Part 79 (2/2)
”THE HERMITAGE, March 14, 182-.
”My Dear Mr. Luce” (the defunct lady wrote)--”My late husband's grandson has been staying with me lately, and is a most pleasing, handsome, and engaging little boy. He bears a strong likeness to his grandfather, I think; and though he has no claims upon me, and I know is sufficiently provided for by his father Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, C.B., of the East India Company's Service, I am sure my late dear husband will be pleased that I should leave his grandson, Clive Newcome, a token of peace and goodwill; and I can do so with the more readiness, as it has pleased Heaven greatly to increase my means since my husband was called away hence.
”I desire to bequeath a sum equal to that which Mr Newcome willed to my eldest son, Brian Newcome, Esq., to Mr. Newcome's grandson, Clive Newcome; and furthermore, that a token of my esteem and affection, a ring, or a piece of plate, of the value of one hundred pounds, be given to Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Newcome, my stepson, whose excellent conduct for many years, and whose repeated acts of gallantry in the service of his sovereign, have long obliterated the just feelings of displeasure with which I could not but view his early disobedience and misbehaviour, before he quitted England against my will, and entered the military service.
”I beg you to prepare immediately a codicil to my will providing for the above bequests; and desire that the amount of these legacies should be taken from the property bequeathed to my eldest son. You will be so good as to prepare the necessary doc.u.ment, and bring it with you when you come on Sat.u.r.day, to yours very truly,
”Sophia Alethea Newcome.
”Tuesday night.”
I gave back the paper with a sigh to the finder. ”It is but a wish of Mrs. Newcome, my dear Miss Ethel,” I said. ”Pardon me, if I say, I think I know your elder brother too well to supposes that he will fulfil it.”
”He will fulfil it, sir, I am sure he will,” Miss Newcome said, in a haughty manner. ”He would do as much without being asked, I am certain he would, did he know the depth of my dear uncle's misfortune. Barnes is in London now, and----”
”And you will write to him? I know what the answer will be.”
”I will go to him this very day, Mr. Pendennis! I will go to my dear, dear uncle. I cannot bear to think of him in that place,” cried the young lady, the tears starting into her honest eyes. ”It was the will of Heaven. Oh, G.o.d be thanked for it! Had we found my grandmamma's letter earlier, Barnes would have paid the legacy immediately, and the money would have gone in that dreadful bankruptcy. I will go to Barnes to-day.
Will you come with me? Won't you come to your old friends? We may be at his--at Clive's house this evening; and oh, praise be to G.o.d! there need be no more want in his family.”
”My dear friend, I will go with you round the world on such an errand,”
I said, kissing her hand. How beautiful she looked; the generous colour rose in her face, her voice thrilled with happiness. The music of Christmas church bells leaped up at this moment with joyful gratulations; the face of the old house, before which we stood talking, shone out in the morning sun.
”You will come I thank you! I must run and tell Madame de Florac,” cried the happy young lady, and we entered the house together. ”How came you to be kissing Ethel's hand, sir; and what is the meaning of this early visit?” asks Mrs. Laura, as soon as I had returned to my own apartments.
”Martha, get me a carpet-bag! I am going to London in an hour,” cries Mr. Pendennis. If I had kissed Ethel's hand jus now, delighted at the news which she brought to me, was not one a thousand times dearer to me, as happy as her friend? I know who prayed with a thankful heart that day as we sped, in the almost solitary train, towards London.
CHAPTER LXXVIII. In which the Author goes on a Pleasant Errand
Before I parted with Miss Newcome at the station, she made me promise to see her on the morrow at an early hour at her brother's house; and having bidden her farewell and repaired to my own solitary residence, which presented but a dreary aspect on that festive day, I thought I would pay Howland Street a visit; and, if invited, eat my Christmas dinner with Clive.
I found my friend at home, and at work still, in spite of the day. He had promised a pair of pictures to a dealer for the morrow. ”He pays me pretty well, and I want all the money he will give me, Pen,” the painter said, rubbing on at his canvas. ”I am pretty easy in my mind since I have become acquainted with a virtuous dealer. I sell myself to him, body and soul, for some half-dozen pounds a week. I know I can get my money, and he is regularly supplied with his pictures. But for Rosey's illness we might carry on well enough.”
Rosey's illness? I was sorry to hear of that: and poor Clive, entering into particulars, told me how he had spent upon doctors rather more than a fourth of his year's earnings. ”There is a solemn fellow, to whom the women have taken a fancy, who lives but a few doors off in Gower Street; and who, for his last sixteen visits, has taken sixteen pounds sixteen s.h.i.+llings out of my pocket, and as if guineas grew there, with the most admirable gravity. He talks the fas.h.i.+ons to my mother-in-law. My poor wife hangs on every word he says. Look! There is his carriage coming up now! and there is his fee, confound him!” says Clive, casting a rueful look towards a little packet lying upon the mantelpiece, by the side of that skinned figure in plaster of Paris which we have seen in most studios.
I looked out of window and saw a certain Fas.h.i.+onable Doctor tripping out of his chariot; that Ladies' Delight, who has subsequently migrated from Bloomsbury to Belgravia; and who has his polite foot now in a thousand nurseries and boudoirs. What Confessors were in old times, Quackenboss and his like are in our Protestant country. What secrets they know! into what mystic chambers do they not enter! I suppose the Campaigner made a special toilette to receive her fas.h.i.+onable friend, for that lady attired in considerable splendour, and with the precious jewel on her head, which I remembered at Boulogne, came into the studio two minutes after the Doctor's visit was announced, and made him a low curtsey. I cannot describe the overpowering civilities of that woman.
Clive was very gracious and humble to her. He adopted a lively air in addressing her--”Must work, you know, Christmas Day and all--for the owner of the pictures will call for them in the morning. Bring me a good report about Rosey, Mrs. Mackenzie, please--and if you will have the kindness to look by the ecorche there, you will see that little packet which I have left for you.” Mrs. Mack, advancing, took the money. ”I thought that plaster of Paris figure was not the only ecorche in the room.”
”I want you to stay to dinner. You must stay, Pen, please,” cried Clive; ”and be civil to her, will you? My dear old father is coming to dine here. They fancy that he has lodgings at the other end of the town, and that his brothers do something for him. Not a word about Grey Friars. It might agitate Rosa, you know. Ah! isn't he n.o.ble, the dear old boy! and isn't it fine to see him in that place?” Clive worked on as he talked, using up the last remnant of the light of Christmas Day, and was cleaning his palette and brushes, when Mrs. Mackenzie returned to us.
Darling Rosey was very delicate, but Doctor Quackenboss was going to give her the very same medicine which had done the charming young d.u.c.h.ess of Clackmannans.h.i.+re so much good, and he was not in the least disquiet.
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