the institutions of their country, and the admired wisdom of the nation
that set him to legislate over us. When Lord Farintosh walked the streets
at night, he felt himself like Haroun Alraschid--(that is, he would have
felt so had he ever heard of the Arabian potentate)--a monarch in
disguise affably observing and promenading the city. And let us be sure
there was a Mesrour in his train to knock at the doors for him and run
the errands of this young caliph. Of course he met with scores of men in
life who neither flattered him nor would suffer his airs; but he did not
like the company of such, or for the sake of truth undergo the ordeal of
being laughed at; he preferred toadies, generally speaking. "I like,"
says he, "you know, those fellows who are always saying pleasant things,
you know, and who would run from here to Hammersmith if I asked 'em--much
better than those fellows who are always making fun of me, you know." A
man of his station who likes flatterers need not shut himself up; he can
get plenty of society.
As for women, it was his lordship's opinion that every daughter of Eve
was bent on marrying him. A Scotch marquis, an English earl, of the best
blood in the empire, with a handsome person, and a fortune of fifteen
thousand a year, how could the poor creatures do otherwise than long for
him? He blandly received their caresses; took their coaxing and cajolery
as matters of course; and surveyed the beauties of his time as the Caliph
the moonfaces of his harem. My lord intended to marry certainly. He did
not care for money, nor for rank; he expected consummate beauty and
talent, and some day would fling his handkerchief to the possessor of
these, and place her by his side upon the Farintosh throne.
At this time there were but two or three young ladies in society endowed
with the necessary qualifications, or who found favour in his eyes. His
lordship hesitated in his selection from these beauties. He was not in a
hurry, he was not angry at the notion that Lady Kew (and Miss Newcome
with her) hunted him. What else should they do but pursue an object so
charming? Everybody hunted him. The other young ladies, whom we need not
mention, languished after him still more longingly. He had little notes
from these; presents of purses worked by them, and cigar-cases
embroidered with his coronet. They sang to him in cosy boudoirs--mamma
went out of the room, and sister Ann forgot something in the
drawing-room. They ogled him as they sang. Trembling they gave him a
little foot to mount them, that they might ride on horseback with him.
They tripped along by his side from the Hall to the pretty country church
on Sundays. They warbled hymns: sweetly looking at him the while mamma
whispered confidentially to him, "What an angel Cecilia is!" And so
forth, and so forth--with which chaff our noble bird was by no means to
be caught. When he had made up his great mind, that the time was come and
the woman, he was ready to give a Marchioness of Farintosh to the English
nation.
Miss Newcome has been compared ere this to the statue of "Huntress Diana"
at the Louvre, whose haughty figure and beauty the young lady indeed
somewhat resembled. I was not present when Diana and Diana's grandmother
hunted the noble Scottish stag of whom we have just been writing; nor
care to know how many times Lord Farintosh escaped, and how at last he
was brought to bay and taken by his resolute pursuers. Paris, it appears,
was the scene of his fall and capture. The news was no doubt well known
amongst Lord Farintosh's brother-dandies, among exasperated matrons and
virgins in Mayfair, and in polite society generally, before it came to
simple Tom Newcome and his son. Not a word on the subject had Sir Barnes
mentioned to the Colonel: perhaps not choosing to speak till the
intelligence was authenticated; perhaps not wishing to be the bearer of
tidings so painful.
Though the Colonel may have read in his Pall Mall Gazette a paragraph
which announced an approaching MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE, "between a noble
young marquis and an accomplished and beautiful young lady, daughter and
sister of a Northern baronet," he did not know who were the fashionable
persons about to be made happy, nor, until he received a letter from an
old friend who lived at Paris, was the fact conveyed to him. Here is the
letter preserved by him along with all that he ever received from the
same hand:--
"Rue St. Dominique, St. Germain,
"Paris, 10 Fev.
"So behold you of return, my friend! you quit for ever the sword and
separated from those to whom, at the commencement, you held very nearly.
Did it not seem once as if two hands never could unlock, so closely were
they enlaced together? Ah, mine are old and feeble now; forty years have
passed since the time when you used to say they were young and fair. How
well I remember me of every one of those days, though there is a death
between me and them, and it is as across a grave I review them! Yet
another parting, and tears and regrets are finished. Tenez, I do not
believe them when they say there is no meeting for us afterwards, there
above. To what good to have seen you, friend, if we are to part here, and
in Heaven too? I have not altogether forgotten your language, is it not
so? I remember it because it was yours, and that of my happy days. I
radote like an old woman as I am. M. de Florac has known my history from
the commencement. May I not say that after so many of years I have been
faithful to him and to all my promises? When the end comes with its great
absolution, I shall not be sorry. One supports the combats of life, but
they are long, and one comes from them very wounded; ah, when shall they
be over?
"You return and I salute you with wishes for parting. How much egotism! I
have another project which I please myself to arrange. You know how I am
arrived to love Clive as own my child. I very quick surprised his secret,
the poor boy, when he was here it is twenty months. He looked so like you
as I repeal me of you in the old time! He told me he had no hope of
his beautiful cousin. I have heard of the fine marriage that one makes
her. Paul, my son, has been at the English Ambassade last night and has
made his congratulations to M. de Farintosh. Paul says him handsome,
young, not too spiritual, rich, and haughty, like all, all noble
Montagnards.
"But it is not of M. de Farintosh I write, whose marriage, without doubt,
has been announced to you. I have a little project; very foolish,
perhaps. You know Mr. the Duke of Ivry has left me guardian of his little
daughter Antoinette, whose affreuse mother no one sees more. Antoinette
is pretty and good, and soft, and with an affectionate heart. I love her
already as my infant. I wish to bring her up, and that Clive should marry
her. They say you are returned very rich. What follies are these I write!
In the long evenings of winter, the children escaped it is a long time
from the maternal nest, a silent old man
my only company,--I live but of
the past; and play with its souvenirs as the detained caress little
birds, little flowers, in their prisons. I was born for the happiness; my
God! I have learned it in knowing you. In losing you I have lost it. It
is not against the will of Heaven I oppose myself. It is man, who makes
himself so much of this evil and misery, this slavery, these tears, these
crimes, perhaps.
"This marriage of the young Scotch Marquis and the fair Ethel (I love her
in spite of all, and shall see her soon and congratulate her, for, do you
see, I might have stopped this fine marriage, and did my best and more
than my duty for our poor Clive) shall make itself in London next spring,
I hear. You shall assist scarcely at the ceremony; he, poor boy, shall
not care to be there. Bring him to Paris to make the court to my little
Antoinette: bring him to Paris to his good friend, Comtesse de Florac."
"I read marvels of his works in an English journal, which one sends me."
Clive was not by when this letter reached his father. Clive was in his
painting-room, and lest he should meet his son, and in order to devise
the best means of breaking the news to the lad, Thomas Newcome retreated
out of doors; and from the Oriental he crossed Oxford Street, and from
Oxford Street he stalked over the roomy pavements of Gloucester Place,
and there he bethought him how he had neglected Mrs. Hobson Newcome of
late, and the interesting family of Bryanstone Square. So he went to
leave his card at Maria's door: her daughters, as we have said, are quite
grown girls. If they have been lectured, and learning, and back-boarded,
and practising, and using the globes, and laying in a store of 'ologies,
ever since, what a deal they must know! Colonel Newcome was admitted to
see his nieces, and Consummate Virtue, their parent. Maria was charmed to
see her brother-in-law; she greeted him with reproachful tenderness:
"Why, why," her fine eyes seemed to say, "have you so long neglected us?
Do you think because I am wise, and gifted, and good, and you are, it
must be confessed, a poor creature with no education, I am not also
come and lunch with us, Colonel!" He sate down accordingly to the family
tiffin.
When the meal was over, the mother, who had matter of importance to
impart to him, besought him to go to the drawing-room, and there poured
out such a eulogy upon her children's qualities as fond mothers know how
to utter. They knew this and they knew that. They were instructed by the
most eminent professors; "that wretched Frenchwoman, whom you may
remember here, Mademoiselle Lenoir," Maria remarked parenthetically,
"turned out, oh, frightfully! She taught the girls the worst accent, it
appears. Her father was not a colonel; he was--oh! never mind! It is a
mercy I got rid of that fiendish woman, and before my precious ones knew
what she was!" And then followed details of the perfections of the two
girls, with occasional side-shots at Lady Anne's family, just as in the
old time. "Why don't you bring your boy, whom I have always loved as a
son, and who avoids me? Why does not Clive know his cousins? They are
very different from others of his kinswomen, who think best of the
heartless world."
"I fear, Maria, there is too much truth in what you say," sighs the
Colonel, drumming on a book on the drawing-room table, and looking down
sees it is a great, large, square, gilt Peerage, open at FARINTOSH,
MARQUIS OF.--Fergus Angus Malcolm Mungo Roy, Marquis of Farintosh, Earl
of Glenlivat, in the peerage of Scotland; also Earl of Rossmont, in that
of the United Kingdom. Son of Angus Fergus Malcolm, Earl of Glenlivat,
and grandson and heir of Malcolm Mungo Angus, first Marquis of Farintosh,
and twenty-fifth Earl, etc. etc.
"You have heard the news regarding Ethel?" remarks Hobson.
"I have just heard," says the poor Colonel.
"I have a letter from Anne this morning," Maria continues. "They are of
course delighted with the match. Lord Farintosh is wealthy, handsome; has
been a little wild, I hear; is not such a husband as I would choose for
my darlings, but poor Brian's family have been educated to love the
world; and Ethel no doubt is flattered by the prospects before her. I
have heard that some one else was a little epris in that quarter. How
does Clive bear the news, my dear Colonel?"
"He has long expected it," says the Colonel, rising: "and I left him very
cheerful at breakfast this morning."
"Send him to see us, the naughty boy!" cries Maria. "We don't change; we
remember old times, to us he will ever be welcome!" And with this
confirmation of Madame de Florac's news, Thomas Newcome walked sadly
homewards.
And now Thomas Newcome had to break the news to his son; who received the
shot in such a way as caused his friends and confidants to admire his
high spirit. He said he had long been expecting some such announcement:
it was many months since Ethel had prepared him for it. Under her
peculiar circumstances he did not see how she could act otherwise than
she had done. And he narrated to the Colonel the substance of the
conversation which the two young people had had together several months
before, in Madame de Florac's garden.
Clive's father did not tell his son of his own bootless negotiation with
Barnes Newcome. There was no need to recall that now; but the Colonel's
wrath against his nephew exploded in conversation with me, who was the
confidant of father and son in this business. Ever since that luckless
day when Barnes thought proper to--to give a wrong address for Lady Kew,
Thomas Newcome's anger had been growing. He smothered it yet for a while,
sent a letter to Lady Anne Newcome, briefly congratulating her on the
choice which he had heard Miss Newcome had made; and in acknowledgment of
Madame de Florac's more sentimental epistle he wrote a reply which has
not been preserved, but in which he bade her rebuke Miss Newcome for not
having answered him when he wrote to her, and not having acquainted her
old uncle with her projected union.
To this message, Ethel wrote back a brief, hurried reply; it said:--
"I saw Madame de Florac last night at her daughter's reception, and she
gave me my dear uncle's messages. Yes, the news is true which you have
heard from Madame de Florac, and in Bryanstone Square. I did not like to
write it to you, because I know one whom I regard as a brother (and a
great, great deal better), and to whom I know it will give pain. He knows
that I have done my duty, and why I have acted as I have done. God bless
him and his dear father!
"What is this about a letter which I never answered? Grandmamma knows
nothing about a letter. Mamma has enclosed to me that which you wrote to
her, but there has been no letter from T. N. to his sincere and
affectionate E. N.
"Rue de Rivoli. Friday."
This was too much, and the cup of Thomas Newcome's wrath overflowed.
Barnes had lied about Ethel's visit to London: Barnes
had lied in saying
that he delivered the message with which his uncle charged him: Barnes
had lied about the letter which he had received, and never sent. With
these accusations firmly proven in his mind against his nephew, the
Colonel went down to confront that sinner.
Wherever he should find Barnes, Thomas Newcome was determined to tell him
his mind. Should they meet on the steps of a church, on the flags of
'Change, or in the newspaper-room at Bays's, at evening-paper time, when
men most do congregate, Thomas the Colonel was determined upon exposing
and chastising his father's grandson. With Ethel's letter in his pocket,
he took his way into the City, penetrated into the unsuspecting
back-parlour of Hobson's bank, and was disappointed at first at only
finding his half-brother Hobson there engaged over his newspaper. The
Colonel signified his wish to see Sir Barnes Newcome. "Sir Barnes was not
come in yet. You've heard about the marriage," says Hobson. "Great news
for the Barnes's, ain't it? The head of the house is as proud as a
peacock about it. Said he was going out to Samuels, the diamond
merchants; going to make his sister some uncommon fine present. Jolly to
be uncle to a marquis, ain't it, Colonel? I'll have nothing under a duke
for my girls. I say, I know whose nose is out of joint. But young fellows
get over these things, and Clive won't die this time, I dare say."
While Hobson Newcome made these satiric and facetious remarks, his
half-brother paced up and down the glass parlour, scowling over the panes
into the bank where the busy young clerks sate before their ledgers. At
last he gave an "Ah!" as of satisfaction. Indeed, he had seen Sir Barnes
Newcome enter into the bank.
The Baronet stopped and spoke with a clerk, and presently entered,
followed by that young gentleman into his private parlour. Barnes tried
to grin when he saw his uncle, and held out his hand to greet the
Colonel; but the Colonel put both his behind his back--that which carried
his faithful bamboo cane shook nervously. Barnes was aware that the
Colonel had the news. "I was going to--to write to you this morning,
with--with some intelligence that I am--very--very sorry to give."
"This young gentleman is one of your clerks?" asked Thomas Newcome,
blandly.
"Yes; Mr. Boltby, who has your private account. This is Colonel Newcome,
Mr. Boltby," says Sir Barnes, in some wonder.
"Mr. Boltby, brother Hobson, you heard what Sir Barnes Newcome said just
now respecting certain intelligence which he grieved to give me?"
At this the three other gentlemen respectively wore looks of amazement.
"Allow me to say in your presence, that I don't believe one single word
Sir Barnes Newcome says, when he tells me that he is very sorry for some
intelligence he has to communicate. He lies, Mr. Boltby; he is very glad.
I made up my mind that in whatsoever company I met him, and on the very
first day I found him--hold your tongue, sir; you shall speak afterwards
and tell more lies when I have done--I made up my mind, I say, that on
the very first occasion I would tell Sir Barnes Newcome that he was a
liar and a cheat. He takes charge of letters and keeps them back. Did you
break the seal, sir? There was nothing to steal in my letter to Miss
Newcome. He tells me people are out of town, when he goes to see in the
next street, after leaving my table, and whom I see myself half an hour
before he lies to me about their absence."
"D--n you, go out, and don't stand staring there, you booby!" screams out
Sir Barnes to the clerk. "Stop, Boltby. Colonel Newcome, unless you leave
this room I shall--I shall----"
"You shall call a policeman. Send for the gentleman, and I will tell the
Lord Mayor what I think of Sir Barnes Newcome, Baronet. Mr. Boltby, shall
we have the constable in?"