if you would see a noble account of this chaste and elegant specimen of
British art, you are referred to the pages of the Pall Mall Gazette of
that year, as well as to Fred Bayham's noble speech in the course of the
evening, when it was exhibited. The East and its wars, and its heroes,
Assaye and Seringapatam ("and Lord Lake and Laswaree too," calls out the
Colonel greatly elated), tiger-hunting, palanquins, Juggernaut,
elephants, the burning of widows--all passed before us in F. B.'s
splendid oration. He spoke of the product of the Indian forest, the
palm-tree, the cocoa-nut tree, the banyan-tree. Palms the Colonel had
already brought back with him, the palms of valour, won in the field of
war (cheers). Cocoa-nut trees he had never seen, though he had heard
wonders related regarding the milky contents of their fruit. Here at any
rate was one tree of the kind, under the branches of which he humbly
trusted often to repose--and, if he might be so bold as to carry on the
Eastern metaphor, he would say, knowing the excellence of the Colonel's
claret and the splendour of his hospitality, that he would prefer a
cocoa-nut day at the Colonel's to a banyan day anywhere else. Whilst
F. B.'s speech went on, I remember J. J. eyeing the trophy, and the queer
expression of his shrewd face. The health of British Artists was drunk a
propos of this splendid specimen of their skill, and poor J. J. Ridley,
Esq., A.R.A., had scarce a word to say in return. He and Clive sat by one
another, the latter very silent and gloomy. When J. J. and I met in the
world, we talked about our friend, and it was easy for both of us to see
that neither was satisfied with Clive's condition.
The fine house in Tyburnia was completed by this time, as gorgeous as
money could make it. How different it was from the old Fitzroy Square
mansion with its ramshackle furniture, and spoils of brokers' shops, and
Tottenham Court Road odds and ends! An Oxford Street upholsterer had been
let loose in the yet virgin chambers; and that inventive genius had
decorated them with all the wonders his fancy could devise. Roses and
cupids quivered on the ceilings, up to which golden arabesques crawled
from the walls; your face (handsome or otherwise) was reflected by
countless looking-glasses, so multiplied and arranged as, as it were, to
carry you into the next street. You trod on velvet, pausing with respect
in the centre of the carpet, where Rosey's cypher was worked in the sweet
flowers which bear her name. What delightful crooked legs the chairs had!
What corner cupboards there were filled with Dresden gimcracks, which it
was a part of this little woman's business in life to purchase! What
etageres, and bonbonnieres, and chiffonnieres! What awfully bad pastels
there were on the walls! What frightful Boucher and Lancret shepherds and
shepherdesses leered over the portieres! What velvet-bound volumes,
mother-of-pearl albums, inkstands representing beasts of the field,
prie-dieu chairs, and wonderful knick-knacks I can recollect! There was
the most magnificent piano, though Rosey seldom sang any of her six songs
now; and when she kept her couch at a certain most interesting period,
the good Colonel, ever anxious to procure amusement for his darling,
asked whether she would not like a barrel-organ grinding fifty or sixty
favourite pieces, which a bearer could turn? And he mentioned how Windus,
of their regiment, who loved music exceedingly, had a very fine
instrument of this kind out to Barrackpore in the year 1810, and relays
of barrels by each ship with all the new tunes from Europe. The
Testimonial took its place in the centre of Mrs. Clive's table,
surrounded by satellites of plate. The delectable parties were constantly
gathered together, the grand barouche rolling in the Park, or stopping at
the principal shops. Little Rosey bloomed in millinery, and was still the
smiling little pet of her father-in-law, and poor Clive, in the midst of
all these splendours, was gaunt, and sad, and silent; listless at most
times, bitter and savage at others, pleased only when he was out of the
society which bored him, and in the company of George and J. J., the
simple friends of his youth.
His careworn look and altered appearance mollified my wife towards him--
who had almost taken him again into favour. But she did not care for Mrs.
Clive, and the Colonel, somehow, grew cool towards us, and to look
askance upon the little band of Clive's friends. It seemed as if there
were two parties in the house. There was Clive's set--J. J., the shrewd,
silent little painter; Warrington, the cynic; and the author of the
present biography, who was, I believe, supposed to give himself
contemptuous airs; and to have become very high and mighty since his
marriage. Then there was the great, numerous, and eminently respectable
set, whose names were all registered in little Rosey's little
visiting-book, and to whose houses she drove round, duly delivering the
cards of Mr. and Mrs. Clive Newcome, and Colonel Newcome;--the generals
and colonels, the judges and the fogies. The only man who kept well with
both sides of the house was F. Bayham, Esq., who, having got into clover,
remained in the enjoyment of that welcome pasture; who really loved Clive
and the Colonel too, and had a hundred pleasant things and funny stories
(the droll old creature!) to tell to the little lady for whom we others
could scarcely find a word. The old friends of the student-days were not
forgotten, but they did not seem to get on in the new house. The Miss
Gandishes came to one of Mrs. Clive's balls, still in blue crape, still
with ringlets on their wizened old foreheads, accompanying papa, with his
shirt-collars turned down--who gazed in mute wonder on the splendid
scene. Warrington actually asked Miss Gandish to dance, making woeful
blunders, however, in the quadrille, while Clive, with something like one
of his old smiles on his face, took out Miss Zoe Gandish, her sister. We
made Gandish overeat and overdrink himself in the supper-room, and Clive
cheered him by ordering a full length of Mrs. Clive Newcome from his
distinguished pencil. Never was seen a grander exhibition of white satin
and jewels. Smee, R.A., was furious at the preference shown to his rival.
We had Sandy M'Collop, too, at the party, who had returned from Rome,
with his red beard, and his picture of the murder of the Red Comyn, which
made but a dim effect in the Octagon Room of the Royal Academy, where the
bleeding agonies of the dying warrior were veiled in an unkind twilight.
On Sandy and his brethren little Rosey looked rather coldly. She tossed
up her little head in conversation with me, and gave me to understand
that this party was only an omnium gatherum, not one of the select
parties, from which Heaven defend us. "We are Poins, and Nym, and
Pistol," growled out George Warrington, as he strode away to finish the
evening in Clive's painting- and smoking-room. "Now Prince Hal is
married, and shares the paternal throne, his Princess is ashamed of his
brigand associates of former days." She came and looked at us w
ith a
feeble little smile, as we sat smoking, and let the daylight in on us
from the open door, and hinted to Mr. Clive that it was time to go to
bed.
So Clive Newcome lay in a bed of down and tossed and tumbled there. He
went to fine dinners, and sat silent over them; rode fine horses, and
black Care jumped up behind the moody horseman. He was cut off in a great
measure from the friends of his youth, or saw them by a kind of stealth
and sufferance; was a very lonely, poor fellow, I am afraid, now that
people were testimonialising his wife, and many an old comrade growling
at his haughtiness and prosperity.
In former days, when his good father recognised the difference which
fate, and time, and temper, had set between him and his son, we have seen
with what a gentle acquiescence the old man submitted to his inevitable
fortune, and how humbly he bore that stroke of separation which afflicted
the boy lightly enough, but caused the loving sire so much pain. Then
there was no bitterness between them, in spite of the fatal division; but
now, it seemed as if there was anger on Thomas Newcome's part, because,
though come together again, they were not united, though with every
outward appliance of happiness Clive was not happy. What young man on
earth could look for more? a sweet young wife, a handsome home, of which
the only encumbrance was an old father, who would give his last drop of
blood in his son's behalf. And it was to bring about this end that Thomas
Newcome had toiled and had amassed a fortune. Could not Clive, with his
talents and education, go down once or twice a week to the City and take
a decent part in the business by which his wealth was secured? He
appeared at the various board-rooms and City conclaves, yawned at the
meetings, and drew figures on the blotting-paper of the Company; had no
interest in its transactions, no heart in its affairs; went away and
galloped his horse alone; or returned to his painting-room, put on his
old velvet jacket, and worked with his palettes and brushes. Palettes and
brushes! Could he not give up these toys when he was called to a much
Rosey, kind little soul, whose whole desire was to make him happy? Such
thoughts as these, no doubt, darkened the Colonel's mind, and deepened
the furrows round his old eyes. So it is, we judge men by our own
standards; judge our nearest and dearest often wrong.
Many and many a time did Clive try and talk with the little Rosey, who
chirped and prattled so gaily to his father. Many a time would she come
and sit by his easel, and try her little powers to charm him, bring him
little tales about their acquaintances, stories about this ball and that
concert, practise artless smiles upon him, gentle little bouderies,
tears, perhaps, followed by caresses and reconciliation. At the end of
which he would return to his cigar; and she, with a sigh and a heavy
heart, to the good old man who had bidden her to go and talk with him. He
used to feel that his father had sent her; the thought came across him in
their conversations, and straightway his heart would shut up and his face
grew gloomy. They were not made to mate with one another. This was the
truth; the shoe was a very pretty little shoe, but Clive's foot was too
big for it.
Just before the testimonial, Mr. Clive was in constant attendance at
home, and very careful and kind and happy with his wife, and the whole
family party went very agreeably. Doctors were in constant attendance at
Mrs. Clive Newcome's door; prodigious care was taken by the good Colonel
in wrapping her and in putting her little feet on sofas, and in leading
her to her carriage. The Campaigner came over in immense flurry from
Edinburgh (where Uncle James was now very comfortably lodged in Picardy
Place with the most agreeable society round about him), and all this
circle was in a word very close and happy and intimate; but woe is me,
Thomas Newcome's fondest hopes were disappointed this time: his little
grandson lived but to see the light and leave it: and sadly, sadly, those
preparations were put away, those poor little robes and caps, those
delicate muslins and cambrics over which many a care had been forgotten,
many a fond prayer thought, if not uttered. Poor little Rosey! she felt
the grief very keenly; but she rallied from it very soon. In a very few
months, her cheeks were blooming and dimpling with smiles again, and she
was telling us how her party was an omnium gatherum.
The Campaigner had ere this returned to the scene of her northern
exploits; not, I believe, entirely of the worthy woman's own free will.
Assuming the command of the household, whilst her daughter kept her sofa,
Mrs. Mackenzie had set that establishment into uproar and mutiny. She had
offended the butler, outraged the housekeeper, wounded the sensibilities
of the footmen, insulted the doctor, and trampled on the inmost corns of
the nurse. It was surprising what a change appeared in the Campaigner's
conduct, and how little, in former days, Colonel Newcome had known her.
What the Emperor Napoleon the First said respecting our Russian enemies,
might be applied to this lady, Grattez-la, and she appeared a Tartar.
Clive and his father had a little comfort and conversation in conspiring
against her. The old man never dared to try, but was pleased with the
younger's spirit and gallantry in the series of final actions which,
commencing over poor little Rosey's prostrate body in the dressing-room,
were continued in the drawing-room, resumed with terrible vigour on the
enemy's part in the dining-room, and ended, to the triumph of the whole
establishment, at the outside of the hall-door.
When the routed Tartar force had fled back to its native north, Rosey
made a confession, which Clive told me afterwards, bursting with bitter
laughter. "You and papa seem to be very much agitated," she said. (Rosey
called the Colonel papa in the absence of the Campaigner.) "I do not mind
it a bit, except just at first, when it made me a little nervous. Mamma
used always to be so; she used to scold and scold all day, both me and
Josey, in Scotland, till grandmamma sent her away; and then in Fitzroy
Square, and then in Brussels, she used to box my ears, and go into such
tantrums; and I think," adds Rosey, with one of her sweetest smiles, "she
had quarrelled with Uncle James before she came to us."
"She used to box Rosey's ears," roars out poor Clive, "and go into such
tantrums, in Fitzroy Square and Brussels afterwards, and the pair would
come down with their arms round each other's waists, smirking and smiling
as if they had done nothing but kiss each other all their mortal lives!
afterwards, when we think we have married a smiling, artless young
creature! Are you all such hypocrites, Mrs. Pendennis?" and he pulled his
mustachios in his wrath.
"Poor Clive!" says Laura, very kindly. "You would not have had her tell
tales of her mother, woul
d you?"
"Oh, of course not," breaks out Clive; "that is what you all say, and so
you are hypocrites out of sheer virtue."
It was the first time Laura had called him Clive for many a day. She was
becoming reconciled to him. We had our own opinion about the young
fellow's marriage.
And, to sum up all, upon a casual rencontre with the young gentleman in
question, whom we saw descending from a hansom at the steps of the Flag,
Pall Mall, I opined that dark thoughts of Hoby had entered into Clive
Newcome's mind. Othello-like, he scowled after that unconscious Cassio as
the other passed into the club in his lacquered boots.
CHAPTER LXIV
Absit Omen
At the first of the Blackwall festivals, Hobson Newcome was present, in
spite of the quarrel which had taken place between his elder brother and
the chief of the firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcome. But it was the
individual Barnes and the individual Thomas who had had a difference
together; the Bundelcund Bank was not at variance with its chief house of
commission in London; no man drank prosperity to the B. B. C., upon
occasion of this festival, with greater fervour than Hobson Newcome, and
the manner in which he just slightly alluded, in his own little speech of
thanks, to the notorious differences between Colonel Newcome and his
nephew, praying that these might cease some day, and, meanwhile, that the
confidence between the great Indian establishment and its London agents
might never diminish, was appreciated and admired by six-and-thirty
gentlemen, all brimful of claret and enthusiasm, and in that happy state
of mind in which men appreciate and admire everything.
At the second dinner, when the testimonial was presented, Hobson was not
present. Nor did his name figure amongst those engraven on the trunk of
Mr. Newcome's allegorical silver cocoa-nut tree. As we travelled
homewards in the omnibus, Fred Bayham noticed the circumstance to me. "I
have looked over the list of names," says he, "not merely that on the
trunk, sir, but the printed list; it was rolled up and placed in one of
the nests on the top of the tree. Why is Hobson's name not there?--Ha! it
mislikes me, Pendennis."
F. B., who was now very great about City affairs, discoursed about stocks
and companies with immense learning, and gave me to understand that he
had transacted one or two little operations in Capel Court on his own
account, with great present, and still larger prospective, advantages to
himself. It is a fact that Mr. Ridley was paid, and that F. B.'s costume,
though still eccentric, was comfortable, cleanly, and variegated. He
occupied the apartments once tenanted by the amiable Honeyman. He lived
in ease and comfort there. "You don't suppose," says he, "that the
wretched stipend I draw from the Pall Mall Gazette enables me to maintain
this kind of thing? F. B., sir, has a station in the world; F. B. moves
among moneyers and City nobs, and eats cabobs with wealthy nabobs. He may
marry, sir, and settle in life." We cordially wished every worldly
prosperity to the brave F. B.
Happening to descry him one day in the Park, I remarked that his
countenance wore an ominous and tragic appearance, which seemed to deepen
as he neared me. I thought he had been toying affably with a nursery-maid
the moment before, who stood with some of her little charges watching the
yachts upon the Serpentine. Howbeit, espying my approach, F. B. strode
away from the maiden and her innocent companions, and advanced to greet
his old acquaintance, enveloping his face with shades of funereal gloom.
"Yon were the children of my good friend Colonel Huckaback of the Bombay
Marines! Alas! unconscious of their doom, the little infants play. I was
watching them at their sports. There is a pleasing young woman in
attendance upon the poor children. They were sailing their little boats