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and there chafed and annoyed the young man. He kicked the robes over with his foot. When Mrs. Mackenzie intei posed with loud ejaculations, he sternly bade her to be silent, and not wake the child. His words were not to be questioned when he spoke in that manner. “ You will take nothing with you, Rosey, but what is střictly necessary --only two or three of your plainest dresses, and what is required for the boy. What is in this trunk?” Mrs. Mackenzie stepped forward and declared, and the nurse vowed upon her honour, and the lady’smaid asserted really now upon her honour too, that there was nothing but what was most strictly necessary in that trunk, to which affidavits, when Clive applied to his wife, she gave a rather timid assent.
" Where are the keys of that trunk?" Upon Mrs. Mackenzie's exclamation of " What nonsense !” Clive, putting his foot upon the flimsy oil-covered box, vowed he would kick the lid off unless it was instantly opened. Obeying this grim summons, the fluttering women produced the keys, and the black box was opened before him.
The box was found to contain a number of objects which Clive pronounced to be by no means necessary to his wife's and child's existence. Trinket-boxes and favourite little gimcracks, chains, rings and pearl necklaces, the tiara poor Rosey had worn at Court--the feathers and the gorgeous train which had decorated the little person -all these were found packed away in this one receptacle; and in another box, I am sorry to say, were silver forks and spoons, (the butler wisely judging that the rich and splendid electrotype ware might as well be left behind)-all the silver forks, spoons, and ladles, and our poor old friend the cocoa-nut tree, which these female robbers would have carried out of the premises.
Mr. Clive Newcome burst out into fierce laughter when he saw the cocoa-nut tree; he laughed so loud that baby awoke, and his mother-in-law called him a brute, and the nurse ran to give its accustomed quietus to the little screaming infant. Rosey's eyes poured forth a torrent of little protests, and she would have cried yet more loudly than the other baby, had not her husband, again fiercely checking her, sworn with a dreadful oath, that unless she told him the whole truth, “By heavens she should leave the house with nothing but what covered her.” Even the Campaigner could not make head against Clive's stern resolution ; and the incipient insurrection of the maids and the mistresses was quelled by his spirit. . The lady’s-maid, a flighty creature, received her wages and took her leave: but the nurse could not find it in her heart to quit her little nursling so suddenly, and accompanied Clive's household in the journey upon which those poor folks were bound. What stolen goods were finally discovered when the family reached foreign parts were found in Mrs. Mackenzie's trunks, not in her daughter's: a silver filigree basket, a few teaspoons, baby's gold coral, and a costly crimson velvet-bound copy of the Hon. Miss Grimstone's Church Service, to which articles, having thus appropriated them, Mrs. Mackenzie henceforward laid claim as her own.
So when the packing was done a cab was called to receive the modest trunks of this fugitive family—the coachman was bidden to put his horses to again, and for the last time poor Rosey Newcome sate in her own carriage, to which the Colonel conducted her with his courtly old bow, kissing the baby as it slept once more unconscious in its nurse's embrace, and bestowing a very grave and polite parting salute upon the Campaigner.
Then Clive and his father entered a cab on which the trunks were borne, and they drove to the Tower Stairs, where the ship lay which was to convey them out of England ; and during that journey, no doubt, they talked over their altered prospects, and I am sure Clive's father blessed his son fondly, and committed him and his family to a good God's gracious keeping, and thought of him with sacred love when they had parted, and Thomas Newcome had returned to his lonely house to watch and to think of his ruined fortunes, and to pray that he might have courage under them; that he might bear his own fate honourably; and that a gentle one might be dealt to those beloved beings for whom his life had been sacrificed in vain.
W H EN the sale of Colonel Newcome's effects took place, a friend
VV of the family bought in for a few shillings those two swords which had hung, as we have said, in the good man's chamber, and for which no single broker present had the heart to bid. The head of Clive's father, painted by himself, which had always kept its place in the young man's studio, together with a lot of his oil-sketchings, easels, and painting-apparatus, were purchased by the faithful J. J., who kept them until his friend should return to London and reclaim them, and who showed the most generous solicitude in Clive's behalf. J. J. was elected of the Royal Academy this year, and Clive, it was evident, was working hard at the profession which he had always loved; for he sent over three pictures to the Academy, and I never knew man more mortified than the affectionate J. J., when two of these unlucky pieces were rejected by the committee for the year. One pretty little piece, called “ The Stranded Boat,” got a fair place on the Exhibition walls, and, you may be sure, was loudly praised by a certain critic in the Pall Mall Gazette. The picture was sold on the first day of the exhibition at the price of twenty-five pounds, which the artist demanded; and when the kind J. J. wrote to inform his friend of this satisfactory circumstance, and to say that he held the money at Clive's disposal, the latter replied, with many expressions of sincere gratitude, at the same time begging him directly to forward the money, with our old friend Thomas Newcome's love, to Mrs. Sarah Mason, at Newcome. But J. J. never informed his friend that he himself was the purchaser of the picture; nor was Clive made acquainted with the fact until some time afterwards, when he found it hanging in Ridley's studio.
I have said that we none of us were aware at this time what was the real state of Colonel Newcome's finances, and hoped that, after giving up every shilling of his property which was confiscated to the creditors of the Bank, he had still, from his retiring pension and military allowances, at least enough reputably to maintain him. On one occasion, having business in the City, I there met Mr. Sherrick, Affairs had been going ill with that gentleman: he had been let in terribly, he informed me, by Lord Levant's insolvency, having had large money transactions with his lordship. “There's none of them so good as old Newcome,” Mr. Sherrick said with a sigh. “That was a good one that was an honest man if ever I saw one-with no more guile, and no more idea of business than a baby. Why didn't he take my advice, poor old cove?-he might be comfortable now. Why did he sell away that annuity, Mr. Pendennis ? I got it done for him when nobody else perhaps could have got it done for him for the security ain't worth twopence if Newcome wasn't an honest man ;-but I know he is, and would rather starve and eat the nails off his fingers than not keep to his word, the old trump. And when he came to me, a good two months before the smash of the Bank, which I knew it, sir, and saw that it must come-when he came and raised three thousand pounds to meet them d-d electioneering bills, having to pay lawyers, commission, premium, life-insurance--you know the whole game, Mr. P.-I as good as went down on my knees to him—I did-at the North and South American Coffee-house, where he was to meet the party about the money, and said, Colonel, don't raise it-I tell you, let it stand over let it go in along with the bankruptcy that's a-coming' --but he wouldn't, sir-he went on like an old Bengal tiger, roaring about his honour; he paid the bills every shilling-infernal long bills they were--and it's my belief that, at this minute, he ain't got fifty pounds a year of his own to spend. I would send him back my commission--I would by Jove-only times is so bad, and that rascal Levant has let me in. It went to my heart to take the old cock's money but it's gone-that and ever so much more--and Lady Whittlesea's chapel too, Mr. P. Hang that young Levant."
Squeezing my hand after this speech, Sherrick ran across the street after some other capitalist who was entering the Diddlesex Insurance Office, and left me very much grieved and dismayed at finding that my worst fears in regard to Thomas Newcome were confirmed. Should we confer with his wealthy family respecting the Colonel's impoverished condition? Was his brother Hobson Newcome aware of it? As for Sir Barnes, the quarrel between him and his uncle had been too fierce to admit of hopes of relief from that quarter. Barnes had been put to very heavy expenses in the first contested election; had come forward again immediately on his uncle's resignation, but again had been beaten by a more liberal candidate, his quondam former friend, Mr. Higg-who formally declared against Sir Barnes—and who drove him finally out of the representation of Newcome. From this gentleman it was vain of course for Colonel Newcome's friends to expect relief.
How to aid him? He was proud-past' work-nearly seventy years old. “Oh, why did those cruel academicians refuse Clive's. pictures ?” cries Laura. "I have no patience with them-had the pictures been exhibited I know who might have bought them—but that is vain now. He would suspect at once, and send her money away. Oh, Pen! why, why didn't he come when I wrote that letter to Brussels ?”.
From persons so poorly endowed with money as ourselves, any help, but of the merest temporary nature, was out of the question. We knew our friends too well not to know that they would disdain to receive it. It was agreed between me and Laura that at any rate I should go and see Clive. Our friends indeed were at a very short distance from us, and, having exiled themselves from England, could yet see its coasts from their windows upon any clear day. Boulogne was their present abiding place--refuge of how many thousands of other unfortunate Britons--and to this friendly port I betook myself speedily, having the address of Colonel Newcome. His quarters were in a quiet grass-grown old street of the Old Town. None of the family were at home when I called. There was indeed no servant to answer the bell, but the good-natured French domestic of a neighbouring lodger told me that the young Monsieur went out every day to make his designs, and that I should probably find the elder gentleman upon the rampart, where he was in the custom of going every day. I strolled along by those pretty old walks and bastions, under the pleasant trees which shadow them, and the gray old gabled houses from which you look down upon the gay new city, and the busy port, and the piers stretching into the shining sea, dotted with a hundred white sails or black smoking steamers, and bounded by the friendly lines of the bright English shore. There are few prospects more charming than the familiar view from those old French walls-few places where young children may play, and ruminating old age repose more pleasantly than on those peaceful rampart gardens.
I found our dear old friend seated on one of the benches, a newspaper on his knees, and by his side a red-cheeked little French lass, upon whose lap Thomas Newcome the younger lay sleeping. The Colonel's face flushed up when he saw me. As he advanced a step or two towards me I could see that he trembled in his walk. His hair had grown almost quite white. He looked now to be more than his age--he whose carriage last year had been so erect, whose figure had been so straight and manly. I was very much moved at meeting him, and at seeing the sad traces which pain and grief had left in the countenance of the dear old man.
“So you are come to see me, my good young friend," cried the Colonel, with a trembling voice. " It is very, very kind of you. Is not this a.pretty drawing-room to receive our friends in ? We have not many of them now; Boy and I come and sit here for hours every day.