Part 20 (1/2)
”I believe you. I did come down from Marble Head this morning, and I was four hours in the hay-field before I came away, and in the City till five, and I've been to look at a horse afterwards at Tattersall's, and I'm as hungry as a hunter, and as tired as a hodman,” says Mr. Newcome, with his hands in his pockets. ”How do you do, Mr. Pendennis? Maria, you remember Mr. Pendennis--don't you?”
”Perfectly,” replies the languid Maria. Mrs. Gandish, Colonel Topham, Major M'Cracken, are announced, and then, in diamonds, feathers, and splendour, Lady Baughton and Miss Baughton, who are going to the Queen's ball, and Sir Curry Baughton, not quite in his deputy-lieutenant's uniform as yet, looking very shy in a pair of blue trousers, with a glittering stripe of silver down the seams. Clive looks with wonder and delight at these ravis.h.i.+ng ladies, rustling in fresh brocades, with feathers, diamonds, and every magnificence. Aunt Anne has not her Court dress on as yet; and Aunt Maria blushes as she beholds the new comers, having thought fit to attire herself in a high dress, with a Quaker-like simplicity, and a pair of gloves more than ordinarily dingy. The pretty little foot she has, it is true, and sticks it out from habit; but what is Mrs. Newcome's foot compared with that sweet little chaussure which Miss Baughton exhibits and withdraws? The s.h.i.+ny white satin slipper, the pink stocking which ever and anon peeps from the rustling folds of her robe, and timidly retires into its covert--that foot, light as it is, crushes Mrs. Newcome.
No wonder she winces, and is angry; there are some mischievous persons who rather like to witness that discomfiture. All Mr. Smee's flatteries that day failed to soothe her. She was in the state in which his canva.s.ses sometimes are, when he cannot paint on them.
What happened to her alone in the drawing-room, when the ladies invited to the dinner had departed, and those convoked to the soiree began to arrive,--what happened to her or to them I do not like to think. The Gandishes arrived first. Boadicea and the angels. We judged from the fact that young Mr. Gandish came blus.h.i.+ng in to the dessert. Name after name was announced of persons of whom Mrs. Newcome knew nothing. The young and the old, the pretty and homely, they were all in their best dresses, and no doubt stared at Mrs. Newcome, so obstinately plain in her attire. When we came upstairs from dinner, we found her seated entirely by herself, tapping her fan at the fireplace. Timid groups of persons were round about, waiting for the irruption of the gentlemen, until the pleasure should begin. Mr. Newcome, who came upstairs yawning, was heard to say to his wife, ”Oh, dam, let's cut!” And they went downstairs, and waited until their carriage had arrived, when they quitted Fitzroy Square.
Mr. Barnes Newcome presently arrived, looking particularly smart and lively, with a large flower in his b.u.t.ton-hole, and leaning on the arm of a friend. ”How do you do, Pendennis?” he says, with a peculiarly dandified air. ”Did you dine here? You look as if you dined here” (and Barnes, certainly, as if he had dined elsewhere). ”I was only asked to the cold soiree. Who did you have for dinner? You had my mamma and the Baughtons, and my uncle and aunt, I know, for they are down below in the library, waiting for the carriage: he is asleep, and she is as sulky as a bear.”
”Why did Mrs. Newcome say I should find n.o.body I knew up here?” asks Barnes's companion. ”On the contrary, there are lots of fellows I know.
There's Fred Bayham, dancing like a harlequin. There's old Gandish, who used to be my drawing-master; and my Brighton friends, your uncle and cousin, Barnes. What relations are they to me? must be some relations.
Fine fellow your cousin.”
”Hm,” growls Barnes. ”Very fine boy,--not spirited at all,--not fond of flattery,--not surrounded by toadies,--not fond of drink,--delightful boy! See yonder, the young fellow is in conversation with his most intimate friend, a little crooked fellow, with long hair. Do you know who he is? he is the son of old Todmoreton's butler. Upon my life it's true.”
”And suppose it is; what the deuce do I care!” cries Lord Kew. ”Who can be more respectable than a butler? A man must be somebody's son. When I am a middle-aged man, I hope humbly I shall look like a butler myself.
Suppose you were to put ten of Gunter's men into the House of Lords, do you mean to say that they would not look as well as any average ten peers in the house? Look at Lord Westcot; he is exactly like a butler that's why the country has such confidence in him. I never dine with him but I fancy he ought to be at the sideboard. Here comes that insufferable little old Smee. How do you do, Mr. Smee?”
Mr. Smee smiles his sweetest smile. With his rings, diamond s.h.i.+rt-studs, and red velvet waistcoat, there are few more elaborate middle-aged bucks than Alfred Smee. ”How do you do, my dear lord?” cries the bland one.
”Who would ever have thought of seeing your lords.h.i.+p here?”
”Why the deuce not, Mr. Smee?” asks Lord Kew, abruptly. ”Is it wrong to come here? I have been in the house only five minutes, and three people have said the same thing to me--Mrs. Newcome, who is sitting downstairs in a rage waiting for her carriage, the condescending Barnes, and yourself. Why do you come here, Since? How are you, Mr. Gandish? How do the fine arts go?”
”Your lords.h.i.+p's kindness in asking for them will cheer them if anything will,” says Mr. Gandish. ”Your n.o.ble family has always patronised them.
I am proud to be reckonised by your lords.h.i.+p in this house, where the distinguished father of one of my pupils entertains us this evening.
A most promising young man is young Mr. Clive--talents for a hamateur really most remarkable.”
”Excellent, upon my word--excellent,” cries Mr. Smee. ”I'm not an animal painter myself, and perhaps don't think much of that branch of the profession; but it seems to me the young fellow draws horses with the most wonderful spirit. I hope Lady Walham is very well, and that she was satisfied with her son's portrait. Stockholm, I think, your brother is appointed to? I wish I might be allowed to paint the elder as well as the younger brother, my lord.”
”I am an historical painter; but whenever Lord Kew is painted I hope his lords.h.i.+p will think of the old servant of his lords.h.i.+p's family, Charles Gandish,” cries the Professor.
”I am like Susannah between the two Elders,” says Lord Kew. ”Let my innocence alone, Smee. Mr. Gandish, don't persecute my modesty with your addresses. I won't be painted. I am not a fit subject for a historical painter, Mr. Gandish.”
”Halcibiades sat to Praxiteles, and Pericles to Phridjas,” remarks Gandish.
”The cases are not quite similar,” says Lord Kew, languidly. ”You are no doubt fully equal to Praxiteles; but I don't see my resemblance to the other party. I should not look well as a hero, and Smee could not paint me handsome enough.”
”I would try, my dear lord,” cries Mr. Smee.
”I know you would, my dear fellow,” Lord Kew answered, looking at the painter with a lazy scorn in his eyes. ”Where is Colonel Newcome, Mr. Gandish?” Mr. Gandish replied that our gallant host was dancing a quadrille in the next room; and the young gentleman walked on towards that apartment to pay his respects to the giver of the evening's entertainment.
Newcome's behaviour to the young peer was ceremonious, but not in the least servile. He saluted the other's superior rank, not his person, as he turned the guard out for a general officer. He never could be brought to be otherwise than cold and grave in his behaviour to John James; nor was it without difficulty, when young Ridley and his son became pupils at Gandish's, he could be induced to invite the former to his parties.
”An artist is any man's equal,” he said. ”I have no prejudice of that sort; and think that Sir Joshua Reynolds and Doctor Johnson were fit company for any person, of whatever rank. But a young man whose father may have had to wait behind me at dinner, should not be brought into my company.” Clive compromises the dispute with a laugh. ”First,” says he, ”I will wait till I am asked; and then I promise I will not go to dine with Lord Todmoreton.”
CHAPTER XX. Contains more Particulars of the Colonel and his Brethren
Clive's amus.e.m.e.nts, studies, or occupations, such as they were, filled his day pretty completely, and caused the young gentleman's time to pa.s.s rapidly and pleasantly, his father, it must be owned, had no such resources, and the good Colonel's idleness hung heavily upon him. He submitted very kindly to this infliction, however, as he would have done to any other for Clive's sake; and though he may have wished himself back with his regiment again, and engaged in the pursuits in which his life had been spent, he chose to consider these desires as very selfish and blameable on his part, and sacrificed them resolutely for his son's welfare. The young fellow, I dare say, gave his parent no more credit for his long self-denial, than many other children award to theirs. We take such life-offerings as our due commonly. The old French satirist avers that, in a love affair, there is usually one person who loves, and the other, qui se laisse aimer; it is only in later days, perhaps, when the treasures of love are spent, and the kind hand cold which ministered them, that we remember how tender it was; how soft to soothe; how eager to s.h.i.+eld; how ready to support and caress. The ears may no longer hear, which would have received our words of thanks so delightedly. Let us hope those fruits of love, though tardy, are yet not all too late; and though we bring our tribute of reverence and grat.i.tude, it may be to a gravestone, there is an acceptance even there for the stricken heart's oblation of fond remorse, contrite memories, and pious tears. I am thinking of the love of Clive Newcome's father for him (and, perhaps, young reader, that of yours and mine for ourselves); how the old man lay awake, and devised kindnesses, and gave his all for the love of his son; and the young man took, and spent, and slept, and made merry. Did we not say at our tale's commencement that all stories were old? Careless prodigals and anxious elders have been from the beginning:--and so may love, and repentance, and forgiveness endure even till the end.
The stifling fogs, the slippery mud, the dun dreary November mornings, when the Regent's Park, where the Colonel took his early walk, was wrapped in yellow mist, must have been a melancholy exchange for the splendour of Eastern sunrise, and the invigorating gallop at dawn, to which, for so many years of his life, Thomas Newcome had accustomed himself. His obstinate habit of early waking accompanied him to England, and occasioned the despair of his London domestics, who, if master wasn't so awful early, would have found no fault with him; for a gentleman as gives less trouble to his servants; as scarcely ever rings the bell for his self; as will brush his own clothes; as will even boil his own shaving-water in the little hetna which he keeps up in his dressing-room; as pays so regular, and never looks twice at the accounts; such a man deserved to be loved by his household, and I dare say comparisons were made between him and his son, who do ring the bells, and scold if his boots ain't nice, and horder about like a young lord. But Clive, though imperious, was very liberal and good-humoured, and not the worse served because he insisted upon exerting his youthful authority. As for friend Binnie, he had a hundred pursuits of his own, which made his time pa.s.s very comfortably. He had all the Lectures at the British Inst.i.tution; he had the Geographical Society, the Asiatic Society, and the Political Economy Club; and though he talked year after year of going to visit his relations in Scotland, the months and seasons pa.s.sed away, and his feet still beat the London pavement.