“‘And then I thought, as we do in dreams, you know, that it was my child who was separated from me, and who would not know me: and oh, what a pang that was! Fancy that! Let us pray God it was only a dream. And worse than that, when you, when I implored to come to the child, and the man said, ‘No, never,’ I thought there came a spirit—an angel that fetched the child to heaven, and you said, ‘Let me come too; oh, let me come too, I am so miserable.’ And the angel said, ‘No, never, never.’
“By this time Lady Clara was looking very pale. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked of me,” Laura continued.
“‘Oh, dear lady, for the sake of the little ones, and Him who calls them to Him, go you with them. Never, never part from them! Cling to His knees, and take shelter there.’ I took her hands, and I said more to her in this way, Arthur, that I need not, that I ought not to speak again. But she was touched at length when I kissed her; and she said I was very kind to her, and no one had ever been so, and that she was quite alone in the world and had no friend to fly to; and would I go and stay with her? and I said ‘yes;’ and we must go, my dear. I think you should see that person at Newcome—see him, and warn him,” cried Laura, warming as she spoke, “and pray God to enlighten and strengthen him, and to keep him from this temptation, and implore him to leave this poor, weak, frightened, trembling creature; if he has the heart of a gentleman and the courage of a man, he will, I know he will.”
“I think he would, my dearest,” I said, “if he but heard the petitioner.” Laura’s cheeks were blushing, her eyes brightened, her voice rang with a sweet pathos of love that vibrates through my whole being sometimes. It seems to me as if evil must give way, and bad thoughts retire before that purest creature.
“Why has she not some of her family with her, poor thing!” my wife continued. “She perishes in that solitude. Her husband prevents her, I think—and—oh—I know enough of him to know what his life is. I shudder, Arthur, to see you take the hand of that wicked, selfish man. You must break with him, do you hear, sir?”
“Before or after going to stay at his house, my love?” asks Mr. Pendennis.
“Poor thing! she lighted up at the idea of any one coming. She ran and showed me the rooms we were to have. It will be very stupid; and you don’t like that. But you can write your book, and still hunt and shoot with our friends here. And Lady Anne Newcome must be made to come back again. Sir Barnes quarrelled with his mother and drove her out of the house on her last visit—think of that! The servants here know it. Martha brought me the whole story from the housekeeper’s room. This Sir Barnes Newcome is a dreadful creature, Arthur. I am so glad I loathed him from the very first moment I saw him.”
“And into this ogre’s den you propose to put me and my family, madam!” says the husband. “Indeed, where won’t I go if you order me? Oh, who will pack my portmanteau?”
Florac and the Princess were both in desolation when, at dinner, we announced our resolution to go away—and to our neighbours at Newcome! that was more extraordinary. “Que diable goest thou to do in this galley?” asks our host as we sat alone over our wine.
But Laura’s intended visit to Lady Clara was never to have a fulfilment, for on this same evening, as we sate at our dessert, comes a messenger from Newcome, with a note for my wife from the lady there:—