Part 81 (2/2)

He opened it, and read it through. I cannot say that I saw any particular expression of wonder in his countenance, for somehow, all the while Clive perused this doc.u.ment, I was looking at the Colonel's sweet kind face. ”It--it is Ethel's doing,” said Clive, in a hurried voice.

”There was no such letter.”

”Upon my honour,” I answered, ”there was. We came up to London with it last night, a few hours after she had found it. We showed it to Sir Barnes Newcome, who--who could not disown it. We took it to Mr. Luce, who recognised it at once, who was old Mrs. Newcome's man of business, and continues to be the family lawyer, and the family recognises the legacy and has paid it, and you may draw for it to-morrow, as you see.

What a piece of good luck it is that it did not come before the B. B. C.

time! That confounded Bundelcund Bank would have swallowed up this like all the rest.”

”Father! father! do you remember Orme's History of India?” cries Clive.

”Orme's History! of course I do, I could repeat whole pages of it when I was a boy,” says the old man, and began forthwith. ”'The two battalions advanced against each other cannonading, until the French, coming to a hollow way, imagined that the English would not venture to pa.s.s it.

But Major Lawrence ordered the sepoys and artillery--the sepoys and artillery to halt and defend the convoy against the Morattoes'--Morattoes Orme calls 'em. Ho! ho! I could repeat whole pages, sir.”

”It is the best book that ever was written,” calls out Clive. The Colonel said he had not read it, but he was informed Mr. Mill's was a very learned history; he intended to read it. ”Eh! there is plenty of time now,” said the good Colonel. ”I have all day long at Grey Friars,--after chapel, you know. Do you know, sir, when I was a boy I used what they call to tib out and run down to a public-house in Cistercian Lane--the Red Cowl sir,--and buy rum there? I was a terrible wild boy, Clivy. You weren't so, sir, thank Heaven! A terrible wild boy, and my poor father flogged me, though I think it was very hard on me. It wasn't the pain, you know: it wasn't the pain, but----” Here tears came into his eyes and he dropped his head on his hand, and the cigar from it fell on to the floor, burnt almost out, and scattering white ashes.

Clive looked sadly at me. ”He was often so at Boulogne, Arthur,” he whispered; ”after a scene with that--that woman yonder, his head would go: he never replied to her taunts; he bore her infernal cruelty without an unkind word--Oh! I pay her back, thank G.o.d I can pay her! But who shall pay her,” he said, trembling in every limb, ”for what she has made that good man suffer?”

He turned to his father, who still sate lost in his meditations. ”You need never go back to Grey Friars, father!” he cried out.

”Not go back, Clivy? Must go back, boy, to say Adsum, when my name is called. Newcome! Adsum! Hey! that is what we used to say--we used to say!”

”You need not go back, except to pack your things, and return and live with me and Boy,” Clive continued, and he told Colonel Newcome rapidly the story of the legacy. The old man seemed hardly to comprehend it.

When he did, the news scarcely elated him; when Clive said ”they could now pay Mrs. Mackenzie,” the Colonel replied, ”Quite right, quite right,” and added up the sum, princ.i.p.al and interest, in which they were indebted to her--he knew it well enough, the good old man. ”Of course we shall pay her, Clivy, when we can!” But in spite of what Clive had said he did not appear to understand the fact that the debt to Mrs. Mackenzie was now actually to be paid.

As we were talking, a knock came to the studio door, and that summons was followed by the entrance of the maid, who said to Clive, ”If you please, sir, Mrs. Mackenzie says, how long are you a-going to keep the dinner waiting?”

”Come, father, come to dinner!” cries Clive; ”and, Pen, you will come too, won't you?” he added; ”it may be the last time you dine in such pleasant company. Come along,” he whispered hurriedly. ”I should like you to be there, it will keep her tongue quiet.” As we proceeded to the dining-room, I gave the Colonel my arm; and the good man prattled to me something about Mrs. Mackenzie having taken shares in the Bundelcund Banking Company, and about her not being a woman of business, and fancying we had spent her money. ”And I have always felt a wish that Clivy should pay her, and he will pay her, I know he will,” says the Colonel; ”and then we shall lead a quiet life, Arthur; for, between ourselves, some women are the deuce when they are angry, sir.” And again he laughed, as he told me this sly news, and he bowed meekly his gentle old head as we entered the dining-room.

That apartment was occupied by little Boy already seated in his high chair, and by the Campaigner only, who stood at the mantelpiece in a majestic att.i.tude. On parting with her, before we adjourned to Clive's studio, I had made my bow and taken my leave in form, not supposing that I was about to enjoy her hospitality yet once again. My return did not seem to please her. ”Does Mr. Pendennis favour us with his company to dinner again, Clive?” she said, turning to her son-in-law. Clive curtly said, Yes, he had asked Mr. Pendennis to stay.

”You might at least have been so kind as to give me notice,” says the Campaigner, still majestic, but ironical. ”You will have but a poor meal, Mr. Pendennis; and one such as I'm not accustomed to give my guests.”

”Cold beef! what the deuce does it matter;” says Clive, beginning to carve the joint, which, hot, had served our yesterday's Christmas table.

”It does matter, sir! I am not accustomed to treat my guests in this way Maria! who had been cutting that beef? Three pounds of that beef have been cut away since one o'clock to-day,” and with flas.h.i.+ng eyes, and a finger twinkling all over with rings, she pointed towards the guilty joint.

Whether Maria had been dispensing secret charities, or kept company with an occult policeman partial to roast-beef, I do not know; but she looked very much alarmed, and said, Indeed, and indeed, mum, she had not touched a morsel of it!--not she.

”Confound the beef!” says Clive, carving on.

”She has been cutting it!” cries the Campaigner, bringing her fist down with a thump upon the table. ”Mr. Pendennis! you saw the beef yesterday; eighteen pounds it weighed, and this is what comes up of it! As if there was not already ruin enough in the house!”

”D--n the beef!” cries out Clive.

”No! no! Thank G.o.d for our good dinner! Benedicti benedicamus, Clivy my boy,” says the Colonel, in a tremulous voice.

”Swear on, sir! let the child hear your oaths! Let my blessed child, who is too ill to sit at table and picks her bite! sweetbread on her sofa,--which her poor mother prepares for her, Mr. Pendennis,--which I cooked it, and gave it to her with these hands,--let her hear your curses and blasphemies, Clive Newcome! They are loud enough.”

”Do let us have a quiet life,” groans out Clive; and for me, I must confess, I kept my eyes steadily down upon my plate, nor dared to lift them until my portion of cold beef had vanished.

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