In which Old Friends come together

We made the descent of Snowhill, we passed by the miry pens of Smithfield; we travel through the street of St. John, and presently reach the ancient gateway, in Cistercian Square, where lies the old Hospital of Grey Friars. I passed through the gate, my fair young companion on my arm, and made my way to the rooms occupied by brother Newcome.

As we traversed the court the Poor Brothers were coming from dinner. A couple of score, or more, of old gentlemen in black gowns, issued from the door of their refectory, and separated over the court, betaking themselves to their chambers. Ethel’s arm trembled under mine as she looked at one and another, expecting to behold her dear uncle’s familiar features. But he was not among the brethren. We went to his chamber, of which the door was open: a female attendant was arranging the room; she told us Colonel Newcome was out for the day, and thus our journey had been made in vain.

Ethel went round the apartment and surveyed its simple decorations; she looked at the pictures of Clive and his boy; the two sabres crossed over the mantelpiece, the Bible laid on the table, by the old latticed window. She walked slowly up to the humble bed, and sat down on a chair near it. No doubt her heart prayed for him who slept there; she turned round where his black pensioner’s cloak was hanging on the wall, and lifted up the homely garment, and kissed it. The servant looked on admiring, I should think, her melancholy and her gracious beauty. I whispered to the woman that the young lady was the Colonel’s niece. “He has a son who comes here, and is very handsome, too,” said the attendant.

The two women spoke together for a while. “Oh, miss!” cried the elder and humbler, evidently astonished at some gratuity which Miss Newcome bestowed upon her, “I didn’t want this to be good to him. Everybody here loves him for himself; and I would sit up for him for weeks — that I would.”

My companion took a pencil from her bag, and wrote “Ethel” on a piece of paper, and laid the paper on the Bible. Darkness had again fallen by this time, feeble lights were twinkling in the chamber windows of the Poor Brethren as we issued into the courts; — feeble lights illumining a dim, grey, melancholy old scene. Many a career, once bright, was flickering out here in the darkness; many a night was closing in. We went away silently from that quiet place; and in another minute were in the flare and din and tumult of London.

“The Colonel is most likely gone to Clive’s,” I said. Would not Miss Newcome follow him thither? We consulted whether she should go. She took heart and said yes. “Drive, cabman, to Howland Street!” The horse was, no doubt, tired, for the journey seemed extraordinarily long; I think neither of us spoke a word on the way.

I ran upstairs to prepare our friends for the visit. Clive, his wife, his father, and his mother-inlaw were seated by a dim light in Mrs. Clive’s sitting-room. Rosey on the sofa, as usual; the little boy on his grandfather’s knees.

I hardly made a bow to the ladies, so eager was I to communicate with Colonel Newcome. “I have just been to your quarters at Grey Friars, sir,” said I. “That is ——”

“You have been to the Hospital, sir! You need not be ashamed to mention it, as Colonel Newcome is not ashamed to go there,” cried out the Campaigner. “Pray speak in your own language, Clive, unless there is something not fit for ladies to hear.” Clive was growling out to me in German that there had just been a terrible scene, his father having, a quarter of an hour previously, let slip the secret about Grey Friars.

“Say at once, Clive!” the Campaigner cried, rising in her might, and extending a great strong arm over her helpless child, “that Colonel Newcome owns that he has gone to live as a pauper in a hospital! He who has squandered his own money. He who has squandered my money. He who has squandered the money of that darling helpless child — compose yourself, Rosey my love! — has completed the disgrace of the family, by his present mean and unworthy — yes, I say, mean and unworthy and degraded conduct. Oh, my child, my blessed child! to think that your husband’s father should have come to a workhouse!” Whilst this maternal agony bursts over her, Rosa, on the sofa, bleats and whimpers amongst the faded chintz cushions.

I took Clive’s hand, which was cast up to his head striking his forehead with mad impotent rage, whilst this fiend of a woman lashed his good father. The veins of his great fist were swollen, his whole body was throbbing and trembling with the helpless pain under which he writhed. “Colonel Newcome’s friends, ma’am,”, I said, “think very differently from you; and that he is a better judge than you, or any one else, of his own honour. We. all, who loved him in his prosperity, love and respect him more than ever for the manner in which he bears his misfortune. Do you suppose that his noble friend, the Earl of H— — would have counselled him to a step unworthy of a gentleman; that the Prince de Moncontour would applaud his conduct as he does, if he did not think it admirable?” I can hardly say with what scorn I used this argument, or what depth of contempt I felt for the woman whom I knew it would influence. “And at this minute,” I added, “I have come from visiting the Gray Friars with one of the Colonel’s relatives, whose love and respect for him is boundless; who longs to be reconciled to him, and who is waiting below, eager to shake his hand, and embrace Clive’s wife.”

“Who is that?” says the Colonel, looking gently up, as he pats Boy’s head.

“Who is it, Pen?” says Clive. I said in a low voice, “Ethel;” and starting up and crying “Ethel! Ethel!” he ran from the room.

Little Mrs. Rosa started up too on her sofa, clutching hold of the table-cover with her lean hand, and the two red spots on her cheeks burning more fiercely than ever. I could see what passion was beating in that poor little heart. Heaven help us! what a resting-place had friends and parents prepared for it! for shame!”

“Miss Newcome, is it? My darling Rosa, get on your shawl!” cried the Campaigner, a grim smile lighting her face.

“It is Ethel; Ethel is my niece. I used to love her when she was quite a little girl,” says the Colonel, patting Boy on the head; “and she is a very good, beautiful little child — a very good child.” The torture had been too much for that kind old heart: there were times when Thomas Newcome passed beyond it. What still maddened Clive, excited his father no more; the pain yonder woman inflicted, only felled and stupefied him.

As the door opened, the little white-headed child trotted forward towards the visitor, and Ethel entered on Clive’s arm, who was as haggard and pale as death. Little Boy, looking up at the stately lady, still followed beside her, as she approached her uncle, who remained sitting, his head bent to the ground. His thoughts were elsewhere. Indeed he was following the child, and about to caress it again.

“Here is a friend, father!” says Clive, laying a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “It is I, Ethel, uncle! “the young lady said, taking his hand; and kneeling down between his knees, she flung her arms round him, and kissed him, and wept on his shoulder.

His consciousness had quite returned ere an instant was over. He embraced her with the warmth of his old affection, uttering many brief words of love, kindness, and tenderness, such as men speak when strongly moved.

The little boy had come wondering up to the chair whilst this embrace took place, and Clive’s tall figure bent over the three. Rosa’s eyes were not good to look at, as she stared at the group with a ghastly smile. Mrs. Mackenzie surveyed the scene in haughty state, from behind the sofa cushions. She tried to take one of Rosa’s lean hot hands. The poor child tore it away, leaving her rings behind her; lifted her hands to her face: and cried, cried as if her little heart would break. Ah me! what a story was there! what an outburst of pent-up feeling! what a passion of pain! The ring had fallen to the ground; the little boy crept towards it, and picked it up, and came towards his mother, fixing on her his large wondering eyes. “Mamma crying. Mamma’s ring!” he said, holding up the circle of gold. With more feeling than I had ever seen her exhibit, she clasped the boy in her wasted arms. Great Heaven! what passion, jealousy, grief, despair, were tearing and trying all these hearts, that but for fate might have been happy?

Clive went round, and with the utmost sweetness and tenderness hanging round his child and wife, soothed her with words of consolation, that in truth I scarce heard, being ashamed almost of being present at this sudden scene. No one, however, took notice of the witnesses; and even Mrs. Mackenzie’s voice was silent for the moment. I dare say Clive’s words were incoherent; but women have more presence of mind; and now Ethel, with a noble grace which I cannot attempt to describe, going up to Rosa, seated herself by her, spoke of her long grief at the differences between her dearest uncle and herself; of her early days, when he had been as a father to her; of her wish, her hope that Rosa should love her as a sister; and of her belief that better days and happiness were in store for them all. And she spoke to the mother about her boy so beautiful and intelligent, and told her how she had brought up her brother’s children, and hoped that this one too would call her Aunt Ethel. She would not stay now, might she come again? Would Rosa come to her with her little boy? Would he kiss her? He did so with a very good grace; but when Ethel at parting embraced the child’s mother, Rosa’s face wore a smile ghastly to look at, and the lips that touched Ethel’s cheeks, were quite white.

“I shall come and see you again tomorrow, uncle, may I not? I saw your room today, sir, and your housekeeper; such a nice old lady, and your black gown. And you shall put it on tomorrow, and walk with me, and show me the beautiful old buildings of that old hospital. And I shall come and make tea for you, the housekeeper says I may. Will you come down with me to my carriage? No, Mr. Pendennis must come;” and she quitted the room, beckoning me after her. “You will speak to Clive now, won’t you?” she said, “and come to me this evening, and tell me all before you go to bed?” I went back, anxious in truth to the messenger of good tidings to my dear old friends.

Brief as my absence had been, Mrs. Mackenzie had taken advantage of that moment again to outrage Clive and his father, and to announce that Rosa might go to see this Miss Newcome, whom people respected because she was rich, but whom she would never visit; no, never! “An insolent, proud, impertinent thing! Does she take me for a housemaid?” Mrs. Mackenzie had inquired.

“Am I dust to be trampled beneath her feet? Am I a dog that she can’t throw me a word?” Her arms were stretched out, and she was making this inquiry as to her own canine qualities as I re-entered the room, and remembered that Ethel had never once addressed a single word to Mrs. Mackenzie in the course of her visit.

I affected not to perceive the incident, and presently said that I wanted to speak to Clive in his studio. Knowing that I had brought my friend one or two commissions for drawings, Mrs. Mackenzie was civil to me, and did not object to our colloquies.

“Will you come too, and smoke a pipe, father?” says Clive.

“Of course your father intends to stay to dinner?” says the Campaigner, with a scornful toss of her head. Clive groaned out as we were on the stair, “that he could not bear this much longer, by heavens he could not.”

“Give the Colonel his pipe, Clive,” said I. “Now, sir, down with you in the sitter’s chair, and smoke the sweetest cheroot you ever smoked in your life! My dear, dear old Clive! you need not bear with the Campaigner any longer; you may go to bed without this nightmare to-night if you like; you may have your father back under your roof again.”

“My dear Arthur! I must be back at ten, sir, back at ten, military time; drum beats; no — bell tolls at ten, and gates close;” and he laughed and shook his old head. “Besides, I am to see a young lady, sir; and she is coming to make tea for me, and I must speak to Mrs. Jones to have all things ready — all things ready;” and again the old man laughed as he spoke.

His son looked at him and then at me with eyes full of sad meaning. “How do you mean, Arthur,” Clive said, “that he can come and stay with me, and that that woman can go?”

Then feeling in my pocket for Mr. Luce’s letter, I grasped my dear Clive by the hand and bade him prepare for good news. I told him how providentially, two days since, Ethel, in the library at Newcome, looking into Orme’s History of India, a book which old Mrs. Newcome had been reading on the night of her death, had discovered a paper, of which the accompanying letter enclosed a copy, and I gave my friend the letter.

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 document, 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 tomorrow, 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. &............