Why
can't I love the things which he loves?" thought Newcome; "why am I
blind to the beauties which he admires so much--and am I unable to
comprehend what he evidently understands at his young age?"

So, as he thought what vain egotistical hopes he used to form about the
boy when he was away in India--how in his plans for the happy future,
Clive was to be always at his side; how they were to read, work, play,
think, be merry together--a sickening and humiliating sense of the
reality came over him: and he sadly contrasted it with the former fond
anticipations. Together they were, yet he was alone still. His thoughts
were not the boy's: and his affections rewarded but with a part of the
young man's heart. Very likely other lovers have suffered equally. Many
a man and woman has been incensed and worshipped, and has shown no more
feeling than is to be expected from idols. There is yonder statue in St.
Peter's, of which the toe is worn away with kisses, and which sits, and
will sit eternally, prim and cold. As the young man grew, it seemed
to the father as if each day separated them more and more. He himself
became more melancholy and silent. His friend the civilian marked the
ennui, and commented on it in his laughing way. Sometimes he announced
to the club that Tom Newcome was in love: then he thought it was not
Tom's heart but his liver that was affected, and recommended blue pill.
O thou fond fool! who art thou, to know any man's heart save thine
alone? Wherefore were wings made, and do feathers grow, but that birds
should fly? The instinct that bids you love your nest, leads the young
ones to seek a tree and a mate of their own. As if Thomas Newcome by
poring over poems or pictures ever so much could read them with Clive's
eyes!--as if by sitting mum over his wine, but watching till the lad
came home with his latchkey (when the Colonel crept back to his own room
in his stockings), by prodigal bounties, by stealthy affection, by any
schemes or prayers, he could hope to remain first in his son's heart!

One day going into Clive's study, where the lad was so deeply engaged
that he did not hear the father's steps advancing, Thomas Newcome found
his son, pencil in hand, poring over a paper, which, blushing, he thrust
hastily into his breast-pocket, as soon as he saw his visitor. The
father was deeply smitten and mortified. "I--I am sorry you have any
secrets from me, Clive," he gasped out at length.

The boy's face lighted