, misery and heart-burning, cruel words and shameful
struggles, the wretched combatants in which appeared before the world
with smiling faces, resuming their battle when the feast was concluded
and the company gone.
On the next morning, when Barnes came to visit his grandmother, Miss
Newcome was gone away to see her sister-in-law, Lady Kew said, with whom
she was going to pass the morning; so Barnes and Lady Kew had an
uninterrupted tete-a-tete, in which the former acquainted the old lady
with the proposal which Colonel Newcome had made to him on the previous
night.
Lady Kew wondered what the impudence of the world's would come to. An
artist propose for Ethel! One of her footmen might propose next, and sh
e
supposed Barnes would bring the message. "The father came and proposed
for this young painter, and you didn't order him out of the room!"
Barnes laughed. "The Colonel is one of my constituents. I can't afford to
order the Bundelcund Banking Company out of its own room."
"You did not tell Ethel this pretty news, I suppose?"
"Of course I didn't tell Ethel. Nor did I tell the Colonel that Ethel was
in London. He fancies her in Scotland with your ladyship at this moment."
"I wish the Colonel were at Calcutta, and his son with him. I wish he was
in the Ganges, I wish he was under Juggernaut's car," cried the old lady.
"How much money has the wretch really got? If he is of importance to the
bank, of course you must keep well with him. Five thousand a year, and he
says he will settle it all on his son? He must be crazy. There is nothing
some of these people will not do, no sacrifice they will not make, to
ally themselves with good families. Certainly you must remain on good
terms with him and his bank. And we must say nothing of the business to
Ethel, and trot out of town as quickly as we can. Let me see? We go to
Drummington on Saturday. This is Tuesday. Barkins, you will keep the
front drawing-room shutters shut, and remember we are not in town, unless
Lady Glenlivat or Lord Farintosh should call."
"Do you think Farintosh will--will call, ma'am?" asked Sir Barnes
demurely.
"He will be going through to Newmarket. He has been where we have been at
two or three places in Scotland," replies the lady, with equal gravity.
"His poor mother wishes him to give up his bachelor's life--as well she
may--for you young men are terribly dissipated. Rossmont is quite a regal
place. His Norfolk house is not inferior. A young man of that station
ought to marry, and live at his places, and be an example to his people,
instead of frittering away his time at Paris and Vienna amongst the most
"Is he going to Drummington?" asks the grandson.
"I believe he has been invited. We shall go to Paris for November: he
probably will be there," answered the Dowager casually; "and tired of the
dissipated life he has been leading, let us hope he will mend his ways,
and find a virtuous, well-bred young woman to keep him right." With this
her ladyship's apothecary is announced, and her banker and grandson takes
his leave.
Sir Barnes walked into the City with his umbrella, read his letters,
conferred with his partners and confidential clerks; was for a while not
the exasperated husband, or the affectionate brother, or the amiable
grandson, but the shrewd, brisk banker, engaged entirely with his
business. Presently he had occasion to go on 'Change, or elsewhere, to
confer with brother-capitalists, and in Cornhill behold he meets his
uncle, Colonel Newcome, riding towards the India House, a groom behind
him.
The Colonel springs off his horse, and Barnes greets him in the blandest
manner. "Have you any news for me, Barnes?" cries the officer.
"The accounts from Calcutta are remarkably good. That cotton is of
admirable quality really. Mr. Briggs, of our house, who knows cotton as
well as any man in England, says----"
"It's not the cotton, my dear Sir Barnes," cries the other.
"The bills are perfectly good; there is no sort of difficulty about them.
Our house will take half a million of 'em, if----"
"You are talking of bills, and I am thinking of poor Clive," the Colonel
interposes. "I wish you could give me good news for him, Barnes."
"I wish I could. I heartily trust that I may some day. My good wishes you
know are enlisted in your son's behalf," cries Barnes, gallantly. "Droll
place to talk sentiment in--Cornhill, isn't it? But Ethel, as I told you,
is in the hands of higher powers, and we must conciliate Lady Kew if we
can. She has always spoken very highly of Clive; very."
"Had I not best go to her?" asks the Colonel.
"Into the North, my good sir? She is--ah--she is travelling about. I
think you had best depend upon me, Good morning. In the City we have no
hearts, you know, Colonel. Be sure you shall hear from me as soon as Lady
Kew and Ethel come to town."
And the banker hurried away, shaking his finger-tips to his uncle, and
leaving the good Colonel utterly surprised at his statements. For the
fact is, the Colonel knew that Lady Kew was in London, having been
apprised of the circumstance in the simplest manner in the world, namely,
by a note from Miss Ethel, which billet he had in his pocket, whilst he
was talking with the head of the house of Hobson Brothers:--
"My dear uncle" (the note said), "how glad I shall be to see you! How
shall I thank you for the beautiful shawl, and the kind, kind remembrance
of me? I found your present yesterday evening, on our arrival from the
North. We are only here en passant, and see nobody in Queen Street but
Barnes, who has just been about business, and he does not count, you
know. I shall go and see Clara to-morrow, and make her take me to see
your pretty friend, Mrs. Pendennis. How glad I should be if you happened
to pay Mrs. P. a visit about two! Good-night. I thank you a thousand
times, and am always your affectionate E."
"Queen Street. Tuesday night. Twelve o'clock."
This note came to Colonel Newcome's breakfast-table, and he smothered the
exclamation of wonder which was rising to his lips, not choosing to
provoke the questions of Clive, who sate opposite to him. Clive's father
was in a woeful perplexity all that forenoon. "Tuesday night, twelve
o'clock," thought he. "Why, Barnes must have gone to his grandmother from
my dinner-table; and he told me she was out of town, and said so again
just now when we met in the City." (The Colonel was riding towards
Richmond at this time.) "What cause had the young man to tell me these
lies? Lady Kew may not wish to be at home for me, but need Barnes Newcome
say what is untrue to mislead me? The fellow actually went away
simpering, and kissing his hand to me, with a falsehood on his lips! What
a pretty villain! A fellow would deserve, and has got, a horse-whipping
for less. And to think of a Newcome doing this to his own flesh and
blood; a young Judas!" Very sad and bewildered, the Colonel rode towards
Richmond, where he was to happen to call on Mrs. Pendennis.
It was not much of a fib that Barnes had told. Lady Kew announcing that
she was out of town, her grandson, no doubt, thought himself justified in
recollected how Ethel came down with the Colonel's shawl on her
shoulders, how it was possible she might have written to thank her uncle,
surely Barnes Newcome would not have pulled that unlucky long-bow. The
banker had other things to think of than Ethel and her shawl.
When Thomas Newcome dismounted at the door of Honeymoon Cottage,
Richmond, the temporary residence of A. Pendennis, Esq., one of the
handsomest young women in England ran into the passage with outstretched
arms, called him her dear old uncle, an
d gave him two kisses, that I dare
say brought blushes on his lean sunburnt cheeks. Ethel clung always to
his affection. She wanted that man, rather than any other in the whole
world, to think well of her. When she was with him, she was the amiable
and simple, the loving impetuous creature of old times. She chose to
think of no other. Worldliness, heartlessness, eager scheming, cold
flirtations, marquis-hunting and the like, disappeared for a while--and
were not, as she sate at that honest man's side. O me! that we should
have to record such charges against Ethel Newcome!
"He was come home for good now? He would never leave that boy he spoiled
so, who was a good boy, too: she wished she could see him oftener. At
Paris, at Madame de Florac's--I found out all about Madame de Florac,
sir," says Miss Ethel, with a laugh--"we used often to meet there; and
here, sometimes, in London. But in London it was different. You know what
peculiar notions some people have; and as I live with grandmamma, who is
most kind to me and my brothers, of course I must obey her, see her,"
etc. etc. That the young lady went on talking, defending herself, whom
nobody attacked, protesting her dislike to gaiety and dissipation--you
would have fancied her an artless young country lass, only longing to
trip back to her village, milk her cows at sunrise, and sit spinning of
winter evenings by the fire.
"Why do you come and spoil my tete-a-tete with my uncle, Mr. Pendennis?"
cries the young lady to the master of the house, who happens to enter "Of
all the men in the world the one I like best to talk to! Does he not look
younger than when he went to India? When Clive marries that pretty little
Miss Mackenzie, you will marry again, uncle, and I will be jealous of
your wife."
"Did Barnes tell you that we had met last night, my dear?" asks the
Colonel.
"Not one word. Your shawl and your dear kind note told me you were come.
Why did not Barnes tell us? Why do you look so grave?"
"He has not told her that I was here, and would have me believe her
absent," thought Newcome, as his countenance fell. "Shall I give her my
own message, and plead my poor boy's cause with her?" I know not whether
he was about to lay his suit before her; he said himself subsequently
that his mind was not made up; but at this juncture, a procession of
nurses and babies made their appearance, followed by the two mothers, who
had been comparing their mutual prodigies (each lady having her own
private opinion)--Lady Clara and my wife--the latter for once gracious to
Lady Clara Newcome, in consideration of the infantine company with which
she came to visit Mrs. Pendennis.
Luncheon was served presently. The carriage of the Newcomes drove away,
my wife smilingly pardoning Ethel for the assignation which the young
person had made at our house. And when those ladies were gone, our good
Colonel held a council of war with us his two friends, and told us what
had happened between him and Barnes on that morning and the previous
night. His offer to sacrifice every shilling of his fortune to young
Clive seemed to him to be perfectly simple (though the recital of the
circumstance brought tears into my wife's eyes)--he mentioned it by the
way, and as a matter that was scarcely to call for comment, much less
praise.
Barnes's extraordinary statements respecting Lady Kew's absence puzzled
the elder Newcome; and he spoke of his nephew's conduct with much
indignation. In vain I urged that her ladyship desiring to be considered
absent from London, her grandson was bound to keep her secret. "Keep her
secret, yes! Tell me lies, no!" cries out the Colonel. Sir Barnes's
conduct was in fact indefensible, though not altogether unusual--the
worst deduction to be drawn from it, in my opinion, was, that Clive's