“A poor devil can’t command courage, General,” said the Colonel, quite peaceably, “any more than he can make himself six feet high.”
“Then why the dash did the beggar send for me?” called out General Sir George Tufto, in a loud and resolute voice; and presently the two officers parted company.
When the Colonel reached home, Mr. Warrington and Mr. Pendennis happened to be on a visit to Clive, and all three were in the young fellow’s painting-room. We knew our lad was unhappy, and did our little best to amuse and console him. The Colonel came in. It was in the dark February days: we lighted the gas in the studio. Clive had made a sketch from some favourite verses of mine and George’s: those charming lines of Scott’s:—
“He turned his charger as he spake,
Beside the river shore;
He gave his bridle-rein a shake,
With adieu for evermore,
My dear!
Adieu for evermore!”
Thomas Newcome held up a finger at Warrington, and he came up to the picture and looked at it; and George and I trolled out:
“Adieu for evermore,
My dear!
Adieu for evermore!”
From the picture the brave old Colonel turned to the painter, regarding his son with a look of beautiful inexpressible affection. And he laid his hand on his son’s shoulder, and smiled, and stroked Clive’s yellow moustache.
“And—and did Barnes send no answer to that letter you wrote him?” he said, slowly.
Clive broke out into a laugh that was almost a sob. He took both his father’s hands. “My dear, dear old father!” says he, “what a—what an—old—trump you are!” My eyes were so dim I could hardly see the two men as they embraced.