"Clive does not think he is a rascal at all, papa," cries Rosey, from
behind her tea-urn; "that is, you said you thought papa judged him too
harshly; you know you did, this morning!" And from her husband's angry
glances, she flies to his father's for protection. Those were even
fiercer than Clive's. Revenge flashed from beneath Thomas Newcome's
grizzled eyebrows, and glanced in the direction where Clive sat. Then the
Colonel's face flushed up, and he cast his eyes down towards his tea-cup,
which he lifted with a trembling hand. The father and son loved each
other so, that each was afraid of the other. A war between two such men
is dreadful; pretty little pink-faced Rosey, in a sweet little morning
cap and ribbons, her pretty little fingers twinkling with a score of
rings, sat simpering before her silver tea-urn, which reflected her
pretty little pink baby face. Little artless creature! what did she know
of the dreadful wounds which her little words inflicted in the one
generous breast and the other?
"My boy's heart is gone from me," thinks poor Thomas Newcome; "our family
is insulted, our enterprises ruined, by that traitor, and my son is not
even angry! he does not care for the success of our plans--for the honour
of our name even; I make him a position of which any young man in England
might be proud, and Clive scarcely deigns to accept it.
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