“Do you wish to see me any longer insulted by this woman, Clive? Mr. Pendennis, I am shocked that you should witness such horrible vulgarity,” cries the Campaigner, turning to her guest. “Does the wretched creature suppose that I, I who have given thousands, I who have denied myself everything, I who have spent my all in support of this house; and Colonel Newcome knows whether I have given thousands or not, and who has spent them, and who has been robbed, I say, and——”
“Here! you! Maria! go about your business,” shouted out Clive Newcome, starting up; “go and pack your trunks if you like, and pack this woman’s trunks too. Mrs. Mackenzie, I can bear you no more; go in peace, and if you wish to see your daughter she shall come to you; but I will never, so help me God! sleep under the same roof with you; or break the same crust with you; or bear your infernal cruelty; or sit to hear my father insulted; or listen to your wicked pride and folly more. There has not been a day since you thrust your cursed foot into our wretched house, but you have tortured one and all of us. Look here, at the best gentleman, and the kindest heart in all the world, you fiend! and see to what a condition you have brought him! Dearest father! she is going, do you hear? She leaves us, and you will come back to me, won’t you? Great God, woman,” he gasped out, “do you know what you have made me suffer—what you have done to this good man? Pardon, father, pardon!”—and he sank down by his father’s side, sobbing with passionate emotion. The old man even now did not seem to comprehend the scene. When he heard that woman’s voice in anger, a sort of stupor came over him.
“I am a fiend, am I?” cries the lady. “You hear, Mr. Pendennis, this is the language to which I am accustomed; I am a widow, and I trusted my child and my all to that old man; he robbed me and my darling of almost every farthing we had; and what has been my return for such baseness? I have lived in this house and toiled like a slave; I have acted as servant to my blessed child; night after night I have sat with her; and month after month, when her husband has been away, I have nursed that poor innocent; and the father having robbed me, the son turns me out of doors!”
A sad thing it was to witness, and a painful proof how frequent were these battles, that, as this one raged, the poor little boy sat almost careless, whilst his bewildered grandfather stroked his golden head. “It is quite clear to me, madam,” I said, turning to Mrs. Mackenzie, “that you and your son-in-law are better apart; and I came to tell him to-day of a most fortunate legacy, which has been left to him, and which will enable him to pay you to-morrow morning every shilling, every shilling which he does NOT owe you?”
“I will not leave this house until I am paid every shilling of which I have been robbed,” hissed out Mrs. Mackenzie; and she sat down, folding her arms across her chest.
“I am sorry,” groaned out Clive, wiping the sweat off his brow, “I used a harsh word; I will never sleep under the same roof with you. To-morrow I will pay you what you claim; and the best chance I have of forgiving you the evil which you have done me, is that we never should meet again. Will you give me a bed at your house, Arthur? Father, will you come out and walk? Good night, Mrs. Mackenzie; Pendennis will settle with you in the morning. You will not be here, if you please, when I return; and so God forgive you, and farewell.”
Mrs. Mackenzie in a tragic manner dashed aside the hand which poor Clive held out to her, and disappeared from the scene of this dismal dinner. Boy presently fell a-crying; in spite of all the battle and fury, there was sleep in his eyes.
“Maria is too busy, I suppose, to put him to bed,” said Clive, with a sad smile; “shall we do it, father? Come, Tommy, my son!” and he folded his arms round the child, and walked with him to the upper regions. The old man’s eyes lighted up; his seared thoughts returned to him; he followed his two children up the stairs, and saw his grandson in his little bed; and, as we walked home with him, he told me how sweetly Boy said “Our Father,” and prayed God bless all those who loved him, as they laid him to rest.
So these three generations had joined in that supplication: the strong man, humbled by trial and grief, whose loyal heart was yet full of love;—the child, of the sweet age of those little ones whom the Blessed Speaker of the prayer first bade to come unto Him;—and the old man, whose heart was well-nigh as tender and as innocent; and whose day was approaching, when he should be drawn to the bosom of the Eternal Pity.