The father took and grasped the hand which his son held out. “Let us go back into the dining-room,” he said. They entered it, and he filled himself a glass of wine out of the bottle still standing amidst the dessert. He bade the butler retire, who was lingering about the room and sideboard, and only wanted to know whether his master would have dinner, that was all. And, this gentleman having withdrawn, Colonel Newcome finished his glass of sherry and broke a biscuit; the Campaigner assuming an attitude of surprise and indignation, whilst Rosey had leisure to remark that papa looked very ill, and that something must have happened.
The Colonel took both her hands and drew her towards him and kissed her, whilst Rosey’s mamma, flouncing down on a chair, beat a tattoo upon the tablecloth with her fan. “Something has happened, my love,” the Colonel said very sadly; “you must show all your strength of mind, for a great misfortune has befallen us.”
“Good heavens, Colonel, what is it? don’t frighten my beloved child,” cries the Campaigner, rushing towards her darling, and enveloping her in her robust arms. “What can have happened, don’t agitate this darling child, sir,” and she looked indignantly towards the poor Colonel.
“We have received the very worst news from Calcutta, a confirmation of the news by the last mail, Clivey, my boy.”
“It is no news to me. I have always been expecting it, father,” says Clive, holding down his head.
“Expecting what? What have you been keeping back from us? In what have you been deceiving us, Colonel Newcome?” shrieks the Campaigner; and Rosa, crying out, “Oh, mamma, mamma!” begins to whimper.
“The chief of the bank in India is dead,” the Colonel went on. “He has left its affairs in worse than disorder. We are, I fear, ruined, Mrs. Mackenzie.” And the Colonel went on to tell how the bank could not open on Monday morning, and its bills to a great amount had already been protested in the City that day.
Rosey did not understand half these news, or comprehend the calamity which was to follow; but Mrs. Mackenzie, rustling in great wrath, made a speech, of which the anger gathered as he proceeded; in which she vowed and protested that her money, which the Colonel, she did not know from what motives, had induced her to subscribe, should not be sacrificed, and that have it she would, the bank shut or not, the next Monday morning—that her daughter had a fortune of her own which her poor dear brother James should have divided and would have divided much more fairly, had he not been wrongly influenced—she would not say by whom, and she commanded Colonel Newcome upon that instant, if he was, as he always pretended to be, an honourable man, to give an account of her blessed darling’s property, and to pay back her own, every sixpence of it. She would not lend it for an hour longer, and to see that that dear blessed child now sleeping unconsciously upstairs, and his dear brothers and sisters who might follow, for Rosey was a young woman, a poor innocent creature, too young to be married, and never would have been married had she listened to her mamma’s advice. She demanded that the baby, and all succeeding babies, should have their rights, and should be looked to by their grandmother, if their father’s father was so unkind, and so wicked, and so unnatural, as to give their money to rogues, and deprive them of their just bread.
Rosey began to cry more loudly than ever during the utterance of mamma’s sermon, so loudly that Clive peevishly cried out, “Hold your tongue,” on which the Campaigner, clutching her daughter to her breast again, turned on her son-in-law, and abused him as she had abused his father before him, calling out that they were both in a conspiracy to defraud her child, and the little darling upstairs of its bread, and she would speak, yes, she would, and no power should prevent her, and her money she would have on Monday, as sure as her poor dear husband, Captain Mackenzie, was dead, and she never would have been cheated so, yes, cheated, if he had been alive.
At the word “cheated” Clive broke out with an execration—the poor Colonel with a groan of despair—the widow’s storm continued, and above that howling tempest of words rose Mrs. Clive’s piping scream, who went off into downright hysterics at last, in which she was encouraged by her mother, and in which she gasped out frantic ejaculations regarding baby; dear, darling, ruined baby, and so forth.