“I can’t speak,” says Clive, from his end of the table. “I don’t understand about parties, like F. B. here.”
“I believe I do know a thing or two,” Mr. Bayham here interposes.
“And politics do not interest me in the least,” Clive sighs out, drawing pictures with his fork on his napkin, and not heeding the other’s interruption.
“I wish I knew what would interest him,” his father whispers to me, who happened to be at his side. “He never cares to be out of his painting-room; and he doesn’t seem to be very happy even in there. I wish to God, Pen, I knew what had come over the boy.” I thought I knew; but what was the use of telling, now there was no remedy?
“A dissolution is expected every day,” continued F. B. “The papers are full of it. Ministers cannot go on with this majority—cannot possibly go on, sir. I have it on the best authority; and men who are anxious about their seats are writing to their constituents, or are subscribing at missionary meetings, or are gone down to lecturing at Athenæums, and that sort of thing.”
Here Warrington burst out into a laughter much louder than the occasion of the speech of F. B. seemed to warrant; and the Colonel, turning round with some dignity, asked the cause of George’s amusement.
“What do you think your darling, Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, has been doing during the recess?” cries Warrington. “I had a letter this morning, from my liberal and punctual employer, Thomas Potts, Esquire, of the Newcome Independent, who states, in language scarcely respectful, that Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome is trying to come the religious dodge, as Mr. Potts calls it. He professes to be stricken down by grief on account of late family circumstances; wears black, and puts on the most piteous aspect, and asks ministers of various denominations to tea with him; and the last announcement is the most stupendous of all. Stop, I have it in my greatcoat;” and, ringing the bell, George orders a servant to bring him a newspaper from his great-coat pocket. “Here it is, actually in print,” Warrington continues, and reads to us:—“‘Newcome Athenæum. 1, for the benefit of the Newcome Orphan Children’s Home, and 2, for the benefit of the Newcome Soup Association, without distinction of denomination. Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., proposes to give two lectures, on Friday the 23rd, and Friday the 30th, instant. No. 1, The Poetry of Childhood: Doctor Watts, Mrs. Barbauld, Jane Taylor, No. 2, The Poetry of Womanhood, and the Affections: Mrs. Hemans, L. E. L. Threepence will be charged at the doors, which will go to the use of the above two admirable Societies.’ Potts wants me to go down and hear him. He has an eye to business. He has had a quarrel with Sir Barnes, and wants me to go down and hear him, and smash him, he kindly says. Let us go down, Clive. You shall draw your cousin as you have drawn his villainous little mug a hundred times before; and I will do the smashing part, and we will have some fun out of the transaction.”
“Besides, Florac will be in the country; going to Rosebury is a journey worth the taking, I can tell you; and we have old Mrs. Mason to go and see, who sighs after you, Colonel. My wife went to see her,” remarks Mr. Pendennis, “and——”
“And Miss Newcome, I know,” says the Colonel.
“She is away at Brighton, with her little charges, for sea air. My wife heard from her to-day.”