

                          William Makepeace Thackeray

                                  Vanity Fair

                                       or

                                        

                             A Novel without a Hero

                                   Chapter I

                                 Chiswick Mall.

While the present century was in its teens, and on one sunshiny morning in June,
there drove up to the great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton's academy for young
ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family coach, with two fat horses in blazing
harness, driven by a fat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig, at the rate
of four miles an hour. A black servant, who reposed on the box beside the fat
coachman, uncurled his bandy legs as soon as the equipage drew up opposite Miss
Pinkerton's shining brass plate, and as he pulled the bell, at least a score of
young heads were seen peering out of the narrow windows of the stately old brick
house. Nay, the acute observer might have recognized the little red nose of
good-natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself, rising over some geranium pots in
the window of that lady's own drawing-room.
    »It is Mrs. Sedley's coach, sister,« said Miss Jemima. »Sambo, the black
servant, has just rung the bell; and the coachman has a new red waistcoat.«
    »Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident to Miss Sedley's
departure, Miss Jemima?« asked Miss Pinkerton herself, that majestic lady - the
Semiramis of Hammersmith, the friend of Dr. Johnson, the correspondent of Mrs.
Chapone herself.
    »The girls were up at four this morning, packing her trunks, sister,«
replied Miss Jemima; »we have made her a bow-pot.«
    »Say a bouquet, sister Jemima - 'tis more genteel.«
    »Well, a booky as big almost as a haystack. I have put up two bottles of the
gillyflower-water for Mrs. Sedley, and the receipt for making it, in Amelia's
box.«
    »And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of Miss Sedley's account.
This is it, is it? Very good - ninety-three pounds, four shillings. Be kind
enough to address it to John Sedley, Esquire, and to seal this billet which I
have written to his lady.«
    In Miss Jemima's eyes an autograph letter of her sister, Miss Pinkerton, was
an object of as deep veneration as would have been a letter from a sovereign.
Only when her pupils quitted the establishment, or when they were about to be
married, and once, when poor Miss Birch died of the scarlet fever, was Miss
Pinkerton known to write personally to the parents of her pupils; and it was
Jemima's opinion that if anything could console Mrs. Birch for her daughter's
loss, it would be that pious and eloquent composition in which Miss Pinkerton
announced the event.
    In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's billet was to the following effect:
-
 
                                              »The Mall, Chiswick, June 15, 18-.
        Madam, - After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honour
        and happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents, as a
        young lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their polished
        and refined circle. Those virtues which characterize the young English
        gentlewoman, those accomplishments which become her birth and station,
        will not be found wanting in the amiable Miss Sedley, whose industry and
        obedience have endeared her to her instructors, and whose delightful
        sweetness of temper has charmed her aged and her youthful companions.
            In music, in dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery
        and needlework, she will be found to have realized her friends' fondest
        wishes. In geography there is still much to be desired; and a careful
        and undeviating use of the backboard, for four hours daily during the
        next three years, is recommended as necessary to the acquirement of that
        dignified deportment and carriage, so requisite for every young lady of
        fashion.
            In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be
        found worthy of an establishment which has been honoured by the presence
        of The Great Lexicographer, and the patronage of the admirable Mrs.
        Chapone. In leaving the Mall, Miss Amelia carries with her the hearts of
        her companions, and the affectionate regards of her mistress, who has
        the honour to subscribe herself,
                                        Madam, your most obliged humble servant,
                                                              BARBARA PINKERTON.
        P.S. - Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly requested
        that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed ten days. The
        family of distinction with whom she is engaged desire to avail
        themselves of her services as soon as possible.«
 
This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her own name and Miss
Sedley's in the fly-leaf of a Johnson's Dictionary - the interesting work which
she invariably presented to her scholars on their departure from the Mall. On
the cover was inserted a copy of »Lines addressed to a young lady on quitting
Miss Pinkerton's school, at the Mall; by the late revered Doctor Samuel
Johnson.« In fact, the Lexicographer's name was always on the lips of this
majestic woman, and a visit he had paid to her was the cause of her reputation
and her fortune.
    Being commanded by her elder sister to get the Dictionary from the cupboard,
Miss Jemima had extracted two copies of the book from the receptacle in
question. When Miss Pinkerton had finished the inscription in the first, Jemima,
with rather a dubious and timid air, handed her the second.
    »For whom is this, Miss Jemima?« said Miss Pinkerton, with awful coldness.
    »For Becky Sharp,« answered Jemima, trembling very much, and blushing over
her withered face and neck, as she turned her back on her sister. »For Becky
Sharp: she's going too.«
    »MISS JEMIMA!« exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals; »are you
in your senses? Replace the Dixonary in the closet, and never venture to take
such a liberty in future.«
    »Well, sister, it's only two and ninepence, and poor Becky will be miserable
if she don't get one.«
    »Send Miss Sedley instantly to me,« said Miss Pinkerton. And so, venturing
not to say another word, poor Jemima trotted off, exceedingly flurried and
nervous.
    Miss Sedley's papa was a merchant in London, and a man of some wealth;
whereas Miss Sharp was an articled pupil, for whom Miss Pinkerton had done, as
she thought, quite enough, without conferring upon her at parting the high
honour of the Dixonary.
    Although schoolmistresses' letters are to be trusted no more nor less than
churchyard epitaphs; yet, as it sometimes happens that a person departs this
life who is really deserving of all the praises the stonecutter carves over his
bones; who is a good Christian, a good parent, child, wife, or husband; who
actually does leave a disconsolate family to mourn his loss; so in academies of
the male and female sex it occurs every now and then that the pupil is fully
worthy of the praises bestowed by the disinterested instructor. Now, Miss Amelia
Sedley was a young lady of this singular species, and deserved not only all that
Miss Pinkerton said in her praise, but had many charming qualities which that
pompous old Minerva of a woman could not see, from the differences of rank and
age between her pupil and herself.
    For she could not only sing like a lark, or a Mrs. Billington, and dance
like Hillisberg or Parisot; and embroider beautifully; and spell as well as a
Dixonary itself; but she had such a kindly, smiling, tender, gentle, generous
heart of her own, as won the love of everybody who came near her, from Minerva
herself down to the poor girl in the scullery and the one-eyed tart-woman's
daughter, who was permitted to vend her wares once a week to the young ladies in
the Mall. She had twelve intimate and bosom friends out of the twenty-four young
ladies. Even envious Miss Briggs never spoke ill of her; high and mighty Miss
Saltire (Lord Dexter's grand-daughter) allowed that her figure was genteel; and
as for Miss Swartz, the rich woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitts, on the day
Amelia went away, she was in such a passion of tears, that they were obliged to
send for Dr. Floss, and half tipsify her with sal volatile. Miss Pinkerton's
attachment was, as may be supposed, from the high position and eminent virtues
of that lady, calm and dignified; but Miss Jemima had already whimpered several
times at the idea of Amelia's departure; and, but for fear of her sister, would
have gone off in downright hysterics, like the heiress (who paid double) of St.
Kitts. Such luxury of grief, however, is only allowed to parlour-boarders.
Honest Jemima had all the bills, and the washing, and the mending, and the
puddings, and the plate and crockery, and the servants to superintend. But why
speak about her? It is probable that we shall not hear of her again from this
moment to the end of time, and that when the great filigree iron gates are once
closed on her, she and her awful sister will never issue therefrom into this
little world of history.
    But as we are to see a great deal of Amelia, there is no harm in saying, at
the outset of our acquaintance, that she was a dear little creature; and a great
mercy it is, both in life and in novels, which (and the latter especially)
abound in villains of the most sombre sort, that we are to have for a constant
companion so guileless and good-natured a person. As she is not a heroine, there
is no need to describe her person; indeed I am afraid that her nose was rather
short than otherwise, and her cheeks a great deal too round and red for a
heroine; but her face blushed with rosy health, and her lips with the freshest
of smiles, and she had a pair of eyes which sparkled with the brightest and
honestest good-humour, except indeed when they filled with tears, and that was a
great deal too often; for the silly thing would cry over a dead canary-bird; or
over a mouse, that the cat haply had seized upon; or over the end of a novel,
were it ever so stupid; and as for saying an unkind word to her, were any
persons hard-hearted enough to do so - why, so much the worse for them. Even
Miss Pinkerton, that austere and godlike woman, ceased scolding her after the
first time, and though she no more comprehended sensibility than she did
Algebra, gave all masters and teachers particular orders to treat Miss Sedley
with the utmost gentleness, as harsh treatment was injurious to her.
    So that when the day of departure came, between her two customs of laughing
and crying, Miss Sedley was greatly puzzled how to act. She was glad to go home,
and yet most woefully sad at leaving school. For three days before, little Laura
Martin, the orphan, followed her about, like a little dog. She had to make and
receive at least fourteen presents - to make fourteen solemn promises of writing
every week: »Send my letters under cover to my grandpapa, the Earl of Dexter,«
said Miss Saltire (who, by the way, was rather shabby): »Never mind the postage,
but write every day, you dear darling,« said the impetuous and woolly-headed,
but generous and affectionate, Miss Swartz; and the orphan little Laura Martin
(who was just in round-hand), took her friend's hand and said, looking up in her
face wistfully, »Amelia, when I write to you I shall call you Mamma.« All which
details, I have no doubt, JONES, who reads this book at his Club, will pronounce
to be excessively foolish, trivial, twaddling, and ultra-sentimental. Yes; I can
see Jones at this minute (rather flushed with his joint of mutton and half-pint
of wine) taking out his pencil and scoring under the words »foolish, twaddling,«
etc., and adding to them his own remark of »quite true.« Well, he is a lofty man
of genius, and admires the great and heroic in life and novels; and so had
better take warning and go elsewhere.
    Well, then. The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks, and bonnet-boxes
of Miss Sedley having been arranged by Mr. Sambo in the carriage, together with
a very small and weather-beaten old cow's-skin trunk with Miss Sharp's card
neatly nailed upon it, which was delivered by Sambo with a grin, and packed by
the coachman with a corresponding sneer - the hour for parting came; and the
grief of that moment was considerably lessened by the admirable discourse which
Miss Pinkerton addressed to her pupil. Not that the parting speech caused Amelia
to philosophize, or that it armed her in any way with a calmness, the result of
argument; but it was intolerably dull, pompous, and tedious; and having the fear
of her schoolmistress greatly before her eyes, Miss Sedley did not venture, in
her presence, to give way to any ebullitions of private grief. A seed-cake and a
bottle of wine were produced in the drawing-room, as on the solemn occasions of
the visits of parents, and these refreshments being partaken of, Miss Sedley was
at liberty to depart.
    »You'll go in and say good-bye to Miss Pinkerton, Becky!« said Miss Jemima
to a young lady of whom nobody took any notice, and who was coming downstairs
with her own hand-box.
    »I suppose I must,« said Miss Sharp calmly, and much to the wonder of Miss
Jemima; and the latter having knocked at the door, and receiving permission to
come in, Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned manner, and said in French,
and with a perfect accent, »Mademoiselle, je viens vous faire mes adieux.«
    Miss Pinkerton did not understand French; she only directed those who did;
but biting her lips and throwing up her venerable and Roman-nosed head (on the
top of which figured a large and solemn turban), she said, »Miss Sharp, I wish
you a good-morning.« As the Hammersmith Semiramis spoke she waved one hand, both
by way of adieu, and to give Miss Sharp an opportunity of shaking one of the
fingers of the hand which was left out for that purpose.
    Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid smile and bow, and
quite declined to accept the proffered honour; on which Semiramis tossed up her
turban more indignantly than ever. In fact, it was a little battle between the
young lady and the old one, and the latter was worsted. »Heaven bless you, my
child,« said she, embracing Amelia, and scowling the while over the girl's
shoulder at Miss Sharp. »Come away, Becky,« said Miss Jemima, pulling the young
woman away in great alarm, and the drawing-room door closed upon them for ever.
    Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse to tell it. All the
servants were there in the hall - all the dear friends - all the young ladies -
the dancing-master who had just arrived; and there was such a scuffling, and
hugging, and kissing, and crying, with the hysterical yoops of Miss Swartz, the
parlour-boarder, from her room, as no pen can depict, and as the tender heart
would fain pass over. The embracing was over; they parted - that is, Miss Sedley
parted from her friends. Miss Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some
minutes before. Nobody cried for leaving her.
    Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage-door on his young weeping
mistress. He sprang up behind the carriage. »Stop!« cried Miss Jemima, rushing
to the gate with a parcel.
    »It's some sandwiches, my dear,« said she to Amelia. »You may be hungry, you
know; and Becky, Becky Sharp, here's a book for you that my sister - that is, I
- Johnson's Dixonary, you know; you mustn't leave us without that. Good-bye.
Drive on, coachman. God bless you!«
    And the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome with emotion.
    But, lo! and just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp put her pale face out
of the window and actually flung the book back into the garden.
    This almost caused Jemima to faint with terror. »Well, I never!« - said she
- »what an audacious -« Emotion prevented her from completing either sentence.
The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed; the bell rang for the
dancing lesson. The world is before the two young ladies; and so, farewell to
Chiswick Mall.
 

                                   Chapter II

       In which Miss Sharp and Miss Sedley Prepare to Open the Campaign.

When Miss Sharp had performed the heroical act mentioned in the last chapter,
and had seen the Dixonary, flying over the pavement of the little garden, fall
at length at the feet of the astonished Miss Jemima, the young lady's
countenance, which had before worn an almost livid look of hatred, assumed a
smile that perhaps was scarcely more agreeable, and she sank back in the
carriage in an easy frame of mind, saying, »So much for the Dixonary; and, thank
God, I'm out of Chiswick.«
    Miss Sedley was almost as flurried at the act of defiance as Miss Jemima had
been; for, consider, it was but one minute that she had left school, and the
impressions of six years are not got over in that space of time. Nay, with some
persons those awes and terrors of youth last for ever and ever. I know, for
instance, an old gentleman of sixty-eight, who said to me one morning at
breakfast, with a very agitated countenance, »I dreamed last night that I was
flogged by Dr. Raine.« Fancy had carried him back five-and-fifty years in the
course of that evening. Dr. Raine and his rod were just as awful to him in his
heart, then, at sixty-eight, as they had been at thirteen. If the doctor, with a
large birch, had appeared bodily to him, even at the age of threescore and
eight, and had said in awful voice, »Boy, take down your pant ***?« Well, well,
Miss Sedley was exceedingly alarmed at this act of insubordination.
    »How could you do so, Rebecca?« at last she said, after a pause.
    »Why, do you think Miss Pinkerton will come out and order me back to the
black hole?« said Rebecca, laughing.
    »No; but -«
    »I hate the whole house,« continued Miss Sharp in a fury. »I hope I may
never set eyes on it again. I wish it were in the bottom of the Thames, I do;
and if Miss Pinkerton were there, I wouldn't pick her out, that I wouldn't. Oh
how I should like to see her floating in the water yonder, turban and all, with
her train streaming after her, and her nose like the beak of a wherry!«
    »Hush!« cried Miss Sedley.
    »Why, will the black footman tell tales?« cried Miss Rebecca, laughing. »He
may go back and tell Miss Pinkerton that I hate her with all my soul; and I wish
he would; and I wish I had a means of proving it, too. For two years I have only
had insults and outrage from her. I have been treated worse than any servant in
the kitchen. I have never had a friend or a kind word, except from you. I have
been made to tend the little girls in the lower schoolroom, and to talk French
to the Misses, until I grew sick of my mother-tongue. But that talking French to
Miss Pinkerton was capital fun, wasn't't it? She doesn't't know a word of French,
and was too proud to confess it. I believe it was that which made her part with
me; and so thank Heaven for French Vive la France! Vive l'Empereur! Vive
Bonaparte!«
    »O Rebecca, Rebecca, for shame!« cried Miss Sedley; for this was the
greatest blasphemy Rebecca had as yet uttered; and in those days, in England, to
say, »Long live Bonaparte!« was as much as to say, »Long live Lucifer!« »How can
you - how dare you have such wicked, revengeful thoughts?«
    »Revenge may be wicked, but it's natural,« answered Miss Rebecca. »I'm no
angel.« And, to say the truth, she certainly was not.
    For it may be remarked in the course of this little conversation (which took
place as the coach rolled along lazily by the riverside) that though Miss
Rebecca Sharp has twice had occasion to thank Heaven, it has been, in the first
place, for ridding her of some person whom she hated, and secondly, for enabling
her to bring her enemies to some sort of perplexity or confusion, neither of
which are very amiable motives for religious gratitude, or such as would be put
forward by persons of a kind and placable disposition. Miss Rebecca was not,
then, in the least kind or placable. All the world used her ill, said this young
misanthropist, and we may be pretty certain that persons whom all the world
treats ill deserve entirely the treatment they get. The world is a
looking-glass, and gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. Frown
at it, and it will in turn look sourly upon you; laugh at it and with it, and it
is a jolly, kind companion; and so let all young persons take their choice. This
is certain, that if the world neglected Miss Sharp, she never was known to have
done a good action in behalf of anybody; nor can it be expected that twenty-four
young ladies should all be as amiable as the heroine of this work, Miss Sedley
(whom we have selected for the very reason that she was the best-natured of all;
otherwise what on earth was to have prevented us from putting up Miss Swartz, or
Miss Crump, or Miss Hopkins, as heroine in her place?) - it could not be
expected that every one should be of the humble and gentle temper of Miss Amelia
Sedley; should take every opportunity to vanquish Rebecca's hard-heartedness and
ill--humour; and, by a thousand kind words and offices, overcome, for once at
least, her hostility to her kind.
 
Miss Sharp's father was an artist, and in that quality had given lessons of
drawing at Miss Pinkerton's school. He was a clever man, a pleasant companion, a
careless student; with a great propensity for running into debt, and a
partiality for the tavern. When he was drunk, he used to beat his wife and
daughter; and the next morning, with a headache, he would rail at the world for
its neglect of his genius, and abuse, with a good deal of cleverness, and
sometimes with perfect reason, the fools, his brother painters. As it was with
the utmost difficulty that he could keep himself, and as he owed money for a
mile round Soho, where he lived, he thought to better his circumstances by
marrying a young woman of the French nation, who was by profession an
opera-girl. The humble calling of her female parent Miss Sharp never alluded to,
but used to state subsequently that the Entrechats were a noble family of
Gascony, and took great pride in her descent from them. And curious it is, that
as she advanced in life this young lady's ancestors increased in rank and
splendour.
    Rebecca's mother had had some education somewhere, and her daughter spoke
French with purity and a Parisian accent. It was in those days rather a rare
accomplishment, and led to her engagement with the orthodox Miss Pinkerton. For
her mother being dead, her father, finding himself not likely to recover, after
his third attack of delirium tremens, wrote a manly and pathetic letter to Miss
Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child to her protection; and so descended to
the grave, after two bailiffs had quarrelled over his corpse. Rebecca was
seventeen when she came to Chiswick, and was bound over as an articled pupil;
her duties being to talk French, as we have seen; and her privileges to live
cost free, and, with a few guineas a year, to gather scraps of knowledge from
the professors who attended the school.
    She was small and slight in person, pale, sandy-haired, and with eyes
habitually cast down: when they looked up they were very large, odd, and
attractive - so attractive that the Reverend Mr. Crisp, fresh from Oxford, and
curate to the Vicar of Chiswick, the Reverend Mr. Flowerdew, fell in love with
Miss Sharp; being shot dead by a glance of her eyes which was fired all the way
across Chiswick Church from the school-pew to the reading-desk. This infatuated
young man used sometimes to take tea with Miss Pinkerton, to whom he had been
presented by his mamma, and actually proposed something like marriage in an
intercepted note which the one-eyed apple-woman was charged to deliver. Mrs.
Crisp was summoned from Buxton, and abruptly carried off her darling boy; but
the idea, even, of such an eagle in the Chiswick dovecot caused a great flutter
in the breast of Miss Pinkerton, who would have sent away Miss Sharp, but that
she was bound to her under a forfeit, and who never could thoroughly believe the
young lady's protestations that she had never exchanged a single word with Mr.
Crisp except under her own eyes, on the two occasions when she had met him at
tea.
    By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies in the establishment,
Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she had the dismal precocity of poverty.
Many a dun had she talked to, and turned away from her father's door; many a
tradesman had she coaxed and wheedled into good-humour, and into the granting of
one meal more. She sate commonly with her father, who was very proud of her wit,
and heard the talk of many of his wild companions - often but ill suited for a
girl to hear. But she never had been a girl, she said; she had been a woman
since she was eight years old. Oh why did Miss Pinkerton let such a dangerous
bird into her cage?
    The fact is, the old lady believed Rebecca to be the meekest creature in the
world, so admirably, on the occasions when her father brought her to Chiswick,
used Rebecca to perform the part of the ingénue; and only a year before the
arrangement by which Rebecca had been admitted into her house, and when Rebecca
was sixteen years old, Miss Pinkerton majestically, and with a little speech,
made her a present of a doll - which was, by the way, the confiscated property
of Miss Swindle, discovered surreptitiously nursing it in school hours. How the
father and daughter laughed as they trudged home together after the evening
party (it was on the occasion of the speeches, when all the professors were
invited), and how Miss Pinkerton would have raged had she seen the caricature of
herself which the little mimic, Rebecca, managed to make out of her doll. Becky
used to go through dialogues with it; it formed the delight of Newman Street,
Gerrard Street, and the artists' quarter; and the young painters, when they came
to take their gin-and-water with their lazy, dissolute, clever, jovial senior,
used regularly to ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was at home: she was as well
known to them (poor soul!) as Mr. Lawrence or President West. Once Rebecca had
the honour to pass a few days at Chiswick; after which she brought back Jemima,
and erected another doll as Miss Jemmy; for though that honest creature had made
and given her jelly and cake enough for three children, and a seven-shilling
piece at parting, the girl's sense of ridicule was far stronger than her
gratitude, and she sacrificed Miss Jemmy quite as pitilessly as her sister.
    The catastrophe came, and she was brought to the Mall as to her home. The
rigid formality of the place suffocated her: the prayers and the meals, the
lessons and the walks, which were arranged with a conventual regularity,
oppressed her almost beyond endurance; and she looked back to the freedom and
the beggary of the old studio in Soho with so much regret that everybody,
herself included, fancied she was consumed with grief for her father. She had a
little room in the garret, where the maids heard her walking and sobbing at
night; but it was with rage, and not with grief. She had not been much of a
dissembler, until now her loneliness taught her to feign. She had never mingled
in the society of women: her father, reprobate as he was, was a man of talent;
his conversation was a thousand times more agreeable to her than the talk of
such of her own sex as she now encountered. The pompous vanity of the old
schoolmistress, the foolish good-humour of her sister, the silly chat and
scandal of the elder girls, and the frigid correctness of the governesses
equally annoyed her; and she had no soft maternal heart, this unlucky girl,
otherwise the prattle and talk of the younger children, with whose care she was
chiefly entrusted, might have soothed and interested her; but she lived among
them two years, and not one was sorry that she went away. The gentle,
tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was the only person to whom she could attach
herself in the least; and who could help attaching herself to Amelia?
    The happiness, the superior advantages of the young women round about her,
gave Rebecca inexpressible pangs of envy. »What airs that girl gives herself,
because she is an Earl's grand-daughter!« she said of one. »How they cringe and
bow to that Creole, because of her hundred thousand pounds! I am a thousand
times cleverer and more charming than that creature, for all her wealth. I am as
well-bred as the Earl's grand-daughter, for all her fine pedigree; and yet every
one passes me by here. And yet, when I was at my father's, did not the men give
up their gayest balls and parties in order to pass the evening with me?« She
determined at any rate to get free from the prison in which she found herself,
and now began to act for herself, and for the first time to make connected plans
for the future.
    She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study the place offered her;
and as she was already a musician and a good linguist, she speedily went through
the little course of study which was considered necessary for ladies in those
days. Her music she practised incessantly; and one day, when the girls were out,
and she had remained at home, she was overheard to play a piece so well, that
Minerva thought wisely she could spare herself the expense of a master for the
juniors, and intimated to Miss Sharp that she was to instruct them in music for
the future.
    The girl refused, and for the first time, and to the astonishment of the
majestic mistress of the school. »I am here to speak French with the children,«
Rebecca said abruptly, »not to teach them music, and save money for you. Give me
money, and I will teach them.«
    Minerva was obliged to yield, and, of course, disliked her from that day.
»For five-and-thirty years,« she said, and with great justice, »I never have
seen the individual who has dared in my own house to question my authority. I
have nourished a viper in my bosom.«
    »A viper - a fiddlestick,« said Miss Sharp to the old lady, almost fainting
with astonishment. »You took me because I was useful. There is no question of
gratitude between us. I hate this place, and want to leave it. I will do nothing
here but what I am obliged to do.«
    It was in vain that the old lady asked her if she was aware she was speaking
to Miss Pinkerton. Rebecca laughed in her face, with a horrid sarcastic
demoniacal laughter, that almost sent the schoolmistress into fits. »Give me a
sum of money,« said the girl, »and get rid of me - or, if you like better, get
me a good place as governess in a nobleman's family - you can do so if you
please.« And in their further disputes she always returned to this point, »Get
me a situation - we hate each other, - and I am ready to go.«
    Worthy Miss Pinkerton, although she had a Roman nose and a turban, and was
as tall as a grenadier, and had been up to this time an irresistible princess,
had no will or strength like that of her little apprentice, and in vain did
battle against her, and tried to overawe her. Attempting once to scold her in
public, Rebecca hit upon the before-mentioned plan of answering her in French,
which quite routed the old woman. In order to maintain authority in her school,
it became necessary to remove this rebel, this monster, this serpent, this
firebrand; and hearing about this time that Sir Pitt Crawley's family was in
want of a governess, she actually recommended Miss Sharp for the situation,
firebrand and serpent as she was. »I cannot, certainly,« she said, »find fault
with Miss Sharp's conduct, except to myself; and must allow that her talents and
accomplishments are of a high order. As far as the head goes, at least, she does
credit to the educational system pursued at my establishment.«
    And so the schoolmistress reconciled the recommendation to her conscience,
and the indentures were cancelled, and the apprentice was free. The battle here
described in a few lines, of course, lasted for some months. And as Miss Sedley,
being now in her seventeenth year, was about to leave school, and had a
friendship for Miss Sharp (»'Tis the only point in Amelia's behaviour,« said
Minerva, »which has not been satisfactory to her mistress«), Miss Sharp was
invited by her friend to pass a week with her at home, before she entered upon
her duties as governess in a private family.
    Thus the world began for these two young ladies. For Amelia it was quite a
new, fresh, brilliant world, with all the bloom upon it. It was not quite a new
one for Rebecca - (indeed, if the truth must be told with respect to the Crisp
affair, the tart-woman hinted to somebody, who took an affidavit of the fact to
somebody else, that there was a great deal more than was made public regarding
Mr. Crisp and Miss Sharp, and that his letter was in answer to another letter).
But who can tell you the real truth of the matter? At all events, if Rebecca was
not beginning the world, she was beginning it over again.
    By the time the young ladies reached Kensington turnpike, Amelia had not
forgotten her companions, but had dried her tears, and had blushed very much and
been delighted at a young officer of the Life Guards, who spied her as he was
riding by, and said, »A dem fine gal, egad!« and before the carriage arrived in
Russell Square a great deal of conversation had taken place about the
drawing-room, and whether or not young ladies wore powder as well as hoops when
presented, and whether she was to have that honour: to the Lord Mayor's ball she
knew she was to go. And when at length home was reached, Miss Amelia Sedley
skipped out on Sambo's arm, as happy and as handsome a girl as any in the whole
big city of London. Both he and coachman agreed on this point, and so did her
father and mother, and so did every one of the servants in the house, as they
stood bobbing, and curtseying, and smiling, in the hall to welcome their young
mistress.
    You may be sure that she showed Rebecca over every room of the house, and
everything in every one of her drawers; and her books, and her piano, and her
dresses, and all her necklaces, brooches, laces, and gimcracks. She insisted
upon Rebecca accepting the white cornelian and the turquoise rings, and a sweet
sprigged muslin, which was too small for her now, though it would fit her friend
to a nicety; and she determined in her heart to ask her mother's permission to
present her white Cashmere shawl to her friend. Could she not spare it? - and
had not her brother Joseph just brought her two from India?
    When Rebecca saw the two magnificent Cashmere shawls which Joseph Sedley had
brought home to his sister, she said, with perfect truth, »that it must be
delightful to have a brother,« and easily got the pity of the tender-hearted
Amelia, for being alone in the world, an orphan without friends or kindred.
    »Not alone,« said Amelia; »you know, Rebecca, I shall always be your friend,
and love you as a sister - indeed. I will.«
    »Ah, but to have parents, as you have - kind, rich, affectionate parents,
who give you everything you ask for; and their love, which is more precious than
all! My poor papa could give me nothing, and I had but two frocks in all the
world! And then to have a brother, a dear brother! Oh, how you must love him!«
    Amelia laughed.
    »What! don't you love him? you, who say you love everybody?«
    »Yes, of course, I do - only -«
    »Only what?«
    »Only Joseph doesn't't seem to care much whether I love him or not. He gave me
two fingers to shake when he arrived after ten years' absence! He is very kind
and good, but he scarcely ever speaks to me; I think he loves his pipe a great
deal better than his * * *« but here Amelia checked herself, for why should she
speak ill of her brother? »He was very kind to me as a child,« she added; »I was
but five years old when he went away.«
    »Isn't he very rich?« said Rebecca. »They say all Indian nabobs are
enormously rich.«
    »I believe he has a very large income.«
    »And is your sister-in-law a nice pretty woman?«
    »La! Joseph is not married,« said Amelia, laughing again.
    Perhaps she had mentioned the fact already to Rebecca, but that young lady
did not appear to have remembered it; indeed, vowed and protested that she
expected to see a number of Amelia's nephews and nieces. She was quite
disappointed that Mr. Sedley was not married; she was sure Amelia had said he
was, and she doted so on little children.
    »I think you must have had enough of them at Chiswick,« said Amelia, rather
wondering at the sudden tenderness on her friend's part; and indeed in later
days Miss Sharp would never have committed herself so far as to advance opinions
the untruth of which would have been so easily detected. But we must remember
that she is but nineteen as yet, unused to the art of deceiving, poor innocent
creature! and making her own experience in her own person. The meaning of the
above series of queries, as translated in the heart of this ingenious young
woman, was simply this: - »If Mr. Joseph Sedley is rich and unmarried, why
should I not marry him? I have only a fortnight, to be sure, but there is no
harm in trying.« And she determined within herself to make this laudable
attempt. She redoubled her caresses to Amelia; she kissed the white cornelian
necklace as she put it on, and vowed she would never, never part with it. When
the dinner-bell rang she went downstairs with her arm round her friend's waist,
as is the habit of young ladies. She was so agitated at the drawing-room door,
that she could hardly find courage to enter. »Feel my heart, how it beats,
dear!« said she to her friend.
    »No, it doesn't't,« said Amelia. »Come in, don't be frightened. Papa won't do
you any harm.«
 

                                  Chapter III

                      Rebecca Is in Presence of the Enemy.

A very stout, puffy man, in buckskins and Hessian boots, with several immense
neckcloths, that rose almost to his nose, with a red-striped waistcoat and an
apple-green coat with steel buttons almost as large as crown pieces (it was the
morning costume of a dandy or blood of those days), was reading the paper by the
fire when the two girls entered, and bounced off his arm-chair, and blushed
excessively, and hid his entire face almost in his neckcloths at this
apparition.
    »It's only your sister, Joseph,« said Amelia, laughing and shaking the two
fingers which he held out. »I've come home for good, you know; and this is my
friend, Miss Sharp, whom you have heard me mention.«
    »No, never, upon my word,« said the head under the neckcloth, shaking very
much, - »that is, yes, - what abominably cold weather, Miss;« - and herewith he
fell to poking the fire with all his might, although it was in the middle of
June.
    »He's very handsome,« whispered Rebecca to Amelia, rather loud.
    »Do you think so?« said the latter. »I'll tell him.«
    »Darling! not for worlds,« said Miss Sharp, starting back as timid as a
fawn. She had previously made a respectful virgin-like curtsy to the gentleman,
and her modest eyes gazed so perseveringly on the carpet that it was a wonder
how she should have found an opportunity to see him.
    »Thank you for the beautiful shawls, brother,« said Amelia to the
fire-poker. »Are they not beautiful, Rebecca?«
    »Oh, heavenly!« said Miss Sharp, and her eyes went from the carpet straight
to the chandelier.
    Joseph still continued a huge clattering at the poker and tongs, puffing and
blowing the while, and turning as red as his yellow face would allow him. »I
can't make you such handsome presents, Joseph,« continued his sister, »but while
I was at school, I have embroidered for you a very beautiful pair of braces.«
    »Good Gad! Amelia,« cried the brother, in serious alarm, »what do you mean?«
and plunging with all his might at the bell-rope, that article of furniture came
away in his hand, and increased the honest fellow's confusion. »For Heaven's
sake see if my buggy's at the door! I can't wait. I must go. D-- that groom of
mine! I must go.«
    At this minute the father of the family walked in, rattling his seals like a
true British merchant. »What's the matter, Emmy?« says he.
    »Joseph wants me to see if his - his buggy is at the door. What is a buggy,
papa?«
    »It is a one-horse palanquin,« said the old gentleman, who was a wag in his
way.
    Joseph at this burst out into a wild fit of laughter; in which, encountering
the eye of Miss Sharp, he stopped all of a sudden, as if he had been shot.
    »This young lady is your friend? Miss Sharp, I am very happy to see you.
Have you and Emmy been quarrelling already with Joseph, that he wants to be
off?«
    »I promised Bonamy, of our service, sir,« said Joseph, »to dine with him.«
    »O fie! didn't you tell your mother you would dine here?«
    »But in this dress it's impossible.«
    »Look at him, isn't he handsome enough to dine anywhere, Miss Sharp?«
    On which, of course, Miss Sharp looked at her friend, and they both set off
in a fit of laughter, highly agreeable to the old gentleman.
    »Did you ever see a pair of buckskins like those at Miss Pinkerton's?«
continued he, following up his advantage.
    »Gracious heavens! father,« cried Joseph.
    »There now, I have hurt his feelings. Mrs. Sedley, my dear, I have hurt your
son's feelings. I have alluded to his buckskins. Ask Miss Sharp if I haven't.
Come, Joseph, be friends with Miss Sharp, and let us all go to dinner.«
    »There's a pillau, Joseph, just as you like it, and Papa has brought home
the best turbot in Billingsgate.«
    »Come, come, sir, walk downstairs with Miss Sharp, and I will follow with
these two young women,« said the father, and he took an arm of wife and daughter
and walked merrily off.
 
If Miss Rebecca Sharp had determined in her heart upon making the conquest of
this big beau, I don't think, ladies, we have any right to blame her; for though
the task of husband-hunting is generally, and with becoming modesty, entrusted
by young persons to their mammas, recollect that Miss Sharp had no kind parent
to arrange these delicate matters for her, and that if she did not get a husband
for herself, there was no one else in the wide world who would take the trouble
off her hands. What causes young people to come out, but the noble ambition of
matrimony? What sends them trooping to watering-places? What keeps them dancing
till five o'clock in the morning through a whole mortal season? What causes them
to labour at pianoforte sonatas, and to learn four songs from a fashionable
master at a guinea a lesson, and to play the harp if they have handsome arms and
neat elbows, and to wear Lincoln Green toxophilite hats and feathers, but that
they may bring down some desirable young man with those killing bows and arrows
of theirs? What causes respectable parents to take up their carpets, set their
houses topsy-turvy, and spend a fifth of their year's income in ball suppers and
iced champagne? Is it sheer love of their species, and an unadulterated wish to
see young people happy and dancing? Psha! they want to marry their daughters;
and, as honest Mrs. Sedley has, in the depths of her kind heart, already
arranged a score of little schemes for the settlement of her Amelia, so also had
our beloved but unprotected Rebecca determined to do her very best to secure the
husband, who was even more necessary for her than for her friend. She had a
vivid imagination; she had, besides, read the Arabian Nights and Guthrie's
Geography; and it is a fact, that while she was dressing for dinner, and after
she had asked Amelia whether her brother was very rich, she had built for
herself a most magnificent castle in the air, of which she was mistress, with a
husband somewhere in the background (she had not seen him as yet, and his figure
would not therefore be very distinct); she had arrayed herself in an infinity of
shawls, turbans, and diamond necklaces, and had mounted upon an elephant to the
sound of the march in »Bluebeard,« in order to pay a visit of ceremony to the
Grand Mogul. Charming Alnaschar visions! it is the happy privilege of youth to
construct you, and many a fanciful young creature besides Rebecca Sharp has
indulged in these delightful day-dreams ere now!
    Joseph Sedley was twelve years older than his sister Amelia. He was in the
East India Company's Civil Service, and his name appeared, at the period of
which we write, in the Bengal division of the East India Register, as collector
of Boggley Wollah, an honourable and lucrative post, as everybody knows: in
order to know to what higher post Joseph rose in the service, the reader is
referred to the same periodical.
    Boggley Wollah is situated in a fine, lonely, marshy, jungly district,
famous for snipe-shooting, and where not unfrequently - you may flush a tiger.
Ramgunge, where there is a magistrate, is only forty miles off, and there is a
cavalry station about thirty miles further; so Joseph wrote home to his parents,
when he took possession of his collectorship. He had lived for about eight years
of his life, quite alone, at this charming place, scarcely seeing a Christian
face except twice a year, when the detachment arrived to carry off the revenues
which he had collected, to Calcutta.
    Luckily, at this time he caught a liver complaint, for the cure of which he
returned to Europe, and which was the source of great comfort and amusement to
him in his native country. He did not live with his family while in London, but
had lodgings of his own, like a gay young bachelor. Before he went to India he
was too young to partake of the delightful pleasures of a man about town, and
plunged into them on his return with considerable assiduity. He drove his horses
in the Park; he dined at the fashionable taverns (for the Oriental Club was not
as yet invented); he frequented the theatres, as the mode was in those days, or
made his appearance at the opera, laboriously attired in tights and a cocked
hat.
    On returning to India, and ever after, he used to talk of the pleasure of
this period of his existence with great enthusiasm, and give you to understand
that he and Brummel were the leading bucks of the day. But he was as lonely here
as in his jungle at Boggley Wollah. He scarcely knew a single soul in the
metropolis; and were it not for his doctor, and the society of his blue-pill,
and his liver complaint, he must have died of loneliness. He was lazy, peevish,
and a bon-vivant; the appearance of a lady frightened him beyond measure; hence
it was but seldom that he joined the paternal circle in Russell Square, where
there was plenty of gaiety, and where the jokes of his good-natured old father
frightened his amour-propre. His bulk caused Joseph much anxious thought and
alarm. Now and then he would make a desperate attempt to get rid of his
superabundant fat; but his indolence and love of good living speedily got the
better of these endeavours at reform, and he found himself again at his three
meals a day. He never was well dressed; but he took the hugest pains to adorn
his big person, and passed many hours daily in that occupation. His valet made a
fortune out of his wardrobe; his toilet-table was covered with as many pomatums
and essences as ever were employed by an old beauty; he had tried, in order to
give himself a waist, every girth, stay, and waistband then invented. Like most
fat men, he would have his clothes made too tight, and took care they should be
of the most brilliant colours and youthful cut. When dressed at length, in the
afternoon, he would issue forth to take a drive with nobody in the Park; and
then would come back in order to dress again and go and dine with nobody at the
Piazza Coffee-House. He was as vain as a girl; and perhaps his extreme shyness
was one of the results of his extreme vanity. If Miss Rebecca can get the better
of him, and at her first entrance into life, she is a young person of no
ordinary cleverness.
    The first move showed considerable skill. When she called Sedley a very
handsome man, she knew that Amelia would tell her mother, who would probably
tell Joseph, or who, at any rate, would be pleased by the compliment paid to her
son. All mothers are. If you had told Sycorax that her son Caliban was as
handsome as Apollo, she would have been pleased, witch as she was. Perhaps, too,
Joseph Sedley would overhear the compliment - Rebecca spoke loud enough - and he
did hear, and (thinking in his heart that he was a very fine man) the praise
thrilled through every fibre of his big body, and made it tingle with pleasure.
Then, however, came a recoil. »Is the girl making fun of me?« he thought, and
straightway he bounced towards the bell, and was for retreating, as we have
seen, when his father's jokes and his mother's entreaties caused him to pause
and stay where he was. He conducted the young lady down to dinner in a dubious
and agitated frame of mind. »Does she really think I am handsome?« thought he,
»or is she only making game of me?« We have talked of Joseph Sedley being as
vain as a girl. Heaven help us! the girls have only to turn the tables, and say
of one of their own sex, »She is as vain as a man,« and they will have perfect
reason. The bearded creatures are quite as eager for praise, quite as finikin
over their toilettes, quite as proud of their personal advantages, quite as
conscious of their powers of fascination, as any coquette in the world.
    Downstairs, then, they went, Joseph very red and blushing, Rebecca very
modest, and holding her green eyes downwards. She was dressed in white, with
bare shoulders as white as snow - the picture of youth, unprotected innocence,
and humble virgin simplicity. »I must be very quiet,« thought Rebecca, »and very
much interested about India.«
    Now we have heard how Mrs. Sedley had prepared a fine curry for her son,
just as he liked it, and in the course of dinner a portion of this dish was
offered to Rebecca. »What is it?« said she, turning an appealing look to Mr.
Joseph.
    »Capital,« said he. His mouth was full of it; his face quite red with the
delightful exercise of gobbling. »Mother, it's as good as my own curries in
India.«
    »Oh, I must try some, if it is an Indian dish,« said Miss Rebecca. »I am
sure everything must be good that comes from there.«
    »Give Miss Sharp some curry, my dear,« said Mr. Sedley, laughing.
    Rebecca had never tasted the dish before.
    »Do you find it as good as everything else from India?« said Mr. Sedley.
    »Oh, excellent!« said Rebecca, who was suffering tortures with the cayenne
pepper.
    »Try a chili with it, Miss Sharp,« said Joseph, really interested.
    »A chili,« said Rebecca, gasping. »Oh yes!« She thought a chili was
something cool, as its name imported, and was served with some. »How fresh and
green they look!« she said, and put one into her mouth. It was hotter than the
curry; flesh and blood could bear it no longer. She laid down her fork. »Water,
for Heaven's sake, water!« she cried. Mr. Sedley burst out laughing (he was a
coarse man, from the Stock Exchange, where they love all sorts of practical
jokes). »They are real Indian, I assure you,« said he. »Sambo, give Miss Sharp
some water.«
    The paternal laugh was echoed by Joseph, who thought the joke capital. The
ladies only smiled a little. They thought poor Rebecca suffered too much. She
would have liked to choke old Sedley, but she swallowed her mortification as
well as she had the abominable curry before it, and as soon as she could speak,
said, with a comical, good-humoured air, - »I ought to have remembered the
pepper which the Princess of Persia puts in the cream-tarts in the Arabian
Nights. Do you put cayenne into your cream-tarts in India, sir?«
    Old Sedley began to laugh, and thought Rebecca was a good-humoured girl.
Joseph simply said - »Cream-tarts, Miss? Our cream is very bad in Bengal. We
generally use goats' milk; and, 'gad, do you know, I've got to prefer it!«
    »You won't like everything from India now, Miss Sharp,« said the old
gentleman; but when the ladies had retired after dinner, the wily old fellow
said to his son, »Have a care, Joe; - that girl is setting her cap at you.«
    »Pooh! nonsense!« said Joe, highly flattered. »I recollect, sir, there was a
girl at Dumdum, a daughter of Cutler of the Artillery, and afterwards married to
Lance, the surgeon, who made a dead set at me in the year '4 - at me and
Mulligatawney, whom I mentioned to you before dinner - a devilish good fellow
Mulligatawney - he's a magistrate at Budgebudge, and sure to be in council in
five years. Well, sir, the Artillery gave a ball, and Quintin, of the King's
14th, said to me, Sedley, said he, I bet you thirteen to ten that Sophy Cutler
hooks either you or Mulligatawney before the rains. Done, says I; and egad, sir
- this claret's very good. Adamson's or Carbonell's? * * *«
    A slight snore was the only reply: the honest stockbroker was asleep, and so
the rest of Joseph's story was lost for that day. But he was always exceedingly
communicative in a man's party, and has told this delightful tale many scores of
times to his apothecary, Dr. Gollop, when he came to inquire about the liver and
the blue-pill.
    Being an invalid, Joseph Sedley contented himself with a bottle of claret
besides his Madeira at dinner, and he managed a couple of plates full of
strawberries and cream, and twenty-four little rout cakes that were lying
neglected in a plate near him, and certainly (for novelists have the privilege
of knowing everything) he thought a great deal about the girl upstairs. »A nice,
gay, merry young creature,« thought he to himself. »How she looked at me when I
picked up her handkerchief at dinner! She dropped it twice. Who's that singing
in the drawing-room? 'Gad! shall I go up and see?«
    But his modesty came rushing upon him with uncontrollable force. His father
was asleep: his hat was in the hall: there was a hackney-coach stand hard by in
Southampton Row. »I'll go and see the Forty Thieves,« said he, »and Miss
Decamp's dance;« and he slipped away gently on the pointed toes of his boots,
and disappeared, without waking his worthy parent.
    »There goes Joseph,« said Amelia, who was looking from the open windows of
the drawing-room, while Rebecca was singing at the piano.
    »Miss Sharp has frightened him away,« said Mrs. Sedley. »Poor Joe, why will
he be so shy?«
 

                                   Chapter IV

                             The Green Silk Purse.

Poor Joe's panic lasted for two or three days; during which he did not visit the
house, nor during that period did Miss Rebecca ever mention his name. She was
all respectful gratitude to Mrs. Sedley: delighted beyond measure at the
Bazaars; and in a whirl of wonder at the theatre, whither the good-natured lady
took her. One day Amelia had a headache, and could not go upon some party of
pleasure to which the two young people were invited: nothing could induce her
friend to go without her. »What! you who have shown the poor orphan what
happiness and love are for the first time in her life - quit you? never!« and
the green eyes looked up to heaven and filled with tears; and Mrs. Sedley could
not but own that her daughter's friend had a charming kind heart of her own.
    As for Mr. Sedley's jokes, Rebecca laughed at them with a cordiality and
perseverance which not a little pleased and softened that good-natured
gentleman. Nor was it with the chiefs of the family alone that Miss Sharp found
favour. She interested Mrs. Blenkinsop by evincing the deepest sympathy in the
raspberry-jam preserving, which operation was then going on in the Housekeeper's
room; she persisted in calling Sambo Sir, and Mr. Sambo, to the delight of that
attendant; and she apologized to the lady's-maid for giving her trouble in
venturing to ring the bell, with such sweetness and humility, that the Servants'
Hall was almost as charmed with her as the Drawing-Room.
    Once, in looking over some drawings which Amelia had sent from school,
Rebecca suddenly came upon one which caused her to burst into tears and leave
the room. It was on the day when Joe Sedley made his second appearance.
    Amelia hastened after her friend to know the cause of this display of
feeling, and the good-natured girl came back without her companion, rather
affected too. »You know, her father was our drawing-master, Mamma, at Chiswick,
and used to do all the best parts of our drawings.«
    »My love! I'm sure I always heard Miss Pinkerton say that he did not touch
them - he only mounted them.«
    »It was called mounting, Mamma. Rebecca remembers the drawing, and her
father working at it, and the thought of it came upon her rather suddenly - and
so, you know, she -«
    »The poor child is all heart,« said Mrs. Sedley.
    »I wish she could stay with us another week,« said Amelia.
    »She's devilish like Miss Cutler that I used to meet at Dumdum, only fairer.
She's married now to Lance, the Artillery Surgeon. Do you know, Ma'am, that once
Quintin, of the 14th, bet me -«
    »O Joseph, we know that story,« said Amelia, laughing. »Never mind about
telling that; but persuade Mamma to write to Sir Something Crawley for leave of
absence for poor dear Rebecca: - here she comes, her eyes red with weeping.«
    »I'm better now,« said the girl, with the sweetest smile possible, taking
good-natured Mrs. Sedley's extended hand and kissing it respectfully. »How kind
you all are to me! All,« she added, with a laugh, »except you, Mr. Joseph.«
    »Me!« said Joseph, meditating an instant departure. »Gracious Heavens! Good
Gad! Miss Sharp!«
    »Yes; how could you be so cruel as to make me eat that horrid pepper-dish at
dinner, the first day I ever saw you? You are not so good to me as dear Amelia.«
    »He doesn't't know you so well,« cried Amelia.
    »I defy anybody not to be good to you, my dear,« said her mother.
    »The curry was capital; indeed it was,« said Joe, quite gravely. »Perhaps
there was not enough citron juice in it; - no, there was not.«
    »And the chilis?«
    »By Jove, how they made you cry out!« said Joe, caught by the ridicule of
the circumstance, and exploding in a fit of laughter, which ended quite
suddenly, as usual.
    »I shall take care how I let you choose for me another time,« said Rebecca,
as they went down again to dinner. »I didn't think men were fond of putting poor
harmless girls to pain.«
    »By Gad, Miss Rebecca, I wouldn't hurt you for the world.«
    »No,« said she, »I know you wouldn't;« and then she gave him ever so gentle
a pressure with her little hand, and drew it back quite frightened, and looked
first for one instant in his face, and then down at the carpet-rods; and I am
not prepared to say that Joe's heart did not thump at this little involuntary,
timid, gentle motion of regard on the part of the simple girl.
    It was an advance, and as such, perhaps, some ladies of indisputable
correctness and gentility will condemn the action as immodest; but, you see,
poor dear Rebecca had all this work to do for herself. If a person is too poor
to keep a servant, though ever so elegant, he must sweep his own rooms; if a
dear girl has no dear Mamma to settle matters with the young man, she must do it
for herself. And oh, what a mercy it is that these women do not exercise their
powers oftener! We can't resist them if they do. Let them show ever so little
inclination, and men go down on their knees at once; old or ugly, it is all the
same. And this I set down as a positive truth. A woman with fair opportunities,
and without an absolute hump, may marry WHOM SHE LIKES. Only let us be thankful
that the darlings are like the beasts of the field, and don't know their own
power. They would overcome us entirely if they did.
    »Egad!« thought Joseph, entering the dining-room, »I exactly begin to feel
as I did at Dumdum with Miss Cutler.«
    Many sweet little appeals, half tender, half jocular, did Miss Sharp make to
him about the dishes at dinner; for by this time she was on a footing of
considerable familiarity with the family, and as for the girls, they loved each
other like sisters. Young unmarried girls always do, if they are in a house
together for ten days.
    As if bent upon advancing Rebecca's plans in every way - what must Amelia
do, but remind her brother of a promise made last Easter holidays - »when I was
a girl at school,« said she, laughing - a promise that he, Joseph, would take
her to Vauxhall. »Now,« she said, »that Rebecca is with us, will be the very
time.«
    »Oh, delightful!« said Rebecca, going to clap her hands; but she recollected
herself, and paused, like a modest creature, as she was.
    »To-night is not the night,« said Joe.
    »Well, to-morrow.«
    »To-morrow your Papa and I dine out,« said Mrs. Sedley.
    »You don't suppose that I'm going, Mrs. Sed.?« said her husband, »and that a
woman of your years and size is to catch cold, in such an abominable damp
place?«
    »The children must have some one with them,« cried Mrs. Sedley.
    »Let Joe go,« said his father, laughing. »He's big enough.« At which speech
even Mr. Sambo at the sideboard burst out laughing, and poor fat Joe felt
inclined to become a parricide almost.
    »Undo his stays!« continued the pitiless old gentleman. »Fling some water in
his face, Miss Sharp, or carry him upstairs: the dear creature's fainting. Poor
victim! carry him up; he's as light as a feather!«
    »If I stand this, sir, I'm d--!« roared Joseph.
    »Order Mr. Jos's elephant, Sambo!« cried the father. »Send to Exeter
'Change, Sambo;« but seeing Jos ready almost to cry with vexation, the old joker
stopped his laughter, and said, holding out his hand to his son, »It's all fair
on the Stock Exchange, Jos, - and, Sambo, never mind the elephant, but give me
and Mr. Jos a glass of champagne. Boney himself hasn't got such in his cellar,
my boy!«
    A goblet of champagne restored Joseph's equanimity, and before the bottle
was emptied, of which as an invalid he took two-thirds, he had agreed to take
the young ladies to Vauxhall.
    »The girls must have a gentleman apiece,« said the old gentleman. »Jos will
be sure to leave Emmy in the crowd, he will be so taken up with Miss Sharp here.
Send to 96, and ask George Osborne if he'll come.«
    At this, I don't know in the least for what reason, Mrs. Sedley looked at
her husband and laughed. Mr. Sedley's eyes twinkled in a manner indescribably
roguish, and he looked at Amelia; and Amelia, hanging down her head, blushed as
only young ladies of seventeen know how to blush, and as Miss Rebecca Sharp
never blushed in her life - at least not since she was eight years old, and when
she was caught stealing jam out of a cupboard by her godmother. »Amelia had
better write a note,« said her father; »and let George Osborne see what a
beautiful handwriting we have brought back from Miss Pinkerton's. Do you
remember when you wrote to him to come on Twelfth-night, Emmy, and spelt twelfth
without the f?«
    »That was years ago,« said Amelia.
    »It seems like yesterday, don't it, John?« said Mrs. Sedley to her husband;
and that night in a conversation which took place in a front room in the
second-floor, in a sort of tent, hung round with chintz of a rich and fantastic
India pattern, and doublé with calico of a tender rose-colour; in the interior
of which species of marquee was a feather-bed, on which were two pillows, on
which were two round red faces, one in a laced nightcap, and one in a simple
cotton one, ending in a tassel: - in a curtain lecture, I say, Mrs. Sedley took
her husband to task for his cruel conduct to poor Joe.
    »It was quite wicked of you, Mr. Sedley,« said she, »to torment the poor boy
so.«
    »My dear,« said the cotton tassel in defence of his conduct, »Jos is a great
deal vainer than you ever were in your life, and that's saying a good deal.
Though, some thirty years ago, in the year seventeen hundred and eighty - what
was it? - perhaps you had a right to be vain. I don't say no. But I've no
patience with Jos and his dandified modesty. It is out-Josephing Joseph, my
dear, and all the while the boy is only thinking of himself, and what a fine
fellow he is. I doubt, Ma'am, we shall have some trouble with him yet. Here is
Emmy's little friend making love to him as hard as she can - that's quite clear;
and if she does not catch him some other will. That man is destined to be a prey
to women, as I am to go on 'Change every day. It's a mercy he did not bring us
over a black daughter-in-law, my dear. But, mark my words, the first woman who
fishes for him, hooks him.«
    »She shall go off to-morrow, the little artful creature,« said Mrs. Sedley,
with great energy.
    »Why not she as well as another, Mrs. Sedley? The girl's a white face at any
rate. I don't care who marries him. Let Joe please himself.«
    And presently the voices of the two speakers were hushed, or were replaced
by the gentle but unromantic music of the nose; and save when the church bells
tolled the hour and the watchman called it, all was silent at the house of John
Sedley, Esquire, of Russell Square, and the Stock Exchange.
    When morning came, the good-natured Mrs. Sedley no longer thought of
executing her threats with regard to Miss Sharp; for though nothing is more
keen, nor more common, nor more justifiable, than maternal jealousy, yet she
could not bring herself to suppose that the little, humble, grateful, gentle
governess, would dare to look up to such a magnificent personage as the
collector of Boggley Wollah. The petition, too, for an extension of the young
lady's leave of absence had already been dispatched, and it would be difficult
to find a pretext for abruptly dismissing her.
    And as if all things conspired in favour of the gentle Rebecca, the very
elements (although she was not inclined at first to acknowledge their action in
her behalf) interposed to aid her. For on the evening appointed for the Vauxhall
party, George Osborne having come to dinner, and the elders of the house having
departed, according to invitation, to dine with Alderman Balls, at Highbury
Barn, there came on such a thunderstorm as only happens on Vauxhall nights, and
as obliged the young people, perforce, to remain at home. Mr. Osborne did not
seem in the least disappointed at this occurrence. He and Joseph Sedley drank a
fitting quantity of port-wine, tête-à-tête, in the dining-room - during the
drinking of which Sedley told a number of his best Indian stories; for he was
extremely talkative in man's society; and afterwards Miss Amelia Sedley did the
honours of the drawing-room; and these four young persons passed such a
comfortable evening together, that they declared they were rather glad of the
thunderstorm than otherwise, which had caused them to put off their visit to
Vauxhall.
    Osborne was Sedley's godson, and had been one of the family any time these
three-and-twenty years. At six weeks old, he had received from John Sedley a
present of a silver cup; at six months old, a coral with gold whistle and bells;
from his youth, upwards, he was tipped regularly by the old gentleman at
Christmas; and on going back to school, he remembered perfectly well being
thrashed by Joseph Sedley, when the latter was a big, swaggering hobbadyhoy, and
George an impudent urchin of ten years old. In a word, George was as familiar
with the family as such daily acts of kindness and intercourse could make him.
    »Do you remember, Sedley, what a fury you were in when I cut off the tassels
of your Hessian boots, and how Miss - hem! - how Amelia rescued me from a
beating, by falling down on her knees and crying out to her brother Jos, not to
beat little George?«
    Jos remembered this remarkable circumstance perfectly well, but vowed that
he had totally forgotten it.
    »Well, do you remember coming down in a gig to Dr. Swishtail's to see me,
before you went to India, and giving me half a guinea and a pat on the head? I
always had an idea that you were at least seven feet high, and was quite
astonished at your return from India to find you no taller than myself.«
    »How good of Mr. Sedley to go to your school and give you the money!«
exclaimed Rebecca, in accents of extreme delight.
    »Yes, and after I had cut the tassels of his boots too. Boys never forget
those tips at school, nor the givers.«
    »I delight in Hessian boots,« said Rebecca. Jos Sedley, who admired his own
legs prodigiously, and always wore this ornamental chaussure, was extremely
pleased at this remark, though he drew his legs under his chair as it was made.
    »Miss Sharp,« said George Osborne, »you who are so clever an artist, you
must make a grand historical picture of the scene of the boots. Sedley shall be
represented in buckskins, and holding one of the injured boots in one hand; by
the other he shall have hold of my shirt-frill. Amelia shall be kneeling near
him, with her little hands up; and the picture shall have a grand allegorical
title, as the frontispieces have in the Medulla and the spelling-book.«
    »I shan't have time to do it here,« said Rebecca. »I'll do it when - when
I'm gone.« And she dropped her voice and looked so sad and piteous, that
everybody felt how cruel her lot was, and how sorry they would be to part with
her.
    »O that you could stay longer, dear Rebecca,« said Amelia.
    »Why?« answered the other, still more sadly. »That I may be only the more
unhap- unwilling to lose you?« And she turned away her head. Amelia began to
give way to that natural infirmity of tears which, we have said, was one of the
defects of this silly little thing. George Osborne looked at the two young women
with a touched curiosity; and Joseph Sedley heaved something very like a sigh
out of his big chest, as he cast his eyes down towards his favourite Hessian
boots.
    »Let us have some music, Miss Sedley - Amelia,« said George, who felt at
that moment an extraordinary, almost irresistible impulse to seize the
above-mentioned young woman in his arms, and to kiss her in the face of the
company; and she looked at him for a moment, and if I should say that they fell
in love with each other at that single instant of time, I should perhaps be
telling an untruth, for the fact is, that these two young people had been bred
up by their parents for this very purpose, and their banns had, as it were, been
read in their respective families any time these ten years. They went off to the
piano, which was situated, as pianos usually are, in the back drawing-room; and
as it was rather dark, Miss Amelia, in the most unaffected way in the world, put
her hand into Mr. Osborne's, who, of course, could see the way among the chairs
and ottomans a great deal better than she could. But this arrangement left Mr.
Joseph Sedley tête-à-tête with Rebecca, at the drawing-room table, where the
latter was occupied in knitting a green silk purse.
    »There is no need to ask family secrets,« said Miss Sharp. »Those two have
told theirs.«
    »As soon as he gets his company,« said Joseph, »I believe the affair is
settled. George Osborne is a capital fellow.«
    »And your sister the dearest creature in the world,« said Rebecca. »Happy
the man who wins her!« With this, Miss Sharp gave a great sigh.
    When two unmarried persons get together, and talk upon such delicate
subjects as the present, a great deal of confidence and intimacy is presently
established between them. There is no need of giving a special report of the
conversation which now took place between Mr. Sedley and the young lady; for the
conversation, as may be judged from the foregoing specimen, was not especially
witty or eloquent: it seldom is in private societies, or anywhere except in very
high-flown and ingenious novels. As there was music in the next room, the talk
was carried on, of course, in a low and becoming tone, though, for the matter of
that, the couple in the next apartment would not have been disturbed, had the
talking been ever so loud, so occupied were they with their own pursuits.
    Almost for the first time in his life, Mr. Sedley found himself talking,
without the least timidity or hesitation, to a person of the other sex. Miss
Rebecca asked him a great number of questions about India, which gave him an
opportunity of narrating many interesting anecdotes about that country and
himself. He described the balls at Government House, and the manner in which
they kept themselves cool in the hot weather, with punkahs, tatties, and other
contrivances; and he was very witty regarding the number of Scotchmen whom Lord
Minto, the Governor-General, patronized; and then he described a tiger-hunt, and
the manner in which the mahout of his elephant had been pulled off his seat by
one of the infuriated animals. How delighted Miss Rebecca was at the Government
balls; and how she laughed at the stories of the Scotch aides-de-camp, and
called Mr. Sedley a sad wicked satirical creature; and how frightened she was at
the story of the elephant! »For your mother's sake, dear Mr. Sedley,« she said,
»for the sake of all your friends, promise never to go on one of those horrid
expeditions.«
    »Pooh, pooh, Miss Sharp,« said he, pulling up his shirt-collars; »the danger
makes the sport only the pleasanter.« He had never been but once at a
tiger-hunt, when the accident in question occurred, and when he was half killed
- not by the tiger, but by the fright. And as he talked on, he grew quite bold,
and actually had the audacity to ask Miss Rebecca for whom she was knitting the
green silk purse? He was quite surprised and delighted at his own graceful
familiar manner.
    »For any one who wants a purse,« replied Miss Rebecca, looking at him in the
most gentle winning way. Sedley was going to make one of the most eloquent
speeches possible, and had begun - »O Miss Sharp, how« - when some song which
was performed in the other room came to an end, and caused him to hear his own
voice so distinctly that he stopped, blushed, and blew his nose in great
agitation.
    »Did you ever hear anything like your brother's eloquence?« whispered Mr.
Osborne to Amelia. »Why, your friend has worked miracles.«
    »The more the better,« said Miss Amelia; who, like almost all women who are
worth a pin, was a match-maker in her heart, and would have been delighted that
Joseph should carry back a wife to India. She had, too, in the course of this
few days' constant intercourse, warmed into a most tender friendship for
Rebecca, and discovered a million of virtues and amiable qualities in her which
she had not perceived when they were at Chiswick together. For the affection of
young ladies is of as rapid growth as Jack's beanstalk, and reaches up to the
sky in a night. It is no blame to them that after marriage this Sehnsucht nach
der Liebe subsides. It is what sentimentalists, who deal in very big words, call
a yearning after the Ideal, and simply means that women are commonly not
satisfied until they have husbands and children on whom they may centre
affections, which are spent elsewhere, as it were, in small change.
    Having expended her little store of songs, or having stayed long enough in
the back drawing-room, it now appeared proper to Miss Amelia to ask her friend
to sing. »You would not have listened to me,« she said to Mr. Osborne (though
she knew she was telling a fib), »had you heard Rebecca first.«
    »I give Miss Sharp warning, though,« said Osborne, »that, right or wrong, I
consider Miss Amelia Sedley the first singer in the world.«
    »You shall hear,« said Amelia; and Joseph Sedley was actually polite enough
to carry the candles to the piano. Osborne hinted that he should like quite as
well to sit in the dark; but Miss Sedley, laughing, declined to bear him company
any further, and the two accordingly followed Mr. Joseph. Rebecca sang far
better than her friend (though of course Osborne was free to keep his opinion),
and exerted herself to the utmost, and, indeed, to the wonder of Amelia, who had
never known her perform so well. She sang a French song, which Joseph did not
understand in the least, and which George confessed he did not understand, and
then a number of those simple ballads which were the fashion forty years ago,
and in which British tars, our King, poor Susan, blue-eyed Mary, and the like,
were the principal themes. They are not, it is said, very brilliant, in a
musical point of view, but contain numberless good-natured, simple appeals to
the affections, which people understood better than the milk-and-water lagrime,
sospiri, and felicità of the eternal Donizettian music with which we are
favoured nowadays.
    Conversation of a sentimental sort, befitting the subject, was carried on
between the songs, to which Sambo, after he had brought the tea, the delighted
cook, and even Mrs. Blenkinsop, the housekeeper, condescended to listen on the
landing-place.
    Among these ditties was one, the last of the concert, and to the following
effect: -
 
Ah! bleak and barren was the moor,
Ah! loud and piercing was the storm,
The cottage roof was sheltered sure,
The cottage hearth was bright and warm -
An orphan boy the lattice passed,
And, as he marked its cheerful glow,
Felt doubly keen the midnight blast,
And doubly cold the fallen snow.
 
They marked him as he onward prest,
With fainting heart and weary limb;
Kind voices bade him turn and rest,
And gentle faces welcomed him.
The dawn is up - the guest is gone,
The cottage hearth is blazing still;
Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone!
Hark to the wind upon the hill!
 
It was the sentiment of the before-mentioned words, »When I'm gone,« over again.
As she came to the last words, Miss Sharp's »deep-toned voice faltered.«
Everybody felt the allusion to her departure, and to her hapless orphan state.
Joseph Sedley, who was fond of music, and soft-hearted, was in a state of
ravishment during the performance of the song, and profoundly touched at its
conclusion. If he had had the courage; if George and Miss Sedley had remained,
according to the former's proposal, in the farther room, Joseph Sedley's
bachelorhood would have been at an end, and this work would never have been
written. But at the close of the ditty, Rebecca quitted the piano, and, giving
her hand to Amelia, walked away into the front drawing-room twilight; and at
this moment Mr. Sambo made his appearance with a tray, containing sandwiches,
jellies, and some glittering glasses and decanters, on which Joseph Sedley's
attention was immediately fixed. When the parents of the house of Sedley
returned from their dinner-party, they found the young people so busy in
talking, that they had not heard the arrival of the carriage; and Mr. Joseph was
in the act of saying, »My dear Miss Sharp, one little teaspoonful of jelly to
recruit you after your immense - your - your delightful exertions.«
    »Bravo, Jos!« said Mr. Sedley; on hearing the bantering of which well-known
voice, Jos instantly relapsed into an alarmed silence, and quickly took his
departure. He did not lie awake all night thinking whether or not he was in love
with Miss Sharp; the passion of love never interfered with the appetite or the
slumber of Mr. Joseph Sedley; but he thought to himself how delightful it would
be to hear such songs as those after Cutcherry - what a distinguée girl she was
- how she could speak French better than the Governor-General's lady herself -
and what a sensation she would make at the Calcutta balls. »It's evident the
poor devil's in love with me,« thought he. »She is just as rich as most of the
girls who come out to India. I might go further, and fare worse, egad!« And in
these meditations he fell asleep.
    How Miss Sharp lay awake, thinking, Will he come or not to-morrow? need not
be told here. To-morrow came, and, as sure as fate, Mr. Joseph Sedley made his
appearance before luncheon. He had never been known before to confer such an
honour on Russell Square. George Osborne was somehow there already (sadly
»putting out« Amelia, who was writing to her twelve dearest friends at Chiswick
Mall), and Rebecca was employed upon her yesterday's work. As Joe's buggy drove
up, and while, after his usual thundering knock and pompous bustle at the door,
the ex-Collector of Boggley Wollah laboured upstairs to the drawing-room,
knowing glances were telegraphed between Osborne and Miss Sedley, and the pair,
smiling archly, looked at Rebecca, who actually blushed as she bent her fair
ringlets over her knitting. How her heart beat as Joseph appeared, - Joseph,
puffing from the staircase in shining, creaking boots, - Joseph, in a new
waistcoat, red with heat and nervousness, and blushing behind his wadded
neckcloth. It was a nervous moment for all; and as for Amelia, I think she was
more frightened than even the people most concerned.
    Sambo, who flung open the door and announced Mr. Joseph, followed grinning,
in the Collector's rear, and bearing two handsome nosegays of flowers, which the
monster had actually had the gallantry to purchase in Covent Garden Market that
morning - they were not as big as the haystacks which ladies carry about with
them nowadays, in cones of filigree paper; but the young women were delighted
with the gift, as Joseph presented one to each with an exceedingly solemn bow.
    »Bravo, Jos!« cried Osborne.
    »Thank you, dear Joseph,« said Amelia, quite ready to kiss her brother, if
he were so minded. (And I think for a kiss from such a dear creature as Amelia,
I would purchase all Mr. Lee's conservatories out of hand.)
    »O heavenly, heavenly flowers!« exclaimed Miss Sharp, and smelt them
delicately, and held them to her bosom, and cast up her eyes to the ceiling, in
an ecstasy of admiration. Perhaps she just looked first into the bouquet, to see
whether there was a billet-doux hidden among the flowers; but there was no
letter.
    »Do they talk the language of flowers at Boggley Wollah, Sedley?« asked
Osborne, laughing.
    »Pooh, nonsense!« replied the sentimental youth. »Bought 'em at Nathan's;
very glad you like 'em; and eh, Amelia, my dear, I bought a pine-apple at the
same time, which I gave to Sambo. Let's have it for tiffin; very cool and nice
this hot weather.«
    Rebecca said she had never tasted a pine, and longed beyond everything to
taste one.
    So the conversation went on. I don't know on what pretext Osborne left the
room, or why, presently, Amelia went away, perhaps to superintend the slicing of
the pine-apple; but Jos was left alone with Rebecca, who had resumed her work,
and the green silk and the shining needles were quivering rapidly under her
white slender fingers.
    »What a beautiful, byoo-ootiful song that was you sang last night, dear Miss
Sharp,« said the Collector. »It made me cry almost; 'pon my honour it did.«
    »Because you have a kind heart, Mr. Joseph; all the Sedleys have, I think.«
    »It kept me awake last night, and I was trying to hum it this morning in
bed; I was, upon my honour. Gollop, my doctor, came in at eleven (for I'm a sad
invalid, you know, and see Gollop every day), and, 'gad! there I was singing
away like - a robin.«
    »O you droll creature! Do let me hear you sing it.«
    »Me? No, you, Miss Sharp; my dear Miss Sharp, do sing it.«
    »Not now, Mr. Sedley,« said Rebecca, with a sigh. »My spirits are not equal
to it; besides, I must finish the purse. Will you help me, Mr. Sedley?« And
before he had time to ask how, Mr. Joseph Sedley, of the East India Company's
service, was actually seated tête-à-tête with a young lady, looking at her with
a most killing expression; his arms stretched out before her in an imploring
attitude, and his hands bound in a web of green silk, which she was unwinding.
    
                                 . . . . . . .
In this romantic position Osborne and Amelia found the interesting pair, when
they entered to announce that tiffin was ready. The skein of silk was just wound
round the card; but Mr. Jos had never spoken.
»I am sure he will to-night, dear,« Amelia said, as she pressed Rebecca's hand;
and Sedley, too, had communed with his soul, and said to himself, »'Gad, I'll
pop the question at Vauxhall.«
 

                                   Chapter V

                                Dobbin of Ours.

Cuff's fight with Dobbin, and the unexpected issue of that contest, will long be
remembered by every man who was educated at Dr. Swishtail's famous school. The
latter youth (who used to be called Heigh-ho Dobbin, Gee-ho Dobbin, and by many
other names indicative of puerile contempt) was the quietest, the clumsiest,
and, as it seemed, the dullest of all Dr. Swishtail's young gentlemen. His
parent was a grocer in the City: and it was bruited abroad that he was admitted
into Dr. Swishtail's academy upon what are called »mutual principles« - that is
to say, the expenses of his board and schooling were defrayed by his father in
goods, not money; and he stood there - almost at the bottom of the school - in
his scraggy corduroys and jacket, through the seams of which his great big bones
were bursting - as the representative of so many pounds of tea, candles, sugar,
mottled-soap, plums (of which a very mild proportion was supplied for the
puddings of the establishment), and other commodities. A dreadful day it was for
young Dobbin when one of the youngsters of the school, having run into the town
upon a poaching excursion for hardbake and polonies, espied the cart of Dobbin
and Rudge, Grocers and Oilmen, Thames Street, London, at the Doctor's door,
discharging a cargo of the wares in which the firm dealt.
    Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were frightful, and
merciless against him. »Hallo, Dobbin,« one wag would say, »here's good news in
the paper. Sugar is ris', my boy.« Another would set a sum - »If a pound of
mutton-candles cost sevenpence-halfpenny, how much must Dobbin cost?« and a roar
would follow from all the circle of young knaves, usher and all, who rightly
considered that the selling of goods by retail is a shameful and infamous
practice, meriting the contempt and scorn of all real gentlemen.
    »Your father's only a merchant, Osborne,« Dobbin said in private to the
little boy who had brought down the storm upon him. At which the latter replied
haughtily, »My father's a gentleman, and keeps his carriage;« and Mr. William
Dobbin retreated to a remote outhouse in the playground, where he passed a
half-holiday in the bitterest sadness and woe. Who amongst us is there that does
not recollect similar hours of bitter, bitter childish grief? Who feels
injustice; who shrinks before a slight; who has a sense of wrong so acute, and
so glowing a gratitude for kindness, as a generous boy? and how many of those
gentle souls do you degrade, estrange, torture, for the sake of a little loose
arithmetic and miserable dog-Latin.
    Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacity to acquire the rudiments of the
above language, as they are propounded in that wonderful book, the Eton Latin
Grammar, was compelled to remain among the very last of Dr. Swishtail's
scholars, and was taken down continually by little fellows with pink faces and
pinafores when he marched up with the lower form, a giant amongst them, with his
downcast, stupefied look, his dog's-eared primer, and his tight corduroys. High
and low, all made fun of him. They sewed up those corduroys, tight as they were.
They cut his bed-strings. They upset buckets and benches, so that he might break
his shins over them, which he never failed to do. They sent him parcels, which,
when opened, were found to contain the paternal soap and candles. There was no
little fellow but had his jeer and joke at Dobbin; and he bore everything quite
patiently, and was entirely dumb and miserable.
    Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of the Swishtail
Seminary. He smuggled wine in. He fought the town-boys. Ponies used to come for
him to ride home on Saturdays. He had his top-boots in his room, in which he
used to hunt in the holidays. He had a gold repeater: and took snuff like the
Doctor. He had been to the Opera, and knew the merits of the principal actors,
preferring Mr. Kean to Mr. Kemble. He could knock you off forty Latin verses in
an hour. He could make French poetry. What else didn't he know, or couldn't he
do? They said even the Doctor himself was afraid of him.
    Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his subjects, and
bullied them, with splendid superiority. This one blacked his shoes; that
toasted his bread; others would fag out, and give him balls at cricket during
whole summer afternoons. Figs was the fellow whom he despised most, and with
whom, though always abusing him, and sneering at him, he scarcely ever
condescended to hold personal communication.
    One day in private, the two young gentlemen had had a difference. Figs,
alone in the schoolroom, was blundering over a home letter; when Cuff, entering,
bade him go upon some message, of which tarts were probably the subject.
    »I can't,« says Dobbin; »I want to finish my letter.«
    »You can't!« says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that document (in which many
words were scratched out, many were misspelt, on which had been spent I don't
know how much thought, and labour, and tears; for the poor fellow was writing to
his mother, who was fond of him, although she was a grocer's wife, and lived in
a back parlour in Thames Street). »You can't?« says Mr. Cuff: »I should like to
know why, pray? Can't you write to old Mother Figs to-morrow?«
    »Don't call names,« Dobbin said, getting off the bench very nervous.
    »Well, sir, will you go?« crowed the cock of the school.
    »Put down the letter,« Dobbin replied; »no gentleman readth letterth.«
    »Well, now will you go?« says the other.
    »No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll thmash you,« roars out Dobbin, springing
to a leaden inkstand, and looking so wicked, that Mr. Cuff paused, turned down
his coat sleeves again, put his hands into his pockets, and walked away with a
sneer. But he never meddled personally with the grocer's boy after that; though
we must do him the justice to say he always spoke of Mr. Dobbin with contempt
behind his back.
    Some time after this interview, it happened that Mr. Cuff, on a sunshiny
afternoon, was in the neighbourhood of poor William Dobbin, who was lying under
a tree in the playground, spelling over a favourite copy of the Arabian Nights
which he had - apart from the rest of the school, who were pursuing their
various sports - quite lonely, and almost happy. If people would but leave
children to themselves; if teachers would cease to bully them; if parents would
not insist upon directing their thoughts and dominating their feelings - those
feelings and thoughts which are a mystery to all (for how much do you and I know
of each other, of our children, of our fathers, of our neighbour? and how far
more beautiful and sacred are the thoughts of the poor lad or girl whom you
govern likely to be, than those of the dull and world-corrupted person who rules
him?) - if, I say, parents and masters would leave their children alone a little
more, - small harm would accrue, although a less quantity of as in præsenti
might be acquired.
    Well, William Dobbin had for once forgotten the world, and was away with
Sindbad the Sailor in the Valley of Diamonds, or with Prince Ahmed and the Fairy
Peribanou in that delightful cavern where the Prince found her, and whither we
should all like to make a tour; when shrill cries, as of a little fellow
weeping, woke up his pleasant reverie; and looking up, he saw Cuff before him,
belabouring a little boy.
    It was the lad who had peached upon him about the grocer's cart; but he bore
little malice, not at least towards the young and small. »How dare you, sir,
break the bottle?« says Cuff to the little urchin, swinging a yellow
cricket-stump over him.
    The boy had been instructed to get over the playground wall (at a selected
spot where the broken glass had been removed from the top, and niches made
convenient in the brick); to run a quarter of a mile; to purchase a pint of
rum-shrub on credit; to brave all the Doctor's outlying spies, and to clamber
back into the playground again; during the performance of which feat, his foot
had splipped, and the bottle was broken, and the shrub had been spilt, and his
pantaloons had been damaged, and he appeared before his employer a perfectly
guilty and trembling, though harmless, wretch.
    »How dare you, sir, break it?« says Cuff; »you blundering little thief. You
drank the shrub, and now you pretend to have broken the bottle. Hold out your
hand, sir.«
    Down came the stump with a great heavy thump on the child's hand. A moan
followed. Dobbin looked up. The Fairy Peribanou had fled into the inmost cavern
with Prince Ahmed: the Roc had whisked away Sindbad the Sailor out of the Valley
of Diamonds out of sight, far into the clouds: and there was everyday life
before honest William; and a big boy beating a little one without cause.
    »Hold out your other hand, sir,« roars Cuff to his little schoolfellow,
whose face was distorted with pain. Dobbin quivered, and gathered himself up in
his narrow old clothes.
    »Take that, you little devil!« cried Mr. Cuff, and down came the wicket
again on the child's hand. - Don't be horrified, ladies; every boy at a public
school has done it. Your children will so do and be done by, in all probability.
- Down came the wicket again; and Dobbin started up.
    I can't tell what his motive was. Torture in a public school is as much
licensed as the knout in Russia. It would be ungentlemanlike (in a manner) to
resist it. Perhaps Dobbin's foolish soul revolted against that exercise of
tyranny; or perhaps he had a hankering feeling of revenge in his mind, and
longed to measure himself against that splendid bully and tyrant, who had all
the glory, pride, pomp, circumstance, banners flying, drums beating, guards
saluting, in the place. Whatever may have been his incentive, however, up he
sprang, and screamed out, »Hold off, Cuff; don't bully that child any more, or
I'll -«
    »Or you'll what?« Cuff asked in amazement at this interruption. - »Hold out
your hand, you little beast.«
    »I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life,« Dobbin said,
in reply to the first part of Cuff's sentence; and little Osborne, gasping and
in tears, looked up with wonder and incredulity at seeing this amazing champion
put up suddenly to defend him: while Cuff's astonishment was scarcely less.
Fancy our late monarch George III. when he heard of the revolt of the North
American colonies: fancy brazen Goliath when little David stepped forward and
claimed a meeting: and you have the feelings of Mr. Reginald Cuff when this
reconnoitre was proposed to him.
    »After school,« says he, of course; after a pause and a look, as much as to
say, »Make your will, and communicate your last wishes to your friends, between
this time and that.«
    »As you please,« Dobbin said. - »You must be my bottle-holder, Osborne.«
    »Well, if you like,« little Osborne replied; for, you see, his papa kept a
carriage, and he was rather ashamed of his champion.
    Yes, when the hour of battle came, he was almost ashamed to say, »Go it,
Figs;« and not a single other boy in the place uttered that cry for the first
two or three rounds of this famous combat; at the commencement of which the
scientific Cuff, with a contemptuous smile on his face, and as light and as gay
as if he was at a ball, planted his blows upon his adversary, and floored that
unlucky champion three times running. At each fall there was a cheer; and
everybody was anxious to have the honour of offering the conqueror a knee.
    »What a licking I shall get when it's over!« young Osborne thought, picking
up his man. »You'd best give in,« he said to Dobbin; »it's only a thrashing,
Figs, and you know I'm used to it.« But Figs, all whose limbs were in a quiver,
and whose nostrils were breathing rage, put his little bottle-holder aside, and
went in for a fourth time.
    As he did not in the least know how to parry the blows that were aimed at
himself, and Cuff had begun the attack on the three preceding occasions, without
ever allowing his enemy to strike, Figs now determined that he would commence
the engagement by a charge on his own part; and accordingly, being a left-handed
man, brought that arm into action, and hit out a couple of times with all his
might - once at Mr. Cuff's left eye, and once on his beautiful Roman nose.
    Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of the assembly. »Well hit, by
Jove!« says little Osborne, with the air of a connoisseur, clapping his man on
the back. »Give it him with the left, Figs, my boy.«
    Figs's left made terrific play during all the rest of the combat. Cuff went
down every time. At the sixth round, there were almost as many fellows shouting
out, »Go it, Figs!« as there were youths exclaiming, »Go it, Cuff!« At the
twelfth round, the latter champion was all abroad, as the saying is, and had
lost all presence of mind and power of attack or defence. Figs, on the contrary,
was as calm as a Quaker. His face being quite pale, his eyes shining open, and a
great cut on his under lip bleeding profusely, gave this young fellow a fierce
and ghastly air, which perhaps struck terror into many spectators. Nevertheless,
his intrepid adversary prepared to close for the thirteenth time.
    If I had the pen of a Napier, or a Bell's Life, I should like to describe
this combat properly. It was the last charge of the Guard - (that is, it would
have been, only Waterloo had not yet taken place) - it was Ney's column
breasting the hill of La Haye Sainte, bristling with ten thousand bayonets, and
crowned with twenty eagles - it was the shout of the beef-eating British, as
leaping down the hill they rushed to hug the enemy in the savage arms of battle
- in other words, Cuff coming up full of pluck, but quite reeling and groggy,
the Fig-merchant put in his left as usual on his adversary's nose, and sent him
down for the last time.
    »I think that will do for him,« Figs said, as his opponent dropped as neatly
on the green as I have seen Jack Spot's ball plump into the pocket at billiards;
and the fact is, when time was called, Mr. Reginald Cuff was not able, or did
not choose, to stand up again.
    And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs as would have made you
think he had been their darling champion through the whole battle; and as
absolutely brought Dr. Swishtail out of his study, curious to know the cause of
the uproar. He threatened to flog Figs violently, of course; but Cuff, who had
come to himself by this time, and was washing his wounds, stood up and said,
»It's my fault, sir; not Figs's - not Dobbin's. I was bullying a little boy; and
he served me right.« By which magnanimous speech he not only saved his conqueror
a whipping, but got back all his ascendency over the boys which his defeat had
nearly cost him.
    Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an account of the transaction.
 
                                          »Sugarcane House, Richmond, March 18-.
        Dear Mama, - I hope you are quite well. I should be much obliged to you
        to send me a cake and five shillings. There has been a fight here
        between Cuff &amp; Dobbin. Cuff, you know, was the Cock of the School.
        They fought thirteen rounds, and Dobbin Licked. So Cuff is now Only
        Second Cock. The fight was about me. Cuff was licking me for breaking a
        bottle of milk, and Figs wouldn't stand it. We call him Figs because his
        father is a Grocer - Figs and Rudge, Thames St., City - I think as he
        fought for me you ought to buy your Tea and Sugar at his father's. Cuff
        goes home every Saturday, but can't this, because he has 2 Black Eyes.
        He has a white Pony to come and fetch him, and a groom in livery on a
        bay mare. I wish my Papa would let me have a Pony, and I am
                                                               Your dutiful Son,
                                                          GEORGE SEDLEY OSBORNE.
        P.S. - Give my love to little Emmy. I am cutting her out a Coach in
        cardboard. Please not a seed- cake, but a plum-cake.«
 
In consequence of Dobbin's victory, his character rose prodigiously in the
estimation of all his schoolfellows, and the name of Figs, which had been a
byword of reproach, became as respectable and popular a nickname as any other in
use in the school. »After all, it's not his fault that his father's a grocer,«
George Osborne said, who, though a little chap, had a very high popularity among
the Swishtail youth; and his opinion was received with great applause. It was
voted low to sneer at Dobbin about this accident of birth. Old Figs grew to be a
name of kindness and endearment; and the sneak of an usher jeered at him no
longer.
    And Dobbin's spirit rose with his altered circumstances. He made wonderful
advances in scholastic learning. The superb Cuff himself, at whose condescension
Dobbin could only blush and wonder, helped him on with his Latin verses; coached
him in play-hours; carried him triumphantly out of the little-boy class into the
middle-sized form; and even there got a fair place for him. It was discovered,
that although dull at classical learning, at mathematics he was uncommonly
quick. To the contentment of all he passed third in algebra, and got a French
prize-book at the public Midsummer examination. You should have seen his
mother's face when Télémaque (that delicious romance) was presented to him by
the Doctor in the face of the whole school and the parents and company, with an
inscription to Gulielmo Dobbin. All the boys clapped hands in token of applause
and sympathy. His blushes, his stumbles, his awkwardness, and the number of feet
which he crushed as he went back to his place, who shall describe or calculate?
Old Dobbin, his father, who now respected him for the first time, gave him two
guineas publicly, most of which he spent in a general tuck-out for the school:
and he came back in a tail-coat after the holidays.
    Dobbin was much too modest a young fellow to suppose that this happy change
in all his circumstances arose from his own generous and manly disposition: he
chose, from some perverseness, to attribute his good fortune to the sole agency
and benevolence of little George Osborne, to whom henceforth he vowed such a
love and affection as is only felt by children - such an affection, as we read
in the charming fairy-book, uncouth Orson had for splendid young Valentine his
conqueror. He flung himself down at little Osborne's feet and loved him. Even
before they were acquainted, he had admired Osborne in secret. Now he was his
valet, his dog, his man Friday. He believed Osborne to be the possessor of every
perfection, to be the handsomest, the bravest, the most active, the cleverest,
the most generous of created boys. He shared his money with him; bought him
uncountable presents of knives, pencil-cases, gold seals, toffee, Little
Warblers, and romantic books, with large coloured pictures of knights and
robbers, in many of which latter you might read inscriptions to George Sedley
Osborne, Esquire, from his attached friend William Dobbin - the which tokens of
homage George received very graciously, as became his superior merit.
    So that Lieutenant Osborne, when coming to Russell Square on the day of the
Vauxhall party, said to the ladies, »Mrs. Sedley, Ma'am, I hope you have room;
I've asked Dobbin of ours to come and dine here, and go with us to Vauxhall.
He's almost as modest as Jos.«
    »Modesty! pooh,« said the stout gentleman, casting a vainqueur look at Miss
Sharp.
    »He is - but you are incomparably more graceful, Sedley,« Osborne added,
laughing. »I met him at the Bedford, when I went to look for you; and I told him
that Miss Amelia was come home, and that we were all bent on going out for a
night's pleasuring; and that Mrs. Sedley had forgiven his breaking the
punch-bowl at the child's party. Don't you remember the catastrophe, Ma'am,
seven years ago?«
    »Over Mrs. Flamingo's crimson silk gown,« said good-natured Mrs. Sedley.
»What a gawky it was! And his sisters are not much more graceful. Lady Dobbin
was at Highbury last night with three of them. Such figures, my dears!«
    »The Alderman's very rich, isn't he?« Osborne said archly. »Don't you think
one of the daughters would be a good spec for me, Ma'am?«
    »You foolish creature! Who would take you, I should like to know, with your
yellow face?«
    »Mine a yellow face? Stop till you see Dobbin. Why, he had the yellow fever
three times - twice at Nassau, and once at St. Kitts.«
    »Well, well; yours is quite yellow enough for us. Isn't it, Emmy?« Mrs.
Sedley said: at which speech Miss Amelia only made a smile and a blush; and
looking at Mr. George Osborne's pale interesting countenance, and those
beautiful black, curling, shining whiskers, which the young gentleman himself
regarded with no ordinary complacency, she thought in her little heart, that in
His Majesty's army, or in the wide world, there never was such a face or such a
hero. »I don't care about Captain Dobbin's complexion,« she said, »or about his
awkwardness. I shall always like him, I know;« her little reason being, that he
was the friend and champion of George.
    »There's not a finer fellow in the service,« Osborne said, »nor a better
officer, though he is not an Adonis, certainly.« And he looked towards the glass
himself with much naïveté; and in so doing, caught Miss Sharp's eye fixed keenly
upon him, at which he blushed a little, and Rebecca thought in her heart, »Ah,
mon beau Monsieur! I think I have your gauge,« - the little artful minx!
    That evening, when Amelia came tripping into the drawing-room in a white
muslin frock, prepared for conquest at Vauxhall, singing like a lark, and as
fresh as a rose - a very tall ungainly gentleman, with large hands and feet, and
large ears, set off by a closely-cropped head of black hair, and in the hideous
military frogged coat and cocked-hat of those times, advanced to meet her, and
made her one of the clumsiest bows that was ever performed by a mortal.
    This was no other than Captain William Dobbin, of His Majesty's -- Regiment
of Foot, returned from yellow fever in the West Indies, to which the fortune of
the service had ordered his regiment, whilst so many of his gallant comrades
were reaping glory in the Peninsula.
    He had arrived with a knock so very timid and quiet, that it was inaudible
to the ladies upstairs: otherwise, you may be sure Miss Amelia would never have
been so bold as to come singing into the room. As it was, the sweet fresh little
voice went right into the Captain's heart, and nestled there. When she held out
her hand for him to shake, before he enveloped it in his own, he paused, and
thought - »Well, is it possible - are you the little maid I remember in the pink
frock, such a short time ago - the night I upset the punch-bowl, just after I
was gazetted? Are you the little girl that George Osborne said should marry him?
What a blooming young creature you seem, and what a prize the rogue has got!«
All this he thought, before he took Amelia's hand into his own, and as he let
his cocked-hat fall.
    His history since he left school, until the very moment when we have the
pleasure of meeting him again, although not fully narrated, has yet, I think,
been indicated sufficiently for an ingenious reader by the conversation in the
last page. Dobbin, the despised grocer, was Alderman Dobbin; Alderman Dobbin was
Colonel of the City Light Horse, then burning with military ardour to resist the
French invasion. Colonel Dobbin's corps, in which old Mr. Osborne himself was
but an indifferent corporal, had been reviewed by the Sovereign and the Duke of
York; and the colonel and alderman had been knighted. His son had entered the
army; and young Osborne followed presently in the same regiment. They had served
in the West Indies and in Canada. Their regiment had just come home; and the
attachment of Dobbin to George Osborne was as warm and generous now as it had
been when the two were schoolboys.
    So these worthy people sat down to dinner presently. They talked about war
and glory, and Boney and Lord Wellington, and the last Gazette. In those famous
days every Gazette had a victory in it, and the two gallant young men longed to
see their own names in the glorious list, and cursed their unlucky fate to
belong to a regiment which had been away from the chances of honour. Miss Sharp
kindled with this exciting talk, but Miss Sedley trembled and grew quite faint
as she heard it. Mr. Jos told several of his tiger-hunting stories; finished the
one about Miss Cutler and Lance the Surgeon; helped Rebecca to everything on the
table, and himself gobbled and drank a great deal.
    He sprang to open the door for the ladies, when they retired, with the most
killing grace - and coming back to the table, filled himself bumper after bumper
of claret, which he swallowed with nervous rapidity.
    »He's priming himself,« Osborne whispered to Dobbin, and at length the hour
and the carriage arrived for Vauxhall.
 

                                   Chapter VI

                                   Vauxhall.

I know that the tune I am piping is a very mild one (although there are some
terrific chapters coming presently), and must beg the good-natured reader to
remember, that we are only discoursing at present about a stockbroker's family
in Russell Square, who are taking walks, or luncheon, or dinner, or talking and
making love as people do in common life, and without a single passionate and
wonderful incident to mark the progress of their loves. The argument stands thus
- Osborne, in love with Amelia, has asked an old friend to dinner and to
Vauxhall - Jos Sedley is in love with Rebecca. Will he marry her? That is the
great subject now in hand.
    We might have treated this subject in the genteel, or in the romantic, or in
the facetious manner. Suppose we had laid the scene in Grosvenor Square, with
the very same adventures - would not some people have listened? Suppose we had
shown how Lord Joseph Sedley fell in love, and the Marquis of Osborne became
attached to Lady Amelia, with the full consent of the Duke, her noble father: or
instead of the supremely genteel, suppose we had resorted to the entirely low,
and described what was going on in Mr. Sedley's kitchen; - how black Sambo was
in love with the cook (as indeed he was), and how he fought a battle with the
coachman in her behalf; how the knife-boy was caught stealing a cold shoulder of
mutton, and Miss Sedley's new femme de chamber refused to go to bed without a
wax candle; - such incidents might be made to provoke much delightful laughter,
and be supposed to represent scenes of life. Or if, on the contrary, we had
taken a fancy for the terrible, and made the lover of the new femme de chamber a
professional burglar, who bursts into the house with his band, slaughters black
Sambo at the feet of his master, and carries off Amelia in her nightdress, not
to be let loose again till the third volume, we should easily have constructed a
tale of thrilling interest, through the fiery chapters of which the reader
should hurry, panting. But my readers must hope for no such romance, only a
homely story, and must be content with a chapter about Vauxhall, which is so
short that it scarce deserves to be called a chapter at all. And yet it is a
chapter, and a very important one too. Are not there little chapters in
everybody's life, that seem to be nothing, and yet affect all the rest of the
history?
    Let us then step into the coach with the Russell Square party, and be off to
the Gardens. There is barely room between Jos and Miss Sharp, who are on the
front seat; Mr. Osborne sitting bodkin opposite, between Captain Dobbin and
Amelia.
    Every soul in the coach agreed, that on that night, Jos would propose to
make Rebecca Sharp Mrs. Sedley. - The parents at home had acquiesced in the
arrangement, though, between ourselves, old Mr. Sedley had a feeling very much
akin to contempt for his son. - He said he was vain, selfish, lazy, and
effeminate. He could not endure his airs as a man of fashion, and laughed
heartily at his pompous braggadocio stories. »I shall leave the fellow half my
property,« he said; »and he will have, besides, plenty of his own; but as I am
perfectly sure that if you, and I, and his sister were to die to-morrow, he
would say Good Gad! and eat his dinner just as well as usual, I am not going to
make myself anxious about him. Let him marry whom he likes. It's no affair of
mine.«
    Amelia, on the other hand, as became a young woman of her prudence and
temperament, was quite enthusiastic for the match. Once or twice Jos had been on
the point of saying something very important to her, to which she was most
willing to lend an ear; but the fat fellow could not be brought to unbosom
himself of his great secret, and very much to his sister's disappointment he
only rid himself of a large sigh, and turned away.
    This mystery served to keep Amelia's gentle bosom in a perpetual flutter of
excitement. If she did not speak with Rebecca on the tender subject, she
compensated herself with long and intimate conversations with Mrs. Blenkinsop,
the housekeeper, who dropped some hints to the lady's-maid, who may have
cursorily mentioned the matter to the cook, who carried the news, I have no
doubt, to all the tradesmen, so that Mr. Jos's marriage was now talked of by a
very considerable number of persons in the Russell Square world.
    It was, of course, Mrs. Sedley's opinion that her son would demean himself
by a marriage with an artist's daughter. »But, lor', Ma'am,« ejaculated Mrs.
Blenkinsop, »we was only grocers when we married Mr. S., who was a stockbrokers'
clerk, and we hadn't five hundred pounds among us, and we're rich enough now.«
And Amelia was entirely of this opinion, to which, gradually, the good-natured
Mrs. Sedley was brought.
    Mr. Sedley was neutral. »Let Jos marry whom he likes,« he said; »it's no
affair of mine. This girl has no fortune; no more had Mrs. Sedley. She seems
good-humoured and clever, and will keep him in order, perhaps. Better she, my
dear, than a black Mrs. Sedley, and a dozen of mahogany grandchildren.«
    So that everything seemed to smile upon Rebecca's fortunes. She took Jos's
arm, as a matter of course, on going to dinner; she had sate by him on the box
of his open carriage (a most tremendous buck he was, as he sat there, serene, in
state, driving his greys), and though nobody said a word on the subject of the
marriage, everybody seemed to understand it. All she wanted was the proposal,
and ah! how Rebecca now felt the want of a mother! - a dear, tender mother, who
would have managed the business in ten minutes, and, in the course of a little
delicate confidential conversation, would have extracted the interesting avowal
from the bashful lips of the young man!
    Such was the state of affairs as the carriage crossed Westminster Bridge.
    The party was landed at the Royal Gardens in due time. As the majestic Jos
stepped out of the creaking vehicle the crowd gave a cheer for the fat
gentleman, who blushed and looked very big and mighty, as he walked away with
Rebecca under his arm. George, of course, took charge of Amelia. She looked as
happy as a rose-tree in sunshine.
    »I say, Dobbin,« says George, »just look to the shawls and things, there's a
good fellow.« And so while he paired off with Miss Sedley, and Jos squeezed
through the gate into the Gardens with Rebecca at his side, honest Dobbin
contented himself by giving an arm to the shawls, and by paying at the door for
the whole party.
    He walked very modestly behind them. He was not willing to spoil sport.
About Rebecca and Jos he did not care a fig. But he thought Amelia worthy even
of the brilliant George Osborne, and as he saw that good-looking couple
threading the walks to the girl's delight and wonder, he watched her artless
happiness with a sort of fatherly pleasure. Perhaps he felt that he would have
liked to have something on his own arm besides a shawl (the people laughed at
seeing the gawky young officer carrying this female burden); but William Dobbin
was very little addicted to selfish calculation at all, and so long as his
friend was enjoying himself, how should he be discontented? And the truth is,
that of all the delights of the Gardens; of the hundred thousand extra lamps,
which were always lighted; the fiddlers in cocked-hats, who played ravishing
melodies under the gilded cockle-shell in the midst of the Gardens; the singers,
both of comic and sentimental ballads, who charmed the ears there; the country
dances, formed by bouncing cockneys and cockneyesses, and executed amidst
jumping, thumping, and laughter; the signal which announced that Madame Saqui
was about to mount skyward on a slack rope ascending to the stars; the hermit
that always sat in the illuminated hermitage; the dark walks, so favourable to
the interviews of young lovers; the pots of stout handed about by the people in
the shabby old liveries; and the twinkling boxes, in which the happy feasters
made-believe to eat slices of almost invisible ham; - of all these things, and
of the gentle Simpson, that kind smiling idiot, who, I daresay, presided even
then over the place - Captain William Dobbin did not take the slightest notice.
    He carried about Amelia's white cashmere shawl, and having attended under
the gilt cockle-shell, while Mrs. Salmon performed the Battle of Borodino (a
savage cantata against the Corsican upstart, who had lately met with his Russian
reverses) - Mr. Dobbin tried to hum it as he walked away, and found he was
humming - the tune which Amelia Sedley sang on the stairs as she came down to
dinner.
    He burst out laughing at himself; for the truth is, he could sing no better
than an owl.
 
It is to be understood, as a matter of course, that our young people, being in
parties of two and two, made the most solemn promises to keep together during
the evening, and separated in ten minutes afterwards. Parties at Vauxhall always
did separate, but 'twas only to meet again at supper-time, when they could talk
of their mutual adventures in the interval.
    What were the adventures of Mr. Osborne and Miss Amelia? That is a secret.
But be sure of this - they were perfectly happy, and correct in their behaviour;
and as they had been in the habit of being together any time these fifteen
years, their tête-à-tête offered no particular novelty.
    But when Miss Rebecca Sharp and her stout companion lost themselves in a
solitary walk, in which there were not above five score more of couples
similarly straying, they both felt that the situation was extremely tender and
critical, and now or never was the moment, Miss Sharp thought, to provoke that
declaration which was trembling on the timid lips of Mr. Sedley. They had
previously been to the panorama of Moscow, where a rude fellow, treading on Miss
Sharp's foot, caused her to fall back with a little shriek into the arms of Mr.
Sedley; and this little incident increased the tenderness and confidence of that
gentleman to such a degree, that he told her several of his favourite Indian
stories over again for, at least, the sixth time.
    »How I should like to see India!« said Rebecca.
    »Should you?« said Joseph, with a most killing tenderness; and was no doubt
about to follow up this artful interrogatory by a question still more tender
(for he puffed and panted a great deal, and Rebecca's hand, which was placed
near his heart, could count the feverish pulsations of that organ), when, oh,
provoking! the bell rang for the fireworks, and, a great scuffling and running
taking place, these interesting lovers were obliged to follow in the stream of
people.
    Captain Dobbin had some thoughts of joining the party at supper - as, in
truth, he found the Vauxhall amusements not particularly lively - but he paraded
twice before the box where the now united couples were met, and nobody took any
notice of him. Covers were laid for four. The mated pairs were prattling away
quite happily, and Dobbin knew he was as clean forgotten as if he had never
existed in this world.
    »I should only be de trop,« said the Captain, looking at them rather
wistfully. »I'd best go and talk to the hermit,« - and so he strolled off out of
the hum of men, and noise, and clatter of the banquet, into the dark walk, at
the end of which lived that well-known pasteboard Solitary. It wasn't't very good
fun for Dobbin - and, indeed, to be alone at Vauxhall, I have found, from my own
experience, to be one of the most dismal sports ever entered into by a bachelor.
    The two couples were perfectly happy then in their box, where the most
delightful and intimate conversation took place. Jos was in his glory, ordering
about the waiters with great majesty. He made the salad; and uncorked the
champagne; and carved the chickens; and ate and drank the greater part of the
refreshments on the tables. Finally, he insisted upon having a bowl of rack
punch; everybody had rack punch at Vauxhall. »Waiter, rack punch!«
    That bowl of rack punch was the cause of all this history. And why not a
bowl of rack punch as well as any other cause? Was not a bowl of prussic acid
the cause of Fair Rosamond's retiring from the world? Was not a bowl of wine the
cause of the demise of Alexander the Great, or, at least, does not Dr. Lempriere
say so? - so did this bowl of rack punch influence the fates of all the
principal characters in this »Novel without a Hero,« which we are now relating.
It influenced their life, although most of them did not taste a drop of it.
    The young ladies did not drink it; Osborne did not like it; and the
consequence was that Jos, that fat gourmand, drank up the whole contents of the
bowl: and the consequence of his drinking up the whole contents of the bowl was,
a liveliness which at first was astonishing, and then became almost painful; for
he talked and laughed so loud as to bring scores of listeners round the box,
much to the confusion of the innocent party within it; and, volunteering to sing
a song (which he did in that maudlin high key peculiar to gentlemen in an
inebriated state), he almost drew away the audience who were gathered round the
musicians in the gilt scollop-shell, and received from his hearers a great deal
of applause.
    »Brayvo, Fat un!« said one; »Angcore, Daniel Lambert!« said another; »What a
figure for the tight-rope!« exclaimed another wag, to the inexpressible alarm of
the ladies, and the great anger of Mr. Osborne.
    »For Heaven's sake, Jos, let us get up and go!« cried that gentleman, and
the young women rose.
    »Stop, my dearest diddle-diddle-darling,« shouted Jos, now as bold as a
lion, and clasping Miss Rebecca round the waist. Rebecca started, but she could
not get away her hand. The laughter outside redoubled. Jos continued to drink,
to make love, and to sing; and, winking and waving his glass gracefully to his
audience, challenged all or any to come in and take a share of his punch.
    Mr. Osborne was just on the point of knocking down a gentleman in top-boots,
who proposed to take advantage of this invitation, and a commotion seemed to be
inevitable, when by the greatest good luck a gentleman of the name of Dobbin,
who had been walking about the Gardens, stepped up to the box. »Be off, you
fools!« said this gentleman - shouldering off a great number of the crowd, who
vanished presently before his cocked-hat and fierce appearance - and he entered
the box in a most agitated state.
    »Good Heavens! Dobbin, where have you been?« Osborne said, seizing the white
cashmere shawl from his friend's arm, and huddling up Amelia in it. »Make
yourself useful, and take charge of Jos here, whilst I take the ladies to the
carriage.«
    Jos was for rising to interfere, but a single push from Osborne's finger
sent him puffing back into his seat again, and the lieutenant was enabled to
remove the ladies in safety. Jos kissed his hand to them as they retreated, and
hiccupped out, »Bless you! bless you!« Then, seizing Captain Dobbin's hand, and
weeping in the most pitiful way, he confided to that gentleman the secret of his
loves. He adored that girl who had just gone out; he had broken her heart, he
knew he had, by his conduct; he would marry her next morning at St. George's,
Hanover Square; he'd knock up the Archbishop of Canterbury at Lambeth - he
would, by Jove! and have him in readiness; and, acting on this hint, Captain
Dobbin shrewdly induced him to leave the Gardens and hasten to Lambeth Palace,
and, when once out of the gates, easily conveyed Mr. Jos Sedley into a
hackney-coach, which deposited him safely at his lodgings.
 
George Osborne conducted the girls home in safety; and when the door was closed
upon them, and as he walked across Russell Square, laughed so as to astonish the
watchman. Amelia looked very ruefully at her friend, as they went upstairs, and
kissed her, and went to bed without any more talking.
    »He must propose to-morrow,« thought Rebecca. »He called me his soul's
darling four times; he squeezed my hand in Amelia's presence. He must propose
to-morrow.« And so thought Amelia, too. And I daresay she thought of the dress
she was to wear as bridesmaid, and of the presents which she should make to her
nice little sister-in-law, and of a subsequent ceremony in which she herself
might play a principal part, etc., and etc., and etc., and etc.
    O ignorant young creatures! How little do you know the effect of rack punch!
What is the rack in the punch, at night, to the rack in the head of a morning?
To this truth I can vouch as a man; there is no headache in the world like that
caused by Vauxhall punch. Through the lapse of twenty years, I can remember the
consequence of two glasses! - two wine glasses! - but two, upon the honour of a
gentleman; and Joseph Sedley, who had a liver complaint, had swallowed at least
a quart of the abominable mixture.
    That next morning, which Rebecca thought was to dawn upon her fortune, found
Sedley groaning in agonies which the pen refuses to describe. Soda-water was not
invented yet. Small beer - will it be believed? - was the only drink with which
unhappy gentlemen soothed the fever of their previous night's potation. With
this mild beverage before him, George Osborne found the ex-Collector of Boggley
Wollah groaning on the sofa at his lodgings. Dobbin was already in the room,
good-naturedly tending his patient of the night before. The two officers,
looking at the prostrate bacchanalian, and askance at each other, exchanged the
most frightful sympathetic grins. Even Sedley's valet, the most solemn and
correct of gentlemen, with the muteness and gravity of an undertaker, could
hardly keep his countenance in order, as he looked at his unfortunate master.
    »Mr. Sedley was uncommon wild last night, sir,« he whispered in confidence
to Osborne, as the latter mounted the stair. »He wanted to fight the
'ackney-coachman, sir. The Capting was obliged to bring him upstairs in his
harms like a babby.« A momentary smile flickered over Mr. Brush's features as he
spoke; instantly, however, they relapsed into their usual unfathomable calm, as
he flung, open the drawing-room, and announced »Mr. Hosbin.«
    »How are you, Sedley?« that young wag began, after surveying his victim. »No
bones broke? There's a hackney-coachman downstairs with a black eye, and a
tied-up head, vowing he'll have the law of you.«
    »What do you mean, - law?« Sedley faintly asked.
    »For thrashing him last night - didn't he, Dobbin? You hit out, sir, like
Molyneux. The watchman says he never saw a fellow go down so straight. Ask
Dobbin.«
    »You did have a round with the coachman,« Captain Dobbin said, »and showed
plenty of fight too.«
    »And that fellow with the white coat at Vauxhall! How Jos drove at him! How
the women screamed! By Jove, sir, it did my heart good to see you. I thought you
civilians had no pluck, but I'll never get in your way when you are in your
cups, Jos.«
    »I believe I'm very terrible, when I'm roused,« ejaculated Jos from the
sofa, and made a grimace so dreary and ludicrous, that the Captain's politeness
could restrain him no longer, and he and Osborne fired off a ringing volley of
laughter.
    Osborne pursued his advantage pitilessly. He thought Jos a milksop. He had
been revolving in his mind the marriage-question pending between Jos and
Rebecca, and was not over well pleased that a member of a family into which he,
George Osborne, of the -th, was going to marry, should make a mésalliance with a
little nobody - a little upstart governess. »You hit, you poor old fellow!« said
Osborne. »You terrible! Why, man, you couldn't stand - you made everybody laugh
in the Gardens, though you were crying yourself. You were maudlin, Jos. Don't
you remember singing a song?«
    »A what?« Jos asked.
    »A sentimental song, and calling Rosa, Rebecca, what's her name, Amelia's
little friend - your dearest diddle-diddle-darling?« And this ruthless young
fellow, seizing hold of Dobbin's hand, acted over the scene, to the horror of
the original perfomer, and in spite of Dobbin's good-natured entreaties to him
to have mercy.
    »Why should I spare him?« Osborne said to his friend's remonstrances, when
they quitted the invalid, leaving him under the hands of Doctor Gollop. »What
the deuce right has he to give himself his patronizing airs, and make fools of
us at Vauxhall? Who's this little schoolgirl that is ogling and making love to
him? Hang it, the family's low enough already, without her. A governess is all
very well, but I'd rather have a lady for my sister-in-law. I'm a liberal man;
but I've proper pride, and know my own station: let her know hers. And I'll take
down that great hectoring Nabob, and prevent him from being made a greater fool
than he is. That's why I told him to look out, lest she brought an action
against him.«
    »I suppose you know best,« Dobbin said, though rather dubiously. »You always
were a Tory, and your family's one of the oldest in England. But -«
    »Come and see the girls, and make love to Miss Sharp yourself,« the
lieutenant here interrupted his friend; but Captain Dobbin declined to join
Osborne in his daily visit to the young ladies in Russell Square.
    As George walked down Southampton Row, from Holborn, he laughed as he saw,
at the Sedley mansion, in two different stories, two heads on the look-out.
    The fact is, Miss Amelia, in the drawing-room balcony, was looking very
eagerly towards the opposite side of the Square, where Mr. Osborne dwelt, on the
watch for the lieutenant himself; and Miss Sharp, from her little bedroom on the
second floor, was in observation until Mr. Joseph's great form should heave in
sight.
    »Sister Anne is on the watch-tower,« said he to Amelia, »but there's nobody
coming;« and laughing and enjoying the joke hugely, he described in the most
ludicrous terms to Miss Sedley the dismal condition of her brother.
    »I think it's very cruel of you to laugh, George,« she said, looking
particularly unhappy; but George only laughed the more at her piteous and
discomfited mien, persisting in thinking the joke a most diverting one, and when
Miss Sharp came downstairs, bantered her with a great deal of liveliness upon
the effect of her charms on the fat civilian.
    »O Miss Sharp! - if you could but see him this morning,« he said - »moaning
in his flowered dressing-gown - writhing on his sofa; if you could but have seen
him lolling out his tongue to Gollop the apothecary.«
    »See whom?« said Miss Sharp.
    »Whom? Oh, whom? Captain Dobbin, of course, to whom we were all so
attentive, by the way, last night.«
    »We were very unkind to him,« Emmy said, blushing very much. »I - I quite
forgot him.«
    »Of course you did,« cried Osborne, still on the laugh. »One can't be always
thinking about Dobbin, you know, Amelia. Can one, Miss Sharp?«
    »Except when he overset the glass of wine at dinner,« Miss Sharp said, with
a haughty air and a toss of the head, »I never gave the existence of Captain
Dobbin one single moment's consideration.«
    »Very good, Miss Sharp, I'll tell him,« Osborne said; and as he spoke Miss
Sharp began to have a feeling of distrust and hatred towards this young officer,
which he was quite unconscious of having inspired. »He is to make fun of me, is
he?« thought Rebecca. »Has he been laughing about me to Joseph? Has he
frightened him? Perhaps he won't come.« A film passed over her eyes, and her
heart beat quite quick.
    »You're always joking,« said she, smiling as innocently as she could. »Joke
away, Mr. George; there's nobody to defend me.« And George Osborne, as she
walked away - and Amelia looked reprovingly at him - felt some little manly
compunction for having inflicted any unnecessary unkindness upon this helpless
creature. »My dearest Amelia,« said he, »you are too good - too kind. You don't
know the world. I do. And your little friend Miss Sharp must learn her station.«
    »Don't you think Jos will -«
    »Upon my word, my dear, I don't know. He may, or may not. I'm not his
master. I only know he is a very foolish vain fellow, and put my dear little
girl into a very painful and awkward position last night. My dearest
diddle-diddle-darling!« He was off laughing again; and he did it so drolly that
Emmy laughed too.
    All that day Jos never came. But Amelia had no fear about this: for the
little schemer had actually sent away the page, Mr. Sambo's aide-de-camp, to Mr.
Joseph's lodgings, to ask for some book he had promised, and how he was; and the
reply through Jos's man, Mr. Brush, was, that his master was ill in bed, and had
just had the doctor with him. He must come to-morrow, she thought; but she never
had the courage to speak a word on the subject to Rebecca; nor did that young
woman herself allude to it in anyway during the whole evening after the night at
Vauxhall.
    The next day, however, as the two young ladies sate on the sofa, pretending
to work, or to write letters, or to read novels, Sambo came into the room with
his usual engaging grin, with a packet under his arm, and a note on a tray.
»Note from Mr. Jos, Miss,« says Sambo.
    How Amelia trembled as she opened it!
    So it ran -
 
        »Dear Amelia, - I send you the Orphan of the Forest. I was too ill to
        come yesterday. I leave town to-day for Cheltenham. Pray excuse me, if
        you can, to the amiable Miss Sharp, for my conduct at Vauxhall, and
        entreat her to pardon and forget every word I may have uttered when
        excited by that fatal supper. As soon as I have recovered, for my health
        is very much shaken, I shall go to Scotland for some months, and am
                                                                    Truly yours,
                                                                   JOS. SEDLEY.«
 
It was the death-warrant. All was over. Amelia did not dare to look at Rebecca's
pale face and burning eyes, but she dropped the letter into her friend's lap;
and got up, and went upstairs to her room, and cried her little heart out.
    Blenkinsop, the housekeeper, there sought her presently with consolation, on
whose shoulder Amelia wept confidentially, and relieved herself a good deal.
»Don't take on, Miss. I didn't like to tell you. But none of us in the house
have liked her except at fust. I sor her with my own eyes reading your Ma's
letters. Pinner says she's always about your trinket-box and drawers, and
everybody's drawers, and she's sure she's put your white ribbing into her box.«
    »I gave it her, I gave it her,« Amelia said.
    But this did not alter Mrs. Blenkinsop's opinion of Miss Sharp. »I don't
trust them governesses, Pinner,« she remarked to the maid. »They give themselves
the hairs and hupstarts of ladies, and their wages is no better than you nor
me.«
    It now became clear to every soul in the house, except poor Amelia, that
Rebecca should take her departure, and high and low (always with the one
exception) agreed that that event should take place as speedily as possible. Our
good child ransacked all her drawers, cupboards, reticules, and gimcrack boxes -
passed in review all her gowns, fichus, tags, bobbins, laces, silk stockings,
and fallals, - selecting this thing and that and the other, to make a little
heap for Rebecca. And going to her Papa, that generous British merchant, who had
promised to give her as many guineas as she was years old - she begged the old
gentleman to give the money to dear Rebecca, who must want it, while she lacked
for nothing.
    She even made George Osborne contribute, and nothing loth (for he was as
free-handed a young fellow as any in the army), he went to Bond Street, and
bought the best hat and spencer that money could buy.
    »That's George's present to you, Rebecca, dear,« said Amelia, quite proud of
the bandbox conveying these gifts. »What a taste he has! There's nobody like
him.«
    »Nobody,« Rebecca answered. »How thankful I am to him!« She was thinking in
her heart, »It was George Osborne who prevented my marriage.« And she loved
George Osborne accordingly.
    She made her preparations for departure with great equanimity; and accepted
all the kind little Amelia's presents, after just the proper degree of
hesitation and reluctance. She vowed eternal gratitude to Mrs. Sedley, of
course; but did not intrude herself upon that good lady too much, who was
embarrassed, and evidently wishing to avoid her. She kissed Mr. Sedley's hand,
when he presented her with the purse; and asked permission to consider him for
the future as her kind, kind friend and protector. Her behaviour was so
affecting that he was going to write her a cheque for twenty pounds more; but he
restrained his feelings: the carriage was in waiting to take him to dinner, so
he tripped away with a »God bless you, my dear; always come here when you come
to town, you know. - Drive to the Mansion House, James.«
    Finally came the parting with Miss Amelia, over which picture I intend to
throw a veil. But after a scene in which one person was in earnest, and the
other a perfect performer - after the tenderest caresses, the most pathetic
tears, the smelling-bottle, and some of the very best feelings of the heart, had
been called into requisition - Rebecca and Amelia parted, the former vowing to
love her friend for ever and ever and ever.
 

                                  Chapter VII

                          Crawley of Queen's Crawley.

Among the most respected of the names beginning in C, which the Court Guide
contained in the year 18-, was that of Crawley, Sir Pitt, Baronet, Great Gaunt
Street, and Queen's Crawley, Hants. This honourable name had figured constantly
also in the Parliamentary list for many years, in conjunction with that of a
number of other worthy gentlemen who sat in turns for the borough.
    It is related, with regard to the borough of Queen's Crawley, that Queen
Elizabeth, in one of her progresses, stopping at Crawley to breakfast, was so
delighted with some remarkably fine Hampshire beer which was then presented to
her by the Crawley of the day (a handsome gentleman with a trim beard and a good
leg), that she forthwith erected Crawley into a borough to send two members to
Parliament; and the place, from the day of that illustrious visit, took the name
of Queen's Crawley, which it holds up to the present moment. And though, by the
lapse of time, and those mutations which age produces in empires, cities, and
boroughs, Queen's Crawley was no longer so populous a place as it had been in
Queen Bess's time - nay, was come down to that condition of borough which used
to be denominated rotten - yet, as Sir Pitt Crawley would say with perfect
justice in his elegant way, »Rotten! be hanged - it produces me a good fifteen
hundred a year.«
    Sir Pitt Crawley (named after the great Commoner) was the son of Walpole
Crawley, first Baronet, of the Tape and Sealing-Wax Office in the reign of
George II., when he was impeached for peculation, as were a great number of
other honest gentlemen of those days; and Walpole Crawley was, as need scarcely
be said, son of John Churchill Crawley, named after the celebrated military
commander of the reign of Queen Anne. The family tree (which hangs up at Queen's
Crawley) furthermore mentions Charles Stuart, afterwards called Barebones
Crawley, son of the Crawley of James the First's time; and finally, Queen
Elizabeth's Crawley, who is represented as the foreground of the picture in his
forked beard and armour. Out of his waistcoat, as usual, grows a tree, on the
main branches of which the above illustrious names are inscribed. Close by the
name of Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet (the subject of the present memoir), are
written that of his brother, the Reverend Bute Crawley (the great Commoner was
in disgrace when the reverend gentleman was born), rector of
Crawley-cum-Snailby, and of various other male and female members of the Crawley
family.
    Sir Pitt was first married to Grizzel, sixth daughter of Mungo Binkie, Lord
Binkie, and cousin, in consequence, of Mr. Dundas. She brought him two sons:
Pitt, named not so much after his father as after the heaven-born minister; and
Rawdon Crawley, from the Prince of Wales's friend, whom His Majesty George IV.
forgot so completely. Many years after her ladyship's demise, Sir Pitt led to
the altar Rosa, daughter of Mr. G. Dawson, of Mudbury, by whom he had two
daughters, for whose benefit Miss Rebecca Sharp was now engaged as governess. It
will be seen that the young lady was come into a family of very genteel
connections, and was about to move in a much more distinguished circle than that
humble one which she had just quitted in Russell Square.
    She had received her orders to join her pupils, in a note which was written
upon an old envelope, and which contained the following words: -
 
        »Sir Pitt Crawley begs Miss Sharp and baggidge may be here on Tuesday,
        as I leaf for Queen's Crawley to-morrow morning erly.
                                                            Great Gaunt Street.«
 
Rebecca had never seen a Baronet, as far as she knew, and as soon as she had
taken leave of Amelia, and counted the guineas which good-natured Mr. Sedley had
put into a purse for her, and as soon as she had done wiping her eyes with her
handkerchief (which operation she concluded the very moment the carriage had
turned the corner of the street), she began to depict in her own mind what a
Baronet must be. »I wonder, does he wear a star?« thought she; »or is it only
lords that wear stars? But he will be very handsomely dressed in a court suit,
with ruffles, and his hair a little powdered, like Mr. Wroughton at Covent
Garden. I suppose he will be awfully proud, and that I shall be treated most
contemptuously. Still I must bear my hard lot as well as I can - at least, I
shall be amongst gentlefolks, and not with vulgar city people:« and she fell to
thinking of her Russell Square friends with that very same philosophical
bitterness with which, in a certain apologue, the fox is represented as speaking
of the grapes.
    Having passed through Gaunt Square into Great Gaunt Street, the carriage at
length stopped at a tall gloomy house between two other tall gloomy houses, each
with a hatchment over the middle drawing-room window; as is the custom of houses
in Great Gaunt Street, in which gloomy locality death seems to reign perpetual.
The shutters of the first-floor windows of Sir Pitt's mansion were closed; those
of the dining-room were partially open, and the blinds neatly covered up in old
newspapers.
    John, the groom, who had driven the carriage alone, did not care to descend
to ring the bell, and so prayed a passing milkboy to perform that office for
him. When the bell was rung, a head appeared between the interstices of the
dining-room shutters, and the door was opened by a man in drab breeches and
gaiters, with a dirty old coat, a foul old neck-cloth lashed round his bristly
neck, a shining bald head, a leering red face, a pair of twinkling grey eyes,
and a mouth perpetually on the grin.
    »This Sir Pitt Crawley's?« says John, from the box.
    »Ees,« says the man at the door, with a nod.
    »Hand down these 'ere trunks then,« said John.
    »Hand 'n down yourself,« said the porter.
    »Don't you see I can't leave my hosses? Come, bear a hand, my fine feller,
and Miss will give you some beer,« said John, with a horse-laugh; for he was no
longer respectful to Miss Sharp, as her connection with the family was broken
off, and as she had given nothing to the servants on coming away.
    The bald-headed man, taking his hands out of his breeches pockets, advanced
on this summons, and throwing Miss Sharp's trunk over his shoulder, carried it
into the house.
    »Take this basket and shawl, if you please, and open the door,« said Miss
Sharp, and descended from the carriage in much indignation. »I shall write to
Mr. Sedley and inform him of your conduct,« said she to the groom.
    »Don't,« replied that functionary. »I hope you've forgot nothing? Miss
'Melia's gownds - have you got them - as the lady's-maid was to have 'ad? I hope
they'll fit you. Shut the door, Jim, you'll get no good out of 'er,« continued
John, pointing with his thumb towards Miss Sharp; »a bad lot, I tell you, a bad
lot,« and so saying, Mr. Sedley's groom drove away. The truth is, he was
attached to the lady's-maid in question, and indignant that she should have been
robbed of her perquisites.
    On entering the dining-room, by the orders of the individual in gaiters,
Rebecca found that apartment not more cheerful than such rooms usually are when
genteel families are out of town. The faithful chambers seem, as it were, to
mourn the absence of their masters. The turkey carpet has rolled itself up, and
retired sulkily under the sideboard; the pictures have hidden their faces behind
old sheets of brown paper; the ceiling lamp is muffled up in a dismal sack of
brown holland; the window-curtains have disappeared under all sorts of shabby
envelopes; the marble bust of Sir Walpole Crawley is looking from its black
corner at the bare boards and the oiled fire-irons, and the empty card-racks
over the mantel-piece; the cellaret has lurked away behind the carpet; the
chairs are turned up heads and tails along the walls; and in the dark corner
opposite the statue is an old-fashioned crabbed knife-box, locked and sitting on
a dumb-waiter.
    Two kitchen chairs, and a round table, and an attenuated old poker and tongs
were, however, gathered round the fireplace, as was a saucepan over a feeble
sputtering fire. There was a bit of cheese and bread, and a tin candlestick on
the table, and a little black porter in a pin-pot.
    »Had your dinner, I suppose? It is not too warm for you? Like a drop of
beer?«
    »Where is Sir Pitt Crawley?« said Miss Sharp majestically.
    »He, he! I'm Sir Pitt Crawley. Reklect you owe me a pint for bringing down
your luggage. He, he! Ask Tinker if I aynt. Mrs. Tinker, Miss Sharp; Miss
Governess, Mrs. Charwoman. Ho, ho!«
    The lady addressed as Mrs. Tinker at this moment made her appearance with a
pipe and a paper of tobacco, for which she had been dispatched a minute before
Miss Sharp's arrival; and she handed the articles over to Sir Pitt, who had
taken his seat by the fire.
    »Where's the farden?« says he. »I gave you three-halfpence. Where's the
change, old Tinker?«
    »There!« replied Mrs. Tinker, flinging down the coin; »it's only baronets as
cares about farthings.«
    »A farthing a day is seven shillings a year,« answered the M.P.; »seven
shillings a year is the interest of seven guineas. Take care of your farthings,
old Tinker, and your guineas will come quite nat'ral.«
    »You may be sure it's Sir Pitt Crawley, young woman,« said Mrs. Tinker
surlily, »because he looks to his farthings. You'll know him better afore long.«
    »And like me none the worse, Miss Sharp,« said the old gentleman, with an
air almost of politeness. »I must be just before I'm generous.«
    »He never gave away a farthing in his life,« growled Tinker.
    »Never, and never will; it's against my principle. Go and get another chair
from the kitchen, Tinker, if you want to sit down; and then we'll have a bit of
supper.«
    Presently the baronet plunged a fork into the saucepan on the fire, and
withdrew from the pot a piece of tripe and an onion, which he divided into
pretty equal portions, and of which he partook with Mrs. Tinker. »You see, Miss
Sharp, when I'm not here Tinker's on board wages; when I'm in town she dines
with the family. Haw! haw! I'm glad Miss Sharp's not hungry, ain't you, Tink?«
And they fell to upon their frugal supper.
    After supper Sir Pitt Crawley began to smoke his pipe; and when it became
quite dark, he lighted the rushlight in the tin candlestick, and producing from
an interminable pocket a huge mass of papers, began reading them, and putting
them in order.
    »I'm here on law business, my dear, and that's how it happens that I shall
have the pleasure of such a pretty travelling companion to-morrow.«
    »He's always at law business,« said Mrs. Tinker, taking up the pot of
porter.
    »Drink and drink about,« said the Baronet. »Yes, my dear, Tinker is quite
right: I've lost and won more lawsuits than any man in England. Look here at
Crawley, Bart., v. Snaffle. I'll throw him over, or my name's not Pitt Crawley.
Podder and Another versus Crawley, Bart. Overseers of Snaily parish against
Crawley, Bart. They can't prove it's common: I'll defy 'em; the land's mine. It
no more belongs to the parish than it does to you or Tinker here. I'll beat 'em,
if it cost me a thousand guineas. Look over the papers; you may if you like, my
dear. Do you write a good hand? I'll make you useful when we're at Queen's
Crawley, depend on it, Miss Sharp. Now the dowager's dead, I want some one.«
    »She was as bad as he,« said Tinker. »She took the law of every one of her
tradesmen; and turned away forty-eight footmen in four year.«
    »She was close - very close,« said the Baronet simply; »but she was a
valyble woman to me, and saved me a steward.« - And in this confidential strain,
and much to the amusement of the new-comer, the conversation continued for a
considerable time. Whatever Sir Pitt Crawley's qualities might be, good or bad,
he did not make the least disguise of them. He talked of himself incessantly,
sometimes in the coarsest and vulgarest Hampshire accent; sometimes adopting the
tone of a man of the world. And so, with injunctions to Miss Sharp to be ready
at five in the morning, he bade her good-night. »You'll sleep with Tinker
to-night,« he said; »it's a big bed, and there's room for two. Lady Crawley died
in it. Good-night.«
    Sir Pitt went off after this benediction, and the solemn Tinker, rushlight
in hand, led the way up the great, bleak stone stairs, past the great, dreary
drawing-room doors, with the handles muffled up in paper, into the great front
bedroom, where Lady Crawley had slept her last. The bed and chamber were so
funereal and gloomy, you might have fancied, not only that Lady Crawley died in
the room, but that her ghost inhabited it. Rebecca sprang about the apartment,
however, with the greatest liveliness, and had peeped into the huge wardrobes,
and the closets, and the cupboards, and tried the drawers, which were locked,
and examined the dreary pictures and toilette appointments, while the old
charwoman was saying her prayers. »I shouldn't like to sleep in this yeer bed
without a good conscience, Miss,« said the old woman. »There's room for us and a
half-dozen of ghosts in it,« says Rebecca. »Tell me all about Lady Crawley and
Sir Pitt Crawley, and everybody, my dear Mrs. Tinker.«
    But old Tinker was not to be pumped by this little cross-questioner; and
signifying to her that bed was a place for sleeping, not conversation, set up in
her corner of the bed such a snore as only the nose of innocence can produce.
Rebecca lay awake for a long, long time, thinking of the morrow, and of the new
world into which she was going, and of her chances of success there. The
rushlight flickered in the basin. The mantelpiece cast up a great black shadow,
over half of a mouldy old sampler, which her defunct ladyship had worked, no
doubt, and over two little family pictures of young lads, one in a college gown,
and the other in a red jacket like a soldier. When she went to sleep, Rebecca
chose that one to dream about.
    At four o'clock, on such a roseate summer's morning as even made Great Gaunt
Street look cheerful, the faithful Tinker, having wakened her bedfellow, and bid
her prepare for departure, unbarred and unbolted the great hall door (the
clanging and clapping whereof startled the sleeping echoes in the street), and
taking her way into Oxford Street, summoned a coach from a stand there. It is
needless to particularize the number of the vehicle, or to state that the driver
was stationed thus early in the neighbourhood of Swallow Street, in hopes that
some young buck, reeling homeward from the tavern, might need the aid of his
vehicle, and pay him with the generosity of intoxication.
    It is likewise needless to say that the driver, if he had any such hopes as
those above stated, was grossly disappointed; and that the worthy Baronet whom
he drove to the City did not give him one single penny more than his fare. It
was in vain that Jehu appealed and stormed; that he flung down Miss Sharp's
bandboxes in the gutter at the 'Necks, and swore he would take the law of his
fare.
    »You'd better not,« said one of the ostlers; »it's Sir Pitt Crawley.«
    »So it is, Joe,« cried the Baronet approvingly; »and I'd like to see the man
can do me.«
    »So should oi,« said Joe, grinning sulkily, and mounting the Baronet's
baggage on the roof of the coach.
    »Keep the box for me, Leader,« exclaims the Member of Parliament to the
coachman; who replied, »Yes, Sir Pitt,« with a touch of his hat, and rage in his
soul (for he had promised the box to a young gentleman from Cambridge, who would
have given a crown to a certainty), and Miss Sharp was accommodated with a back
seat inside the carriage, which might be said to be carrying her into the wide
world.
    How the young man from Cambridge sulkily put his five greatcoats in front;
but was reconciled when little Miss Sharp was made to quit the carriage, and
mount up beside him - when he covered her up in one of his Benjamins, and became
perfectly good-humoured - how the asthmatic gentleman, the prim lady, who
declared upon her sacred honour she had never travelled in a public carriage
before (there is always such a lady in a coach, - alas! was; for the coaches,
where are they?), and the fat widow with the brandy-bottle, took their places
inside - how the porter asked them all for money, and got sixpence from the
gentleman and five greasy halfpence from the fat widow - and how the carriage at
length drove away - now threading the dark lanes of Aldersgate, anon clattering
by the blue cupola of St. Paul's, jingling rapidly by the strangers' entry of
Fleet-Market, which, with Exeter 'Change, has now departed to the world of
shadows - how they passed the White Bear in Piccadilly, and saw the dew rising
up from the market-gardens of Knightsbridge - how Turnham Green, Brentford,
Bagshot, were passed - need not be told here. But the writer of these pages, who
has pursued in former days, and in the same bright weather, the same remarkable
journey, cannot but think of it with a sweet and tender regret. Where is the
road now, and its merry incidents of life? Is there no Chelsea or Greenwich for
the old honest pimple-nosed coachmen? I wonder where are they, those good
fellows? Is old Weller alive or dead? and the waiters, yea, and the inns at
which they waited, and the cold rounds of beef inside, and the stunted ostler,
with his blue nose and clinking pail, where is he, and where is his generation?
To those great geniuses now in petticoats, who shall write novels for the
beloved reader's children, these men and things will be as much legend and
history as Nineveh, or Coeur de Lion, or Jack Sheppard. For them stage-coaches
will have become romances - a team of four bays as fabulous as Bucephalus or
Black Bess. Ah, how their coats shone, as the stablemen pulled their clothes
off, and away they went - ah, how their tails shook, as with smoking sides at
the stage's end they demurely walked away into the inn-yard. Alas! we shall
never hear the horn sing at midnight, or see the pike-gates fly open any more.
Whither, however, is the light four-inside Trafalgar coach carrying us? Let us
be set down at Queen's Crawley without further divagation, and see how Miss
Rebecca Sharp speeds there.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

                           Private and Confidential.

Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedley, Russell Square, London. (Free. - Pitt
                                   Crawley.)
 
»My dearest, sweetest Amelia, - With what mingled joy and sorrow do I take up
the pen to write to my dearest friend! Oh, what a change between to-day and
yesterday! Now I am friendless and alone; yesterday I was at home, in the sweet
company of a sister, whom I shall ever, ever cherish!
    I will not tell you in what tears and sadness I passed the fatal night in
which I separated from you. You went on Tuesday to joy and happiness, with your
mother and your devoted young soldier by your side; and I thought of you all
night, dancing at the Perkins's, the prettiest, I am sure, of all the young
ladies at the ball. I was brought by the groom in the old carriage to Sir Pitt
Crawley's town house, where, after John the groom had behaved most rudely and
insolently to me (alas! 'twas safe to insult poverty and misfortune!), I was
given over to Sir P.'s care, and made to pass the night in an old, gloomy bed,
and by the side of a horrid, gloomy old charwoman, who keeps the house. I did
not sleep one single wink the whole night.
    Sir Pitt is not what we silly girls, when we used to read Cecilia at
Chiswick, imagined a baronet must have been. Anything, indeed, less like Lord
Orville cannot be imagined. Fancy an old, stumpy, short, vulgar, and very dirty
man, in old clothes and shabby old gaiters, who smokes a horrid pipe, and cooks
his own horrid supper in a saucepan. He speaks with a country accent, and swore
a great deal at the old charwoman, at the hackney-coachman who drove us to the
inn where the coach went from, and on which I made the journey outside for the
greater part of the way.
    I was awakened at daybreak by the charwoman, and having arrived at the inn,
was at first placed inside the coach. But when we got to a place called
Leakington, where the rain began to fall very heavily - will you believe it? - I
was forced to come outside; for Sir Pitt is a proprietor of the coach, and as a
passenger came at Mudbury, who wanted an inside place, I was obliged to go
outside in the rain, where, however, a young gentleman from Cambridge College
sheltered me very kindly in one of his several greatcoats.
    This gentleman and the guard seemed to know Sir Pitt very well, and laughed
at him a great deal. They both agreed in calling him an old screw, which means a
very stingy, avaricious person. He never gives any money to any- body, they said
(and this meanness I hate); and the young gentleman me remark that we drove very
slow for the last two stages on the road, because Sir Pitt was on the box, and
because he is proprietor of the horses for this part of the journey. But won't I
flog 'em on to Squashmore, when I take the ribbons? said the young Cantab. And
starve 'em right, Master Jack, said the guard. When I comprehended the meaning of
this phrase, and that Master Jack intended to drive the rest or the way, and
revenge himself on Sir Pitt's horses, of course I laughed too.
    A carriage and four splendid horses, covered with armorial bearings,
however, awaited us at Mudbury, four miles from Queen's Crawley, and we made our
entrance to the baronet's park in state. There is a fine avenue of a mile long
leading to the house, and the woman at the lodge-gate (over the pillars of which
are a serpent and a dove, the supporters of the Crawley arms), made us a number
of curtsies as she flung open the old iron carved doors, which are something
like those at odious Chiswick.
    There's an avenue, said Sir Pitt, a mile long. There's six thousand pound of
timber in them there trees. Do you call that nothing? He pronounced avenue -
evenue, and nothing - nothing, so droll; and he had a Mr. Hodson, his hind from
Mudbury, into the carriage with him, and they talked about distraining, and
selling up, and draining and subsoiling, and a great deal about tenants and
farming - much more than I could understand. Sam Miles had been caught poaching,
and Peter Bailey had gone to the workhouse at last. Serve him right, said Sir
Pitt, him and his family has been cheating me on that farm these hundred and
fifty years. Some old tenant, I suppose, who could not pay his rent. Sir Pitt
might have said he and his family, to be sure; but rich baronets do not need to
be careful about grammar, as poor governesses must be.
    As we passed, I remarked a beautiful church spire rising above some old elms
in the park; and before them, in the midst of a lawn, and some outhouses, an old
red house with tall chimneys covered with ivy, and the windows shining in the
sun. Is that your church, sir? I said.
    Yes, hang it (said Sir Pitt, only he used, dear, a much wickeder word);
how's Buty, Hodson? Buty's my brother Bute, my dear - my brother the parson.
Buty and the Beast, I call him, ha, ha!
    Hodson laughed too, and then looking more grave and nodding his head, said,
I'm afraid he's better, Sir Pitt. He was out on his pony yesterday, looking at
our corn.
    Looking after his tithes, hang 'un (only he used the same wicked word). Will
brandy and water never kill him? He's as tough as old whatdyecallum - old
Methusalem.
    Mr. Hodson laughed again. The young men is home from college. They've
whopped John Scroggins till he's well-nigh dead.
    Whop my second keeper! roared out Sir Pitt.
    He was on the parson's ground, sir, replied Mr. Hodson; and Sir Pitt in a
fury swore that if ever he caught 'em poaching on his ground, he'd transport
'em, by the lord he would. However, he said, I've sold the presentation of the
living, Hodson: none of that breed shall get it, I war'nt; and Mr. Hodson said
he was quite right: and I have no doubt from this that the two brothers are at
variance - as brothers often are, and sisters too. Don't you remember the two
Miss Scratchleys at Chiswick, how they used always to fight and quarrel - and
Mary Box, how she was always thumping Louisa?
    Presently, seeing two little boys gathering sticks in the wood, Mr. Hodson
jumped out of the carriage, at Sir Pitt's order, and rushed upon them with his
whip. Pitch into 'em, Hodson, roared the Baronet; flog their little souls out,
and bring 'em up to the house, the vagabonds; I'll commit 'em as sure as my
name's Pitt. And presently we heard Mr. Hodson's whip cracking on the shoulders
of the poor little blubbering wretches, and Sir Pitt, seeing that the
malefactors were in custody, drove on to the hall.
    All the servants were ready to meet us, and
                                 . . . . . . .
Here, my dear, I was interrupted last night by a dreadful thumping at my door:
and who do you think it was? Sir Pitt Crawley in his night-cap and
dressing-gown, such a figure! As I shrank away from such a visitor, he came for-
ward and seized my candle. No candles after eleven o'clock, Miss Becky, said he.
Go to bed in the dark, you pretty little hussey (that is what he called me), and
unless you wish me to come for the candle every night, mind and be in bed at
eleven. And with this, he and Mr. Horrocks the butler went off laughing. You may
be sure I shall not encourage any more of their visits. They let loose two
immense bloodhounds at night, which all last night were yelling and howling at
the moon. I call the dog Gorer, said Sir Pitt; he's killer a man that dog has,
and is master of a bull, and the mother I used to call Flora; but now I calls
her Aroarer, for she's too old to bite. Haw, haw!
    Before the house of Queen's Crawley, which is an odious old-fashioned red
brick mansion, with tall chimneys and gables of the style of Queen Bess, there
is a terrace flanked by the family dove and serpent, and on which the great
hall-door opens. And oh, my dear, the great hall I am sure is as big and as glum
as the great hall in the dear castle of Udolpho. It has a large fireplace, in
which we might put half Miss. Pinkerton's school, and the grate is big enough to
roast an ox at the very least. Round the room hang I don't know how many
generations of Crawleys, some with beards and ruffs, some with huge wigs and
toes turned out, some dressed in long straight stays and gowns that look as
stiff as towers, and some with long ringlets, and oh, my dear! scarcely any
stays at all. At one end of the hall is the great staircase all in black oak, as
dismal as may be, and on either side are tall doors with stags' heads over them,
leading to the billiard-room and the library, and the great yellow saloon and
the morning rooms. I think there are at least twenty bedrooms on the first
floor; and one of them has the bed in which Queen Elizabeth slept; and I have
been taken by my new pupils through all these fine apartments this morning. They
are not rendered less gloomy, I promise you, by having the shutters always shut;
and there is scarce one of the apartments but, when the light was let into it, I
expected to see a ghost in the room. We have a schoolroom on the second floor,
with my bedroom leading into it on one side, and that of the young ladies on the
other. Then there are Mr. Pitt's apartments - Mr. Crawley, he is called - the
eldest son, and Mr. Rawdon Crawley's rooms - he is an officer like somebody, and
away with his regiment. There is no want of room, I assure you. You might lodge
all the people in Russell Square in the house, I think, and have space to spare.
    Half an hour after our arrival the great dinner-bell was rung, and I came
down with my two pupils (they are very thin, insignificant little chits of ten
and eight years old). I came down in your dear muslin gown (about which that
odious Mrs. Pinner was so rude, because you gave it me); for I am to be treated
as one of the family, except on company days, when the young ladies and I are to
dine upstairs.
    Well, the great dinner-bell rang, and we all assembled in the little
drawing-room where my Lady Crawley sits. She is the second Lady Crawley, and
mother of the young ladies. She was an ironmonger's daughter, and her marriage
was thought a great match. She looks as if she had been handsome once, and her
eyes are always weeping for the loss of her beauty. She is pale and meagre and
high-shouldered, and has not a word to say for herself, evidently. Her stepson,
Mr. Crawley, was likewise in the room. He was in full dress, as pompous as an
undertaker. He is pale, thin, ugly, silent; he has thin legs, no chest,
hay-coloured whiskers, and straw-coloured hair. He is the very picture of his
sainted mother over the mantelpiece - Griselda of the noble house of Binkie.
    This is the new governess, Mr. Crawley, said Lady Crawley, coming forward
and taking my hand. Miss Sharp.
    Oh! said Mr. Crawley, and pushed his head once forward, and began again to
read a great pamphlet with which he was busy.
    I hope you will be kind to my girls, said Lady Crawley, with her pink eyes
always full of tears.
    Law, Ma, of course she will, said the eldest; and I saw at a glance that I
need not be afraid of that woman.
    My lady is served, says the Butler in black, in an immense white
shirt-frill, that looked as if it had been one of the Queen Elizabeth's ruffs
depicted in the hall; and so, taking Mr. Crawley's arm, she led the way to the
dining-room, whither I followed with my little pupils in each hand.
    Sir Pitt was already in the room with a silver jug. He had just been to the
cellar, and was in full dress too - that is, he had taken his gaiters off, and
showed his little dumpy legs in black worsted stockings. The sideboard was
covered with glistening old plate - old cups, both gold and silver; old salvers
and cruet-stands, like Rundell and Bridge's shop. Everything on the table was in
silver too, and two footmen, with red hair and canary-coloured liveries, stood
on either side of the sideboard.
    Mr. Crawley said a long grace, and Sir Pitt said Amen, and the great silver
dish-covers were removed.
    What have we for dinner, Betsy? said the Baronet.
    Mutton broth, I believe, Sir Pitt, answered Lady Crawley.
    Mouton aux navets, added the Butler gravely (pronounce, if you please,
moutongonavvy); and the soup is potage de mouton à l'Ecossaise. The side-dishes
contain pommes de terre au naturel, and choufleur à l'eau.
    Mutton's mutton, said the Baronet, and a devilish good thing. What ship was
it, Horrocks, and when did you kill?
    One of the black-faced Scotch, Sir Pitt; we killed on Thursday.
    Who took any?
    Steel, of Mudbury, took the saddle and two legs, Sir Pitt; but he says the
last was too young and confounded woolly, Sir Pitt.
    Will you take some potage, Miss ah - Miss Blunt? said Mr. Crawley.
    Capital Scotch broth, my dear, said Sir Pitt, though they call it by a
French name.
    I believe it is the custom, sir, in decent society, said Mr. Crawley
haughtily, to call the dish as I have called it; and it was served to us on
silver soup-plates by the footmen in the canary coats, with the mouton aux
navets. Then ale and water were brought, and served to us young ladies in
wine-glasses. I am not a judge of ale, but I can say with a clear conscience I
prefer water.
    While we were enjoying our repast, Sir Pitt took occasion to ask what had
become of the shoulders of the mutton.
    I believe they were eaten in the servants' hall, said my lady humbly.
    They was, my lady, said Horrocks; and precious little else we get there
neither.
    Sir Pitt burst into a horse-laugh, and continued his conversation with Mr.
Horrocks. That there little black pig of the Kent sow's breed must be uncommon
fat now.
    It's not quite busting, Sir Pitt, said the Butler with the gravest air, at
which Sir Pitt, and with him the young ladies this time, began to laugh
violently.
    Miss Crawley, Miss Rose Crawley, said Mr. Crawley, your laughter strikes me
as being exceedingly out of place.
    Never mind, my lord, said the Baronet, we'll try the porker on Saturday.
Kill un on Saturday morning, John Horrocks. Miss Sharp adores pork, don't you,
Miss Sharp?
    And I think this is all the conversation that I remember at dinner. When the
repast was concluded, a jug of hot water was placed before Sir Pitt, with a
case-bottle containing, I believe, rum. Mr. Horrocks served myself and my pupils
with three little glasses of wine, and a bumper was poured out for my lady. When
we retired, she took from her work-drawer an enormous interminable piece of
knitting; the young ladies began to play at cribbage with a dirty pack of cards.
We had but one candle lighted, but it was in a magnificent old silver
candlestick; and after a very few questions from my lady, I had my choice of
amusement between a volume of sermons, and a pamphlet on the corn-laws, which
Mr. Crawley had been reading before dinner.
    So we sat for an hour until steps were heard.
    Put away the cards, girls, cried my lady, in a great tremor; put down Mr.
Crawley's books, Miss Sharp; and these orders had been scarcely obeyed, when Mr.
Crawley entered the room.
    We will resume yesterday's discourse, young ladies, said he, and you shall
each read a page by turns; so that Miss a - Miss Short may have an opportunity
of hearing you; and the poor girls began to spell a long dismal sermon delivered
at Bethesda Chapel, Liverpool, on behalf of the mission for the Chickasaw
Indians. Was it not a charming evening?
    At ten the servants were told to call Sir Pitt and the household to prayers.
Sir Pitt came in first, very much flushed, and rather unsteady in his gait; and
after him the Butler, the canaries, Mr. Crawley's man, three other men, smelling
very much of the stable, and four women, one of whom, I remarked, was very much
over-dressed, and who flung me a look of great scorn as she plumped down on her
knees.
    After Mr. Crawley had done haranguing and expounding, we received our
candles, and then we went to bed; and then I was disturbed in my writing, as I
have described to my dearest sweetest Amelia.
    Good-night. A thousand, thousand, thousand kisses!
    Saturday. - This morning, at five, I heard the shrieking of the little black
pig. Rose and Violet introduced me to it yesterday; and to the stables, and to
the kennel, and to the gardener, who was picking fruit to send to market, and
from whom they begged hard a bunch of hothouse grapes; but he said that Sir Pitt
had numbered every Man Jack of them, and it would be as much as his place was
worth to give any away. The darling girls caught a colt in a paddock, and asked
me if I would ride, and began to ride themselves, when the groom, coming with
horrid oaths, drove them away.
    Lady Crawley is always knitting the worsted. Sir Pitt is always tipsy, every
night; and, I believe, sits with Horrocks, the butler. Mr. Crawley always reads
sermons in the evening, and in the morning is locked up in his study, or else
rides to Mudbury, on county business, or to Squashmore, where he preaches, on
Wednesdays and Fridays, to the tenants there.
    A hundred thousand grateful loves to your dear papa and mamma. Is your poor
brother recovered of his rack punch? O dear! O dear! How men should beware of
wicked punch!
                                                         Ever and ever thine own
                                                                       REBECCA.«
 
Everything considered, I think it is quite as well for our dear Amelia Sedley,
in Russell Square, that Miss Sharp and she are parted. Rebecca is a droll funny
creature, to be sure; and those descriptions of the poor lady weeping for the
loss of her beauty, and the gentleman »with hay-coloured whiskers and
straw-coloured hair,« are very smart, doubtless, and show a great knowledge of
the world. That she might, when on her knees, have been thinking of something
better than Miss Horrocks's ribbons, has possibly struck both of us. But my kind
reader will please to remember that this history has »Vanity Fair« for a title,
and that Vanity Fair is a very vain, wicked, foolish place, full of all sorts of
humbugs and falsenesses and pretensions. And while the moralist, who is holding
forth on the cover (an accurate portrait of your humble servant), professes to
wear neither gown nor bands, but only the very same long-eared livery in which
his congregation is arrayed; yet, look you, one is bound to speak the truth as
far as one knows it, whether one mounts a cap and bells or a shovel-hat; and a
deal of disagreeable matter must come out in the course of such an undertaking.
    I have heard a brother of the story-telling trade, at Naples, preaching to a
pack of good-for-nothing honest lazy fellows by the sea-shore, work himself up
into such a rage and passion with some of the villains whose wicked deeds he was
describing and inventing, that the audience could not resist it; and they and
the poet together would burst out into a roar of oaths and execrations against
the fictitious monster of the tale, so that the hat went round, and the bajocchi
tumbled into it, in the midst of a perfect storm of sympathy.
    At the little Paris theatres, on the other hand, you will not only hear the
people yelling out »Ah gredin! Ah monstre!« and cursing the tyrant of the play
from the boxes; but the actors themselves positively refuse to play the wicked
parts, such as those of infâmes Anglais, brutal Cossacks, and what not, and
prefer to appear, at a smaller salary, in their real characters as loyal
Frenchmen. I set the two stories one against the other, so that you may see that
it is not from mere mercenary motives that the present performer is desirous to
show up and trounce his villains; but because he has a sincere hatred of them,
which he cannot keep down, and which must find a vent in suitable abuse and bad
language.
    I warn my »kyind friends,« then, that I am going to tell a story of
harrowing villainy and complicated - but, as I trust, intensely interesting -
crime. My rascals are no milk-and-water rascals, I promise you. When we come to
the proper places we won't spare fine language - No, no! But when we are going
over the quiet country we must perforce be calm. A tempest in a slop-basin is
absurd. We will reserve that sort of thing for the mighty ocean and the lonely
midnight. The present chapter is very mild. Others -- But we will not anticipate
those.
    And, as we bring our characters forward, I will ask leave, as a man and a
brother, not only to introduce them, but occasionally to step down from the
platform, and talk about them: if they are good and kindly, to love them and
shake them by the hand; if they are silly, to laugh at them confidentially in
the reader's sleeve; if they are wicked and heartless, to abuse them in the
strongest terms which politeness admits of.
    Otherwise you might fancy it was I who was sneering at the practice of
devotion, which Miss Sharp finds so ridiculous; that it was I who laughed
good-humouredly at the reeling old Silenus of a baronet - whereas the laughter
comes from one who has no reverence except for prosperity, and no eye for
anything beyond success. Such people there are living and flourishing in the
world - Faithless, Hopeless, Charityless; let us have at them, dear friends,
with might and main. Some there are, and very successful too, mere quacks and
fools: and it was to combat and expose such as those, no doubt, that Laughter
was made.
 

                                   Chapter IX

                               Family Portraits.

Sir Pitt Crawley was a philosopher with a taste for what is called low life. His
first marriage with the daughter of the noble Binkie had been made under the
auspices of his parents; and as he often told Lady Crawley in her lifetime she
was such a confounded quarrelsome high-bred jade that when she died he was
hanged if he would take another of her sort, at her ladyship's demise he kept
his promise, and selected for a second wife Miss Rose Dawson, daughter of Mr.
John Thomas Dawson, ironmonger, of Mudbury. What a happy woman was Rose to be my
Lady Crawley!
    Let us set down the items of her happiness. In the first place, she gave up
Peter Butt, a young man who kept company with her, and in consequence of his
disappointment in love, took to smuggling, poaching, and a thousand other bad
courses. Then she quarrelled, as in duty bound, with all the friends and
intimates of her youth, who, of course, could not be received by my Lady at
Queen's Crawley; nor did she find in her new rank and abode any persons who were
willing to welcome her. Who ever did? Sir Huddleston Fuddleston had three
daughters who all hoped to be Lady Crawley. Sir Giles Wapshot's family were
insulted that one of the Wapshot girls had not the preference in the marriage;
and the remaining baronets of the county were indignant at their comrade's
misalliance. Never mind the commoners, whom we will leave to grumble
anonymously.
    Sir Pitt did not care, as he said, a brass farden for any one of them. He
had his pretty Rose, and what more need a man require than to please himself? So
he used to get drunk every night; to beat his pretty Rose sometimes; to leave
her in Hampshire when he went to London for the parliamentary session, without a
single friend in the wide world. Even Mrs. Bute Crawley, the Rector's wife,
refused to visit her, and she said she would never give the pas to a tradesman's
daughter.
    As the only endowments with which Nature had gifted Lady Crawley were those
of pink cheeks and a white skin, and as she had no sort of character, nor
talents, nor opinions, nor occupations, nor amusements, nor that vigour of soul
and ferocity of temper which often falls to the lot of entirely foolish women,
her hold upon Sir Pitt's affections was not very great. Her roses faded out of
her cheeks, and the pretty freshness left her figure after the birth of a couple
of children, and she became a mere machine in her husband's house, of no more
use than the late Lady Crawley's grand piano. Being a light-complexioned woman,
she wore light clothes, as most blondes will, and appeared, in preference, in
draggled sea-green, or slatternly sky-blue. She worked that worsted day and
night, or other pieces like it. She had counterpanes, in the course of a few
years, to all the beds in Crawley. She had a small flower-garden, for which she
had rather an affection; but beyond this no other like or disliking. When her
husband was rude to her, she was apathetic; whenever he struck her, she cried.
She had not character enough to take to drinking, and moaned about, slipshod and
in curl-papers, all day. O Vanity Fair - Vanity Fair! This might have been, but
for you, a cheery lass: - Peter Butt and Rose a happy man and wife, in a snug
farm, with a hearty family; and an honest portion of pleasures, cares, hopes,
and struggles: - but a title and a coach and four are toys more precious than
happiness in Vanity Fair; and if Harry the Eighth or Bluebeard were alive now,
and wanted a tenth wife, do you suppose he could not get the prettiest girl that
shall be presented this season?
    The languid dullness of their mamma did not, as it may be supposed, awaken
much affection in her little daughters, but they were very happy in the
servants' hall and in the stables; and the Scotch gardener having, luckily, a
good wife and some good children, they got a little wholesome society and
instruction in his lodge, which was the only education bestowed upon them until
Miss Sharp came.
    Her engagement was owing to the remonstrances of Mr. Pitt Crawley, the only
friend or protector Lady Crawley ever had, and the only person, besides her
children, for whom she entertained a little feeble attachment. Mr. Pitt took
after the noble Binkies, from whom he was descended, and was a very polite and
proper gentleman. When he grew to man's estate, and came back from Christchurch,
he began to reform the slackened discipline of the hall, in spite of his father,
who stood in awe of him. He was a man of such rigid refinement, that he would
have starved rather than have dined without a white neckcloth. Once, when just
from college, and when Horrocks the butler brought him a letter without placing
it previously on a tray, he gave that domestic a look, and administered to him a
speech so cutting, that Horrocks ever after trembled before him. The whole
household bowed to him: Lady Crawley's curl-papers came off earlier when he was
at home: Sir Pitt's muddy gaiters disappeared; and if that incorrigible old man
still adhered to other old habits, he never fuddled himself with rum-and-water
in his son's presence, and only talked to his servants in a very reserved and
polite manner; and those persons remarked that Sir Pitt never swore at Lady
Crawley while his son was in the room.
    It was he who taught the butler to say, »My lady is served,« and who
insisted on handing her ladyship in to dinner. He seldom spoke to her, but when
he did it was with the most powerful respect; and he never let her quit the
apartment without rising in the most stately manner to open the door, and making
an elegant bow at her egress.
    At Eton he was called Miss Crawley; and there, I am sorry to say, his
younger brother Rawdon used to lick him violently. But though his parts were not
brilliant, he made up for his lack of talent by meritorious industry, and was
never known, during eight years at school, to be subject to that punishment
which it is generally thought none but a cherub can escape.
    At college his career was, of course, highly creditable. And here he
prepared himself for public life, into which he was to be introduced by the
patronage of his grandfather, Lord Binkie, by studying the ancient and modern
orators with great assiduity, and by speaking unceasingly at the debating
societies. But though he had a fine flux of words, and delivered his little
voice with great pomposity and pleasure to himself, and never advanced any
sentiment or opinion which was not perfectly trite and stale, and supported by a
Latin quotation; yet he failed somehow, in spite of a mediocrity which ought to
have ensured any man a success. He did not even get the prize poem, which all
his friends said he was sure of.
    After leaving college he became Private Secretary to Lord Binkie, and was
then appointed Attaché to the Legation at Pumpernickel, which post he filled
with perfect honour, and brought home dispatches, consisting of Strasburg pie,
to the Foreign Minister of the day. After remaining ten years Attaché (several
years after the lamented Lord Binkie's demise), and finding the advancement
slow, he at length gave up the diplomatic service in some disgust, and began to
turn country gentleman.
    He wrote a pamphlet on Malt on returning to England (for he was an ambitious
man, and always liked to be before the public), and took a strong part in the
Negro Emancipation question. Then he became a friend of Mr. Wilberforce's, whose
politics he admired, and had that famous correspondence with the Reverend Silas
Hornblower on the Ashantee Mission. He was in London, if not for the Parliament
session, at least in May, for the religious meetings. In the country he was a
magistrate, and an active visitor and speaker among those destitute of religious
instruction. He was said to be paying his addresses to Lady Jane Sheepshanks,
Lord Southdown's third daughter, and whose sister, Lady Emily, wrote those sweet
tracts, »The Sailor's True Binnacle,« and »The Applewoman of Finchley Common.«
    Miss Sharp's accounts of his employment at Queen's Crawley were not
caricatures. He subjected the servants there to the devotional exercises before
mentioned, in which (and so much the better) he brought his father to join. He
patronized an Independent meeting-house in Crawley parish, much to the
indignation of his uncle the Rector, and to the consequent delight of Sir Pitt,
who was induced to go himself once or twice, which occasioned some violent
sermons at Crawley parish church, directed point-blank at the Baronet's old
Gothic pew there. Honest Sir Pitt, however, did not feel the force of these
discourses, as he always took his nap during sermon-time.
    Mr. Crawley was very earnest, for the good of the nation and of the
Christian world, that the old gentleman should yield him up his place in
Parliament; but this the elder constantly refused to do. Both were, of course,
too prudent to give up the fifteen hundred a year which was brought in by the
second seat (at this period filled by Mr. Quadroon, with carte-blanche on the
Slave question); indeed the family estate was much embarrassed, and the income
drawn from the borough was of great use to the house of Queen's Crawley.
    It had never recovered the heavy fine imposed upon Walpole Crawley, first
baronet, for peculation in the Tape and Sealing-Wax Office. Sir Walpole was a
jolly fellow, eager to seize and to spend money (»alieni appetens, sui
profusus,« as Mr. Crawley would remark with a sigh), and in his day be- loved by
all the county for the constant drunkenness and hospitality which was maintained
at Queen's Crawley. The cellars were filled with Burgundy then, the kennels with
hounds, and the stables with gallant hunters; now, such horses as Queen's
Crawley possessed went to plough, or ran in the Trafalgar Coach: and it was with
a team of these very horses, on an off-day, that Miss Sharp was brought to the
Hall; for boor as he was, Sir Pitt was a stickler for his dignity while at home,
and seldom drove out but with four horses, and, though he dined off boiled
mutton, had always three footmen to serve it.
    If mere parsimony could have made a man rich, Sir Pitt Crawley might have
become very wealthy; if he had been an attorney in a country town, with no
capital but his brains, it is very possible that he would have turned them to
good account, and might have achieved for himself a very considerable influence
and competency. But he was unluckily endowed with a good name and a large though
encumbered estate, both of which went rather to injure than to advance him. He
had a taste for law, which cost him many thousands yearly; and being a great
deal too clever to be robbed, as he said, by any single agent, allowed his
affairs to be mismanaged by a dozen, whom he all equally mistrusted. He was such
a sharp landlord, that he could hardly find any but bankrupt tenants; and such a
close farmer, as to grudge almost the seed to the ground, whereupon revengeful
Nature grudged him the crops which she granted to more liberal husbandmen. He
speculated in every possible way: he worked mines; bought canal-shares; horsed
coaches; took government contracts, and was the busiest man and magistrate of
his county. As he would not pay honest agents at his granite quarry, he had the
satisfaction of finding that four overseers ran away, and took fortunes with
them to America. For want of proper precautions, his coal-mines filled with
water; the government flung his contract of damaged beef upon his hands; and for
his coach-horses, every mail proprietor in the kingdom knew that he lost more
horses than any man in the country, from underfeeding and buying cheap. In
disposition he was sociable, and far from being proud; nay, he rather preferred
the society of a farmer or a horse-- dealer to that of a gentleman, like my
lord, his son: he was fond of drink, of swearing, of joking with the farmers'
daughters: he was never known to give away a shilling, or to do a good action,
but was of a pleasant, sly, laughing mood, and would cut his joke and drink his
glass with a tenant and sell him up the next day; or have his laugh with the
poacher he was transporting with equal good-humour. His politeness for the fair
sex has already been hinted at by Miss Rebecca Sharp - in a word, the whole
baronetage, peerage, commonage of England, did not contain a more cunning, mean,
selfish, foolish, disreputable old man. That blood-red - hand of Sir Pitt
Crawley's would be in anybody's pocket except his own; and it is with grief and
pain that, as admirers of the British aristocracy, we find ourselves obliged to
admit the existence of so many ill qualities in a person whose name is in
Debrett.
    One great cause why Mr. Crawley had such a hold over the affections of his
father, resulted from money arrangements. The Baronet owed his son a sum of
money out of the jointure of his mother, which he did not find it convenient to
pay; indeed he had an almost invincible repugnance to paying anybody, and could
only be brought by force to discharge his debts. Miss Sharp calculated (for she
became, as we shall hear speedily, inducted into most of the secrets of the
family) that the mere payment of his creditors cost the honourable Baronet
several hundreds yearly: but this was a delight he could not forego; he had a
savage pleasure in making the poor wretches wait, and in shifting from court to
court and from term to term the period of satisfaction. What's the good of being
in Parliament, he said, if you must pay your debts? Hence, indeed, his position
as a senator was a not a little useful to him.
    Vanity Fair - Vanity Fair! Here was a man, who could not spell, and did not
care to read; who had the habits and the cunning of a boor; whose aim in life
was pettifogging; who never had a taste, or emotion, or enjoyment, but what was
sordid and foul: and yet he had rank, and honours, and power, somehow; and was a
dignitary of the land, and a pillar of the state. He was high sheriff, and rode
in a golden coach. Great ministers and statesmen courted him; and in Vanity Fair
he had a higher place than the most brilliant genius or spotless virtue.
 
Sir Pitt had an unmarried half-sister who inherited her mother's large fortune;
and though the Baronet proposed to borrow this money of her on mortgage, Miss
Crawley declined the offer, and preferred the security of the funds. She had
signified, however, her intention of leaving her inheritance between Sir Pitt's
second son and the family at the Rectory, and had once or twice paid the debts
of Rawdon Crawley in his career at college and in the army. Miss Crawley was, in
consequence, an object of great respect when she came to Queen's Crawley, for
she had a balance at her banker's which would have made her beloved anywhere.
    What a dignity it gives an old lady, that balance at the banker's! How
tenderly we look at her faults if she is a relative (and may every reader have a
score of such); what a kind good-natured old creature we find her! How the
junior partner of Hobbs and Dobbs leads her smiling to the carriage with the
lozenge upon it, and the fat wheezy coachman! How, when she comes to pay us a
visit, we generally find an opportunity to let our friends know her station in
the world! We say (and with perfect truth), I wish I had Miss MacWhirter's
signature to a cheque for five thousand pounds. She wouldn't miss it, says your
wife. She is my aunt, say you, in an easy careless way, when your friend asks if
Miss MacWhirter is any relative. Your wife is perpetually sending her little
testimonies of affection; your little girls work endless worsted baskets,
cushions, and footstools for her. What a good fire there is in her room when she
comes to pay you a visit, although your wife laces her stays without one! The
house during her stay assumes a festive, neat, warm, jovial, snug appearance not
visible at other seasons. You yourself, dear sir, forget to go to sleep after
dinner, and find yourself all of a sudden (though you invariably lose) very fond
of a rubber. What good dinners you have - game every day, Malmsey-Madeira, and
no end of fish from London. Even the servants in the kitchen share in the
general prosperity; and, somehow, during the stay of Miss MacWhirter's fat
coachman, the beer is grown much stronger, and the con- sumption of tea and
sugar in the nursery (where her maid takes her meals) is not regarded in the
least. Is it so, or is it not so? I appeal to the middle classes. Ah, gracious
powers! I wish you would send me an old aunt - a maiden aunt - an aunt with a
lozenge on her carriage, and a front of light coffee-coloured hair - how my
children should work workbags for her, and my Julia and I would make her
comfortable! Sweet - sweet vision! Foolish - foolish dream!
 

                                   Chapter X

                       Miss Sharp Begins to Make Friends.

And now, being received as a member of the amiable family whose portraits we
have sketched in the foregoing pages, it became naturally Rebecca's duty to make
herself, as she said, agreeable to her benefactors, and to gain their confidence
to the utmost of her power. Who can but admire this quality of gratitude in an
unprotected orphan? and if there entered some degree of selfishness into her
calculations, who can say but that her prudence was perfectly justifiable? »I am
alone in the world,« said the friendless girl. »I have nothing to look for but
what my own labour can bring me; and while that little pink-faced chit Amelia,
with not half my sense, has ten thousand pounds and an establishment secure,
poor Rebecca (and my figure is far better than hers) has only herself and her
own wits to trust to. Well, let us see if my wits cannot provide me with an
honourable maintenance, and if some day or the other I cannot show Miss Amelia
my real superiority over her. Not that I dislike poor Amelia: who can dislike
such a harmless, good-natured creature? - only it will be a fine day when I can
take my place above her in the world, as why, indeed, should I not?« Thus it was
that our little romantic friend visions of the future for herself, - nor must we
be scandalized that, in all her castles in the air, a husband was the principal
inhabitant. Of what else have young ladies to think but husbands? Of what else
do their dear mammas think? »I must be my own mamma,« said Rebecca; not without
a tingling consciousness of de- feat, as she thought over her little
misadventure with Jos Sedley.
    So she wisely determined to render her position with the Queen's Crawley
family comfortable and secure, and to this end resolved to make friends of every
one around her who could at all interfere with her comfort.
    As my Lady Crawley was not one of these personages, and a woman, moreover,
so indolent and void of character as not to be of the least consequence in her
own house, Rebecca soon found that it was not at all necessary to cultivate her
good-will - indeed, impossible to gain it. She used to talk to her pupils about
their »poor mamma;« and, though she treated that lady with every demonstration
of cool respect, it was to the rest of the family that she wisely directed the
chief part of her attentions.
    With the young people, whose applause she thoroughly gained, her method was
pretty simple. She did not pester their young brains with too much learning,
but, on the contrary, let them have their own way in regard to educating
themselves; for what instruction is more effectual than self-instruction? The
elder was rather fond of books, and as there was in the old library at Queen's
Crawley a considerable provision of works of light literature of the last
century, both in the French and English languages (they had been purchased by
the Secretary of the Tape and Sealing-Wax Office at the period of his disgrace),
and as nobody ever troubled the bookshelves but herself, Rebecca was enabled
agreeably, and, as it were, in playing, to impart a great deal of instruction to
Miss Rose Crawley.
    She and Miss Rose thus read together many delightful French and English
works, among which may be mentioned those of the learned Dr. Smollett, of the
ingenious Mr. Henry Fielding, of the graceful and fantastic Monsieur Crébillon
the younger, whom our immortal poet Gray so much admired, and of the universal
Monsieur de Voltaire. Once, when Mr. Crawley asked what the young people were
reading, the governess replied, »Smollett.« »Oh, Smollett,« said Mr. Crawley,
quite satisfied. »His history is more dull, but by no means so dangerous as that
of Mr. Hume. It is history you are reading?« »Yes,« said Miss Rose; without,
how- ever, adding that it was the history of Mr. Humphrey Clinker. On another
occasion he was rather scandalized at finding his sister with a book of French
plays; but as the governess remarked that it was for the purpose of acquiring
the French idiom in conversation, he was fain to be content. Mr. Crawley, as a
diplomatist, was exceedingly proud of his own skill in speaking the French
language (for he was of the world still), and not a little pleased with the
compliments which the governess continually paid him upon his proficiency.
    Miss Violet's tastes were, on the contrary, more rude and boisterous than
those of her sister. She knew the sequestered spots where the hens laid their
eggs. She could climb a tree to rob the nests of the feathered songsters of
their speckled spoils. And her pleasure was to ride the young colts, and to
scour the plains like Camilla. She was the favourite of her father and of the
stablemen. She was the darling, and withal the terror, of the cook; for she
discovered the haunts of the jam-pots, and would attack them when they were
within her reach. She and her sister were engaged in constant battles. Any of
which peccadilloes, if Miss Sharp discovered, she did not tell them to Lady
Crawley, who would have told them to the father, or worse, to Mr. Crawley; but
promised not to tell if Miss Violet would be a good girl and love her governess.
    With Mr. Crawley Miss Sharp was respectful and obedient. She used to consult
him on passages of French which she could not understand, though her mother was
a Frenchwoman, and which he could construe to her satisfaction; and, besides
giving her his aid in profane literature, he was kind enough to select for her
books of a more serious tendency, and address to her much of his conversation.
She admired, beyond measure, his speech at the Quashimaboo Aid Society; took an
interest in his pamphlet on Malt; was often affected, even to tears, by his
discourses of an evening, and would say, »Oh, thank you, sir,« with a sigh, and
a look up to heaven, that made him occasionally condescend to shake hands with
her. »Blood is everything, after all,« would that aristocratic religionist say.
»How Miss Sharp is awakened by my words, when not one of the people here is
touched. I am too fine for them - too delicate. I must familiarize my style -
but she understands it. Her mother was a Montmorency.«
    Indeed it was from this famous family, as it appears, that Miss Sharp, by
the mother's side, was descended. Of course she did not say that her mother had
been on the stage; it would have shocked Mr. Crawley's religious scruples. How
many noble émigrées had this horrid revolution plunged in poverty! She had
several stories about her ancestors ere she had been many months in the house;
some of which Mr. Crawley happened to find in D'Hozier's dictionary, which was
in the library, and which strengthened his belief in their truth, and in the
high breeding of Rebecca. Are we to suppose from this curiosity and prying into
dictionaries, could our heroine suppose, that Mr. Crawley was interested in her?
No, only in a friendly way. Have we not stated that he was attached to Lady Jane
Sheepshanks?
    He took Rebecca to task once or twice about the propriety of playing at
backgammon with Sir Pitt, saying that it was a godless amusement, and that she
would be much better engaged in reading »Thrump's Legacy,« or »The Blind
Washerwoman of Moorfields,« or any work of a more serious nature; but Miss Sharp
said her dear mother used often to play the same game with the old Count de
Trictrac and the venerable Abbé du Cornet, and so found an excuse for this and
other worldly amusements.
    But it was not only by playing at backgammon with the Baronet that the
little governess rendered herself agreeable to her employer. She found many
different ways of being useful to him. She read over, with indefatigable
patience, all those law papers with which, before she came to Queen's Crawley,
he had promised to entertain her. She volunteered to copy many of his letters,
and adroitly altered the spelling of them so as to suit the usages of the
present day. She became interested in everything appertaining to the estate - to
the farm, the park, the garden, and the stables; and so delightful a companion
was she, that the Baronet would seldom take his after-breakfast walk without her
(and the children of course), when she would give her advice as to the trees
which were to be lopped in the shrubberies, the garden-- beds to be dug, the
crops which were to be cut, the horses which were to go to cart or plough.
Before she had been a year at Queen's Crawley she had quite won the Baronet's
confidence; and the conversation at the dinner-table, which before used to be
held between him and Mr. Horrocks the butler, was now almost exclusively between
Sir Pitt and Miss Sharp. She was almost mistress of the house when Mr. Crawley
was absent, but conducted herself in her new and exalted situation with such
circumspection and modesty as not to offend the authorities of the kitchen and
stable, among whom her behaviour was always exceedingly modest and affable. She
was quite a different person from the haughty, shy, dissatisfied little girl
whom we have known previously; and this change of temper proved great prudence,
a sincere desire of amendment, or at any rate great moral courage on her part.
Whether it was the heart which dictated this new system of complaisance and
humility adopted by our Rebecca, is to be proved by her after-history. A system
of hypocrisy, which lasts through whole years, is one seldom satisfactorily
practised by a person of one-and-twenty; however, our readers will recollect
that, though young in years, our heroine was old in life and experience, and we
have written to no purpose if they have not discovered that she was a very
clever woman.
    The elder and younger son of the house of Crawley were, like the gentleman
and lady in the weather-box, never at home together - they hated each other
cordially; indeed, Rawdon Crawley, the dragoon, had a great contempt for the
establishment altogether, and seldom came thither except when his aunt paid her
annual visit.
    The great good quality of this old lady has been mentioned. She possessed
seventy thousand pounds, and had almost adopted Rawdon. She disliked her elder
nephew exceedingly, and despised him as a milksop. In return he did not hesitate
to state that her soul was irretrievably lost; and was of opinion that his
brother's chance in the next world was not a whit better. »She is a godless
woman of the world,« would Mr. Crawley say; »she lives with atheists and
Frenchmen. My mind shudders when I think of her awful, awful situation, and
that, near as she is to the grave, she should be so given up to vanity,
licentiousness, profaneness, and folly.« In fact, the old lady declined
altogether to hear his hour's lecture of an evening; and when she came to
Queen's Crawley alone, he was obliged to pretermit his usual devotional
exercises.
    »Shut up your sarmons, Pitt, when Miss Crawley comes down,« said his father;
»she has written to say that she won't stand the preachifying.«
    »O sir! consider the servants.«
    »The servants be hanged!« said Sir Pitt; and his son thought even worse
would happen were they deprived of the benefit of his instruction.
    »Why, hang it, Pitt!« said the father to his remonstrance. »You wouldn't be
such a flat as to let three thousand a year go out of the family?«
    »What is money compared to our souls, sir?« continued Mr. Crawley.
    »You mean that the old lady won't leave the money to you?« - and who knows
but it was Mr. Crawley's meaning?
    Old Miss Crawley was certainly one of the reprobate. She had a snug little
house in Park Lane, and, as she ate and drank a great deal too much during the
season in London, she went to Harrogate or Cheltenham for the summer. She was
the most hospitable and jovial of old vestals, and had been a beauty in her day,
she said. (All old women were beauties once, we very well know.) She was a bel
esprit, and a dreadful Radical for those days. She had been in France (where St.
Just, they say, inspired her with an unfortunate passion), and loved, ever
after, French novels, French cookery, and French wines. She read Voltaire, and
had Rousseau by heart; talked very lightly about divorce, and most energetically
of the rights of women. She had pictures of Mr. Fox in every room in the house:
when that statesman was in opposition, I am not sure that she had not flung a
main with him; and when he came into office, she took great credit for bringing
over to him Sir Pitt and his colleague for Queen's Crawley, although Sir Pitt
would have come over himself, without any trouble on the honest lady's part. It
is needless to say that Sir Pitt was brought to change his views after the death
of the great Whig statesman.
    This worthy old lady took a fancy to Rawdon Crawley when a boy, sent him to
Cambridge (in opposition to his brother at Oxford), and, when the young man was
requested by the authorities of the first-named University to quit after a
residence of two years, she bought him his commission in the Life Guards Green.
    A perfect and celebrated blood or dandy about town, was this young officer.
Boxing, rat-hunting, the fives court, and four-in-hand driving were then the
fashion of our British aristocracy; and he was an adept in all these noble
sciences. And though he belonged to the household troops, who, as it was their
duty to rally round the Prince Regent, had not shown their valour in foreign
service yet, Rawdon Crawley had already (ápropos of play, of which he was
immoderately fond) fought three bloody duels, in which he gave ample proofs of
his contempt for death.
    »And for what follows after death,« would Mr. Crawley observe, throwing his
gooseberry-coloured eyes up to the ceiling. He was always thinking of his
brother's soul, or of the souls of those who differed with him in opinion: it is
a sort of comfort which many of the serious give themselves.
    Silly, romantic Miss Crawley, far from being horrified at the courage of her
favourite, always used to pay his debts after his duels; and would not listen to
a word that was whispered against his morality. »He will sow his wild oats,« she
would say, »and is worth far more than that puling hypocrite of a brother of
his.«
 

                                   Chapter XI

                              Arcadian Simplicity.

Besides these honest folks at the Hall (whose simplicity and sweet rural purity
surely show the advantage of a country life over a town one), we must introduce
the reader to their relatives and neighbours at the Rectory, Bute Crawley and
his wife.
    The Reverend Bute Crawley was a tall, stately, jolly, shovel-hatted man, far
more popular in his county than the Baronet his brother. At college he pulled
stroke-oar in the Christchurch boat, and had thrashed all the bests bruisers of
the town. He carried his taste for boxing and athletic exercises into private
life; there was not a fight within twenty miles at which he was not present, nor
a race, nor a coursing match, nor a regatta, nor a ball, nor an election, nor a
visitation dinner, nor indeed a good dinner in the whole county, but he found
means to attend it. You might see his bay mare and gig-lamps a score of miles
away from his Rectory House, whenever there was any dinner-party at Fuddleston,
or at Roxby, or at Wapshot Hall, or at the great lords of the county, with all
of whom he was intimate. He had a fine voice; sang »A southerly wind and a
cloudy sky;« and gave the »whoop« in chorus with general applause. He rode to
hounds in a pepper-and-salt frock, and was one of the best fishermen in the
county.
    Mrs. Crawley, the Rector's wife, was a smart little body, who wrote this
worthy divine's sermons. Being of a domestic turn, and keeping the house a great
deal with her daughters, she ruled absolutely within the Rectory, wisely giving
her husband full liberty without. He was welcome to come and go, and dine abroad
as many days as his fancy dictated, for Mrs. Crawley was a saving woman and knew
the price of port wine. Ever since Mrs. Bute carried off the young Rector of
Queen's Crawley (she was of a good family, daughter of the late Lieut.-Colonel
Hector MacTavish, and she and her mother played for Bute and won him at
Harrogate), she had been a prudent and thrifty wife to him. In spite of her
care, however, he was always in debt. It took him at least ten years to pay off
his college bills contracted during his father's lifetime. In the year 179-,
when he was just clear of these encumbrances, he gave the odds of 100 to 1 (in
twenties) against Kangaroo, who won the Derby. The Rector was obliged to take up
the money at a ruinous interest, and had been struggling ever since. His sister
helped him with a hundred now and then, but of course his great hope was in her
death - when »hang it« (as he would say), »Matilda must leave me half her
money.«
    So that the Baronet and his brother had every reason which two brothers
possibly can have for being by the ears. Sir Pitt had had the better of Bute in
innumerable family transactions. Young Pitt not only did not hunt, but set up a
meeting-house under his uncle's very nose. Rawdon, it was known, was to come in
for the bulk of Miss Crawley's property. These money transactions - these
speculations in life and death - these silent battles for reversionary spoil -
make brothers very loving towards each other in Vanity Fair. I, for my part,
have known a five-pound note to interpose and knock up a half-century's
attachment between two brethren; and can't but admire, as I think what a fine
and durable thing Love is among worldly people.
    It cannot be supposed that the arrival of such a personage as Rebecca at
Queen's Crawley, and her gradual establishment in the good graces of all people
there, could be unremarked by Mrs. Bute Crawley. Mrs. Bute, who knew how many
days the sirloin of beef lasted at the Hall; how much linen was got ready at the
great wash; how many peaches were on the south wall; how many doses her ladyship
took when she was ill - for such points are matters of intense interest to
certain persons in the country - Mrs. Bute, I say, could not pass over the Hall
governess without making every inquiry respecting her history and character.
There was always the best understanding between the servants at the Rectory and
the Hall. There was always a good glass of ale in the kitchen of the former
place for the Hall people, whose ordinary drink was very small - and, indeed,
the Rector's lady knew exactly how much malt went to every barrel of Hall beer -
ties of relationship existed between the Hall and Rectory domestics, as between
their masters; and through these channels each family was perfectly well
acquainted with the doings of the other. That, by the way, may be set down as a
general remark. When you and your brother are friends, his doings are
indifferent to you. When you have quarrelled, all his outgoings and incomings
you know, as if you were his spy.
    Very soon then after her arrival, Rebecca began to take a regular place in
Mrs. Crawley's bulletin from the Hall. It was to this effect: - »The black
porker's killed - weighed x stone - salted the sides - pig's pudding and leg of
pork for dinner. Mr. Cramp from Mudbury, over with Sir Pitt about putting John
Blackmore in jail - Mr. Pitt at meeting (with all the names of the people who
attended) - my lady as usual - the young ladies with the governess.«
    Then the report would come - The new governess be a rare manager - Sir Pitt
be very sweet on her - Mr. Crawley too - He be reading tracts to her. »What an
abandoned wretch!« said little, eager, active, black-faced Mrs. Bute Crawley.
    Finally, the reports were that the governess had come round everybody -
wrote Sir Pitt's letters, did his business, managed his accounts - had the upper
hand of the whole house, my lady, Mr. Crawley, the girls and all; at which Mrs.
Crawley declared she was an artful hussy, and had some dreadful designs in view.
Thus the doings at the Hall were the great food for conversation at the Rectory,
and Mrs. Bute's bright eyes spied out everything that took place in the enemy's
camp - everything and a great deal besides.
 
                     »Mrs. Bute Crawley to Miss Pinkerton,
                              The Mall, Chiswick.
 
                                           Rectory, Queen's Crawley, December -.
        My dear Madam, - Although it is so many years since I profited by your
        delightful and invaluable instructions, yet I have ever retained the
        fondest and most reverential regard for Miss Pinkerton, and dear
        Chiswick. I hope your health is good. The world and the cause of
        education cannot afford to lose Miss Pinkerton for many many years. When
        my friend, Lady Fuddleston, mentioned that her dear girls required an
        instructress (I am too poor to engage a governess for mine, but was I
        not educated at Chiswick?) - Who, I exclaimed, can we consult but the
        excellent, the incomparable Miss Pinkerton? In a word, have you, dear
        madam, any ladies on your list, whose services might be made available
        to my kind friend and neighbour? I assure you she will take no governess
        but of your choosing.
            My dear husband is pleased to say that he likes everything which
        comes from Miss Pinkerton's school. How I wish I could present him and
        my beloved girls to the friend of my youth, and the admired of the great
        lexicographer of our country! If you ever travel into Hampshire, Mr.
        Crawley begs me to say, he hopes you will adorn our rural rectory with
        your presence. 'Tis the humble but happy home of
                                                               Your affectionate
                                                                 MARTHA CRAWLEY.
        P.S. - Mr. Crawley's brother, the baronet, with whom we are not, alas,
        upon those terms of unity in which it becomes brethren to dwell, has a
        governess for his little girls, who, I am told, had the good fortune to
        be educated at Chiswick. I hear various reports of her; and as I have
        the tenderest interest in my dearest little nieces, whom I wish, in
        spite of family differences, to see among my own children - and as I
        long to be attentive to any pupil of yours - do, my dear Miss Pinkerton,
        tell me the history of this young lady, whom, for your sake, I am most
        anxious to befriend. - M.C.«
 
                     »Miss Pinkerton to Mrs. Bute Crawley.
 
                                              Johnson House, Chiswick, Dec. 18-.
        Dear Madam, - I have the honour to acknowledge your polite
        communication, to which I promptly reply. 'Tis most gratifying to one in
        my most arduous position to find that my maternal cares have elicited a
        responsive affection; and to recognize in the amiable Mrs. Bute Crawley
        my excellent pupil of former years, the sprightly and accomplished Miss
        Martha MacTavish. I am happy to have under my charge now the daughters
        of many of those who were your contemporaries at my establishment - what
        pleasure it would give me if your own beloved young ladies had need of
        my instructive superintendence!
            Presenting my respectful compliments to Lady Fuddleston, I have the
        honour (epistolarily) to introduce to her ladyship my two friends, Miss
        Tuffin and Miss Hawky.
            Either of these young ladies is perfectly qualified to instruct in
        Greek, Latin, and the rudiments of Hebrew; in mathematics and history;
        in Spanish, French, Italian, and geography; in music, vocal and
        instrumental; in dancing, without the aid of a master; and in the
        elements of natural sciences. In the use of the globes both are
        proficients. In addition to these Miss Tuffin, who is daughter of the
        late Reverend Thomas Tuffin (Fellow of Corpus College, Cam- bridge), can
        instruct in the Syriac language, and the elements of Constitutional law.
        But as she is only eighteen years of age, and of exceedingly pleasing
        personal appearance, perhaps this young lady may be objectionable in Sir
        Huddleston Fuddleston's family.
            Miss Letitia Hawky, on the other hand, is not personally
        well-favoured. She is twenty-nine; her face is much pitted with the
        small-pox. She has a halt in her gait, red hair, and a trifling
        obliquity of vision. Both ladies are endowed with every moral and
        religious virtue. Their terms, of course, are such as their
        accomplishments merit. With my most grateful respects to the Reverend
        Bute Crawley, I have the honour to be, dear Madam,
                                        Your most faithful and obedient servant,
                                                              BARBARA PINKERTON.
        P.S. - The Miss Sharp, whom you mention as governess to Sir Pitt
        Crawley, Bart., M.P., was a pupil of mine, and I have nothing to say in
        her disfavour. Though her appearance is disagreeable - we cannot control
        the operations of nature - and though her parents were disreputable (her
        father being a painter, several times bankrupt, and her mother, as I
        have since learned, with horror, a dancer at the Opera), yet her talents
        are considerable, and I cannot regret that I received her out of
        charity. My dread is, lest the principles of the mother - who was
        represented to me as a French Countess, forced to emigrate in the late
        revolutionary horrors; but who, as I have since found, was a person of
        the very lowest order and morals - should at any time prove to be
        hereditary in the unhappy young woman whom I took as an outcast. But her
        principles have hitherto been correct (I believe), and I am sure nothing
        will occur to injure them in the elegant and refined circle of the
        eminent Sir Pitt Crawley.«
 
                   »Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedley.
 
        I have not written to my beloved Amelia for these many weeks past, for
        what news was there to tell of the sayings and doings at Humdrum Hall,
        as I have christened it; and what do you care whether the turnip crop is
        good or bad, whether the fat pig weighed thirteen stone or fourteen, and
        whether the beasts thrive well upon mangelwurzel? Every day since I last
        wrote has been like its neighbour. Before breakfast, a walk with Sir
        Pitt and his spud; after breakfast, studies (such as they are) in the
        schoolroom; after schoolroom, reading and writing about lawyers, leases,
        coal-mines, canals, with Sir Pitt (whose secretary I am become); after
        dinner, Mr. Crawley's discourses or the baronet's backgammon, during
        both of which amusements my lady looks on with equal placidity. She has
        become rather more interesting by being ailing of late, which has
        brought a new visitor to the Hall, in the person of a young doctor.
        Well, my dear, young women need never despair. The young doctor gave a
        certain friend of yours to understand that, if she chose to be Mrs.
        Glauber, she was welcome to ornament the surgery! I told his impudence
        that the gilt pestle and mortar was quite ornament enough; as if I was
        born, indeed, to be a country surgeon's wife! Mr. Glauber went home
        seriously indisposed at his rebuff, took a cooling draught, and is now
        quite cured. Sir Pitt applauded my resolution highly; he would be sorry
        to lose his little secretary, I think; and I believe the old wretch
        likes me as much as it is in his nature to like any one. Marry, indeed!
        and with a country apothecary, after - No, no, one cannot so soon forget
        old associations, about which I will talk no more. Let us return to
        Humdrum Hall.
            For some time past it is Humdrum Hall no longer. My dear, Miss
        Crawley has arrived with her fat horses, fat servants, fat spaniel - the
        great rich Miss Crawley, with seventy thousand pounds in the five per
        cents., whom, or I had better say which, her two brothers adore. She
        looks very apoplectic, the dear soul; no wonder her brothers are anxious
        about her. You should see them struggling to settle her cushions, or to
        hand her coffee! When I come into the country, she says (for she has a
        great deal of humour), I leave my toady, Miss Briggs, at home. My
        brothers are my toadies here, my dear, and a pretty pair they are!
            When she comes into the country our Hall is thrown open, and for a
        month, at least, you would fancy old Sir Walpole was come to life again.
        We have dinner-parties, and drive out in the coach-and-four - the
        footmen put on their newest canary-coloured liveries; we drink claret
        and champagne as if we were accustomed to it every day. We have wax
        candles in the schoolroom, and fires to warm ourselves with. Lady
        Crawley is made to put on the brightest pea-green in her wardrobe, and
        my pupils leave off their thick shoes and tight old tartan pelisses, and
        wear silk stockings and muslin frocks, as fashionable baronets'
        daughters should. Rose came in yesterday in a sad plight - the Wiltshire
        sow (an enormous pet of hers) ran her down, and destroyed a most lovely
        flowered lilac silk dress by dancing over it. Had this happened a week
        ago, Sir Pitt would have sworn frightfully, have boxed the poor wretch's
        ears, and put her upon bread and water for a month. All he said was,
        I'll serve you out, Miss, when your aunt's gone, and laughed off the
        accident as quite trivial. Let us hope his wrath will have passed away
        before Miss Crawley's departure. I hope so, for Miss Rose's sake, I am
        sure. What a charming reconciler and peacemaker money is!
            Another admirable effect of Miss Crawley and her seventy thousand
        pounds is to be seen in the conduct of the two brothers Crawley. I mean
        the baronet and the rector, not our brothers - but the former, who hate
        each other all the year round, become quite loving at Christmas. I wrote
        to you last year how the abominable horse-racing rector was in the habit
        of preaching clumsy sermons at us at church, and how Sir Pitt snored in
        answer. When Miss Crawley arrives there is no such thing as quarrelling
        heard of - the Halls visits the Rectory, and vice versâ - the parson and
        the baronet talk about the pigs an the poachers, an the county business,
        in the most affable manner, and without quarrelling in their cups, I
        believe - indeed, Miss Crawley won't hear of their quarrelling, and vows
        that she will leave her money to the Shropshire Crawleys if they offend
        her. If they were clever people, those Shropshire Crawleys, they might
        have it all, I think; but the Shropshire Crawley is a clergyman like his
        Hampshire cousin, and mortally offended Miss Crawley (who had fled
        thither in a fit of rage against her impracticable brethren) by some
        strait-laced notions of morality. He would have prayers in the house, I
        believe.
            Our sermon books are shut up when Miss Crawley are- rives, and Mr.
        Pitt, whom she abominates, finds it convenient to go to town. On the
        other hand, the young dandy - blood, I believe, is the term - Captain
        Crawley, makes his appearance, and I suppose you will like to know what
        sort of a person he is.
            Well, he is a very large young dandy. He is six feet high, and
        speaks with a great voice; and swears a great deal; and orders about the
        servants, who all adore him nevertheless, for he is very generous of his
        money, and the domestics will do anything for him. Last week the keepers
        almost killed a bailiff and his man who came down from London to arrest
        the Captain, and who were found lurking about the park wall - they beat
        them, ducked them, and were going to shoot them for poachers, but the
        baronet interfered.
            The Captain has a hearty contempt for his father, I can see, and
        calls him an old put, an old snob, an old chaw-bacon, and numberless
        other pretty names. He has a dreadful reputation among the ladies. He
        brings his hunters home with him, lives with the Squires of the county,
        asks whom he pleases to dinner, and Sir Pitt dares not say no, for fear
        of offending Miss Crawley, and missing his legacy when she dies of her
        apoplexy. Shall I tell you a compliment the Captain paid me? I must, it
        is so pretty. One evening we actually had a dance; there was Sir
        Huddleston Fuddleston and his family, Sir Giles Wapshot and his young
        ladies, and I don't know how many more. Well, I heard him say - By Jove,
        she's a neat little filly! meaning your humble servant; and he did me
        the honour to dance two country-dances with me. He gets on pretty gaily
        with the young Squires, with whom he drinks, bets, rides, and talks
        about hunting and shooting; but he says the country girls are bores;
        indeed, I don't think he is far wrong. You should see the contempt with
        which they look down on poor me! When they dance I sit and play the
        piano very demurely; but the other night, coming in rather flushed from
        the dining- room, and seeing me employed in this way, he swore out loud
        that I was the best dancer in the room, and took a great oath that he
        would have the fiddlers from Mudbury.
            I'll go and play a country-dance, said Mrs. Bute Crawley, very
        readily (she is a little, black- faced old woman in a turban, rather
        crooked, and with very twinkling eyes); and after the Captain and your
        poor little Rebecca had performed a dance together, do you know she
        actually did me the honour to compliment me upon my steps! Such a thing
        was never heard of before; the proud Mrs. Bute Crawley, first cousin to
        the Earl of Tiptoff, who won't condescend to visit Lady Crawley, except
        when her sister is in the country. Poor Lady Crawley! during most part
        of these gaieties she is upstairs taking pills.
            Mrs. Bute has all of a sudden taken a great fancy to me. My dear
        Miss Sharp, she says, why not bring over your girls to the Rectory? -
        their cousins will be so happy to see them. I know what she means.
        Signor Clementi did not teach us the piano for nothing; at which price
        Mrs. Bute hopes to get a professor for her children. I can see through
        her schemes, as though she told them to me; but I shall go, as I am
        determined to make myself agreeable - is it not a poor governess's duty,
        who has not a friend or protector in the world? The Rector's wife paid
        me a score of compliments about the progress my pupils made, and
        thought, no doubt, to touch my heart - poor, simple, country soul! as if
        I cared a fig about my pupils!
            Your India muslin and your pink silk, dearest Amelia, are said to
        become me very well. They are a good deal worn now; but, you know, we
        poor girls can't afford des fraiches toilettes. Happy, happy you! who
        have but to drive to St. James's Street, and a dear mother who will give
        you anything you ask. Farewell, dearest girl!
                                                               Your affectionate
                                                                        REBECCA.
        P.S. - I wish you could have seen the faces of the Miss Blackbrooks
        (Admiral Blackbrook's daughters, my dear), fine young ladies, with
        dresses from London, when Captain Rawdon selected poor me for a
        partner!«
 
When Mrs. Bute Crawley (whose artifices our ingenious Rebecca had so soon
discovered) had procured from Miss Sharp the promise of a visit, she induced the
all-powerful Miss Crawley to make the necessary application to Sir Pitt; and the
good-natured old lady, who loved to be gay herself, and to see every one gay and
happy round about her, was quite charmed, and ready to establish a
reconciliation and intimacy between her two brothers. It was therefore agreed
that the young people of both families should visit each other frequently for
the future, and the friendship of course lasted as long as the jovial old
mediatrix was there to keep the peace.
    »Why did you ask that scoundrel, Rawdon Crawley, to dine?« said the Rector
to his lady, as they were walking home through the park. »I don't want the
fellow. He looks down upon us country people as so many blackamoors. He's never
content unless he gets my yellow-sealed wine, which costs me ten shillings a
bottle, hang him! Besides, he's such an infernal character - he's a gambler -
he's a drunkard - he's a profligate in every way. He shot a man in a duel - he's
over head and ears in debt, and he's robbed me and mine of the best part of Miss
Crawley's fortune. Waxy says she has him« - here the Rector shook his fist at
the moon, with something very like an oath, and added, in a melancholious tone -
»--, down in her will for fifty thousand; and there won't be above thirty to
divide.«
    »I think she's going,« said the Rector's wife. »She was very red in the face
when we left dinner. I was obliged to unlace her.«
    »She drank seven glasses of champagne,« said the reverend gentleman, in a
low voice; »and filthy champagne it is, too, that my brother poisons us with -
but you women never know what's what.«
    »We know nothing,« said Mrs. Bute Crawley.
    »She drank cherry-brandy after dinner,« continued his Reverence, »and took
curaçoa with her coffee. I wouldn't take a glass for a five-pound note; it kills
me with heartburn. She can't stand it, Mrs. Crawley - she must go - flesh and
blood won't bear it! and I lay five to two, Matilda drops in a year.«
    Indulging in these solemn speculations, and thinking about his debts, and
his son Jim at college, and Frank at Woolwich, and the four girls, who were no
beauties, poor things, and would not have a penny but what they got from the
aunt's expected legacy, the Rector and his lady walked on for a while.
    »Pitt can't be such an infernal villain as to sell the reversion of the
living. And that Methodist milksop of an eldest son looks to Parliament,«
continued Mr. Crawley, after a pause.
    »Sir Pitt Crawley will do anything,« said the Rector's wife. »We must get
Miss Crawley to make him promise it to James.«
    »Pitt will promise anything,« replied the brother. »He promised he'd pay my
college bills, when my father died; he promised he'd build the new wing to the
Rectory; he promised he'd let me have Jibb's field and the Six-acre Meadow - and
much he executed his promises! And it's to this man's son - this scoundrel,
gambler, swindler, murderer of a Rawdon Crawley, that Matilda leaves the bulk of
her money. I say it's unchristian. By Jove, it is. The infamous dog has got
every vice except hypocrisy, and that belongs to his brother.«
    »Hush, my dearest love! we're in Sir Pitt's grounds,« interposed his wife.
    »I say he has got every vice, Mrs. Crawley. Don't, Ma'am, bully me. Didn't
he shoot Captain Marker? Didn't he rob young Lord Dovedale at the Cocoa-Tree?
Didn't he cross the fight between Bill Soames and the Cheshire Trump, by which I
lost forty pounds? You know he did; and as for the women, why, you heard that
before me, in my own magistrate's room -«
    »For heaven's sake, Mr. Crawley,« said the lady, »spare me the details.«
    »And you ask this villain into your house!« continued the exasperated
Rector. »You, the mother of a young family - the wife of a clergyman of the
Church of England. By Jove!«
    »Bute Crawley, you are a fool,« said the Rector's wife scornfully.
    »Well, Ma'am, fool or not - and I don't say, Martha, I'm so clever as you
are, I never did. But I won't meet Rawdon Crawley, that's flat. I'll go over to
Huddleston, that I will, and see his black greyhound, Mrs. Crawley; and I'll run
Lancelot against him for fifty. By Jove, I will; or against any dog in England.
But I won't meet that beast Rawdon Crawley.«
    »Mr. Crawley, you are intoxicated, as usual,« replied his wife. And the next
morning, when the Rector woke, and called for small beer, she put him in mind of
his promise to visit Sir Huddleston Fuddleston on Saturday, and as he knew he
should have a wet night, it was agreed that he might gallop back again in time
for church on Sunday morning. Thus it will be seen that the parishioners of
Crawley were equally happy in their Squire and in their Rector.
 
Miss Crawley had not long been established at the Hall before Rebecca's
fascinations had won the heart of that good-natured London rake, as they had of
the country innocents whom we have been describing. Taking her accustomed drive
one day, she thought fit to order that »that little governess« should accompany
her to Mudbury. Before they had returned Rebecca had made a conquest of her,
having made her laugh four times, and amused her during the whole of the little
journey.
    »Not let Miss Sharp dine at table!« said she to Sir Pitt, who had arranged a
dinner of ceremony, and asked all the neighbouring baronets. »My dear creature,
do you suppose I can talk about the nursery with Lady Fuddleston, or discuss
justices' business with that goose, old Sir Giles Wapshot? I insist upon Miss
Sharp appearing. Let Lady Crawley remain upstairs, if there is no room. But
little Miss Sharp! Why, she's the only person fit to talk to in the county!«
    Of course, after such a peremptory order as this, Miss Sharp, the governess,
received commands to dine with the illustrious company below stairs. And when
Sir Huddleston had, with great pomp and ceremony, handed Miss Crawley in to
dinner, and was preparing to take his place by her side, the old lady cried out,
in a shrill voice, »Becky Sharp! Miss Sharp! Come you and sit by me and amuse
me; and let Sir Huddleston sit by Lady Wapshot.«
    When the parties were over, and the carriages had rolled away, the
insatiable Miss Crawley would say, »Come to my dressing-room, Becky, and let us
abuse the company,« - which, between them, this pair of friends did perfectly.
Old Sir Huddleston wheezed a great deal at dinner; Sir Giles Wapshot had a
particularly noisy manner of imbibing his soup, and her ladyship a wink of the
left eye; all of which Becky caricatured to admiration, as well as the
particulars of the night's conversation - the politics, the war, the
quarter-sessions, the famous run with the H.H., and those heavy and dreary
themes about which country gentlemen converse. As for the Misses Wapshot's
toilettes and Lady Fuddleston's famous yellow hat, Miss Sharp tore them to
tatters, to the infinite amusement of her audience.
    »My dear, you are a perfect trouvaille,« Miss Crawley would say. »I wish you
could come to me in London; but I couldn't make a butt of you as I do of poor
Briggs - no, no, you little sly creature, you are too clever - Isn't she,
Firkin?«
    Mrs. Firkin (who was dressing the very small remnant of hair which remained
on Miss Crawley's pate), flung up her head and said, »I think Miss is very
clever,« with the most killing, sarcastic air. In fact, Mrs. Firkin had that
natural jealousy which is one of the main principles of every honest woman.
    After rebuffing Sir Huddleston Fuddleston, Miss Crawley ordered that Rawdon
Crawley should lead her in to dinner every day, and that Becky should follow
with her cushion - or else she would have Becky's arm and Rawdon with the
pillow. »We must sit together,« she said. »We're the only three Christians in
the county, my love« - in which case, it must be confessed, that religion was at
a very low ebb in the county of Hants.
    Besides being such a fine religionist, Miss Crawley was, as we have said, an
Ultra-liberal in opinions, and always took occasion to express these in the most
candid manner.
    »What is birth, my dear?« she would say to Rebecca. »Look at my brother
Pitt; look at the Huddlestons, who have been here since Henry II.; look at poor
Bute at the parsonage; - is any one of them equal to you in intelligence or
breeding? Equal to you - they are not even equal to poor, dear Briggs, my
companion, or Bowls, my butler. You, my love, are a little paragon - positively
a little jewel - you have more brains than half the shire - if merit had its
reward, you ought to be a duchess - no, there ought to be no duchesses at all -
but you ought to have no superior, and I consider you, my love, as my equal in
every respect; and - will you put some coals on the fire, my dear; and will you
pick this dress of mine, and alter it, you who can do it so well?« So this old
philanthropist used to make her equal run of her errands, execute her millinery,
and read her to sleep with French novels every night.
    At this time, as some old readers may recollect, the genteel world had been
thrown into a considerable state of excitement by two events, which, as the
papers say, might give employment to the gentlemen of the long robe. Ensign
Shafton had run away with Lady Barbara Fitzurse, the Earl of Bruin's daughter
and heiress; and poor Vere Vane, a gentleman who, up to forty, had maintained a
most respectable character and reared a numerous family, suddenly and
outrageously left his home, for the sake of Mrs. Rougemont, the actress, who was
sixty-five years of age.
    »That was the most beautiful part of dear Lord Nelson's character,« Miss
Crawley said: »he went to the deuce for a woman. There must be good in a man who
will do that. I adore all imprudent matches. What I like best is for a nobleman
to marry a miller's daughter, as Lord Flowerdale did; it makes all the women so
angry. I wish some great man would run away with you, my dear; I'm sure you're
pretty enough.«
    »Two post-boys! Oh, it would be delightful!« Rebecca owned.
    »And what I like next best is for a poor fellow to run away with a rich
girl. I have set my heart on Rawdon running away with some one.«
    »A rich some one, or a poor some one?«
    »Why, you goose! Rawdon has not a shilling but what I give him. He is criblé
de dettes - he must repair his fortunes, and succeed in world.«
    »Is he very clever?« Rebecca asked.
    »Clever, my love? - not an idea in the world beyond his horses, and his
regiment, and his hunting, and his play; but he must succeed - he's so
delightfully wicked. Don't you know he has hit a man, and shot an injured father
through the hat only? He's adored in his regiment; and all the young men at
Wattier's and the Cocoa-Tree swear by him.«
    When Miss Rebecca Sharp wrote to her beloved friend the account of the
little ball at Queen's Crawley, and the manner in which, for the first time,
Captain Crawley had distinguished her, she did not, strange to relate, give an
altogether accurate account of the transaction. The Captain had distinguished
her a great number of times before. The Captain had met her in a half-score of
walks. The Captain had lighted upon her in a half-hundred of corridors and
passages. The Captain had hung over her piano twenty times of an evening (my
Lady was now upstairs, being ill, and nobody heeded her) as Miss Sharp sang. The
Captain had written her notes (the best that the great, blundering dragoon could
devise and spell; but dullness gets on as well as any other quality with women).
But when he put the first of the notes into the leaves of the song she was
singing, the little governess, rising and looking him steadily in the face, took
up the triangular missive daintily and waved it about as if it were a
cocked-hat, and she, advancing to the enemy, popped the note into the fire, and
made him a very low curtsy, and went back to her place, and began to sing away
again more merrily than ever.
    »What's that?« said Miss Crawley, interrupted in her after-dinner doze by
the stoppage of the music.
    »It's a false note,« Miss Sharp said with a laugh; and Rawdon Crawley fumed
with rage and mortification.
    Seeing the evident partiality of Miss Crawley for the new governess, how
good it was of Mrs. Bute Crawley not to be jealous, and to welcome the young
lady to the Rectory, and not only her, but Rawdon Crawley, her husband's rival
in the Old Maid's five per cents.! They became very fond of each other's
society, Mrs. Crawley and her nephew. He gave up hunting; he declined
entertainments at Fuddleston; he would not dine with the mess of the depôt at
Mudbury: his great pleasure was to stroll over to Crawley parsonage - whither
Miss Crawley came too; and as their mamma was ill, why not the children with
Miss Sharp? So the children (little dears!) came with Miss Sharp; and of an
evening some of the party would walk back together. Not Miss Crawley - she
preferred her carriage - but the walk over the Rectory fields, and in at the
little park wicket, and through the dark plantation, and up the checkered avenue
to Queen's Crawley, was charming in the moonlight to two such lovers of the
picturesque as the Captain and Miss Rebecca.
    »O those stars, those stars!« Miss Rebecca would say, turning her twinkling
green eyes up towards them. »I feel myself almost a spirit when I gaze upon
them.«
    »Oh - ah - Gad - yes, so do I exactly, Miss Sharp,« the other enthusiast
replied. »You don't mind my cigar, do you, Miss Sharp?« Miss Sharp loved the
smell of a cigar out of doors beyond everything in the world - and she just
tasted one too, in the prettiest way possible, and gave a little puff, and a
little scream, and a little giggle, and restored the delicacy to the Captain,
who twirled his moustache, and straightway puffed it into a blaze that glowed
quite red in the dark plantation, and swore - »Jove - aw - Gad - aw - it's the
finest segaw I ever smoked in the world - aw,« for his intellect and
conversation were alike brilliant and becoming to a heavy young dragoon.
    Old Sir Pitt, who was taking his pipe and beer, and talking to John Horrocks
about a ship that was to be killed, espied the pair so occupied from his
study-window, and with dreadful oaths swore that if it wasn't't for Miss Crawley,
he'd take Rawdon and bundle un out of doors, like a rogue as he was.
    »He be a bad'n, sure enough,« Mr. Horrocks remarked; »and his man Flethers
is wuss, and have made such a row in the housekeeper's room about the dinners
and hale, as no lord would make. But I think Miss Sharp's a match for'n, Sir
Pitt,« he added, after a pause.
    And so, in truth, she was - for father and son too.
 

                                  Chapter XII

                          Quite a Sentimental Chapter.

We must now take leave of Arcadia, and those amiable people practising the rural
virtues there, and travel back to London, to inquire what has become of Miss
Amelia. »We don't care a fig for her,« writes some unknown correspondent with a
pretty little handwriting and a pink seal to her note. »She is fade and
insipid,« and adds some more kind remarks in this strain, which I should never
have repeated at all, but that they are in truth prodigiously complimentary to
the young lady whom they concern.
    Has the beloved reader, in his experience of society, never heard similar
remarks by good-natured female friends; who always wonder what you can see in
Miss Smith that is so fascinating; or what could induce Major Jones to propose
for that silly, insignificant, simpering Miss Thompson, who has nothing but her
wax-doll face to recommend her? What is there in a pair of pink cheeks and blue
eyes forsooth? these dear Moralists ask, and hint wisely that the gifts of
genius, the accomplishments of the mind, the mastery of Mangnall's Questions,
and a ladylike knowledge of botany and geology, the knack of making poetry, the
power of rattling sonatas in the Herz-manner, and so forth, are far more
valuable endowments for a female, than those fugitive charms which a few years
will inevitably tarnish. It is quite edifying to hear women speculate upon the
worthlessness and the duration of beauty.
    But though virtue is a much finer thing, and those hapless creatures who
suffer under the misfortune of good looks ought to be continually put in mind of
the fate which awaits them; and though, very likely, the heroic female character
which ladies admire is a more glorious and beautiful object than the kind,
fresh, smiling, artless, tender little domestic goddess, whom men are inclined
to worship - yet the latter and inferior sort of women must have this
consolation - that the men do admire them after all; and that, in spite of all
our kind friend's warnings and protests, we go on in our desperate error and
folly, and shall to the end of the chapter. Indeed, for my own part, though I
have been repeatedly told by persons for whom I have the greatest respect, that
Miss Brown is an insignificant chit, and Mrs. White has nothing but her petit
minois chiffonné, and Mrs. Black has not a word to say for herself; yet I know
that I have had the most delightful conversations with Mrs. Black (of course, my
dear Madam, they are inviolable); I see all the men in a cluster round Mrs.
White's chair, all the young fellows battling to dance with Miss Brown; and so I
am tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great compliment to
a woman.
    The young ladies in Amelia's society did this for her very satisfactorily.
For instance, there was scarcely any point upon which the Misses Osborne,
George's sisters, and the Mesdemoiselles Dobbin agreed so well as in their
estimate of her very trifling merits, and their wonder that their brothers could
find any charms in her. »We are kind to her,« the Misses Osborne said, a pair of
fine black-browed young ladies who had had the best of governesses, masters, and
milliners; and they treated her with such extreme kindness and condescension,
and patronized her so insufferably, that the poor little thing was in fact
perfectly dumb in their presence, and to all outward appearance as stupid as
they thought her. She made efforts to like them, as in duty bound, and as
sisters of her future husband. She passed long mornings with them - the most
dreary and serious of forenoons. She drove out solemnly in their great family
coach with them, and Miss Wirt their governess, that raw-boned vestal. They took
her to the ancient concerts by way of a treat, and to the oratorio, and to St.
Paul's to see the charity children, where in such terror was she of her friends,
she almost did not dare be affected by the hymn the children sang. Their house
was comfortable; their papa's table rich and handsome; their society solemn and
genteel; their self-respect prodigious; they had the best pew at the Foundling:
all their habits were pompous and orderly, and all their amusements intolerably
dull and decorous. After every one of her visits (and oh how glad she was when
they were over!) Miss Osborne and Miss Maria Osborne, and Miss Wirt, the vestal
governess, asked each other with increased wonder, »What could George find in
that creature?«
    How is this? some carping reader exclaims. How is it that Amelia, who had
such a number of friends at school, and was so beloved there, comes out into the
world and is spurned by her discriminating sex? My dear sir, there were no men
at Miss Pinkerton's establishment except the old dancing-master; and you would
not have had the girls fall out about him? When George, their handsome brother,
ran off directly after breakfast, and dined from home half-a-dozen times a week,
no wonder the neglected sisters felt a little vexation. When young Bullock (of
the firm of Hulker, Bullock &amp; Co., Bankers, Lombard Street), who had been
making up to Miss Maria the last two seasons, actually asked Amelia to dance the
cotillon, could you expect that the former young lady should be pleased? And yet
she said she was, like an artless forgiving creature. »I'm so delighted you like
dear Amelia,« she said quite eagerly to Mr. Bullock after the dance. »She's
engaged to my brother George. There's not much in her, but she's the
best-natured and most unaffected young creature; at home we're all so fond of
her.« Dear girl! who can calculate the depth of affection expressed in that
enthusiastic so?
    Miss Wirt and these two affectionate young women so earnestly and frequently
impressed upon George Osborne's mind the enormity of the sacrifice he was
making, and his romantic generosity in throwing himself away upon Amelia, that
I'm not sure but that he really thought he was one of the most deserving
characters in the British army, and gave himself up to be loved with a good deal
of easy resignation.
    Somehow, although he left home every morning, as was stated, and dined
abroad six days in the week, when his sisters believed the infatuated youth to
be at Miss Sedley's apron-strings, he was not always with Amelia, whilst the
world supposed him at her feet. Certain it is that on more occasions than one,
when Captain Dobbin called to look for his friend, Miss Osborne (who was very
attentive to the Captain, and anxious to hear his military stories, and to know
about the health of his dear Mamma), would laughingly point to the opposite side
of the square, and say, »Oh, you must go to the Sedleys to ask for George; we
never see him from morning till night.« At which kind of speech the Captain
would laugh in rather an absurd constrained manner, and turn off the
conversation, like a consummate man of the world, to some topic of general
interest, such as the Opera, the Prince's last ball at Carlton House, or the
weather - that blessing to society.
    »What an innocent it is, that pet of yours,« Miss Maria would then say to
Miss Jane, upon the Captain's departure. »Did you see how he blushed at the
mention of poor George on duty?«
    »It's a pity Frederick Bullock hadn't some of his modesty, Maria,« replies
the elder sister, with a toss of her head.
    »Modesty! Awkwardness you mean, Jane. I don't want Frederick to trample a
hole in my muslin frock, as Captain Dobbin did in yours at Mrs. Perkins'.«
    »In your frock, he, he! How could he? Wasn't he dancing with Amelia?«
    The fact is, when Captain Dobbin blushed so, and looked so awkward, he
remembered a circumstance of which he did not think it was necessary to inform
the young ladies - namely, that he had been calling at Mr. Sedley's house
already, on the pretence of seeing George, of course, and George wasn't't there,
only poor little Amelia, with rather a sad wistful face, seated near the
drawing-room window, who, after some very trifling stupid talk, ventured to ask,
was there any truth in the report that the regiment was soon to be ordered
abroad; and had Captain Dobbin seen Mr. Osborne that day?
    The regiment was not ordered abroad as yet; and Captain Dobbin had not seen
George. »He was with his sister, most likely,« the Captain said. »Should he go
and fetch the truant?« So she gave him her hand kindly and gratefully, and he
crossed the square; and she waited and waited, but George never came.
    Poor little tender heart! and so it goes on hoping and beating, and longing
and trusting. You see it is not much of a life to describe. There is not much of
what you call incident in it. Only one feeling all day - when will he come? only
one thought to sleep and wake upon. I believe George was playing billiards with
Captain Cannon in Swallow Street at the time when Amelia was asking Captain
Dobbin about him; for George was a jolly, sociable fellow, and excellent in all
games of skill.
    Once, after three days of absence, Miss Amelia put on her bonnet, and
actually invaded the Osborne house. »What! leave our brother to come to us?«
said the young ladies. »Have you had a quarrel, Amelia? Do tell us!« No, indeed,
there had been no quarrel. »Who could quarrel with him?« says she, with her eyes
filled with-tears. She only came over to - to see her dear friends; they had not
met for so long. And this day she was so perfectly stupid and awkward, that the
Misses Osborne and their governess, who stared after her as she went sadly away,
wondered more than ever what George could see in poor little Amelia.
    Of course they did. How was she to bare that timid little heart for the
inspection of those young ladies with their bold black eyes? It was best that it
should shrink and hide itself. I know the Misses Osborne were excellent critics
of a cashmere shawl, or a pink satin slip; and when Miss Turner had hers dyed
purple, and made into a spencer, and when Miss Pickford had her ermine tippet
twisted into a muff and trimmings, I warrant you the changes did not escape the
two intelligent young women before mentioned. But there are things, look you, of
a finer texture than fur or satin, and all Solomon's glories, and all the
wardrobe of the Queen of Sheba - things whereof the beauty escapes the eyes of
many connoisseurs. And there are sweet modest little souls on which you light,
fragrant and blooming tenderly in quiet shady places; and there are
garden-ornaments, as big as brass warming-pans, that are fit to stare the sun
itself out of countenance. Miss Sedley was not of the sunflower sort; and I say
it is out of the rules of all proportion to draw a violet of the size of a
double dahlia.
    No, indeed; the life of a good young girl who is in the paternal nest as
yet, can't have many of those thrilling incidents to which the heroine of
romance commonly lays claim. Snares or shot may take off the old birds foraging
without - hawks may be abroad, from which they escape or by whom they suffer;
but the young ones in the nest have a pretty comfortable unromantic sort of
existence in the down and the straw, till it comes to their turn, too, to get on
the wing. While Becky Sharp was on her own wing in the country, hopping on all
sorts of twigs, and amid a multiplicity of traps, and pecking up her food quite
harmless and successful, Amelia lay snug in her home of Russell Square; if she
went into the world, it was under the guidance of the elders; nor did it seem
that any evil could befall her or that opulent, cheery comfortable home in which
she was affectionately sheltered. Mamma had her morning duties, and her daily
drive, and the delightful round of visits and shopping which forms the
amusement, or the profession as you may call it, of the rich London lady. Papa
conducted his mysterious operations in the City - a stirring place in those
days, when war was raging all over Europe, and empires were being staked; when
the Courier newspaper had tens of thousands of subscribers; when one day brought
you a battle of Vittoria, another a burning of Moscow, or a newsman's horn
blowing down Russell Square about dinner-time, announced such a fact as -
»Battle of Leipsic - six hundred thousand men engaged - total defeat of the
French - two hundred thousand killed.« Old Sedley once or twice came home with a
very grave face; and no wonder, when such news as this was agitating all the
hearts and all the Stocks of Europe.
    Meanwhile matters went on in Russell Square, Bloomsbury, just as if matters
in Europe were not in the least disorganized. The retreat from Leipsic made no
difference in the number of meals Mr. Sambo took in the servants' hall; the
allies poured into France, and the dinner-bell rang at five o'clock just as
usual. I don't think poor Amelia cared anything about Brienne and Montmirail, or
was fairly interested in the war until the abdication of the Emperor; when she
clapped her hands and said prayers, - oh, how grateful! and flung herself into
George Osborne's arms with all her soul, to the astonishment of everybody who
witnessed that ebullition of sentiment. The fact is, peace was declared, Europe
was going to be at rest; the Corsican was overthrown, and Lieutenant Osborne's
regiment would not be ordered on service. That was the way in which Miss Amelia
reasoned. The fate of Europe was Lieutenant George Osborne to her. His dangers
being over, she sang Te Deum. He was her Europe, her emperor, her allied
monarchs and august prince regent. He was her sun and moon; and I believe she
thought the grand illumination and ball at the Mansion House, given to the
sovereigns, were especially in honour of George Osborne.
 
We have talked of shift, self, and poverty, as those dismal instructors under
whom poor Miss Becky Sharp got her education. Now, love was Miss Amelia Sedley's
last tutoress, and it was amazing what progress our young lady made under that
popular teacher. In the course of fifteen or eighteen months' daily and constant
attention to this eminent finishing governess, what a deal of secrets Amelia
learned, which Miss Wirt and the black-eyed young ladies over the way, which old
Miss Pinkerton of Chiswick herself, had no cognizance of! As, indeed, how should
any of those prim and reputable virgins? With Misses P. and W. the tender
passion is out of the question: I would not dare to breathe such an idea
regarding them. Miss Maria Osborne, it is true, was attached to Mr. Frederick
Augustus Bullock, of the firm of Hulker, Bullock &amp; Bullock; but hers was a
most respectable attachment, and she would have taken Bullock Senior just the
same, her mind being fixed - as that of a well-bred young woman should be - upon
a house in Park Lane, a country house at Wimbledon, a handsome chariot, and two
prodigious tall horses and footmen, and a fourth of the annual profits of the
eminent firm of Hulker &amp; Bullock, all of which advantages were represented
in the person of Frederick Augustus. Had orange blossoms been invented then
(those touching emblems of female purity imported by us from France, where
people's daughters are universally sold in marriage), Miss Maria, I say, would
have assumed the spotless wreath, and stepped into the travelling carriage by
the side of gouty, old, bald-headed, bottle-nosed Bullock Senior; and devoted
her beautiful existence to his happiness with perfect modesty, - only the old
gentleman was married already; so she bestowed her young affections on the
junior partner. Sweet, blooming, orange flowers! The other day I saw Miss
Trotter (that was), arrayed in them, trip into the travelling carriage at St.
George's, Hanover Square, and Lord Methuselah hobbled in after. With what an
engaging modesty she pulled down the blinds of the chariot - the dear innocent!
There were half the carriages of Vanity Fair at the wedding.
    This was not the sort of love that finished Amelia's education, and in the
course of a year turned a good young girl into a good young woman - to be a good
wife presently, when the happy time should come. This young person (perhaps it
was very imprudent in her parents to encourage her, and abet her in such
idolatry and silly romantic ideas) loved, with all her heart, the young officer
in His Majesty's service with whom we have made a brief acquaintance. She
thought about him the very first moment on waking, and his was the very last
name mentioned in her prayers. She never had seen a man so beautiful or so
clever; such a figure on horseback, such a dancer, such a hero in general! Talk
of the Prince's bow! what was it to George's? She had seen Mr. Brummell, whom
everybody praised so. Compare such a person as that to her George! Not amongst
all the beaux at the Opera (and there were beaux in those days with actual opera
hats) was there any one to equal him. He was only good enough to be a fairy
prince; and oh, what magnanimity to stoop to such a humble Cinderella! Miss
Pinkerton would have tried to check this blind devotion very likely, had she
been Amelia's confidante; but not with much success, depend upon it. It is in
the nature and instinct of some women. Some are made to scheme, and some to
love; and I wish any respected bachelor that reads this may take the sort that
best likes him.
    While under this overpowering impression, Miss Amelia neglected her twelve
dear friends at Chiswick most cruelly, as such selfish people commonly will do.
She had but this subject, of course, to think about; and Miss Saltire was too
cold for a confidante, and she couldn't bring her mind to tell Miss Swartz, the
woolly-haired young heiress from St. Kitts. She had little Laura Martin home for
the holidays; and my belief is she made a confidante of her, and promised that
Laura should come and live with her when she was married, and gave Laura a great
deal of information regarding the passion of love, which must have been
singularly useful and novel to that little person. Alas, alas! I fear poor Emmy
had not a well-regulated mind.
    What were her parents doing not to keep this little heart from beating so
fast? Old Sedley did not seem much to notice matters. He was graver of late, and
his City affairs absorbed him. Mrs. Sedley was of so easy and uninquisitive a
nature that she wasn't't even jealous. Mr. Jos was away, being besieged by an
Irish widow at Cheltenham. Amelia had the house to herself - ah! too much to
herself sometimes: not that she ever doubted, for, to be sure, George must be at
the Horse Guards; and he can't always get leave from Chat- ham; and he must see
his friends and sisters, and mingle in society when in town (he, such an
ornament to every society!); and when he is with the regiment, he is too tired
to write long letters. I know where she kept that packet she had, and can steal
in and out of her chamber like Iachimo; - like Iachimo? No - that is a bad part.
I will only act Moonshine, and peep harmless into the bed where faith and beauty
and innocence lie dreaming.
    But if Osborne's were short and soldierlike letters, it must be confessed
that were Miss Sedley's letters to Mr. Osborne to be published, we should have
to extend this novel to such a multiplicity of volumes as not the most
sentimental reader could support; that she not only filled sheets of large
paper, but crossed them with the most astonishing perverseness; that she wrote
whole pages out of poetry-books without the least pity; that she underlined
words and passages with quite a frantic emphasis; and, in fine, gave the usual
tokens of her condition. She wasn't't a heroine. Here letters were full of
repetition. She wrote rather doubtful grammar sometimes, and in her verses took
all sorts of liberties with the metre. But oh, mesdames, if you are not allowed
to touch the heart sometimes in spite of syntax, and are not to be loved until
you all know the difference between trimeter and tetrameter, may all Poetry go
to the deuce, and every schoolmaster perish miserably!
 

                                  Chapter XIII

                           Sentimental and Otherwise.

I fear the gentleman to whom Miss Amelia's letters were addressed was rather an
obdurate critic. Such a number of notes followed Lieutenant Osborne about the
country, that he became almost ashamed of the jokes of his mess-room companions
regarding them, and ordered his servant never to deliver them except at his
private apartment. He was seen lighting his cigar with one, to the horror of
Captain Dobbin, who, it is my belief, would have given a bank-note for the
document.
    For some time George strove to keep the liaison a secret. There was a woman
in the case, that he admitted. »And not the first either,« said Ensign Spooney
to Ensign Stubble. »That Osborne's a devil of a fellow. There was a judge's
daughter at Demerara went almost mad about him; then there was that beautiful
quadroon girl, Miss Pye, at St. Vincent's, you know; and since he's been home,
they say he's a regular Don Giovanni, by Jove.«
    Stubble and Spooney thought that to be a »regular Don Giovanni, by Jove,«
was one of the finest qualities a man could possess; and Osborne's reputation
was prodigious amongst the young men of the regiment. He was famous in
field-sports, famous at a song, famous on parade; free with his money, which was
bountifully supplied by his father. His coats were better made than any man's in
the regiment, and he had more of them. He was adored by the men. He could drink
more than any officer of the whole mess, including old Heavytop, the colonel. He
could spar better than Knuckles, the private (who would have been a corporal but
for his drunkenness, and who had been in the prize-ring); and was the best
batter and bowler, out and out, of the regimental club. He rode his own horse,
Greased Lightning, and won the Garrison Cup at Quebec races. There were other
people besides Amelia who worshipped him. Stubble and Spooney thought him a sort
of Apollo; Dobbin took him to be an Admirable Crichton; and Mrs. Major O'Dowd
acknowledged he was an elegant young fellow, and put her in mind of Fitzjurld
Fogarty, Lord Castlefogarty's second son.
    Well, Stubble and Spooney and the rest indulged in most romantic conjectures
regarding this female correspondent of Osborne's, - opining that it was a
duchess in London who was in love with him, - or that it was a general's
daughter, who was engaged to somebody else, and madly attached to him, - or that
it was a Member of Parliament's lady, who proposed four horses and an elopement,
- or that it was some other victim of a passion delightfully exciting, romantic,
and disgraceful to all parties, - on none of which conjectures would Osborne
throw the least light, leaving his young admirers and friends to invent and
arrange their whole history.
    And the real state of the case would never have been known at all in the
regiment but for Captain Dobbin's indiscretion. The Captain was eating his
breakfast one day in the mess-room, while Cackle, the assistant-surgeon, and the
two above-named worthies were speculating upon Osborne's intrigue - Stubble
holding out that the lady was a duchess about Queen Charlotte's court, and
Cackle vowing she was an opera-singer of the worst reputation. At this idea
Dobbin became so moved that, though his mouth was full of eggs and
bread-and-butter at the time, and though he ought not to have spoken at all, yet
he couldn't help blurting out, »Cackle, you're a stupid fool. You're always
talking nonsense and scandal. Osborne is not going to run off with a duchess or
ruin a milliner. Miss Sedley is one of the most charming young women that ever
lived. He's been engaged to her ever so long; and the man who calls her names
had better not do so in my hearing.« With which, turning exceedingly red, Dobbin
ceased speaking, and almost choked himself with a cup of tea. The story was over
the regiment in half-an-hour; and that very evening Mrs. Major O'Dowd wrote off
to her sister Glorvina at O'Dowdstown not to hurry from Dublin - young Osborne
being prematurely engaged already.
    She complimented the Lieutenant in an appropriate speech over a glass of
whisky-toddy that evening, and he went home perfectly furious to quarrel with
Dobbin (who had declined Mrs. Major O'Dowd's party, and sat in his own room
playing the flute, and, I believe, writing poetry in a very melancholy manner) -
to quarrel with Dobbin for betraying his secret.
    »Who the deuce asked you to talk about my affairs?« Osborne shouted
indignantly. »Why the devil is all the regiment to know that I am going to be
married? Why is that tattling old harridan, Peggy O'Dowd, to make free with my
name at her d--d supper-table, and advertise my engagement over the three
kingdoms? After all, what right have you to say I am engaged, or to meddle in my
business at all, Dobbin?«
    »It seems to me -« Captain Dobbin began.
    »Seems to be hanged, Dobbin!« his junior interrupted him. »I am under
obligations to you - I know it, a d--d deal too well too; but I won't be always
sermonized by you because you're five years my senior. I'm hanged if I'll stand
your airs of superiority and infernal pity and patronage. Pity and patronage! I
should like to know in what I'm your inferior?«
    »Are you engaged?« Captain Dobbin interposed.
    »What the devil's that to you or any one here if I am?«
    »Are you ashamed of it?« Dobbin resumed.
    »What right have you to ask me that question, sir, I should like to know?«
George said.
    »Good God, you don't mean to say you want to break off?« asked Dobbin,
starting up.
    »In other words, you ask me if I'm a man of honour,« said Osborne fiercely;
»is that what you mean? You've adopted such a tone regarding me lately that I'm
-- if I'll bear it any more.«
    »What have I done? I've told you you were neglecting a sweet girl, George.
I've told you that when you go to town you ought to go to her, and not to the
gambling-houses about St. James's.«
    »You want your money back, I suppose,« said George with a sneer.
    »Of course I do - I always did, didn't I?« says Dobbin. »You speak like a
generous fellow.«
    »No, hang it, William, I beg your pardon« - here George interposed in a fit
of remorse - »you have been my friend in a hundred ways, Heaven knows. You've
got me out of a score of scrapes. When Crawley of the Guards won that sum of
money of me, I should have been done but for you; I know I should. But you
shouldn't deal so hardly with me; you shouldn't be always catechizing me. I am
very fond of Amelia; I adore her, and that sort of thing. Don't look angry.
She's faultless; I know she is. But you see there's no fun in winning a thing
unless you play for it. Hang it! the regiment's just back from the West Indies;
I must have a little fling, and then when I'm married I'll reform; upon my
honour, now. And - I say - Dob - don't be angry with me, and I'll give you a
hundred next month, when I know my father will stand something handsome; and
I'll ask Heavytop for leave, and I'll go to town and see Amelia to-morrow -
there now, will that satisfy you?«
    »It is impossible to be long angry with you, George,« said the good-natured
Captain; »and as for the money, old boy, you know if I wanted it you'd share
your last shilling with me.«
    »That I would, by Jove, Dobbin,« George said, with the greatest generosity,
though by the way he never had any money to spare.
    »Only I wish you had sown those wild oats of yours, George. If you could
have seen poor little Miss Emmy's face when she asked me about you the other
day, you would have pitched those billiard-balls to the deuce. Go and comfort
her, you rascal. Go and write her a long letter. Do something to make her happy;
a very little will.«
    »I believe she's d--d fond of me,« the Lieutenant said, with a
self-satisfied air, and went off to finish the evening with some jolly fellows
in the mess-room.
    Amelia meanwhile, in Russell Square, was looking at the moon, which was
shining upon that peaceful spot as well as upon the square of the Chatham
barracks, where Lieutenant Osborne was quartered, and thinking to herself how
her hero was employed. Perhaps he is visiting the sentries, thought she; perhaps
he is bivouacking; perhaps he is attending the couch of a wounded comrade, or
studying the art of war up in his own desolate chamber. And her kind thoughts
sped away as if they were angels and had wings, and flying down the river to
Chatham and Rochester, strove to peep into the barracks where George was ... All
things considered, I think it was as well the gates were shut, and the sentry
allowed no one to pass; so that the poor little white-robed angel could not hear
the songs those young fellows were roaring over the whisky-punch.
    The day after the little conversation at Chatham barracks, young Osborne, to
show that he would be as good as his word, prepared to go to town, thereby
incurring Captain Dobbin's applause. »I should have liked to make her a little
present,« Osborne said to his friend in confidence, »only I am quite out of cash
until my father tips up.« But Dobbin would not allow this good-nature and
generosity to be balked, and so accomodated Mr. Osborne with few pound notes,
which the latter took after a little faint scruple.
    And I daresay he would have bought something very handsome for Amelia, only,
getting of the coach in Fleet Street, he was attracted by a handsome shirt-pin
in a jeweller's window, which he could not resist; and having paid for that, had
very little money to spare for indulging in any further exercise of kindness.
Never mind; you may be sure it was not his presents Amelia wanted. When he came
to Russell Square, her face lighted up as if he had been sunshine. The little
cares, fears, tears, timid misgivings, sleepless fancies of I don't know how
many days and nights, were forgotten, under one moment's influence of that
familiar, irresistible smile. He beamed on her from the drawing-room door -
magnificent, with ambrosial whiskers, like a god. Sambo, whose face as he
announced Captain Osbin (having conferred a brevet rank on that young officer)
blazed with a sympathetic grin, saw the little girl start, and flush, and jump
up from her watching-place in the window, and Sambo retreated; and as soon as
the door was shut, she went fluttering to Lieutenant George Osborne's heart, as
if it was the only natural home for her to nestle in. O thou poor panting little
soul! The very finest tree in the whole forest, with the straightest stem and
the strongest arms, and the thickest foliage, wherein you choose to build and
coo, may be marked, for what you know, and may be down with a crash ere long.
What an old, old simile that is, between man and timber.
    In the meanwhile, George kissed her very kindly on her forehead and
glistening eyes, and was very gracious and good; and she thought his diamond
shirt-pin (which she had not known him to wear before) the prettiest ornament
ever seen.
 
The observant reader, who has marked our young Lieutenant's previous behaviour,
and has preserved our report of the brief conversation which he has just had
with Captain Dobbin, has possibly come to certain conclusions regarding the
character of Mr. Osborne. Some cynical Frenchman has said that there are two
parties to a love transaction - the one who loves, and the other who condescends
to be so treated. Perhaps the love is occasionally on the man's side; perhaps on
the lady's. Perhaps some infatuated swain has ere this mistaken insensibility
for modesty, dullness for maiden reserve, mere vacuity for sweet bashfulness,
and a goose, in a word, for a swan. Perhaps some beloved female subscriber has
arrayed an ass in the splendour and glory of her imagination; admired his
dullness as manly simplicity; worshipped his selfishness as manly superiority;
treated his stupidity as majestic gravity, and used him as the brilliant fairy
Titania did a certain weaver at Athens. I think I have seen such comedies of
errors going on in the world. But this is certain, that Amelia believed her
lover to be one of the most gallant and brilliant men in the empire; and it is
possible Lieutenant Osborne thought so too.
    He was a little wild: how many young men are; and don't girls like a rake
better than a milksop? He hadn't sown his wild oats as yet, but he would soon,
and quit the army now that peace was proclaimed, the Corsican monster locked up
at Elba, promotion by consequence over, and no chance left for the display of
his undoubted military talents and valour; and his allowance, with Amelia's
settlement, would enable them to take a snug place in the country somewhere, in
a good sporting neighbourhood; and he would hunt a little, and farm a little;
and they would be very happy. As for remaining in the army as a married man,
that was impossible. Fancy Mrs. George Osborne in lodgings in a county town; or,
worse still, in the East or West Indies, with a society of officers, and
patronized by Mrs. Major O'Dowd? Amelia died with laughing at Osborne's stories
about Mrs. Major O'Dowd. He loved her much too fondly to subject her to that
horrid woman and her vulgarities, and the rough treatment of a soldier's wife.
He didn't care for himself - not he; but his dear little girl should take the
place in society to which, as his wife, she was entitled: and to these proposals
you may be sure she acceded, as she would to any other from the same author.
    Holding this kind of conversation, and building numberless castles in the
air (which Amelia adorned with all sorts of flower-gardens, rustic walks,
country churches, Sunday schools, and the like; while George had his mind's eye
directed to the stables, the kennel, and the cellar), this young pair passed
away a couple of hours very pleasantly; and as the Lieutenant had only that
single day in town, and a great deal of most important business to transact, it
was proposed that Miss Emmy should dine with her future sisters-in-law. This
invitation was accepted joyfully. He conducted her to his sisters - where he
left her talking and prattling in a way that astonished those ladies, who
thought that George might make something of her - and he then went off to
transact his business.
    In a word, he went out and ate ices at a pastry-cook's shop in Charing
Cross; tried a new coat in Pall Mall; dropped in at the Old Slaughters', and
called for Captain Cannon; played eleven games at billiards with the Captain, of
which he won eight; and returned to Russell Square half-an-hour late for dinner,
but in very good humour.
 
It was not so with old Mr. Osborne. When that gentleman came from the City, and
was welcomed in the drawing-room by his daughters and the elegant Miss Wirt,
they saw at once by his face - which was puffy, solemn, and yellow at the best
of times - and by the scowl and twitching of his black eyebrows, that the heart
within his large white waistcoat was disturbed and uneasy. When Amelia stepped
forward to salute him, which she always did with great trembling and timidity,
he gave a surly grunt of recognition, and dropped the little hand out of his
great hirsute paw without any attempt to hold it there. He looked round gloomily
at his eldest daughter, who, comprehending the meaning of his look, which asked
unmistakably, »Why the devil is she here?« said at once, -
    »George is in town, Papa, and has gone to the Horse Guards, and will be back
to dinner.«
    »Oh, he is, is he? I won't have the dinner kept waiting for him, Jane;« with
which this worthy man lapsed into his particular chair, and then the utter
silence in his genteel, well-furnished drawing-room was only interrupted by the
alarmed ticking of the great French clock.
    When that chronometer, which was surmounted by a cheerful brass group of the
sacrifice of Iphigenia, tolled five in a heavy cathedral tone, Mr. Osborne
pulled the bell at his right hand violently, and the butler rushed up.
    »Dinner!« roared Mr. Osborne.
    »Mr. George isn't come in, sir,« interposed the man.
    »Damn Mr. George, sir. Am I master of the house? DINNER!« Mr. Osborne
scowled. Amelia trembled. A telegraphic communication of eyes passed between the
other three ladies. The obedient bell in the lower regions began ringing the
announcement of the meal. The tolling over, the head of the family thrust his
hands into the great tail-pockets of his great blue coat and brass buttons, and
without waiting for a further announcement, strode downstairs alone, scowling
over his shoulder at the four females.
    »What's the matter now, my dear?« asked one of the other, as they rose and
tripped gingerly behind the sire.
    »I suppose the funds are falling,« whispered Miss Wirt; and so, trembling
and in silence, this hushed female company followed their dark leader. They took
their places in silence. He growled out a blessing, which sounded as gruffly as
a curse. The great silver dish-covers were removed. Amelia trembled in her
place, for she was next to the awful Osborne, and alone on her side of the
table, the gap being occasioned by the absence of George.
    »Soup?« says Mr. Osborne, clutching the ladle, fixing his eyes on her, in a
sepulchral tone; and having helped her and the rest, did not speak for a while.
    »Take Miss Sedley's plate away,« at last he said. »She can't eat the soup -
no more can I. It's beastly. Take away the soup, Hicks, and to-morrow turn the
cook out of the house, Jane.«
    Having concluded his observations upon the soup, Mr. Osborne made a few curt
remarks respecting the fish, also of a savage and satirical tendency, and cursed
Billingsgate, with an emphasis quite worthy of the place. Then he lapsed into
silence, and swallowed sundry glasses of wine, looking more and more terrible,
till a brisk knock at the door told of George's arrival, when everybody began to
rally.
    »He could not come before. General Daguilet had kept him waiting at the
Horse Guards. Never mind soup or fish. Give him anything - he didn't care what.
Capital mutton - capital everything.« His good-humour contrasted with his
father's severity; and he rattled on unceasingly during dinner, to the delight
of all - of one especially, who need not be mentioned.
    As soon as the young ladies had discussed the orange and the glass of wine
which formed the ordinary conclusion of the dismal banquets at Mr. Osborne's
house, the signal to make sail for the drawing-room was given, and they all
arose and departed. Amelia hoped George would soon join them there. She began
playing some of his favourite waltzes (then newly imported) at the great
carved-legged, leather-cased grand piano in the drawing-room overhead. This
little artifice did not bring him. He was deaf to the waltzes; they grew fainter
and fainter; the discomfited performer left the huge instrument presently; and
though her three friends performed some of the loudest and most brilliant new
pieces of their répertoire, she did not hear a single note, but sate thinking
and boding evil. Old Osborne's scowl, terrific always, had never before looked
so deadly to her. His eyes followed her out of the room, as if she had been
guilty of something. When they brought her coffee, she started as though it were
a cup of poison which Mr. Hicks, the butler, wished to propose to her. What
mystery was there lurking? Oh, those women! They nurse and cuddle their
presentiments, and make darlings of their ugliest thoughts, as they do of their
deformed children.
    The gloom on the paternal countenance had also impressed George Osborne with
anxiety. With such eyebrows, and a look so decidedly bilious, how was he to
extract the money from the governor, of which George was consumedly in want? He
began praising his father's wine. That was generally a successful means of
cajoling the old gentleman.
    »We never got such Madeira in the West Indies, sir, as yours. Colonel
Heavytop took off three bottles of that you sent me down, under his belt the
other day.«
    »Did he?« said the old gentleman. »It stands me in eight shillings a
bottle.«
    »Will you take six guineas a dozen for it, sir?« said George, with a laugh.
»There's one of the greatest men in the kingdom wants some.«
    »Does he?« growled the senior. »Wish he may get it.«
    »When General Daguilet was at Chatham, sir, Heavytop gave him a breakfast,
and asked me for some of the wine. The General liked it just as well - wanted a
pipe for the Commander-in-Chief. He's his Royal Highness's right-hand man.«
    »It is devilish fine wine,« said the Eyebrows, and they looked more
good-humoured; and George was going to take advantage of this complacency, and
bring the supply question on the mahogany, when the father, relapsing into
solemnity, though rather cordial in manner, bade him ring the bell for claret.
»And we'll see if that's as good as the Madeira, George, to which his Royal
Highness is welcome, I'm sure. And as we are drinking it, I'll talk to you about
a matter of importance.«
    Amelia heard the claret bell ring as she sat nervously upstairs. She
thought, somehow, it was a mysterious and presentimental bell. Of the
presentiments which some people are always having, some surely must come right.
    »What I want to know, George,« the old gentleman said, after slowly smacking
his first bumper - »what I want to know is, how you and - ah - that little thing
upstairs, are carrying on?«
    »I think, sir, it's not hard to see,« George said, with a self-satisfied
grin. »Pretty clear, sir. - What capital wine! «
    »What d'you mean - pretty clear, sir?«
    »Why, hang it, sir, don't push me too hard. I'm a modest man. I - ah - I
don't set up to be a lady-killer, but I do own that she's as devilish fond of me
as she can be. Anybody can see that with half an eye.«
    »And you yourself?«
    »Why, sir, didn't you order me to marry her, and ain't I a good boy? Haven't
our Papas settled it ever so long?«
    »A pretty boy, indeed. Haven't I heard of your doings, sir, with Lord
Tarquin, Captain Crawley of the Guards, the Honourable Mr. Deuceace, and that
set. Have a care, sir, have a care.«
    The old gentleman pronounced these aristocratic names with the greatest
gusto. Whenever he met a great man he grovelled before him, and my-lorded him as
only a free-born Briton can do. He came home and looked out his history in the
Peerage; he introduced his name into his daily conversation; he bragged about
his Lordship to his daughters. He fell down prostrate and basked in him as a
Neapolitan beggar does in the sun. George was alarmed when he heard the names.
He heard his fathers might have been informed of certain transaction at play.
But the old moralist eased him by saying serenely, -
    »Well, well, young men will be young men. And the comfort to me is, George,
that living in the best society in England, as I hope you do; as I think you do;
as my means will allow you to do -«
    »Thank you, sir,« says George, making his point at once. »One can't live
with these great folks for nothing; and my purse, sir - look at it;« and he held
up a little token which had been netted by Amelia, and contained the very last
of Dobbin's pound notes.
    »You shan't want, sir - the British merchant's son shan't want, sir. My
guineas are as good as theirs, George, my boy; and I don't grudge 'em. Call on
Mr. Chopper as you go through the City to-morrow; he'll have something for you.
I don't grudge money when I know you're in good society, because I know that
good society can never go wrong. There's no pride in me. I was a humbly born man
- but you have had advantages. Make a good use of 'em. Mix with the young
nobility. There's many of 'em who can't spend a dollar to your guinea, my boy.
And as for the pink bonnets« (here from under the heavy eyebrows there came a
knowing and not very pleasing leer) - »why, boys will be boys. Only there's one
thing I order you to avoid, which, if you do not, I'll cut you off with a
shilling, by Jove, and that's gambling, sir.«
    »Oh, of course, sir,« said George.
    »But to return to the other business about Amelia: why shouldn't you marry
higher than a stockbroker's daughter. George - that's what I want to know?«
    »It's a family business, sir,« says George, cracking filberts. »You and Mr.
Sedley made the match a hundred years ago.«
    »I don't deny it; but people's position alter, sir. I don't deny that Sedley
made my fortune - or rather put me in the way of acquiring, by my own talents
and genius, that proud position which, I may say, I occupy in the tallow trade
and the City of London. I've shown my gratitude to Sedley; and he's tried it of
late, sir, as my cheque-book can show. George! I tell you in confidence I don't
like the looks of Mr. Sedley's affairs. My chief clerk, Mr. Chopper, does not
like the looks of 'em, and he's an old file, and knows 'Change as well as any
man in London. Hulker &amp; Bullock are looking shy at him. He's been dabbling
on his own account, I fear. They say the Jeune Amélie was his, which was taken
by the Yankee privateer Molasses. And that's flat, - unless I see Amelia's ten
thousand down you don't marry her. I'll have no lame duck's daughter in my
family. Pass the wine, sir - or ring for coffee.«
    With which Mr. Osborne spread out the evening paper, and George knew from
this signal that the colloquy was ended, and that his papa was about to take a
nap.
    He hurried upstairs to Amelia in the highest spirits. What was it that made
him more attentive to her on that night than he had been for a long time - more
eager to amuse her, more tender, more brilliant in talk? Was it that his
generous heart warmed to her at the prospect of misfortune, or that the idea of
losing the dear little prize made him value it more?
    She lived upon the recollections of that happy evening for many days
afterwards, remembering his words, his looks, the song he sang, his attitude as
he leant over her or looked at her from a distance. As it seemed to her, no
night ever passed so quickly at Mr. Osborne's house before; and for once this
young person was almost provoked to be angry by the premature arrival of Mr.
Sambo with her shawl.
    George came and took a tender leave of her the next morning; and then
hurried off to the City, where he visited Mr. Chopper, his father's head man,
and received from that gentleman a document which he exchanged at Hulker and
Bullock's for a whole pocketfull of money. As George entered the house, old John
Sedley was passing out of the banker's parlour looking very dismal. But his
godson was much too elated to mark the worthy stockbroker's depression, or the
dreary eyes which the kind old gentleman cast upon him. Young Bullock did not
come grinning out of the parlour with him as had been his wont in former years.
    And as the swinging doors of Hulker, Bullock, &amp; Co. closed upon Mr.
Sedley, Mr. Quill, the cashier (whose benevolent occupation it is to hand out
crisp banknotes from a drawer and dispense sovereigns out of a copper shovel),
winked at Mr. Driver, the clerk at the desk on his right. Mr. Driver again.
    »No go,« Mr. D. whispered.
    »Not at no price,« Mr. Q. said. »Mr. George Osborne, sir, how will you take
it?«
    George crammed eagerly a quantity of notes into his pockets, and paid Dobbin
fifty pounds that very evening at mess.
    That very evening Amelia wrote him the tenderest of long letters. Her heart
was overflowing with tenderness, but it still foreboded evil. What was the cause
of Mr. Osborne's dark looks? she asked. Had any difference arisen between him
and her papa? Her poor papa returned so melancholy from the City that all were
alarmed about him at home - in fine, there were four pages of loves and fears
and hopes and forebodings.
    »Poor little Emmy - dear little Emmy! How fond she is of me,« George said,
as he perused the missive - »and gad, what a headache that mixed punch has given
me!« Poor little Emmy, indeed.
 

                                  Chapter XIV

                             Miss Crawley at Home.

About this time there drove up to am exceedingly snug and well-appointed house
in Park Lane a travelling chariot with a lozenge on the panels, a discontented
female in a green veil and crimpled curls on the rumble, and a large and
confidential man on the box. It was the equipage of our friend Miss Crawley,
returning from Hants. The carriage windows were shut; the fat spaniel, whose
head and tongue ordinarily lolled out of one of them, reposed on the lap of the
discontented female. When the vehicle stopped, a large round bundle of shawls
was taken out of the carriage by the aid of various domestics and a young lady
who accompanied the heap of cloaks. That bundle contained Miss Crawley, who was
conveyed upstairs forthwith, and put into a bed and chamber warmed properly as
for the reception of an invalid. Messengers went off for her physician and
medical man. They came, consulted, prescribed, vanished. The young companion of
Miss Crawley, at the conclusion of their interview, came in to receive their
instructions, and administered those antiphlogistic medicines which the eminent
men ordered.
    Captain Crawley of the Life Guards rode up from Knightsbridge Barracks the
next day; his black charger pawed the straw before his invalids aunt door. He
was most affectionate in his inquiries regarding that amiable relative. There
seemed to be much source of apprehension. He found Miss Crawley's maid (the
discontented female) unusually sulky and despondent; he found Miss Briggs, her
dame de compagnie, in tears alone in the drawing-room. She had hastened home,
hearing of her beloved friend's illness. She wished to fly to her couch, that
couch which she, Briggs, had so often smoothed in the hour of sickness. She was
denied admission to Miss Crawley's apartment. A stranger was administering her
medicines - a stranger from the country - an odious Miss ... - tears choked the
utterance of the dame de compagnie, and she buried her crushed affections and
her poor old red nose in her pocket handkerchief.
    Rawdon Crawley sent up his name by the sulky femme de chamber, and Miss
Crawley's new companion, coming tripping down from the sick-room, put a little
hand into his as he stepped forward eagerly to meet her, gave a glance of great
scorn at the bewildered Briggs, and beckoning the young Guardsman out of the
back drawing-room, led him down-stairs into that now desolate dining-parlour,
where so many a good dinner had been celebrated.
    Here these two walked for ten minutes, discussing, no doubt, the symptoms of
the old invalid above stairs; at the end of which period the parlour bell was
rung briskly, and answered on that instant by Mr. Bowls, Miss Crawley's large
confidential butler (who, indeed happened to be at the key-hole during the most
part of the interview); and the Captain coming out, curling his mustachios,
mounted the black charger pawing among the straw, to the admiration of the
little blackguards boys collected in the street. He looked in at the dining-room
window, managing his horse, which curvetted and capered beautifully: for one
instant the young person might be seen at the window, when her figure vanished,
and, doubtless, she went upstairs again to resume the affecting duties of
benevolence.
    Who could this young woman be, I wonder? That evening a little dinner for
two persons was laid in the dining-room - when Mrs. Firkin, the lady's-maid,
pushed into her mistress's apartment, and bustled about there, during the
vacancy occasioned by the departure of the new nurse - and the latter and Miss
Briggs sat down to the neat little meal.
    Briggs was so much choked by emotion that she could hardly take a morsel of
meat. The young person carved a fowl with the utmost delicacy, and asked so
distinctly for egg-sauce, that poor Briggs, before whom that delicious condiment
was placed, started, made a great clattering with the ladle, and once more fell
back in the most gushing hysterical state.
    »Had you not better give Miss Briggs a glass of wine?« said the person to
Mr. Bowls, the large confidential man. He did so. Briggs seized it mechanically,
gasped it down convulsively, moaned a little, and began to play with the chicken
on her plate.
    »I think we shall be able to help each other,« said the person with great
suavity, »and shall have no need of Mr. Bowls's kind services. Mr. Bowls, if you
please, we will ring when we want you.« He went downstairs, where, by the way,
he vented the most horrid curses upon the unoffending footman, his subordinate.
    »It is a pity you take on so, Miss Briggs,« the young lady said, with a
cool, slightly sarcastic air.
    »My dearest friend is so ill, and wo-o-o-on't see me,« gurgled out Briggs in
an agony of renewed grief.
    »She's not very ill any more. Console yourself, dear Miss Briggs. She has
only overeaten herself - that is all. She is greatly better. She will soon be
quite restored again. She is weak from beingc cupped and from medical treatment,
but she will rally immediately. Pray console yourself, and take a little more
wine.«
    »But why, why won't she see me again?« Miss Briggs bleated out. »O Matilda,
Matilda, after three-and-twenty-years' tenderness! is this the return to your
poor, poor Arabella?«
    »Don't cry too much, poor Arabella,« the other said, with ever so little of
a grin; »she only won't see you because she says you don't nurse her as well as
I do. It's no pleasure to me to sit up all night. I wish you might do it
instead.«
    »Have I not tended that dear couch for years?« Arabella said, »and now -«
    »Now she prefers somebody else. Well, sick people have these fancies, and
must be humoured. When she's well I shall go.«
    »Never, never,« Arabella exclaimed, madly inhaling her salts-bottle.
    »Never be well or never go, Miss Briggs?« the other said, with the same
provoking good-nature. »Pooh - she will be well in a fortnight, when I shall go
back to my little pupils at Queen's Crawley, and to their mother, who is a great
deal more sick than our friend. You need not be jealous about me, my dear Miss
Briggs. I am a poor little girl without any friends, or any harm in me. I don't
want to supplant you in Miss Crawley's good graces. She will forget me a week
after I am gone; and her affection for you has been the work of years. Give me a
little wine if you please, my dear Miss Briggs, and let us be friends. I'm sure
I want friends.«
    The placable and soft-hearted Briggs speechlessly pushed out her hand at
this appeal; but she felt the desertion most keenly for all that, and bitterly,
bitterly moaned the fickleness of her Matilda. At the end of half-an-hour, the
meal over, Miss Rebecca Sharp (for such, astonishing to state, is the name of
her who has been described ingeniously as »the person« hitherto) went upstairs
again to her patient's rooms, from which, with the most engaging politeness, she
eliminated poor Firkin. »Thank you, Mrs. Firkin, that will quite do; how nicely
you make it! I will ring when anything is wanted.« »Thank you;« and Firkin came
downstairs in a tempest of jealousy, only the more dangerous because she was
forced to confine it in her own bosom.
    Could it be the tempest which, as she passed the landing of the first floor,
blew open the drawing-room door? No; it was stealthily opened by the hand of
Briggs. Briggs had been on the watch. Briggs too well heard the creaking Firkin
descend the stairs, and the clink of the spoon and gruel-basin the neglected
female carried.
    »Well, Firkin?« says she, as the other entered the apartment. »Well, Jane?«
    »Wuss and wuss, Miss B.,« Firkin said, wagging her head.
    »Is she not better then?«
    »She never spoke but once, and I asked her if she felt a little more easy,
and she told me to hold my stupid tongue. O Miss B., I never thought to have
seen this day!« And the waterworks again began to play.
    »What sort of a person is this Miss Sharp, Firkin? I little thought, while
enjoying my Christmas revels in the elegant home of my firm friends, the
Reverend Lionel Delamere and his amiable lady, to find a stranger had taken my
place in the affections of my dearest, my still dearest Matilda!« Miss Briggs,
it will be seen by her language, was of a literary and sentimental turn, and had
once published a volume of poems - »Trills of the Nightingale« - by
subscription.
    »Miss B., they are all infatyated about that young woman,« Firkin replied.
»Sir Pitt wouldn't have let her go, but he daredn't refuse Miss Crawley
anything. Mrs. But at the Rectory just as bad - never happy out of her sight.
The Capting quite wild about her. Mr. Crawley mortial jealous. Since Miss C. was
took ill, she won't have nobody near her but Miss Sharp, I can't tell for where
nor for why; and I think something has bewidged everybody.«
    Rebecca passed that night in constant watching upon Miss Crawley; the next
night the old lady slept so comfortably, that Rebecca had time for several
hours' comfortable repose herself on the sofa, at the foot of her patroness's
bed; very soon Miss Crawley was so well that she sat up and laughed heartily at
a perfect imitation of Miss Briggs and her grief, which Rebecca described to
her. Brigg's weeping snuffle, and her manner of using the handkerchief, were so
completely rendered, that Miss Crawley became quite cheerful, to the admiration
of the doctors when they visited her, who usually found this worthy woman of the
world, when the least sickness attacked her, under the most abject depression
and terror of death.
    Captain Crawley came every day, and received bulletins from Miss Rebecca
respecting his aunt's health. This improved so rapidly, that poor Briggs was
allowed to see her patroness; and persons with tender hearts may imagine the
smothered emotions of that sentimental female, and the affecting nature of the
interview.
    Miss Crawley liked to have Briggs in a good deal soon. Rebecca used to mimic
her to her face with the most admirable gravity, thereby rendering the imitation
doubly piquant to her worthy patroness.
 
The causes which had led to the deplorable illness of Miss Crawley, and her
departure from her brother's house in the country, were of such an unromantic
nature that they are hardly fit to be explained in this genteel and sentimental
novel. For how is it possible to hint of a delicate female, living in good
society, that she ate and drank too much, and that a hot supper of lobsters
profusely enjoyed at the Rectory was the reason of an indisposition which Miss
Crawley herself persisted was solely attributable to the dampness of the
weather? The attack was so sharp that Matilda - as his Reverence expressed it -
was very nearly »off the hooks;« all the family were in a fever of expectation
regarding the will, and Rawdon Crawley was making sure of at least forty
thousand pounds before the commencement of the London season. Mr. Crawley sent
over a choice parcel of tracts, to prepare her for the change from Vanity Fair
and Park Lane for another world; but a good doctor from Southampton being called
in in time, vanquished the lobster which was so nearly fatal to her, and gave
her sufficient strength to enable her to return to London. The Baronet did not
disguise his exceeding mortification at the turn which affairs took.
    While everybody was attending on Miss Crawley, and messengers every hour
from the Rectory were carrying news of her health to the affectionate folks
there, there was a lady in another part of the house, being exceedingly ill, of
whom no one took any notice at all; and this was the lady of Crawley herself.
The good doctor shook his head after seeing her - to which visit Sir Pitt
consented, as it could be paid without a fee - and she was left fading away in
her lonely chamber, with no more heed paid to her than to a weed in the park.
    The young ladies, too, lost much of the inestimable benefit of their
governess's instruction. So affectionate a nurse was Miss Sharp that Miss
Crawley would take her medicines from no other hand. Firkin had been deposed
long before her mistress's departure from the country. That faithful found a
gloomy consolation on returning to London in seeing Miss Briggs suffer the same
pangs of jealousy and undergo the same faithless treatment to which she herself
had been subject.
    Captain Rawdon got an extension of leave on his aunt's illness, and remained
dutifully at home. He was always in her ante-chamber. (She lay sick in the state
bedroom, into which you entered by the little blue saloon.) His father was
always meeting him there; or if he came down the corridor ever so quietly, his
father's door was sure to open, and the hyæna face of the old gentleman to glare
out. What was it set one to watch the other so? A generous rivalry, no doubt, as
to which should be most attentive to the dear sufferer in the state bedroom.
Rebecca used to come out and comfort both of them - or one or the other of them
rather. Both of these worthy gentlemen were most anxious to have news of the
invalid from her little confidential messenger.
    At dinner - to which meal she descended for half-an-hour - she kept the
peace between them; after which she disappeared for the night, when Rawdon would
ride over to the depôt of the 150th at Mudbury, leaving his Papa to the society
of Mr. Horrocks and his rum and water. She passed as weary a fortnight as ever
mortal spent in Miss Crawley's sick-room; but her little nerves seemed to be of
iron, as she was quite unshaken by the duty and the tedium of the sick-chamber.
    She never told until long afterwards how painful that duty was; how peevish
a patient was the jovial old lady; how angry, how sleepless, in what horrors of
death; during what long nights she lay moaning, and in almost delirious agonies
respecting that future world which she quite ignored when she was in good
health. - Picture to yourself, O fair young reader, a worldly, selfish,
graceless, thankless, religionless old woman, writhing in pain and fear, and
without her wig. Picture her to yourself, and ere you be old, learn to love and
pray.
    Sharp watched this graceless bedside with indomitable patience. Nothing
escaped her; and, like a prudent steward, she found a use for everything. She
told many a good story about Miss Crawley's illness in after days - stories
which made the lady blush through her artificial carnations. During the illness
she was never out of temper; always alert; she slept light, having a perfectly
clear conscience, and could take that refreshment at almost any minute's
warning. And so you saw very few traces of fatigue in her appearance. Her face
might be a trifle paler, and the circles round her eyes a little blacker, than
usual; but whenever she came out from the sick-room she was always smiling,
fresh and neat, and looked as trim in her little dressing-gown and cap as in her
smartest evening suit.
    The Captain thought so, and raved about her in uncouth convulsions. The
barbed shaft of love had penetrated his dull hide. Six weeks - appropinquity -
opportunity - had victimized him completely. He made a confidante of his aunt at
the Rectory, of all persons in the world. She rallied him about it; she had
perceived his folly; she warned him; she finished by owning that little Sharp
was the most clever, droll, odd, good-natured, simple, kindly creature in
England. Rawdon must not trifle with her affections, though - dear Miss Crawley
would never pardon him for that; for she, too, was quite overcome by the little
governess, and loved Sharp like a daughter. Rawdon must go away - go back to his
regiment and naughty London, and not play with a poor artless girl's feelings.
    Many and many a time this good-natured lady, compassionating the forlorn
Life-Guardsman's condition, gave him an opportunity of seeing Miss Sharp at the
Rectory, and of walking home with her, as we have seen. When men of a certain
sort, ladies, are in love, though they see the hook and the string, and the
whole apparatus with which they are to be taken, they gorge the bait
nevertheless - they must come to it - they must swallow it - and are presently
struck and landed gasping. Rawdon saw there was a manifest intention on Mrs.
Bute's part to captivate him with Rebecca. He was not very wise; but he was a
man about town, and had seen several seasons. A light dawned upon his dusky
soul, as he thought, through a speech of Mrs. Bute's.
    »Mark my words, Rawdon,« she said: »you will have Miss Sharp one day for
your relation.«
    »What relation, - my cousin, hey, Mrs. Bute? James sweet on her, hey?«
inquired the waggish officer.
    »More than that,« Mrs. Bute said, with a flash from her black eyes.
    »Not Pitt? - He shan't have her. The sneak a'n't worthy of her. He's booked
to Lady Jane Sheepshanks.«
    »You men perceive nothing. You silly, blind creature - if anything happens
to Lady Crawley, Miss Sharp will be your mother-in-law; and that's what will
happen.«
    Rawdon Crawley, Esquire, gave vent to a prodigious whistle, in token of
astonishment at this announcement. He couldn't deny it. His father's evident
liking for Miss Sharp had not escaped him. He knew the old gentleman's character
well, and a more unscrupulous old - whyou - he did not conclude the sentence,
but walked home, curling his mustachios, and convinced he had found a clue to
Mrs. Bute's mystery.
    »By Jove, it's too bad,« thought Rawdon - »too bad, by Jove! I do believe
the woman wants the poor girl to be ruined, in order that she shouldn't come
into the family as Lady Crawley.«
    When he saw Rebecca alone, he rallied her about his father's attachment in
his graceful way. She flung up her head scornfully, looked him full in the face,
and said, -
    »Well, suppose he is fond of me. I know he is, and others too. You don't
think I am afraid of him, Captain Crawley? You don't suppose I can't defend my
own honour?« said the little woman, looking as stately as a queen.
    »Oh, ah, why - give you fair warning - look out, you know - that's all,«
said the mustachio-twiddler.
    »You hint at something not honourable, then?« said she, flashing out.
    »O - Gad - really - Miss Rebecca,« the heavy dragoon interposed.
    »Do you suppose I have no feeling of self-respect, because I am poor and
friendless, and because rich people have none? Do you think, because I am a
governess, I have not as much sense, and feeling, and good-breeding as you
gentlefolks in Hampshire? I'm a Montmorency. Do you suppose a Montmorency is not
as good as a Crawley?«
    When Miss Sharp was agitated, and alluded to her maternal relatives, she
spoke with ever so slight a foreign accent, which gave a great charm to her
clear ringing voice. »No,« she continued, kindling as she spoke to the Captain;
»I can endure poverty, but not shame - neglect, but not insult; and insult from
- from you«.
    Her feelings gave way, and she burst into tears.
    »Hang it, Miss Sharp - Rebecca - by Jove - upon my soul, I wouldn't for a
thousand pounds! Stop, Rebecca!«
    She was gone. She drove out with Miss Crawley that day. It was before the
latter's illness. At dinner she was unusually brilliant and lively; but she
would take no notice of the hints, or the nods, or the clumsy expostulations of
the humiliated, infatuated Guardsman. Skirmishes of this sort passed perpetually
during the little campaign - tedious to relate, and similar in result. The
Crawley heavy cavalry was maddened by defeat, and routed every day.
 
If the Baronet of Queen's Crawley had not had the fear of losing his sister's
legacy before his eyes, he never would have permitted his dear girls to lose the
educational blessings which their invaluable governess was conferring upon them.
The old house at home seemed a desert without her, so useful and pleasant had
Rebecca made herself there. Sir Pitt's letters were not copied and corrected;
his books not made up; his household business and manifold schemes neglected,
now that his little secretary was away. And it was easy to see how necessary
such an amanuensis was to him, by the tenor and spelling of the numerous letters
which he sent to her, entreating her and commanding her to return. Almost every
day brought a frank from the Baronet, enclosing the most urgent prayers to Becky
for her return, or conveying pathetic statements to Miss Crawley regarding the
neglected state of his daughters' education; of which documents Miss Crawley
took very little heed.
    Miss Briggs was not formally dismissed, but her place as companion was a
sinecure and a derision; and her company was the fat spaniel in the
drawing-room, or occasionally the discontented Firkin in the housekeeper's
closet. Nor, though the old lady would by no means hear of Rebecca's departure,
was the latter regularly installed in office in Park Lane. Like many wealthy
people, it was Miss Crawley's habit to accept as much service as she could get
from her inferiors; and good-naturedly to take leave of them when she no longer
found them useful. Gratitude among certain rich folks is scarcely natural, or to
be thought of. They take needy people's services as their due. Nor have you, O
poor parasite and humble hanger-on, much reason to complain. Your friendship for
Dives is about as sincere as the return which it usually gets. It is money you
love, and not the man; and were Croesus and his footman to change places, you
know, you poor rogue, who would have the benefit of your allegiance.
    And I am not sure that, in spite of Rebecca's simplicity and activity, and
gentleness and untiring good-humour, the shrewd old London lady, upon whom these
treasures of friendship were lavished, had not a lurking suspicion all the while
of her affectionate nurse and friend. It must have often crossed Miss Crawley's
mind that nobody does anything for nothing. If she measured her own feeling
towards the world, she must have been pretty well able to gauge those of the
world towards herself; and perhaps she reflected, that it is the ordinary lot of
people to have no friends if they themselves care for nobody.
    Well, meanwhile Becky was the greatest comfort and convenience to her, and
she gave her a couple of new gowns, and an old necklace and shawl, and showed
her friendship by abusing all her intimate acquaintances to her new confidante
(than which there can't be a more touching proof of regard), and meditated
vaguely some great future benefit - to marry her perhaps to Clump the
apothecary, or to settle her in some advantageous way of life; or, at any rate,
to send her back to Queen's Crawley when she had done with her, and the full
London season had begun.
    When Miss Crawley was convalescent and descended to the drawing-room, Becky
sang to her, and otherwise amused her; when she was well enough to drive out,
Becky accompanied her. And amongst the drives which they took, whither, of all
places in the world, did Miss Crawley's admirable good-nature and friendship
actually induce her to penetrate, but to Russell Square, Bloomsbury, and the
house of John Sedley, Esquire.
    Ere that event many notes had passed, as may be imagined, between the two
dear friends. During the months of Rebecca's stay in Hampshire, the eternal
friendship had (must it be owned?) suffered considerable diminution, and grown
so decrepit and feeble with old age as to threaten demise altogether. The fact
is, both girls had their own real affairs to think of - Rebecca her advance with
her employers, Amelia her own absorbing topic. When the two girls met, and flew
into each other's arms with that impetuosity which distinguishes the behaviour
of young ladies towards each other, Rebecca performed her part of the embrace
with the most perfect briskness and energy. Poor little Amelia blushed as she
kissed her friend, and thought she had been guilty of something very like
coldness towards her.
    Their first interview was but a very short one. Amelia was just ready to go
out for a walk. Miss Crawley was waiting in her carriage below, her people
wondering at the locality in which they found themselves, and gazing upon honest
Sambo, the black footman of Bloomsbury, as one of the queer natives of the
place. But when Amelia came down, with her kind smiling looks (Rebecca must
introduce her to her friend, Miss Crawley was longing to see her, and was too
ill to leave her carriage) - when, I say, Amelia came down, the Park Lane
shoulder-knot aristocracy wondered more and more that such a thing could come
out of Bloomsbury; and Miss Crawley was fairly captivated by the sweet blushing
face of the young lady who came forward so timidly and so gracefully to pay her
respects to the protector of her friend.
    »What a complexion, my dear! What a sweet voice!« Miss Crawley said, as they
drove away westward after the little interview. »My dear Sharp, your young
friend is charming. Send for her to Park Lane, do you hear?« Miss Crawley had a
good taste. She liked natural manners - a little timidity only set them off. She
liked pretty faces near her - as she liked pretty pictures and nice china. She
talked of Amelia with rapture half-a-dozen times that day. She mentioned her to
Rawdon Crawley, who came dutifully to partake of his aunt's chicken.
    Of course, on this Rebecca instantly stated that Amelia was engaged to be
married - to a Lieutenant Osborne - a very old flame.
    »Is he a man in a line regiment?« Captain Crawley asked, remembering after
an effort, as became a Guardsman, the number of the regiment, the -th.
    Rebecca thought that was the regiment. »The Captain's name,« she said, »was
Captain Dobbin.«
    »A lanky, gawky fellow,« said Crawley - »tumbles over everybody. I know him;
and Osborne's a goodish-looking fellow, with large black whiskers?«
    »Enormous,« Miss Rebecca Sharp said, »and enormously proud of them, I assure
you.«
    Captain Rawdon Crawley burst into a horse-laugh by way of reply; and being
pressed by the ladies to explain, did so when the explosion of hilarity was
over. »He fancies he can play at billiards,« said he. »I won two hundred of him
at the Cocoa-Tree. He play, the young flat! He'd have played for anything that
day, but his friend Captain Dobbin carried him off, hang him!«
    »Rawdon, Rawdon, don't be so wicked,« Miss Crawley remarked, highly pleased.
    »Why, Ma'am, of all the young fellows I've seen out of the line, I think
this fellow's the greenest. Tarquin and Deuceace get what money they like out of
him. He'd go to the deuce to be seen with a lord. He pays their dinners at
Greenwich, and they invite the company.«
    »And very pretty company too, I daresay.«
    »Quite right, Miss Sharp - right, as usual, Miss Sharp. Uncommon pretty
company, - haw, haw!« and the Captain laughed more and more, thinking he had
made a good joke.
    »Rawdon, don't be naughty!« his aunt exclaimed.
    »Well his father's a City man - immensely rich, they say. Hang those City
fellows, they must bleed; and I've not done with him yet, I can tell you. Haw,
haw!«
    »Fie, Captain Crawley! I shall warn Amelia. A gambling husband!«
    »Horrid, ain't he, hey?« the Captain said with great solemnity; and then
added, a sudden thought having struck him - »Gad, I say, Ma'am, we'll have him
here.«
    »Is he a presentable sort of a person?« the aunt inquired.
    »Presentable? - oh, very well. You wouldn't see any difference,« Captain
Crawley answered. »Do let's have him, when you begin to see a few people; and
his whatdyecallem - his inamorato - eh, Miss Sharp; that's what you call it -
comes. Gad, I'll write him a note, and have him; and I'll try if he can play
piquet as well as billiards. Where does he live, Miss Sharp?«
    Miss Sharp told Crawley the Lieutenant's town address; and a few days after
this conversation, Lieutenant Osborne received a letter, in Captain Rawdon's
schoolboy hand, and enclosing a note of invitation from Miss Crawley.
    Rebecca dispatched also an invitation to her darling Amelia, who, you may be
sure, was ready enough to accept it when she heard that George was to be of the
party. It was arranged that Amelia was to spend the morning with the ladies of
Park Lane, where all were very kind to her. Rebecca patronized her with calm
superiority: she was so much the cleverer of the two, and her friend so gentle
and unassuming, that she always yielded when anybody chose to command, and so
took Rebecca's orders with perfect meekness and good-humour. Miss Crawley's
graciousness was also remarkable. She continued her raptures about little
Amelia, talked about her before her face as if she were a doll, or a servant, or
a picture, and admired her with the most benevolent wonder possible. I admire
that admiration which the genteel world sometimes extends to the commonalty.
There is no more agreeable object in life than to see Mayfair folks
condescending. Miss Crawley's prodigious benevolence rather fatigued poor little
Amelia, and I am not sure that of the three ladies in Park Lane she did not find
honest Miss Briggs the most agreeable. She sympathized with Briggs as with all
neglected or gentle people: she wasn't't what you call a woman of spirit.
    George came to dinner - a repast en garçon with Captain Crawley.
    The great family coach of the Osbornes transported him to Park Lane from
Russell Square; where the young ladies, who were not themselves invited, and
professed the greatest indifference at that slight, nevertheless, looked at Sir
Pitt Crawley's name in the baronetage, and learned everything which that work
had to teach about the Crawley family and their pedigree, and the Binkies, their
relatives, etc., etc. Rawdon Crawley received George Osborne with great
frankness and graciousness; praised his play at billiards; asked him when he
would have his revenge; was interested about Osborne's regiment; and would have
proposed piquet to him that very evening, but Miss Crawley absolutely forbade
any gambling in her house, so that the young Lieutenant's purse was not
lightened by his gallant patron, for that day at least. However, they made an
engagement for the next, somewhere: to look at a horse that Crawley had to sell,
and to try him in the Park; and to dine together, and to pass the evening with
some jolly fellows. »That is, if you're not on duty to that pretty Miss Sedley,«
Crawley said, with a knowing wink. »Monstrous nice girl, 'pon my honour, though,
Osborne,« he was good enough to add. »Lots of tin, I suppose, eh?«
    Osborne wasn't't on duty; he would join Crawley with pleasure; and the latter,
when they met the next day, praised his new friend's horsemanship - as he might
with perfect honesty - and introduced him to three or four young men of the
first fashion, whose acquaintance immensely elated the simple young officer.
    »How's little Miss Sharp, by-the-by?« Osborne inquired of his friend over
their wine, with a dandified air. »Good-natured little girl that. Does she suit
you well at Queen's Crawley? Miss Sedley liked her a good deal last year.«
    Captain Crawley looked savagely at the Lieutenant out of his little blue
eyes, and watched him when he went up to resume his acquaintance with the fair
governess. Her conduct must have relieved Crawley if there was any jealousy in
the bosom of that Life-Guardsman.
    When the young men went upstairs, and after Osborne's introduction to Miss
Crawley, he walked up to Rebecca with a patronizing, easy swagger. He was going
to be kind to her and protect her. He would even shake hands with her, as a
friend of Amelia's; and saying, »Ah, Miss Sharp! how-dy-doo?« held out his left
hand towards her, expecting that she would be quite confounded at the honour.
    Miss Sharp put out her right forefinger, and gave him a little nod, so cool
and killing that Rawdon Crawley, watching the operations from the other room,
could hardly restrain his laughter as he saw the Lieutenant's entire
discomfiture - the start he gave, the pause, and the perfect clumsiness with
which he at length condescended to take the finger which was offered for his
embrace.
    »She'd beat the devil, by Jove!« the Captain said, in a rapture; and the
Lieutenant, by way of beginning the conversation, agreeably asked Rebecca how
she liked her new place.
    »My place?« said Miss Sharp coolly; »how kind of you to remind me of it!
It's a tolerably good place: the wages are pretty good - not so good as Miss
Wirt's, I believe, with your sisters in Russell Square. How are those young
ladies - not that I ought to ask.«
    »Why not?« Mr. Osborne said, amazed.
    »Why, they never condescended to speak to me, or to ask me into their house,
whilst I was staying with Amelia; but we poor governesses, you know, are used to
slights of this sort.«
    »My dear Miss Sharp!« Osborne ejaculated.
    »At least in some families,« Rebecca continued. »You can't think what a
difference there is though. We are not so wealthy in Hampshire as you lucky
folks of the City. But then I am in a gentleman's family - good old English
stock. I suppose you know Sir Pitt's father refused a peerage. And you see how I
am treated. I am pretty comfortable. Indeed it is rather a good place. But how
very good of you to inquire!«
    Osborne was quite savage. The little governess patronized him and persiffléd
him until this young British lion felt quite uneasy; nor could he muster
sufficient presence of mind to find a pretext for backing out of this most
delectable conversation.
    »I thought you liked the City families pretty well,« he said haughtily.
    »Last year you mean, when I was fresh from that horrid vulgar school? Of
course I did. Doesn't every girl like to come home for the holidays? And how was
I to know any better? But oh, Mr. Osborne, what a difference eighteen months'
experience makes! - eighteen month's spent, pardon me for saying so, with
gentlemen. As for dear Amelia, she, I grant you, is a pearl, and would be
charming anywhere. There now, I see you are beginning to be in a good-humour;
but oh, these queer odd City people! And Mr. Jos - how is that wonderful Mr.
Joseph?«
    »It seems to me you didn't dislike that wonderful Mr. Joseph last year,«
Osborne said kindly.
    »How severe of you! Well, entre nous, I didn't break my heart about him; yet
if he had asked me to do what you mean by your looks (and very expressive and
kind they are, too), I wouldn't have said no.«
    Mr. Osborne gave a look as much as to say, »Indeed, how very obliging!«
    »What an honour to have had you for a brother-in-law, you are thinking? To
be sister-in-law to George Osborne, Esquire, son of John Osborne, Esquire, son
of - what was your grandpapa, Mr. Osborne? Well don't be angry. You can't help
your pedigree, and I quite agree with you that I would have married Mr. Joe
Sedley; for could a poor penniless girl do better? Now you know the whole
secret. I'm frank and open; considering all things, it was very kind of you to
allude to the circumstance - very kind and polite. Amelia dear, Mr. Osborne and
I were talking about your poor brother Joseph. How is he?«
    Thus was George utterly routed. Not that Rebecca was in the right, but she
had managed most successfully to put him in the wrong. And he now shamefully
fled, feeling, if he stayed another minute, that he would have been made to look
foolish in the presence of Amelia. Though Rebecca had had the better of him,
George was above the meanness of tale-bearing or revenge upon a lady; only he
could not help cleverly confiding to Captain Crawler, next day, some notions of
his regarding Miss Rebecca - that she was a sharp one, a dangerous one, a
desperate flirt, etc.; in all of which opinions Crawley agreed laughingly, and
with every one of which Miss Rebecca was made acquainted before twenty-four
hours were over. They added to her original regard for Mr. Osborne. Her woman's
instinct had told her that it was George who had interrupted the success of her
first love-passage, and she esteemed him accordingly.
    »I only just warn you,« he said to Rawdon Crawley, with a knowing look - he
had bought the horse, and lost some score of guineas after dinner - »I just warn
you - I know women, and counsel you to be on the look-out.«
    »Thank you, my boy,« said Crawley, with a look of peculiar gratitude.
»You're wide awake, I see.« And George went off, thinking Crawley was quite
right.
    He told Amelia of what he had done, and how he had counselled Rawdon Crawley
- a devilish good, straightforward fellow - to be on his guard against that
little, sly, scheming Rebecca.
    »Against whom?« Amelia cried.
    »Your friend the governess. Don't look so astonished.«
    »O, George! what have you done?« Amelia said. For her woman's eyes, which
Love had made sharp-sighted, had in one instant discovered a secret which was
invisible to Miss Crawley, to poor virgin Briggs, and, above all, to the stupid
peepers of that young whiskered prig, Lieutenant Osborne.
    For as Rebecca was shawling her in an upper apartment, where these two
friends had an opportunity for a little of that secret talking and conspiring
which forms the delight of female life, Amelia, coming up to Rebecca, and taking
her two little hands in hers, said, »Rebecca, I see it all!«
    Rebecca kissed her.
    And regarding this delightful secret, not one syllable more was said by
either of the young women. But it was destined to come out before long.
    Some short period after the above events, and Miss Rebecca Sharp still
remaining at her patroness's house in Park Lane, one more hatchment might have
been seen in Great Gaunt Street, figuring amongst the many which usually
ornament that dismal quarter. It was over Sir Pitt Crawley's house, but it did
not indicate the worthy baronet's demise. It was a feminine hatchment, and
indeed, a few years back, had served as a funeral compliment to Sir Pitt's old
mother, the late Dowager Lady Crawley. Its period of service over, the hatchment
had come down from the front of the house, and lived in retirement somewhere in
the back premises of Sir Pitt's mansion. It reappeared now for poor Rose Dawson.
Sir Pitt was a widower again. The arms quartered on the shield along with his
own were not, to be sure, poor Rose's. She had no arms. But the cherubs painted
on the scutcheon answered as well for her as for Sir Pitt's mother, and Resurgam
was written under the coat, flanked by the Crawley Dove and Serpent. Arms and
Hatchment, Resurgam. - Here is an opportunity for moralizing.
    Mr. Crawley had tended that otherwise friendless bedside. She went out of
the world, strengthened by such words and comfort as he could give her. For many
years his was the only kindness she ever knew, the only friendship that solaced
in any way that feeble, lonely soul. Her heart was dead long before her body.
She had sold it to become Sir Pitt Crawley's wife. Mothers and daughters are
making the same bargain every day in Vanity Fair.
    When the demise took place, her husband was in London attending to some of
his innumerable schemes, and busy with his endless lawyers. He had found time,
nevertheless, to call often in Park Lane, and to dispatch many notes to Rebecca,
entreating her, enjoining her, commanding her to return to her young pupils in
the country, who were now utterly without companionship during their mother's
illness. But Miss Crawley would not hear of her departure; for though there was
no lady of fashion in London who would desert her friends more complacently as
soon as she was tired of their society, and though few tired of them sooner, yet
as long as her engoûment lasted her attachment was prodigious, and she clung
still with the greatest energy to Rebecca.
    The news of Lady Crawley's death provoked no more grief or comment than
might have been expected in Miss Crawley's family circle. »I suppose I must put
off my party for the 3rd,« Miss Crawley said; and added, after a pause, »I hope
my brother will have the decency not to marry again.« - »What a confounded rage
Pitt will be in if he does,« Rawdon remarked, with his usual regard for his
elder brother. Rebecca said nothing. She seemed by far the gravest and most
impressed of the family. She left the room before Rawdon went away that day; but
they met by chance below, as he was going away after taking leave, and had a
parley together.
    On the morrow, as Rebecca was gazing from the window, she startled Miss
Crawley, who was placidly occupied with a French novel, by crying out, in an
alarmed tone, »Here's Sir Pitt, Ma'am!« and the Baronet's knock followed this
announcement.
    »My dear, I can't see him - I won't see him. Tell Bowls not at home; or go
downstairs and say I'm too ill to receive any one. My nerves really won't bear
my brother at this moment,« cried out Miss Crawley, and resumed the novel.
    »She's too ill to see you, sir,« Rebecca said, tripping down to Sir Pitt,
who was preparing to ascend.
    »So much the better,« Sir Pitt answered. »I want to see you, Miss Becky.
Come along a me into the parlour,« and they entered that apartment together.
    »I wawnt you back at Queen's Crawley, Miss,« the Baronet said, fixing his
eyes upon her, and taking off his black gloves and his hat with its great crape
hat-band. His eyes had such a strange look, and fixed upon her so steadfastly,
that Rebecca Sharp began almost to tremble.
    »I hope to come soon,« she said in a low voice, »as soon as Miss Crawley is
better - and return to - to the dear children.«
    »You've said so these three months, Becky,« replied Sir Pitt, »and still you
go hanging on to my sister, who'll fling you off like an old shoe when she's
wore you out. I tell you I want you. I'm going back to the Vuneral. Will you
come back? Yes or no?«
    »I daren't - I don't think - it would be right - to be alone - with you,
sir,« Becky said, seemingly in great agitation.
    »I say again, I want you,« Sir Pitt said, thumping the table. »I can't git on
without you. I didn't see what it was till you went away. The house all goes
wrong. It's not the same place. All my accounts has got muddled again. You must
come back. Do come back. Dear Becky, do come.«
    »Come - as what, sir?« Rebecca gasped out.
    »Come as Lady Crawley, if you like,« the Baronet said, grasping his crape
hat. »There! will that zatusfy you? Come back and be my wife. Your vit vor't.
Birth be hanged! You're as good a lady as ever I see. You've got more brains in
your little vinger than any baronet's wife in the county. Will you come? Yes or
no?«
    »O Sir Pitt!« Rebecca said, very much moved.
    »Say yes, Becky,« Sir Pitt continued. »I'm an old man, but a good'n. I'm
good for twenty years. I'll make you happy, zee if I don't. You shall do what
you like; spend what you like; and 'av it all your own way. I'll make you a
zettlement. I'll do everything reg'lar. Look year!« and the old man fell down on
his knees and leered at her like a satyr.
    Rebecca started back a picture of consternation. In the course of this
history we have never seen her lose her presence of mind; but she did now, and
wept some of the most genuine tears that ever fell from her eyes.
    »O Sir Pitt!« she said - »O sir - I - I'm married already.«
 

                                   Chapter XV

              In which Rebecca's Husband Appears for a Short Time.

Every reader of a sentimental turn (and we desire no other) must have been
pleased with the tableau with which the last act of our little drama concluded;
for what can be prettier than an image of Love on his knees before Beauty?
    But when Love heard that awful confession from Beauty that she was married
already, he bounced up from his attitude of humility on the carpet, uttering
exclamations which caused poor little Beauty to be more frightened than she was
when she made her avowal. »Married! you're joking,« the Baronet cried, after the
first explosion of rage and wonder. »You're making vun of me, Becky. Who'd ever
go to marry you without a shilling to your vortune?«
    »Married! married!« Rebecca said, in an agony of tears - her voice choking
with emotion, her handkerchief up to her ready eyes, fainting against the
mantelpiece - a figure of woe fit to melt the most obdurate heart. »O Sir Pitt,
dear Sir Pitt, do not think me ungrateful for all your goodness to me. It is
only your generosity that has extorted my secret.«
    »Generosity be hanged!« Sir Pitt roared out. »Who is it tu, then, you're
married? Where was it?«
    »Let me come back with you to the country, sir! Let me watch over you as
faithfully as ever! Don't, don't separate me from dear Queen's Crawley!«
    »The feller has left you, has he?« the Baronet said, beginning, as he
fancied, to comprehend. »Well, Becky - come back if you like. You can't eat your
cake and have it. Anyways I made you a vair offer. Coom back as governess; you
shall have it all your own way.« She held out one hand. She cried fit to break
her heart; her ringlets fell over her face, and over the marble mantelpiece
where she laid it.
    »So the rascal ran off, eh?« Sir Pitt said, with a hideous attempt at
consolation. »Never mind, Becky, I'll take care of 'ee.«
    »O sir! it would be the pride of my life to go back to Queen's Crawley, and
take care of the children, and of you as formerly, when you said you were
pleased with the services of your little Rebecca. When I think of what you have
just offered me, my heart fills with gratitude - indeed it does. I can't be your
wife, sir; let me - let me be your daughter!«
    Saying which, Rebecca went down on her knees in a most tragical way, and,
taking Sir Pitt's horny black hand between her own two (which were very pretty
and white, and as soft as satin), looked up in his face with an expression of
exquisite pathos and confidence, when - when the door opened, and Miss Crawley
sailed in.
    Mrs. Firkin and Miss Briggs, who happened by chance to be at the parlour
door soon after the Baronet and Rebecca entered the apartment, had also seen
accidentally, through the keyhole, the old gentleman prostrate before the
governess, and had heard the generous proposal which he made her. It was
scarcely out of his mouth when Mrs. Firkin and Miss Briggs had streamed up the
stairs, had rushed into the drawing-room where Miss Crawley was reading the
French novel, and had given that old lady the astounding intelligence that Sir
Pitt was on his knees, proposing to Miss Sharp. And if you calculate the time
for the above dialogue to take place - the time for Briggs and Firkin to fly to
the drawing-room - the time for Miss Crawley to be astonished, and to drop her
volume of Pigault le Brun - and the time for her to come downstairs - you will
see how exactly accurate this history is, and how Miss Crawley must have
appeared at the very instant when Rebecca had assumed the attitude of humility.
    »It is the lady on the ground, and not the gentleman,« Miss Crawley said,
with a look and voice of great scorn. »They told me that you were on your knees,
Sir Pitt: do kneel once more, and let me see this pretty couple!«
    »I have thanked Sir Pitt Crawley, Ma'am,« Rebecca said, rising, »and have
told him that - that I never can become Lady Crawley.«
    »Refused him!« Miss Crawley said, more bewildered than ever. Briggs and
Firkin at the door opened the eyes of astonishment and the lips of wonder.
    »Yes - refused,« Rebecca continued, with a sad, tearful voice.
    »And am I to credit my ears that you absolutely proposed to her, Sir Pitt?«
the old lady asked.
    »Ees,« said the Baronet, »I did.«
    »And she refused you, as she says?«
    »Ees,« Sir Pitt said, his features on a broad grin.
    »It does not seem to break your heart, at any rate,« Miss Crawley remarked.
    »Nawt a bit,« answered Sir Pitt, with a coolness and good-humour which set
Miss Crawley almost mad with bewilderment. That an old gentleman of station
should fall on his knees to a penniless governess, and burst out laughing
because she refused to marry him, - that a penniless governess should refuse a
baronet with four thousand a year, - these were mysteries which Miss Crawley
could never comprehend. It surpassed any complications of intrigue in her
favourite Pigault le Brun.
    »I'm glad you think it good sport, brother,« she continued, groping wildly
through this amazement.
    »Vamous,« said Sir Pitt. »Who'd ha' thought it! what a sly little devil,
what a little fox it waws!« he muttered to himself, chuckling with pleasure.
    »Who'd have thought what?« cries Miss Crawley, stamping with her foot.
»Pray, Miss Sharp, are you waiting for the Prince Regent's divorce, that you
don't think our family good enough for you?«
    »My attitude,« Rebecca said, »when you came in, Ma'am, did not look as if I
despised such an honour as this good - this noble man has deigned to offer me.
Do you think I have no heart? Have you all loved me, and been so kind to the
poor orphan - deserted - girl, and am I to feel nothing? O my friends! O my
benefactors! may not my love, my life, my duty, try to repay the confidence you
have shown me? Do you grudge me even gratitude, Miss Crawley? It is too much -
my heart is too full;« and she sank down in a chair so pathetically, that most
of the audience present were perfectly melted with her sadness.
    »Whether you marry me or not, you're a good little girl, Becky, and I'm your
vriend, mind,« said Sir Pitt, and putting on his crape-bound hat, he walked away
- greatly to Rebecca's relief; for it was evident that her secret was unrevealed
to Miss Crawley, and she had the advantage of a brief reprieve.
    Putting her handkerchief to her eyes, and nodding away honest Briggs, who
would have followed her upstairs, she went up to her apartment; while Briggs and
Miss Crawley, in a high state of excitement, remained to discuss the strange
event, and Firkin, not less moved, dived down into the kitchen regions, and
talked of it with all the male and female company there. And so impressed was
Mrs. Firkin with the news, that she thought proper to write off by that very
night's post, »with her humble duty to Mrs. Bute Crawley and the family at the
Rectory, and Sir Pitt has been and proposed for to marry Miss Sharp, wherein she
has refused him, to the wonder of all.«
    The two ladies in the dining-room (where worthy Miss Briggs was delighted to
be admitted once more to a confidential conversation with her patroness)
wondered to their hearts' content at Sir Pitt's offer, and Rebecca's refusal;
Briggs very acutely suggesting that there must have been some obstacle in the
shape of a previous attachment, otherwise no young woman in her senses would
ever have refused so advantageous a proposal.
    »You would have accepted it yourself, wouldn't you, Briggs?« Miss Crawley
said kindly.
    »Would it not be a privilege to be Miss Crawley's sister?« Briggs replied,
with meek evasion.
    »Well, Becky would have made a good lady Crawley, after all,« Miss Crawley
remarked (who was mollified by the girl's refusal, and very liberal and generous
now there was no call for her sacrifices). »She has brains in plenty (much more
wit in her little finger than you have, my poor dear Briggs, in all your head).
Her manners are excellent, now I have formed her. She is a Montmorency, Briggs,
and blood is something, though I despise it for my part; and she would have held
her own amongst those pompous, stupid Hampshire people much better than that
unfortunate ironmonger's daughter.«
    Briggs coincided as usual, and the previous attachment was then discussed in
conjectures. »You poor friendless creatures are always having some foolish
tendre,« Miss Crawley said. »You yourself, you know, were in love with a
writing-master (don't cry, Briggs - you're always crying, and it won't bring him
to life again); and I suppose this unfortunate Becky has been silly and
sentimental too - some apothecary, or house-steward, or painter, or young
curate, or something of that sort.«
    »Poor thing, poor thing!« says Briggs (who was thinking of twenty-four years
back, and that hectic young writing-master whose lock of yellow hair, and whose
letters, beautiful in their illegibility, she cherished in her old desk
upstairs). »Poor thing, poor thing!« says Briggs. Once more she was a fresh-
lass of eighteen; she was at evening church, and the hectic writing-master and
she were quavering out of the same psalm-book.
    »After such conduct on Rebecca's part,« Miss Crawley said enthusiastically,
»our family should do something. Find out who is the objet, Briggs. I'll set him
up in a shop; or order my portrait of him, you know; or speak to my cousin, the
Bishop - and I'll doter Becky, and we'll have a wedding, Briggs, and you shall
make the breakfast, and be a bridesmaid.«
    Briggs declared that it would be delightful, and vowed that her dear Miss
Crawley was always kind and generous, and went up to Rebecca's bedroom to
console her and prattle about the offer, and the refusal, and the cause thereof;
and to hint at the generous intentions of Miss Crawley, and to find out who was
the gentleman that had the mastery of Miss Sharp's heart.
    Rebecca was very kind, very affectionate and affected - responded to
Briggs's offer of tenderness with grateful fervour - owned there was a secret
attachment - a delicious mystery - what a pity Miss Briggs had not remained half
a minute longer at the keyhole! Rebecca might, perhaps, have told more; but five
minutes after Miss Briggs's arrival in Rebecca's apartment, Miss Crawley
actually made her appearance there - an unheard-of honour: her impatience had
overcome her; she could not wait for the tardy operations of her ambassadress;
so she came in person, and ordered Briggs out of the room. And expressing her
approval of Rebecca's conduct, she asked particulars of the interview, and the
previous transactions which had brought about the astonishing offer of Sir Pitt.
    Rebecca said she had long had some notion of the partiality with which Sir
Pitt honoured her (for he was in the habit of making his feelings known in a
very frank and unreserved manner), but, not to mention private reasons with
which she would not for the present trouble Miss Crawley, Sir Pitt's age,
station, and habits were such as to render a marriage quite impossible; and
could a woman with any feeling of self-respect and any decency listen to
proposals at such a moment, when the funeral of the lover's deceased wife had
not actually taken place?
    »Nonsense, my dear, you would never have refused him had there not been some
one else in the case,« Miss Crawley said, coming to her point at once. »Tell me
the private reasons - what are the private reasons? There is some one; who is it
that has touched your heart?«
    Rebecca cast down her eyes, and owned there was. »You have guessed right,
dear lady,« she said, with a sweet simple faltering voice. »You wonder at one so
poor and friendless having an attachment, don't you? I have never heard that
poverty was any safeguard against it. I wish it were.«
    »My poor dear child,« cried Miss Crawley, who was always quite ready to be
sentimental, »is our passion unrequited then? Are we pining in secret? Tell me
all, and let me console you.«
    »I wish you could, dear Madam,« Rebecca said in the same tearful tone.
»Indeed, indeed, I need it.« And she laid her head upon Miss Crawley's shoulder
and wept there so naturally that the old lady, surprised into sympathy, embraced
her with an almost maternal kindness, uttered many soothing protests of regard
and affection for her, vowed that she loved her as a daughter, and would do
everything in her power to serve her. »And now who is it, my dear? Is it that
pretty Miss Sedley's brother? You said something about an affair with him. I'll
ask him here, my dear. And you shall have him - indeed you shall.«
    »Don't ask me now,« Rebecca said. »You shall know all soon - indeed you
shall. Dear kind Miss Crawley - dear friend, may I say so?«
    »That you may, my child,« the old lady replied, kissing her.
    »I can't tell you now,« sobbed out Rebecca; »I am very miserable. But oh!
love me always - promise you will love me always.« - And in the midst of the
mutual tears - for the emotions of the younger woman had awakened the sympathies
of the elder - this promise was solemnly given by Miss Crawley, who left her
little protégée, blessing and admiring her as a dear, artless, tender-hearted,
affectionate, incomprehensible creature.
    And now she was left alone to think over the sudden and wonderful events of
the day, and of what had been and what might have been. What think you were the
private feelings - of Miss - no (begging her pardon) of Mrs. Rebecca? If, a few
pages back, the present writer claimed the privilege of peeping into Miss Amelia
Sedley's bedroom, and understanding with the omniscience of the novelist all the
gentle pains and passions which were tossing upon that innocent pillow, why
should he not declare himself to be Rebecca's confidant too, master of her
secrets, and seal-keeper of that young woman's conscience?
    Well, then, in the first place, Rebecca gave way to some very sincere and
touching regrets that a piece of marvellous good fortune should have been so
near her, and she actually obliged to decline it. In this natural emotion every
properly regulated mind will certainly share. What good mother is there that
would not commiserate a penniless spinster, who might have been my lady, and
have shared four thousand a year? What well-bred young person is there in all
Vanity Fair, who will not feel for a hardworking, ingenious, meritorious girl,
who gets such an honourable, advantageous, provoking offer, just at the very
moment when it is out of her power to accept it? I am sure our friend Becky's
disappointment deserves and will command every sympathy.
    I remember one night being in the Fair myself, at an evening party. I
observed old Miss Toady, there also present, single out for her special
attentions and flattery little Mrs. Briefless, the barrister's wife, who is of a
good family certainly, but, as we all know, is as poor as poor can be.
    What, I asked in my own mind, can cause this obsequiousness on the part of
Miss Toady: has Briefless got a county court, or has his wife had a fortune left
her? Miss Toady explained presently, with that simplicity which distinguishes
all her conduct. »You know,« she said, »Mrs. Briefless is granddaughter of Sir
John Redhand, who is so ill at Cheltenham that he can't last six months. Mrs.
Briefless's papa succeeds; so you see she will be a baronet's daughter.« And
Toady asked Briefless and his wife to dinner the very next week.
    If the mere chance of becoming a baronet's daughter can procure a lady such
homage in the world, surely, surely we may respect the agonies of a young woman
who has lost the opportunity of becoming a baronet's wife. Who would have
dreamed of Lady Crawley dying so soon? She was one of those sickly women that
might have lasted these ten years - Rebecca thought to herself, in all the woes
of repentance - and I might have been my lady! I might have led that old man
whither I would. I might have thanked Mrs. Bute for her patronage, and Mr. Pitt
for his insufferable condescension. I would have had the town house newly
furnished and decorated. I would have had the handsomest carriage in London, and
a box at the opera; and I would have been presented next season. All this might
have been; and now - now all was doubt and mystery.
    But Rebecca was a young lady of too much resolution and energy of character
to permit herself much useless and unseemly sorrow for the irrevocable past; so,
having devoted only the proper portion of regret to it, she wisely turned her
whole attention towards the future, which was now vastly more important to her.
And she surveyed her position, and its hopes, doubts, and chances.
    In the first place, she was married; - that was a great fact. Sir Pitt knew
it. She was not so much surprised into the avowal, as induced to make it by a
sudden calculation. It must have come some day; and why not now as at a later
period? He who would have married her himself must at least be silent with
regard to her marriage. How Miss Crawley would bear the news - was the great
question. Misgivings Rebecca had: but she remembered all Miss Crawley had said -
the old lady's avowed contempt for birth; her daring liberal opinions; her
general romantic propensities; her almost doting attachment to her nephew, and
her repeatedly expressed fondness for Rebecca herself. She is so fond of him,
Rebecca thought, that she will forgive him anything; she is so used to me that I
don't think she could be comfortable without me: when the éclaircissement comes
there will be a scene, and hysterics, and a great quarrel, and then a great
reconciliation. At all events, what use was there in delaying? the die was
thrown, and now or to-morrow the issue must be the same. And so, resolved that
Miss Crawley should have the news, the young person debated in her mind as to
the best means of conveying it to her, and whether she should face the storm
that must come, or fly and avoid it until its first fury was blown over. In this
state of meditation she wrote the following letter: -
 
        »Dearest Friend, - The great crisis which we have debated about so often
        is come. Half of my secret is known; and I have thought and thought,
        until I am quite sure that now is the time to reveal the whole of the
        mystery. Sir Pitt came to me this morning, and made - what do you think?
        - a declaration in form. Think of that! Poor little me! I might have
        been Lady Crawley. How pleased Mrs. Bute would have been; and ma tante,
        if I had taken precedence of her! I might have been somebody's mamma,
        instead of - Oh, I tremble, I tremble, when I think how soon we must
        tell all! -
            Sir Pitt knows I am married, and not knowing to whom is not very
        much displeased as yet. Ma tante is actually angry that I should have
        refused him. But she is all kindness and graciousness. She condescends
        to say I would have made him a good wife, and vows that she will be a
        mother to your little Rebecca. She will be shaken when she first hears
        the news. But need we fear anything beyond a momentary anger? I think
        not; I am sure not. She dotes upon you so (you naughty, good-for-nothing
        man), that she would pardon you anything; and, indeed, I believe, the
        next place in her heart is mine, and that she would be miserable without
        me. Dearest! something tells me we shall conquer. You shall leave that
        odious regiment - quit gaming, racing, and be a good boy; and we shall
        all live in Park Lane, and ma tante shall leave us all her money.
            I shall try and walk to-morrow at 3 in the usual place. If Miss B.
        accompanies me, you must come to dinner, and bring an answer, and put it
        in the third volume of Porteus's sermons. But, at all events, come to
        your own
                                                                              R.
        To Miss Eliza Styles,
            At Mr. Barnet's, Saddler, Knightsbridge.«
 
And I trust there is no reader of this little story who has not discernment
enough to perceive that the Miss Eliza Styles (an old schoolfellow, Rebecca
said, with whom she had resumed an active correspondence of late, and who used
to fetch these letters from the saddler's), wore brass spurs, and large curling
mustachios, and was indeed no other than Captain Rawdon Crawley.
 

                                  Chapter XVI

                         The Letter on the Pincushion.

How they were married is not of the slightest consequence to anybody. What is to
hinder a Captain who is a major, and a young lady who is of age, from purchasing
a licence, and uniting themselves at any church in this town? Who needs to be
told that if a woman has a will, she will assuredly find a way? My belief is,
that one day, when Miss Sharp had gone to pass the forenoon with her dear friend
Miss Amelia Sedley in Russell Square, a lady very like her might have been seen
entering a church in the City, in company with a gentleman with dyed mustachios,
who, after a quarter of an hour's interval, escorted her back to the
hackney-coach in waiting, and that this was a quiet bridal-party.
    And who on earth, after the daily experience we have, can question the
probability of a gentleman marrying anybody? How many of the wise and learned
have married their cooks? Did not Lord Eldon himself, the most prudent of men,
make a runaway match? Were not Achilles and Ajax both in love with their
servant-maids? And are we to expect a heavy dragoon, with strong desires and
small brains, who had never controlled a passion in his life, to become prudent
all of a sudden, and to refuse to pay any price for an indulgence to which he
had a mind? If people only made prudent marriages, what a stop to population
there would be!
    It seems to me, for my part, that Mr. Rawdon's marriage was one of the
honestest actions which we shall have to record in any portion of that
gentleman's biography which has to do with the present history. No one will say
it is unmanly to be captivated by a woman, or, being captivated, to marry her;
and the admiration, the delight, the passion, the wonder, the unbounded
confidence, the frantic adoration with which, by degrees, this big warrior got
to regard the little Rebecca, were feelings which the ladies at least will
pronounce were not altogether discreditable to him. When she sang, every note
thrilled in his dull soul and tingled through his huge frame. When she spoke, he
brought all the force of his brains to listen and wonder. If she was jocular, he
used to revolve her jokes in his mind, and explode over them half an hour
afterwards in the street, to the surprise of the groom in the tilbury by his
side, or the comrade riding with him in Rotten Row. Her words were oracles to
him, her smallest actions marked by an infallible grace and wisdom. »How she
sings - how she paints!« thought he. »How she rode that kicking mare at Queen's
Crawley!« And he would say to her in confidential moments, »By Jove, Beck,
you're fit to be Commander-in-Chief or Archbishop of Canterbury, by Jove.« Is
his case a rare one? and don't we see every day in the world many an honest
Hercules at the apron-strings of Omphale, and great whiskered Samsons prostrate
in Delilah's lap?
    When, then, Becky told him that the great crisis was near, and the time for
action had arrived, Rawdon expressed himself as ready to act under her orders,
as he would be to charge with his troop at the command of his colonel. There was
no need for him to put his letter into the third volume of Porteus. Rebecca
easily found a means to get rid of Briggs, her companion, and met her faithful
friend in the usual place on the next day. She had thought over matters at
night, and communicated to Rawdon the result of her determinations. He agreed,
of course, to everything; was quite sure that it was all right; that what she
proposed was best; that Miss Crawley would infallibly relent, or come round, as
he said, after a time. Had Rebecca's resolutions been entirely different, he
would have followed them as implicitly. »You have head enough for both of us,
Beck,« said he. »You're sure to get us out of the scrape. I never saw your
equal, and I've met with some clippers in my time too.« And with this simple
confession of faith, the love-stricken dragoon left her to execute his part of
the project which she had formed for the pair.
    It consisted simply in the hiring of quiet lodgings at Brompton, or in the
neighbourhood of the barracks, for Captain and Mrs. Crawley. For Rebecca had
determined, and very prudently, we think, to fly. Rawdon was only too happy at
her resolve; he had been entreating her to take this measure any time for weeks
past. He pranced off to engage the lodgings with all the impetuosity of love. He
agreed to pay two guineas a week so readily, that the landlady regretted she had
asked him so little. He ordered in a piano, and half a nursery-house full of
flowers; and a heap of good things. As for shawls, kid gloves, silk stockings,
gold French watches, bracelets, and perfumery, he sent them in with the
profusion of blind love and unbounded credit. And having relieved his mind by
this outpouring of generosity, he went and dined nervously at the club, waiting
until the great moment of his life should come.
 
The occurrences of the previous day, the admirable conduct of Rebecca in
refusing an offer so advantageous to her, the secret unhappiness preying upon
her, the sweetness and silence with which she bore her affliction, made Miss
Crawley much more tender than usual. An event of this nature, a marriage, or a
refusal, or a proposal, thrills through a whole household of women, and sets all
their hysterical sympathies at work. As an observer of human nature, I regularly
frequent St. George's, Hanover Square, during the genteel marriage season; and
though I have never seen the bridegroom's male friends give way to tears, or the
beadles and officiating clergy any way affected, yet it is not at all uncommon
to see women who are not in the least concerned in the operations going on - old
ladies who are long past marrying, stout middle-aged females with plenty of sons
and daughters, let alone pretty young creatures in pink bonnets who are on their
promotion, and may naturally take an interest in the ceremony - I say it is
quite common to see the women present piping, sobbing, sniffling; hiding their
little faces in their little, useless pocket-handkerchiefs; and heaving, old and
young, with emotion. When my friend, the fashionable John Pimlico, married the
lovely Lady Belgravia Green Parker, the excitement was so general, that even the
little snuffy old pew-opener who let me into the seat was in tears. And
where-fore? I inquired of my own soul: she was not going to be married.
    Miss Crawley and Briggs, in a word, after the affair of Sir Pitt, indulged
in the utmost luxury of sentiment, and Rebecca became an object of the most
tender interest to them. In her absence Miss Crawley solaced herself with the
most sentimental of the novels in her library. Little Sharp, with her secret
griefs, was the heroine of the day.
    That night Rebecca sang more sweetly and talked more pleasantly than she had
ever been heard to do in Park Lane. She twined herself round the heart of Miss
Crawley. She spoke lightly and laughingly of Sir Pitt's proposal, ridiculed it
as the foolish fancy of an old man; and her eyes filled with tears, and Briggs's
heart with unutterable pangs of defeat, as she said she desired no other lot
than to remain for ever with her dear benefactress. »My dear little creature,«
the old lady said, »I don't intend to let you stir for years, that you may
depend upon it. As for going back to that odious brother of mine after what has
passed, it is out of the question. Here you stay with me and Briggs. Briggs
wants to go to see her relations very often. Briggs, you may go when you like.
But as for you, my dear, you must stay and take care of the old woman.«
    If Rawdon Crawley had been then and there present, instead of being at the
club nervously drinking claret, the pair might have gone down on their knees
before the old spinster, avowed all, and been forgiven in a twinkling. But that
good chance was denied to the young couple, doubtless in order that this story
might be written, in which numbers of their wonderful adventures are narrated -
adventures which could never have occurred to them if they had been housed and
sheltered under the comfortable uninteresting forgiveness of Miss Crawley.
 
Under Mrs. Firkin's orders, in the Park Lane establishment, was a young woman
from Hampshire, whose business it was, among other duties, to knock at Miss
Sharp's door with that jug of hot water which Firkin would rather have perished
than have presented to the intruder. This girl, bred on the family estate, had a
brother in Captain Crawley's troop; and if the truth were known, I daresay it
would come out that she was aware of certain arrangements which have a great
deal to do with this history. At any rate she purchased a yellow shawl, a pair
of green boots, and a light blue hat with a red feather with three guineas which
Rebecca gave her; and as little Sharp was by no means too liberal with her
money, no doubt it was for services rendered that Betty Martin was so bribed.
    On the second day after Sir Pitt Crawley's offer to Miss Sharp, the sun rose
as usual, and at the usual hour Betty Martin, the upstairs maid, knocked at the
door of the governess's bedchamber.
    No answer was returned, and she knocked again. Silence was still
uninterrupted; and Betty, with the hot water, opened the door and entered the
chamber.
    The little white dimity bed was as smooth and trim as on the day previous,
when Betty's own hands had helped to make it. Two little trunks were corded in
one end of the room; and on the table before the window - on the pincushion -
the great fat pincushion lined with pink inside, and twilled like a lady's
nightcap - lay a letter. It had been reposing there probably all night.
    Betty advanced towards it on tiptoe, as if she were afraid to awake it;
looked at it, and round the room, with an air of great wonder and satisfaction;
took up the letter, and grinned intensely as she turned it round and over, and
finally carried it into Miss Briggs's room below.
    How could Betty tell that the letter was for Miss Briggs, I should like to
know? All the schooling Betty had was at Mrs. Bute Crawley's Sunday school, and
she could no more read writing than Hebrew.
    »La, Miss Briggs,« the girl exclaimed, »O Miss, something must have happened
- there's nobody in Miss Sharp's room; the bed ain't been slep in, and she've
run away, and left this letter for you, Miss.«
    »What!« cries Briggs, dropping her comb, the thin wisp of faded hair falling
over her shoulders; »an elopement! Miss Sharp a fugitive! What; what is this?«
and she eagerly broke the neat seal, and, as they say, »devoured the contents«
of the letter addressed to her.
 
        »Dear Miss Briggs,« the refugee wrote, »the kindest heart in the world,
        as yours is, will pity and sympathize with me and excuse me. With tears,
        and prayers, and blessings, I leave the home where the poor orphan has
        ever met with kindness and affection. Claims even superior to those of
        my benefactress call me hence. I go to my duty - to my husband. Yes, I
        am married. My husband commands me to seek the humble home which we call
        ours. Dearest Miss Briggs, break the news as your delicate sympathy will
        know how to do it - to my dear, my beloved friend and benefactress. Tell
        her, ere I went, I shed tears on her dear pillow - that pillow that I
        have so often soothed in sickness - that I long again to watch - Oh,
        with what joy shall I return to dear Park Lane! How I tremble for the
        answer which is to seal my fate! When Sir Pitt deigned to offer me his
        hand - an honour of which my beloved Miss Crawley said I was deserving
        (my blessings go with her for judging the poor orphan worthy to be her
        sister!) - I told Sir Pitt that I was already a wife. Even he forgave
        me. But my courage failed me, when I should have told him all - that I
        could not be his wife, for I was his daughter! I am wedded to the best
        and most generous of men - Miss Crawley's Rawdon is my Rawdon. At his
        command I open my lips, and follow him to our humble home, as I would
        through the world. O my excellent and kind friend, intercede with my
        Rawdon's beloved aunt for him and the poor girl to whom all his noble
        race have shown such unparalleled affection. Ask Miss Crawley to receive
        her children. I can say no more, but blessings, blessings on all in the
        dear house I leave, prays
                                                  Your affectionate and grateful
                                                                REBECCA CRAWLEY.
            Midnight.«
 
Just as Briggs had finished reading this affecting and interesting document,
which reinstated her in her position as first confidante of Miss Crawley, Mrs.
Firkin entered the room. »Here's Mrs. Bute Crawley just arrived by the mail from
Hampshire, and wants some tea; will you come down and make breakfast, Miss?«
    And to the surprise of Firkin, clasping her dressing-gown around her, the
wisp of hair floating dishevelled behind her, the little curl-papers still
sticking in bunches round her forehead, Briggs sailed down to Mrs. Bute with the
letter in her hand containing the wonderful news.
    »O Mrs. Firkin,« gasped Betty, »sech a business. Miss Sharp have a gone and
run away with the Capting, and they're off to Gretney Green!« We would devote a
chapter to describe the emotions of Mrs. Firkin, did not the passions of her
mistresses occupy our genteeler muse.
 
When Mrs. Bute Crawley, numbed with midnight travelling, and warming herself at
the newly crackling parlour fire, heard from Miss Briggs the intelligence of the
clandestine marriage, she declared that it was quite providential that she
should have arrived at such a time to assist poor dear Miss Crawley in
supporting the shock; that Rebecca was an artful little hussy of whom she had
always had her suspicions; and that as for Rawdon Crawley, she never could
account for his aunt's infatuation regarding him, and had long considered him a
profligate, lost, and abandoned being. And this awful conduct, Mrs. Bute said,
will have at least this good effect - it will open poor dear Miss Crawley's eyes
to the real character of this wicked man. Then Mrs. Bute had a comfortable hot
toast and tea; and as there was a vacant room in the house now, there was no
need for her to remain at the Gloster Coffee-House, where the Portsmouth mail
had set her down, and whence she ordered Mr. Bowls's aide-de-camp, the footman,
to bring away her trunks.
    Miss Crawley, be it known, did not leave her room until near noon - taking
chocolate in bed in the morning, while Becky Sharp read The Morning Post to her,
or otherwise amusing herself or dawdling. The conspirators below agreed that
they would spare the dear lady's feelings until she appeared in her
drawing-room; meanwhile it was announced to her that Mrs. Bute Crawley had come
up from Hampshire by the mail, was staying at the Gloster, sent her love to Miss
Crawley, and asked for breakfast with Miss Briggs. The arrival of Mrs. Bute,
which would not have caused any extreme delight at another period, was hailed
with pleasure now; Miss Crawley being pleased at the notion of a gossip with her
sister-in-law regarding the late Lady Crawley, the funeral arrangements pending,
and Sir Pitt's abrupt proposals to Rebecca.
    It was not until the old lady was fairly ensconced in her usual arm-chair in
the drawing-room, and the preliminary embraces and inquiries had taken place
between the ladies, that the conspirators thought it advisable to submit her to
the operation. Who has not admired the artifices and delicate approaches with
which women prepare their friends for bad news? Miss Crawley's two friends made
such an apparatus of mystery before they broke the intelligence to her, that
they worked her up to the necessary degree of doubt and alarm.
    »And she refused Sir Pitt, my dear, dear Miss Crawley, prepare yourself for
it,« Mrs. Bute said, »because - because she couldn't help herself.«
    »Of course there was a reason,« Miss Crawley answered. »She liked somebody
else. I told Briggs so yesterday.«
    »Likes somebody else!« Briggs gasped. »O my dear friend, she is married
already.«
    »Married already,« Mrs. Bute chimed in; and both sate with clasped hands
looking from each other at their victim.
    »Send her to me the instant she comes in. The little sly wretch: how dared
she not tell me?« cried out Miss Crawley.
    »She won't come in soon. Prepare yourself, dear friend - she's gone out for
a long time - she's - she's gone altogether.«
    »Gracious goodness, and who's to make my chocolate? Send for her and have
her back; I desire that she come back,« the old lady said.
    »She decamped last night, Ma'am,« cried Mrs. Bute.
    »She left a letter for me,« Briggs exclaimed. »She's married to -«
    »Prepare her, for heaven's sake. Don't torture her, my dear Miss Briggs.«
    »She's married to whom?« cries the spinster in a nervous fury.
    »To - to a relation of -«
    »She refused Sir Pitt,« cried the victim. »Speak at once. Don't drive me
mad.«
    »Oh, Ma'am - prepare her, Miss Briggs - she's married to Rawdon Crawley.«
    »Rawdon married - Rebecca - governess - nobod - Get out of my house, you
fool, you idiot - you stupid old Briggs - how dare you? You're in the plot - you
made him marry, thinking that I'd leave my money from him - you did, Martha,«
the poor old lady screamed in hysteric sentences.
    »I, Ma'am, ask a member of this family to marry a drawing-master's
daughter?«
    »Her mother was a Montmorency,« cried out the old lady, pulling at the bell
with all her might.
    »Her mother was an opera-girl, and she has been on the stage or worse
herself,« said Mrs. Bute.
    Miss Crawley gave a final scream, and fell back in a faint. They were forced
to take her back to the room which she had just quitted. One fit of hysterics
succeeded another. The doctor was sent for - the apothecary arrived. Mrs. Bute
took up the post of nurse by her bedside. »Her relations ought to be round about
her,« that amiable woman said.
    She had scarcely been carried up to her room, when a new person arrived to
whom it was also necessary to break the news. This was Sir Pitt. »Where's
Becky?« he said, coming in. »Where's her traps? She's coming with me to Queen's
Crawley.«
    »Have you not heard the astonishing intelligence regarding her surreptitious
union?« Briggs asked.
    »What's that to me?« Sir Pitt asked. »I know she's married. That makes no
odds. Tell her to come down at once, and not keep me.«
    »Are you not aware, sir,« Miss Briggs asked, »that she has left our roof, to
the dismay of Miss Crawley, who is nearly killed by the intelligence of Captain
Rawdon's union with her?«
    When Sir Pitt Crawley heard that Rebecca was married to his son, he broke
out into a fury of language which it would do no good to repeat in this place,
as indeed it sent poor Briggs shuddering out of the room; and with her we will
shut the door upon the figure of the frenzied old man, wild with hatred and
insane with baffled desire.
    One day after he went to Queen's Crawley, he burst like a madman into the
room she had used when there - dashed open her boxes with his foot, and flung
about her papers, clothes, and other relics. Miss Horrocks, the butler's
daughter, took some of them. The children dressed themselves and acted plays in
the others. It was but a few days after the poor mother had gone to her lonely
burying-place, and was laid, unwept and disregarded, in a vault full of
strangers.
 
»Suppose the old lady doesn't't come to,« Rawdon said to his little wife, as they
sate together in the snug little Brompton lodgings. She had been trying the new
piano all the morning. The new gloves fitted her to a nicety; the new shawls
became her wonderfully; the new rings glittered on her little hands, and the new
watch ticked at her waist; »suppose she don't come round, eh, Becky?«
    »I'll make your fortune,« she said; and Delilah patted Samson's cheek.
    »You can do anything,« he said, kissing the little hand. »By Jove, you can;
and we'll drive down to the Star and Garter, and dine, by Jove.«
 

                                  Chapter XVII

                       How Captain Dobbin Bought a Piano.

If there is any exhibition in all Vanity Fair which Satire and Sentiment can
visit arm in arm together; where you light on the strangest contrasts, laughable
and tearful; where you may be gentle and pathetic, or savage and cynical, with
perfect propriety, - it is at one of those public assemblies, a crowd of which
are advertised every day in the last page of The Times newspaper, and over which
the late Mr. George Robins used to preside with so much dignity. There are very
few London people, as I fancy, who have not attended at these meetings; and all
with a taste for moralizing must have thought, with a sensation and interest not
a little startling and queer, of the day when their turn shall come too, and Mr.
Hammerdown will sell, by the orders of Diogenes's assignees, or will be
instructed by the executors to offer to public competition, the library,
furniture, plate, wardrobe, and choice cellar of wines of Epicurus deceased.
    Even with the most selfish disposition, the Vanity-fairian, as he witnesses
this sordid part of the obsequies of a departed friend, can't but feel some
sympathies and regret. My Lord Dives's remains are in the family vault; the
statuaries are cutting an inscription veraciously commemorating his virtues, and
the sorrows of his heir, who is disposing of his goods. What guest at Dives's
table can pass the familiar house without a sigh? - the familiar house of which
the lights used to shine so cheerfully at seven o'clock, of which the hall-doors
opened so readily, of which the obsequious servants, as you passed up the
comfortable stair, sounded your name from landing to landing, until it reached
the apartment where jolly old Dives welcomed his friends! What a number of them
he had, and what a noble way of entertaining them! How witty people used to be
here who were morose when they got out of the door; and how courteous and
friendly men who slandered and hated each other everywhere else! He was pompous,
but with such a cook what would one not swallow? he was rather dull, perhaps,
but would not such wine make any conversation pleasant? We must get some of his
Burgundy at any price, the mourners cry at his club. »I got this box at Old
Dives's sale,« Pincher says, handing it round, »one of Louis the Fifteenth's
mistresses - pretty thing, is it not? - sweet miniature,« and they talk of the
way in which young Dives is dissipating his fortune.
    How changed the house is, though! The front is patched over with bills,
setting forth the particulars of the furniture in staring capitals. They have
hung a shred of carpet out of an upstairs window - a half-dozen of porters are
lounging on the dirty steps - the hall swarms with dingy guests of Oriental
countenance, who thrust printed cards into your hand, and offer to bid. Old
women and amateurs have invaded the upper apartments, pinching the bed-curtains,
poking into the feathers, shampooing the mattresses, and clapping the wardrobe
drawers to and fro. Enterprising young housekeepers are measuring the
looking-glasses and hangings to see if they will suit the new ménage - (Snob
will brag for years that he has purchased this or that at Dives's sale) - and
Mr. Hammerdown is sitting on the great mahogany dining-table, in the dining-room
below, waving the ivory hammer, and employing all the artifices of eloquence,
enthusiasm, entreaty, reason, despair; shouting to his people, satirizing Mr.
Davids for his sluggishness, inspiriting Mr. Moss into action; imploring,
commanding, bellowing, until down comes the hammer like fate, and we pass to the
next lot. O Dives! who would ever have thought, as we sat round the broad table
sparkling with plate and spotless linen, to have seen such a dish at the head of
it as that roaring auctioneer?
    It was rather late in the sale. The excellent drawing-room furniture by the
best makers; the rare and famous wines selected, regardless of cost, and with
the well-known taste of the purchaser; the rich and complete set of family
plate, had been sold on the previous days. Certain of the best wines (which all
had a great character among amateurs in the neighbourhood) had been purchased
for his master, who knew them very well, by the butler of our friend John
Osborne, Esquire, of Russell Square. A small portion of the most useful articles
of the plate had been bought by some young stockbrokers from the City. And now
the public being invited to the purchase of minor objects, it happened that the
orator on the table was expatiating on the merits of a picture, which he sought
to recommend to his audience: it was by no means so select or numerous a company
as had attended the previous days of the auction.
    »No. 369,« roared Mr. Hammerdown. »Portrait of a gentleman on an elephant.
Who'll bid for the gentleman on the elephant? Lift up the picture, Blowman, and
let the company examine this lot.« A long, pale, military-looking gentleman,
seated demurely at the mahogany table, could not help grinning as this valuable
lot was shown by Mr. Blowman. »Turn the elephant to the Captain, Blowman. What
shall we say, sir, for the elephant?« but the Captain, blushing in a very
hurried and discomfited manner, turned away his head.
    »Shall we say twenty guineas for this work of art? - fifteen, five - name
your own price. The gentleman without the elephant is worth five pound.«
    »I wonder it ain't come down with him,« said a professional wag, »he's
anyhow a precious big one;« at which (for the elephant-rider was represented as
of a very stout figure) there was a general giggle in the room.
    »Don't be trying to deprecate the value of the lot, Mr. Moss,« Mr.
Hammerdown said; »let the company examine it as a work of art - the attitude of
the gallant animal quite according to natur'; the gentleman in a nankeen-jacket,
his gun in his hand, is going to the chase; in the distance a banyhann-tree and
a pagody, most likely resemblances of some interesting spot in our famous
Eastern possessions. How much for this lot? Come, gentlemen, don't keep me here
all day.«
    Some one bid five shillings, at which the military gentleman looked towards
the quarter from which this splendid offer had come, and there saw another
officer with a young lady on his arm, who both appeared to be highly amused with
the scene, and to whom, finally, this lot was knocked down for half a guinea. He
at the table looked more surprised and discomposed than ever when he spied this
pair, and his head sank into his military collar, and he turned his back upon
them, so as to avoid them altogether.
    Of all the other articles which Mr. Hammerdown had the honour to offer for
public competition that day it is not our purpose to make mention, save of one
only, a little square piano, which came down from the upper regions of the house
(the state grand piano having been disposed of previously); this the young lady
tried with a rapid and skilful hand (making the officer blush and start again),
and for it, when its turn came, her agent began to bid.
    But there was an opposition here. The Hebrew aide-de-camp in the service of
the officer at the table bid against the Hebrew gentleman employed by the
elephant purchasers, and a brisk battle ensued over this little piano, the
combatants being greatly encouraged by Mr. Hammerdown.
    At last, when the competition had been prolonged for some time, the elephant
captain and lady desisted from the race; and the hammer coming down, the
auctioneer said: - »Mr. Lewis, twenty-five,« and Mr. Lewis's chief thus became
the proprietor of the little square piano. Having effected the purchase, he sate
up as if he was greatly relieved, and the unsuccessful competitors catching a
glimpse of him at this moment, the lady said to her friend, -
    »Why, Rawdon, it's Captain Dobbin.«
    I suppose Becky was discontented with the new piano her husband had hired
for her, or perhaps the proprietors of that instrument had fetched it away,
declining further credit, or perhaps she had a particular attachment for the one
which she had just tried to purchase, recollecting it in old days, when she used
to play upon it, in the little sitting-room of our dear Amelia Sedley.
    The sale was at the old house in Russell Square, where we passed some
evenings together at the beginning of this story. Good old John Sedley was a
ruined man. His name had been proclaimed as a defaulter on the Stock Exchange,
and his bankruptcy and commercial extermination had followed. Mr. Osborne's
butler came to buy some of the famous port wine to transfer to the cellars over
the way. As for one dozen well-manufactured silver spoons and forks at per oz.,
and one dozen dessert ditto ditto, there were three young stockbrokers (Messrs.
Dale, Spiggot &amp; Dale, of Threadneedle Street, indeed), who, having had
dealings with the old man, and kindnesses from him in days when he was kind to
everybody with whom he dealt, sent this little spar out of the wreck with their
love to good Mrs. Sedley; and with respect to the piano, as it had been
Amelia's, and as she might miss it and want one now, and as Captain William
Dobbin could no more play upon it than he could dance on the tight-rope, it is
probable that he did not purchase the instrument for his own use.
    In a word, it arrived that evening at a wonderful small cottage in a street
leading from the Fulham Road - one of those streets which have the finest
romantic names - (this was called St. Adelaide Villas, Anna-Maria Road, West),
where the houses look like baby-houses; where the people, looking out of the
first-floor windows, must infallibly, as you think, sit with their feet in the
parlours; where the shrubs in the little gardens in front bloom with a perennial
display of little children's pinafores, little red socks, caps, etc. (polyandria
polygynia); whence you hear the sound of jingling spinets and women singing;
where little porter pots hang on the railing sunning themselves; whither of
evenings you see City clerks padding wearily: here it was that Mr. Clapp, the
clerk of Mr. Sedley, had his domicile, and in this asylum the good old gentleman
hid his head with his wife and daughter when the crash came.
    Jos Sedley had acted as a man of his disposition would, when the
announcement of the family misfortune reached him. He did not come to London,
but he wrote to his mother to draw upon his agents for whatever money was
wanted, so that his kind broken-spirited old parents had no present poverty to
fear. This done, Jos went on at the boarding-house at Cheltenham pretty much as
before. He drove his curricle, he drank his claret, he played his rubber, he
told his Indian stories, and the Irish widow consoled and flattered him as
usual. His present of money, needful as it was, made little impression on his
parents; and I have heard Amelia say, that the first day on which she saw her
father lift up his head after the failure, was on the receipt of the packet of
forks and spoons with the young stockbrokers' love, over which he burst out
crying like a child, being greatly more affected than even his wife, to whom the
present was addressed. Edward Dale, the junior of the house, who purchased the
spoons for the firm, was, in fact, very sweet upon Amelia, and offered for her
in spite of all. He married Miss Louisa Cutts (daughter of Higham &amp; Cutts,
the eminent corn-factors) with a handsome fortune in 1820; and is now living in
splendour, and with a numerous family, at his elegant villa, Muswell Hill. But
we must not let the recollections of this good fellow cause us to diverge from
the principal history.
 
I hope the reader has much too good an opinion of Captain and Mrs. Crawley to
suppose that they ever would have dreamed of paying a visit to so remote a
district as Bloomsbury, if they thought the family whom they proposed to honour
with a visit were not merely out of fashion, but out of money, and could be
serviceable to them in no possible manner. Rebecca was entirely surprised at the
sight of the comfortable old house where she had met with no small kindness,
ransacked by brokers and bargainers, and its quiet family treasures given up to
public desecration and plunder. A month after her flight, she had bethought her
of Amelia; and Rawdon, with a horse-laugh, had expressed a perfect willingness
to see young George Osborne again. »He's a very agreeable acquaintance, Beck,«
the wag added. »I'd like to sell him another horse, Beck. I'd like to play a few
more games at billiards with him. He'd be what I call useful just now, Mrs. C. -
ha, ha!« by which sort of speech it is not to be supposed that Rawdon Crawley
had a deliberate desire to cheat Mr. Osborne at play, but only wished to take
that fair advantage of him which almost every sporting gentleman in Vanity Fair
considers to be his due from his neighbour.
    The old aunt was long in coming to. A month had elapsed. Rawdon was denied
the door by Mr. Bowls; his servants could not get a lodgement in the house at
Park Lane; his letters were sent back unopened. Miss Crawley never stirred out -
she was unwell - and Mrs. Bute remained still and never left her. Crawley and
his wife both of them augured evil from the continued presence of Mrs. Bute.
    »Gad, I begin to perceive now why she was always bringing us together at
Queen's Crawley,« Rawdon said.
    »What an artful little woman!« ejaculated Rebecca.
    »Well, I don't regret it, if you don't,« the Captain cried, still in an
amorous rapture with his wife, who rewarded him with a kiss by way of reply, and
was indeed not a little gratified by the generous confidence of her husband.
    »If he had but a little more brains,« she thought to herself, »I might make
something of him.« But she never let him perceive the opinion she had of him;
listened with indefatigable complacency to his stories of the stable and the
mess; laughed at all his jokes; felt the greatest interest in Jack Spatterdash,
whose cab-horse had come down, and Bob Martingale, who had been taken up in a
gambling-house, and Tom Cinqbars, who was going to ride the steeple-chase. When
he came home she was alert and happy; when he went out she pressed him to go;
when he stayed at home she played and sang for him, made him good drinks,
superintended his dinner, warmed his slippers, and steeped his soul in comfort.
The best of women (I have heard my grandmother say) are hypocrites. We don't
know how much they hide from us; how watchful they are when they seem most
artless and confidential; how often those frank smiles, which they wear so
easily, are traps to cajole or elude or disarm - I don't mean in your mere
coquettes, but your domestic models, and paragons of female virtue. Who has not
seen a woman hide the dullness of a stupid husband, or coax the fury of a savage
one? We accept this amiable slavishness, and praise a woman for it; we call this
pretty treachery truth. A good housewife is of necessity a humbug; and
Cornelia's husband was hoodwinked, as Potiphar was - only in a different way.
    By these attentions, that veteran rake, Rawdon Crawley, found himself
converted into a very happy and submissive married man. His former haunts knew
him not. They asked about him once or twice at his clubs, but did not miss him
much; in those booths of Vanity Fair people seldom do miss each other. His
secluded wife ever smiling and cheerful, his little comfortable lodgings, snug
meals, and homely evenings, had all the charms of novelty and secrecy. The
marriage was not yet declared to the world, or published in The Morning Post.
All his creditors would have come rushing on him in a body, had they known that
he was united to a woman without fortune. »My relations won't cry fie upon me,«
Becky said, with rather a bitter laugh; and she was quite contented to wait
until the old aunt should be reconciled, before she claimed her place in
society. So she lived at Brompton, and meanwhile saw no one, or only those few
of her husband's male companions who were admitted into her little dining-room.
These were all charmed with her. The little dinners, the laughing and chatting,
the music afterwards, delighted all who participated in these enjoyments. Major
Martingale never thought about asking to see the marriage licence. Captain
Cinqbars was perfectly enchanted with her skill in making punch. And young
Lieutenant Spatterdash (who was fond of piquet, and whom Crawley would often
invite) was evidently and quickly smitten by Mrs. Crawley. But her own
circumspection and modesty never forsook her for a moment, and Crawley's
reputation as a fire-eating and jealous warrior was a further and complete
defence to his little wife.
    There are gentlemen of very good blood and fashion in this city, who never
have entered a lady's drawing-room; so that though Rawdon Crawley's marriage
might be talked about in his county, where, of course, Mrs. Bute had spread the
news, in London it was doubted, or not heeded, or not talked about at all. He
lived comfortably on credit. He had a large capital of debts, which, laid out
judiciously, will carry a man along for many years, and on which certain men
about town contrive to live a hundred times better than even men with ready
money can do. Indeed, who is there that walks London streets, but can point out
a half-dozen of men riding by him splendidly, while he is on foot, courted by
fashion, bowed into their carriages by tradesmen, denying themselves nothing,
and living on who knows what? We see Jack Thriftless prancing in the park, or
darting in his brougham down Pall Mall; we eat his dinners served on his
miraculous plate. »How did this begin,« we say, »or where will it end?« - »My
dear fellow,« I heard Jack once say, »I owe money in every capital in Europe.«
The end must come some day, but in the meantime Jack thrives as much as ever;
people are glad enough to shake him by the hand, ignore the little dark stories
that are whispered every now and then against him, and pronounce him a
good-natured, jovial, reckless fellow.
    Truth obliges us to confess that Rebecca had married a gentleman of this
order. Everything was plentiful in his house but ready money, of which their
ménage pretty early felt the want; and reading the Gazette one day, and coming
upon the announcement of »Lieutenant G. Osborne to be Captain by purchase, vice
Smith, who exchanges,« Rawdon uttered that sentiment regarding Amelia's lover,
which ended in the visit to Russell Square.
    When Rawdon and his wife wished to communicate with Captain Dobbin at the
sale, and to know particulars of the catastrophe which had befallen Rebecca's
old acquaintances, the Captain had vanished; and such information as they got
was from a stray porter or broker at the auction.
    »Look at them with their hooked beaks,« Becky said, getting into the buggy,
her picture under her arm, in great glee. »They're like vultures after a
battle.«
    »Don't know. Never was in action, my dear. Ask Martingale; he was in Spain,
aide-de-camp to General Blazes.«
    »He was a very kind old man, Mr. Sedley,« Rebecca said; »I'm really sorry
he's gone wrong.«
    »Oh, stockbrokers - bankrupts - used to it, you know,« Rawdon replied,
cutting a fly off the horse's ear.
    »I wish we could have afforded some of the plate, Rawdon,« the wife
continued sentimentally. »Five-and-twenty guineas was monstrously dear for that
little piano. We chose it at Broadwood's for Amelia, when she came from school.
It only cost five-and-thirty then.«
    »Whatdyecallem - Osborne, will cry off now, I suppose, since the family is
smashed. How cut up your pretty little friend will be; hey, Becky?«
    »I daresay she'll recover it,« Becky said, with a smile - and they drove on
and talked about something else.
 

                                 Chapter XVIII

                 Who Played on the Piano Captain Dobbin Bought.

Our surprised story now finds itself for a moment among very famous events and
personages, and hanging on to the skirts of history. When the eagles of Napoleon
Bonaparte, the Corsican upstart, were flying from Provence, where they had
perched after a brief sojourn in Elba, and from steeple to steeple until they
reached the towers of Notre Dame, I wonder whether the Imperial birds had any
eye for a little corner of the parish of Bloomsbury, London, which you might
have thought so quiet, that even the whirring and flapping of those mighty wings
would pass unobserved there?
    »Napoleon has landed at Cannes.« Such news might create a panic at Vienna,
and cause Russia to drop his cards, and take Prussia into a corner, and
Talleyrand and Metternich to wag their heads together, while Prince Hardenberg,
and even the present Marquis of Londonderry, were puzzled; but how was this
intelligence to affect a young lady in Russell Square, before whose door the
watchman sang the hours when she was asleep; who, if she strolled in the square,
was guarded there by the railings and the beadle; who, if she walked ever so
short a distance to buy a ribbon in Southampton Row, was followed by black Sambo
with an enormous cane; who was always cared for, dressed, put to bed, and
watched over by ever so many guardian angels, with and without wages? Bon Dieu,
I say, is it not hard that the fateful rush of the great Imperial struggle can't
take place without affecting a poor little harmless girl of eighteen, who is
occupied in billing and cooing, or working muslin collars in Russell Square?
You, too, kindly, homely flower! - is the great roaring war tempest coming to
sweep you down, here, although cowering under the shelter of Holborn? Yes,
Napoleon is flinging his last stake, and poor little Emmy Sedley's happiness
forms, somehow, part of it.
    In the first place, her father's fortune was swept down with that fatal
news. All his speculations had of late gone wrong with the luckless old
gentleman. Ventures had failed; merchants had broken; funds had risen when he
calculated they would fall. What need to particularize? If success is rare and
slow, everybody knows how quick and easy ruin is. Old Sedley had kept his own
sad counsel. Everything seemed to go on as usual in the quiet, opulent house;
the good-natured mistress pursuing, quite unsuspiciously, her bustling idleness
and daily easy avocations; the daughter absorbed still in one selfish, tender
thought, and quite regardless of all the world besides, when that final crash
came, under which the worthy family fell.
    One night Mrs. Sedley was writing cards for a party; the Osbornes had given
one, and she must not be behindhand. John Sedley, who had come home very late
from the City, sate silent at the chimney side, while his wife was prattling to
him; Emmy had gone up to her room ailing and low-spirited. »She's not happy,«
the mother went on. »George Osborne neglects her. I've no patience with the airs
of those people. The girls have not been in the house these three weeks, and
George has been twice in town without coming. Edward Dale saw him at the Opera.
Edward would marry her, I'm sure; and there's Captain Dobbin, who, I think,
would - only I hate all army men. Such a dandy as George has become! With his
military airs, indeed! We must show some folks that we're as good as they. Only
give Edward Dale any encouragement, and you'll see. We must have a party, Mr. S.
Why don't you speak, John? Shall I say Tuesday fortnight? Why don't you answer?
Good God, John, what has happened?«
    John Sedley sprang up out of his chair to meet his wife, who ran to him. He
seized her in his arms, and said with a hasty voice, »We're ruined, Mary. We've
got the world to begin over again, dear. It's best that you should know all, and
at once.« As he spoke, he trembled in every limb, and almost fell. He thought
the news would have overpowered his wife - his wife, to whom he had never said a
hard word. But it was he that was the most moved, sudden as the shock was to
her. When he sank back into his seat, it was the wife that took the office of
consoler. She took his trembling hand, and kissed it, and put it round her neck;
she called him her John - her dear John - her old man - her kind old man; she
poured out a hundred words of incoherent love and tenderness; her faithful voice
and simple caresses wrought this sad heart up to an inexpressible delight and
anguish, and cheered and solaced his overburdened soul.
    Only once in the course of the long night as they sate together, and poor
Sedley opened his pent-up soul, and told the story of his losses and
embarrassments - the treason of some of his oldest friends, the manly kindness
of some, from whom he never could have expected it - in a general confession -
only once did the faithful wife give way to emotion.
    »My God, my God, it will break Emmy's heart!« she said.
    The father had forgotten the poor girl. She was lying, awake and unhappy,
overhead. In the midst of friends, home, and kind parents, she was alone. To how
many people can any one tell all? Who will be open where there is no sympathy,
or has call to speak to those who never can understand? Our gentle Amelia was
thus solitary. She had no confidante, so to speak, ever since she had anything
to confide. She could not tell the old mother her doubts and cares; the would-be
sisters seemed every day more strange to her. And she had misgivings and fears
which she dared not acknowledge to herself, though she was always secretly
brooding over them.
    Her heart tried to persist in asserting that George Osborne was worthy and
faithful to her, though she knew otherwise. How many a thing had she said, and
got no echo from him. How many suspicions of selfishness and indifference had
she to encounter and obstinately overcome. To whom could the poor little martyr
tell these daily struggles and tortures? Her hero himself only half understood
her. She did not dare to own that the man she loved was her inferior; or to feel
that she had given her heart away too soon. Given once, the pure bashful maiden
was too modest, too tender, too trustful, too weak, too much woman to recall it.
We are Turks with the affections of our women, and have made them subscribe to
our doctrine too. We let their bodies go abroad liberally enough, with smiles
and ringlets and pink bonnets to disguise them instead of veils and yakmaks. But
their souls must be seen by only one man; and they obey not unwillingly, and
consent to remain at home as our slaves - ministering to us and doing drudgery
for us.
    So imprisoned and tortured was this gentle little heart, when, in the month
of March, Anno Domini 1815, Napoleon landed at Cannes, and Louis XVIII. fled,
and all Europe was in alarm, and the funds fell, and old John Sedley was ruined.
 
We are not going to follow the worthy old stockbroker through those last pangs
and agonies of ruin through which he passed before his commercial demise befell.
They declared him at the Stock Exchange; he was absent from his house of
business; his bills were protested; his act of bankruptcy formal. The house and
furniture of Russell Square were seized and sold up, and he and his family were
thrust away, as we have seen, to hide their heads where they might.
    John Sedley had not the heart to review the domestic establishment who have
appeared now and anon in our pages, and of whom he was now forced by poverty to
take leave. The wages of those worthy people were discharged with that
punctuality which men frequently show who only owe in great sums - they were
sorry to leave good places - but they did not break their hearts at parting from
their adored master and mistress. Amelia's maid was profuse in condolences, but
went off quite resigned to better herself in a genteeler quarter of the town.
Black Sambo, with the infatuation of his profession, determined on setting up a
public-house. Honest old Mrs. Blenkinsop indeed, who had seen the birth of Jos
and Amelia, and the wooing of John Sedley and his wife, was for staying by them
without wages, having amassed a considerable sum in their service; and she
accompanied the fallen people into their new and humble place of refuge, where
she tended them and grumbled against them for a while.
    Of all Sedley's opponents in his debates with his creditors which now
ensued, and harassed the feelings of the humiliated old gentleman so severely
that in six weeks he oldened more than he had done for fifteen years before, the
most determined and obstinate seemed to be John Osborne, his old friend and
neighbour - John Osborne, whom he had set up in life - who was under a hundred
obligations to him - and whose son was to marry Sedley's daughter. Any one of
these circumstances would account for the bitterness of Osborne's opposition.
    When one man has been under very remarkable obligations to another, with
whom he subsequently quarrels, a common sense of decency, as it were, makes of
the former a much severer enemy than a mere stranger would be. To account for
your own hard-heartedness and ingratitude in such a case, you are bound to prove
the other party's crime. It is not that you are selfish, brutal, and angry at
the failure of a speculation - no, no - it is that your partner has led you into
it by the basest treachery and with the most sinister motives. From a mere sense
of consistency, a persecutor is bound to show that the fallen man is a villain -
otherwise he, the persecutor, is a wretch himself.
    And as a general rule, which may make all creditors who are inclined to be
severe pretty comfortable in their minds, no men embarrassed are altogether
honest, very likely. They conceal something; they exaggerate chances of good
luck; hide away the real state of affairs; say that things are flourishing when
they are hopeless; keep a smiling face (a dreary smile it is) upon the verge of
bankruptcy - are ready to lay hold of any pretext for delay or of any money, so
as to stave off the inevitable ruin a few days longer. »Down with such
dishonesty,« says the creditor in triumph, and reviles his sinking enemy. »You
fool, why do you catch at a straw?« calm good sense says to the man that is
drowning. »You villain, why do you shrink from plunging into the irretrievable
Gazette?« says prosperity to the poor devil battling in that black gulf. Who has
not remarked the readiness with which the closest of friends and honestest of
men suspect and accuse each other of cheating when they fall out on money
matters? Everybody does it. Everybody is right, I suppose, and the world is a
rogue.
    Then Osborne had the intolerable sense of former benefits to goad and
irritate him: these are always a cause of hostility aggravated. Finally, he had
to break off the match between Sedley's daughter and his son; and as it had gone
very far indeed, and as the poor girl's happiness and perhaps character were
compromised, it was necessary to show the strongest reasons for the rupture, and
for John Osborne to prove John Sedley to be a very bad character indeed.
    At the meetings of creditors, then, he comported himself with a savageness
and scorn towards Sedley, which almost succeeded in breaking the heart of that
ruined bankrupt man. On George's intercourse with Amelia he put an instant veto
- menacing the youth with maledictions if he broke his commands, and vilipending
the poor innocent girl as the basest and most artful of vixens. One of the great
conditions of anger and hatred is, that you must tell and believe lies against
the hated object, in order, as we said, to be consistent.
    When the great crash came - the announcement of ruin, and the departure from
Russell Square, and the declaration that all was over between her and George -
all over between her and love, her and happiness, her and faith in the world - a
brutal letter from John Osborne told her in a few curt lines that her father's
conduct had been of such a nature that all engagements between the families were
at an end - when the final award came, it did not shock her so much as her
parents, as her mother rather expected (for John Sedley himself was entirely
prostrate in the ruins of his own affairs and shattered honour). Amelia took the
news very palely and calmly. It was only the confirmation of the dark presages
which had long gone before. It was the mere reading of the sentence of the crime
she had long ago been guilty - the crime of loving wrongly, too violently,
against reason. She told no more of her thoughts now than she had before. She
seemed scarcely more unhappy now when convinced all hope was over, than before
when she felt but dared not confess that it was gone. So she changed from the
large house to the small one without any mark or difference; remained in her
little room for the most part; pined silently, and died away day by day. I do
not mean to say that all females are so. My dear Miss Bullock, I do not think
your heart would break in this way. You are a strong-minded young woman with
proper principles. I do not venture to say that mine would; it has suffered,
and, it must be confessed, survived. But there are some souls thus gently
constituted, thus frail, and delicate, and tender.
    Whenever old John Sedley thought of the affair between George and Amelia, or
alluded to it, it was with bitterness almost as great as Mr. Osborne himself had
shown. He cursed Osborne and his family as heartless, wicked, and ungrateful. No
power on earth, he swore, would induce him to marry his daughter to the son of
such a villain; and he ordered Emmy to banish George from her mind, and to
return all the presents and letters which she had ever had from him.
    She promised acquiescence, and tried to obey. She put up the two or three
trinkets; and as for the letters, she drew them out of the place where she kept
them, and read them over - as if she did not know them by heart already - but
she could not part with them. That effort was too much for her; she placed them
back in her bosom again - as you have seen a woman nurse a child that is dead.
Young Amelia felt that she would die or lose her senses outright, if torn away
from this last consolation. How she used to blush and lighten up when those
letters came! How she used to trip away with a beating heart, so that she might
read unseen! If they were cold, yet how perversely this fond little soul
interpreted them into warmth. If they were short or selfish, what excuses she
found for the writer!
    It was over these few worthless papers that she brooded and brooded. She
lived in her past life - every letter seemed to recall some circumstance of it.
How well she remembered them all! His looks and tones, his dress, what he said
and how - these relics and remembrances of dead affection were all that were
left her in the world. And the business of her life, was - to watch the corpse
of Love.
    To death she looked with inexpressible longing. Then, she thought, I shall
always be able to follow him. I am not praising her conduct, or setting her up
as a model for Miss Bullock to imitate. Miss B. knows how to regulate her
feelings better than this poor little creature. Miss B. would never have
committed herself as that imprudent Amelia had done; pledged her love
irretrievably; confessed her heart away; and got back nothing - only a brittle
promise which was snapt and worthless in a moment. A long engagement is a
partnership which one party is free to keep or to break, but which involves all
the capital of the other.
    Be cautious then, young ladies; be wary how you engage. Be shy of loving
frankly; never tell all you feel - or (a better way still), feel very little.
See the consequences of being prematurely honest and confiding, and mistrust
yourselves and everybody. Get yourselves married as they do in France, where the
lawyers are the bridesmaids and confidantes. At any rate, never have any
feelings which may make you uncomfortable, or make any promises which you cannot
at any required moment command and withdraw. That is the way to get on, and be
respected, and have a virtuous character in Vanity Fair.
    If Amelia could have heard the comments regarding her which were made in the
circle from which her father's ruin had just driven her, she would have seen
what her own crimes were, and how entirely her character was jeopardized. Such
criminal imprudence Mrs. Smith never knew of; such horrid familiarities Mrs.
Brown had always condemned, and the end might be a warning to her daughters.
»Captain Osborne, of course, could not marry a bankrupt's daughter,« the Misses
Dobbin said. »It was quite enough to have been swindled by the father. As for
that little Amelia, her folly had really passed all -«
    »All what?« Captain Dobbin roared out. »Haven't they been engaged ever since
they were children? Wasn't it as good as a marriage? Dare any soul on earth
breathe a word against the sweetest, the purest, the tenderest, the most
angelical of young women?«
    »La, William, don't be so highty-tighty with us. We're not men. We can't
fight you,« Miss Jane said. »We've said nothing against Miss Sedley; but that
her conduct throughout was most imprudent, not to call it by any worse name, and
that her parents are people who certainly merit their misfortunes.«
    »Hadn't you better, now that Miss Sedley is free, propose for her yourself,
William?« Miss Ann asked sarcastically. »It would be a most eligible family
connection. He! he!«
    »I marry her!« Dobbin said, blushing very much, and talking quick. »If you
are so ready, young ladies, to chop and change, do you suppose that she is?
Laugh and sneer at that angel. She can't hear it; and she's miserable and
unfortunate, and deserves to be laughed at. Go on joking, Ann. You're the wit of
the family, and the others like to hear it.«
    »I must tell you again we're not in a barrack, William,« Miss Ann remarked.
    »In a barrack, by Jove! I wish anybody in a barrack would say what you do!«
cried out this uproused British lion. »I should like to hear a man breathe a
word against her, by Jupiter! But men don't talk in this way, Ann; it's only
women, who get together and hiss, and shriek, and cackle. There, get away -
don't begin to cry. I only said you were a couple of geese,« Will Dobbin said,
perceiving Miss Ann's pink eyes were beginning to moisten as usual. »Well,
you're not geese, you're swans - anything you like, only do, do leave Miss
Sedley alone.«
    Anything like William's infatuation about that silly little flirting, ogling
thing was never known, the mamma and sisters agreed together in thinking; and
they trembled lest, her engagement being off with Osborne, she should take up
immediately her other admirer and Captain. In which forebodings these worthy
young women no doubt judged according to the best of their experience; or rather
(for as yet they had had no opportunities of marrying or of jilting) according
to their own notions of right and wrong.
    »It is a mercy, Mamma, that the regiment is ordered abroad,« the girls said.
»This danger, at any rate, is spared our brother.«
    Such, indeed, was the fact; and so it is that the French Emperor comes in to
perform a part in this domestic comedy of Vanity Fair which we are now playing,
and which would never have been enacted without the intervention of this august
mute personage. It was he that ruined the Bourbons and Mr. John Sedley. It was
he whose arrival in his capital called up all France in arms to defend him
there, and all Europe to oust him. While the French nation and army were
swearing fidelity round the eagles in the Champ de Mars, four mighty European
hosts were getting in motion for the great chasse à l'aigle; and one of these
was a British army, of which two heroes of ours, Captain Dobbin and Captain
Osborne, formed a portion.
    The news of Napoleon's escape and landing was received by the gallant -th
with a fiery delight and enthusiasm, which everybody can understand who knows
that famous corps. From the colonel to the smallest drummer in the regiment, all
were filled with hope and ambition and patriotic fury; and thanked the French
Emperor as for a personal kindness in coming to disturb the peace of Europe. Now
was the time the -th had so long panted for, to show their comrades in arms that
they could fight as well as the Peninsular veterans, and that all the pluck and
valour of the -th had not been killed by the West Indies and the yellow fever.
Stubble and Spooney looked to get their companies without purchase. Before the
end of the campaign (which she resolved to share), Mrs. Major O'Dowd hoped to
write herself Mrs. Colonel O'Dowd, C.B. Our two friends (Dobbin and Osborne)
were quite as much excited as the rest; and each in his way - Mr. Dobbin very
quietly, Mr. Osborne very loudly and energetically - was bent upon doing his
duty, and gaining his share of honour and distinction.
    The agitation thrilling through the country and army in consequence of this
news was so great, that private matters were little heeded; and hence probably
George Osborne, just gazetted to his company, busy with preparations for the
march, which must come inevitably, and panting for further promotion, was not so
much affected by other incidents which would have interested him at a more quiet
period. He was not, it must be confessed, very much cast down by good old Mr.
Sedley's catastrophe. He tried his new uniform, which became him very
handsomely, on the day when the first meeting of the creditors of the
unfortunate gentleman took place. His father told him of the wicked, rascally,
shameful conduct of the bankrupt, reminded him of what he had said about Amelia,
and that their connection was broken off for ever; and gave him that evening a
good sum of money to pay for the new clothes and epaulets in which he looked so
well. Money was always useful to this free-handed young fellow, and he took it
without many words. The bills were up in the Sedley house, where he had passed
so many, many happy hours. He could see them as he walked from home that night
(to the Old Slaughters', where he put up when in town) shining white in the
moon. That comfortable home was shut then, upon Amelia and her parents: where
had they taken refuge? The thought of their ruin affected him not a little. He
was very melancholy that night in the coffee-room at the Slaughters'; and drank
a good deal, as his comrades remarked there.
    Dobbin came in presently, cautioned him about the drink - which he only
took, he said, because he was deuced low; but when his friend began to put to
him clumsy inquiries, and asked him for news in a significant manner, Osborne
declined entering into conversation with him; avowing, however, that he was
devilish disturbed and unhappy.
    Three days afterwards, Dobbin found Osborne in his room at the barracks -
his head on the table, a number of papers about, the young Captain evidently in
a state of great despondency. »She - she's sent me back some things I gave her -
some damned trinkets. Look here!« There was a little packet directed in the
well-known hand to Captain George Osborne, and some things lying about - a ring,
a silver knife he had bought, as a boy, for her at a fair; a gold chain, and a
locket with hair in it. »It's all over,« said he, with a groan of sickening
remorse. »Look, Will, you may read it if you like.«
    There was a little letter of a few lines, to which he pointed, which said: -
 
        »My papa has ordered me to return to you these presents, which you made
        in happier days to me; and I am to write to you for the last time. I
        think, I know you feel as much as I do the blow which has come upon us.
        It is I that absolve you from an engagement which is impossible in our
        present misery. I am sure you had no share in it, or in the cruel
        suspicions of Mr. Osborne, which are the hardest of all our griefs to
        bear. Farewell. Farewell. I pray God to strengthen me to bear this and
        other calamities, and to bless you always.
                                                                              A.
        I shall often play upon the piano - your piano. It was like you to send
        it.«
 
Dobbin was very soft-hearted. The sight of women and children in pain always
used to melt him. The idea of Amelia broken-hearted and lonely tore that
good-natured soul with anguish. And he broke out into an emotion, which anybody
who likes may consider unmanly. He swore that Amelia was an angel, to which
Osborne said aye with all his heart. He, too, had been reviewing the history of
their lives - and had seen her from her childhood to her present age, so sweet,
so innocent, so charmingly simple, and artlessly fond and tender.
    What a pang it was to lose all that - to have had it and not prized it! A
thousand homely scenes and recollections crowded on him - in which he always saw
her good and beautiful. And for himself, he blushed with remorse and shame, as
the remembrance of his own selfishness and indifference contrasted with that
perfect purity. For a while, glory, war, everything was forgotten, and the pair
of friends talked about her only.
    »Where are they?« Osborne asked, after a long talk, and a long pause, - and,
in truth, with no little shame at thinking that he had taken no steps to follow
her. »Where are they? There's no address to the note.«
    Dobbin knew. He had not merely sent the piano, but had written a note to
Mrs. Sedley, and asked permission to come and see her. And he had seen her, and
Amelia too, yesterday, before he came down to Chatham; and, what is more, he had
brought that farewell letter and packet which had so moved him.
    The good-natured fellow had found Mrs. Sedley only too willing to receive
him, and greatly agitated by the arrival of the piano, which, as she
conjectured, must have come from George, and was a signal of amity on his part.
Captain Dobbin did not correct this error of the worthy lady, but listened to
all her story of complaints and misfortunes with great sympathy - condoled with
her losses and privations, and agreed in reprehending the cruel conduct of Mr.
Osborne towards his first benefactor. When she had eased her overflowing bosom
somewhat, and poured forth many of her sorrows, he had the courage to ask
actually to see Amelia, who was above in her room as usual, and whom her mother
led trembling downstairs.
    Her appearance was so ghastly, and her look of despair so pathetic, that
honest William Dobbin was frightened as he beheld it, and read the most fatal
forebodings in that pale fixed face. After sitting in his company a minute or
two, she put the packet into his hand, and said, »Take this to Captain Osborne,
if you please, and - and I hope he's quite well - and it was very kind of you to
come and see us - and we like our new house very much. And I - I think I'll go
upstairs, Mamma, for I'm not very strong.« And with this, and a curtsy and a
smile, the poor child went her way. The mother, as she led her up, cast back
looks of anguish towards Dobbin. The good fellow wanted no such appeal. He loved
her himself too fondly for that. Inexpressible grief, and pity, and terror
pursued him, and he came away as if he was a criminal after seeing her.
    When Osborne heard that his friend had found her, he made hot and anxious
inquiries regarding the poor child. How was she? How did she look? What did she
say? His comrade took his hand, and looked him in the face.
    »George, she's dying,« William Dobbin said, and could speak no more.
    There was a buxom Irish servant-girl, who performed all the duties of the
little house where the Sedley family had found refuge; and this girl had in
vain, on many previous days, striven to give Amelia aid or consolation. Emmy was
much too sad to answer, or even to be aware of the attempts the other was making
in her favour.
    Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne, this servant-maid came
into Amelia's room, where she sat as usual, brooding silently over her letters -
her little treasures. The girl, smiling, and looking arch and happy, made many
trials to attract poor Emmy's attention, who, however, took no heed of her.
    »Miss Emmy,« said the girl.
    »I'm coming,« Emmy said, not looking round.
    »There's a message,« the maid went on. »There's something - somebody - sure,
here's a new letter for you - don't be reading them old ones any more.« And she
gave her a letter, which Emmy took, and read.
    »I must see you,« the letter said. »Dearest Emmy - dearest love - dearest
wife, come to me.«
    George and her mother were outside, waiting until she had read the letter.
 

                                  Chapter XIX

                             Miss Crawley at Nurse.

We have seen how Mrs. Firkin, the lady's-maid, as soon as any event of
importance to the Crawley family came to her knowledge, felt bound to
communicate it to Mrs. Bute Crawley, at the Rectory; and have before mentioned
how particularly kind and attentive that good-natured lady was to Miss Crawley's
confidential servant. She had been a gracious friend to Miss Briggs, the
companion, also; and had secured the latter's good-will by a number of those
attentions and promises which cost so little in the making, and are yet so
valuable and agreeable to the recipient. Indeed, every good economist and
manager of a household must know how cheap and yet how amiable these professions
are, and what a flavour they give to the most homely dish in life. Who was the
blundering idiot who said that »fine words butter no parsnips«? Half the
parsnips in society are served and rendered palatable with no other sauce. As
the immortal Alexis Soyer can make more delicious soup for a halfpenny than an
ignorant cook can concoct with pounds of vegetables and meat, so a skilful
artist will make a few simple and pleasing phrases go further than ever so much
substantial benefit-stock in the hands of a mere bungler. Nay, we know that
substantial benefits often sicken some stomachs; whereas, most will digest any
amount of fine words, and be always eager for more of the same food. Mrs. Bute
had told Briggs and Firkin so often of the depth of her affection for them, and
what she would do if she had Miss Crawley's fortune for friends so excellent and
attached, that the ladies in question had the deepest regard for her, and felt
as much gratitude and confidence as if Mrs. Bute had loaded them with the most
expensive favours.
    Rawdon Crawley, on the other hand, like a selfish heavy dragoon as he was,
never took the least trouble to conciliate his aunt's aides-de-camp - showed his
contempt for the pair with entire frankness - made Firkin pull off his boots on
one occasion, sent her out in the rain on ignominious messages, and if he gave
her a guinea, flung it to her as if it were a box on the ear. As his aunt, too,
made a butt of Briggs, the Captain followed the example, and levelled his jokes
at her - jokes about as delicate as a kick from his charger. Whereas, Mrs. Bute
consulted her in matters of taste or difficulty, admired her poetry, and by a
thousand acts of kindness and politeness showed her appreciation of Briggs; and
if she made Firkin a twopence-halfpenny present, accompanied it with so many
compliments that the twopence-halfpenny was transmuted info gold in the heart of
the grateful waiting-maid, who, besides, was looking forwards quite contentedly
to some prodigious benefit which must happen to her on the day when Mrs. Bute
came into her fortune.
    The different conduct of these two people is pointed out respectfully to the
attention of persons commencing the world. Praise everybody, I say to such;
never be squeamish, but speak out your compliment both point-blank in a man's
face, and behind his back, when you know there is a reasonable chance of his
hearing it again. Never lose a chance of saying a kind word. As Collingwood
never saw a vacant place in his estate but he took an acorn out of his pocket
and popped it in; so deal with your compliments through life. An acorn costs
nothing, but it may sprout into a prodigious bit of timber.
    In a word, during Rawdon Crawley's prosperity, he was only obeyed with sulky
acquiescence; when his disgrace came, there was nobody to help or pity him.
Whereas, when Mrs. Bute took the command at Miss Crawley's house, the garrison
there were charmed to act under such a leader, expecting all sorts of promotion
from her promises, her generosity, and her kind words.
    That he would consider himself beaten, after one defeat, and make no attempt
to regain the position he had lost, Mrs. Bute Crawley never allowed herself to
suppose. She knew Rebecca to be too clever, and spirited, and desperate a woman
to submit without a struggle; and felt that she must prepare for that combat,
and be incessantly watchful against assault, or mine, or surprise.
    In the first place, though she held the town, was she sure of the principal
inhabitant? Would Miss Crawley herself hold out; and had she not a secret
longing to welcome back the ousted adversary? The old lady liked Rawdon, and
Rebecca, who amused her. Mrs. Bute could not disguise from herself the fact that
none of her party could so contribute to the pleasures of the town-bred lady.
»My girls' singing, after that little odious governess's, I know, is
unbearable,« the candid Rector's wife owned to herself. »She always used to go
to sleep when Martha and Louisa played their duets. Jim's stiff college manners,
and poor dear Bute's talk about his dogs and horses, always annoyed her. If I
took her to the Rectory, she would grow angry with us all, and fly, I know she
would; and might fall into that horrid Rawdon's clutches again, and be the
victim of that little viper of a Sharp. Meanwhile, it is clear to me that she is
exceedingly unwell, and cannot move for some weeks, at any rate; during which we
must think of some plan to protect her from the arts of those unprincipled
people.«
    In the very best of moments, if anybody told Miss Crawley that she was, or
looked ill, the trembling old lady sent off for her doctor; and I daresay she
was very unwell after the sudden family event, which might serve to shake
stronger nerves than hers. At least, Mrs. Bute thought it was her duty to inform
the physician, and the apothecary, and the dame de compagnie, and the domestics,
that Miss Crawley was in a most critical state, and that they were to act
accordingly. She had the street laid knee-deep with straw, and the knocker put
by with Mr. Bowls's plate. She insisted that the doctor should call twice a day;
and deluged her patient with draughts every two hours. When anybody entered the
room, she uttered a shshshsh so sibilant and ominous that it frightened the poor
old lady in her bed, from which she could not look without seeing Mrs. Bute's
beady eyes eagerly fixed on her, as the latter sate steadfast in the arm-chair
by the bedside. They seemed to lighten in the dark (for she kept the curtains
closed) as she moved about the room on velvet paws like a cat. There Miss
Crawley lay for days - ever so many days - Mrs. Bute reading books of devotion
to her: for nights, long nights, during which she had to hear the watchman sing,
the night-light sputter; visited at midnight, the last thing, by the stealthy
apothecary; and then left to look at Mrs. Bute's twinkling eyes, or the flicks
of yellow that the rushlight threw on the dreary darkened ceiling. Hygeia
herself would have fallen sick under such a regimen, and how much more this poor
old nervous victim? It has been said that when she was in health and good
spirits, this venerable inhabitant of Vanity Fair had as free notions about
religion and morals as Monsieur de Voltaire himself could desire; but when
illness overtook her, it was aggravated by the most dreadful terrors of death,
and an utter cowardice took possession of the prostrate old sinner.
    Sick-bed homilies and pious reflections are, to be sure, out of place in
mere story-books, and we are not going (after the fashion of some novelists of
the present day) to cajole the public into a sermon, when it is only a comedy
that the reader pays his money to witness. But, without preaching, the truth may
surely be borne in mind, that the bustle, and triumph, and laughter, and gaiety
which Vanity Fair exhibits in public, do not always pursue the performer into
private life, and that the most dreary depression of spirits and dismal
repentances sometimes overcome him. Recollection of the best ordained banquets
will scarcely cheer sick epicures. Reminiscences of the most becoming dresses
and brilliant ball-triumphs will go very little way to console faded beauties.
Perhaps statesmen, at a particular period of existence, are not much gratified
at thinking over the most triumphant divisions; and the success or the pleasure
of yesterday becomes of very small account when a certain (albeit uncertain)
morrow is in view, about which all of us must some day or other be speculating.
O brother wearers of motley! are there not moments when one grows sick of
grinning and tumbling, and the jingling of cap and bells? This, dear friends and
companions, is my amiable object - to walk with you through the Fair, to examine
the shops and the shows there; and that we should all come home after the flare,
and the noise, and the gaiety, and be perfectly miserable in private.
 
»If that poor man of mine had a head on his shoulders,« Mrs. Bute Crawley
thought to herself, »how useful he might be, under present circumstances, to
this unhappy old lady! He might make her repent of her shocking free-thinking
ways; he might urge her to do her duty, and cast off that odious reprobate who
has disgraced himself and his family; and he might induce her to do justice to
my dear girls and the two boys, who require and deserve, I am sure, every
assistance which their relatives can give them.«
    And, as the hatred of vice is always a progress towards virtue, Mrs. Bute
Crawley endeavoured to instil into her sister-in-law a proper abhorrence for all
Rawdon Crawley's manifold sins; of which his uncle's wife brought forward such a
catalogue as indeed would have served to condemn a whole regiment of young
officers. If a man has committed wrong in life, I don't know any moralist more
anxious to point his errors out to the world than his own relations; so Mrs.
Bute showed a perfect family interest and knowledge of Rawdon's history. She had
all the particulars of that ugly quarrel with Captain Marker, in which Rawdon,
wrong from the beginning, ended in shooting the Captain. She knew how the
unhappy Lord Dovedale, whose mamma had taken a house at Oxford so that he might
be educated there, and who had never touched a card in his life till he came to
London, was perverted by Rawdon at the Cocoa-Tree, made helplessly tipsy by this
abominable seducer and perverter of youth, and fleeced of four thousand pounds.
She described with the most vivid minuteness the agonies of the country families
whom he had ruined - the sons whom he had plunged into dishonour and poverty -
the daughters whom he had inveigled into perdition. She knew the poor tradesmen
who were bankrupt by his extravagance - the mean shifts and rogueries with which
he had ministered to it - the astounding falsehoods by which he had imposed upon
the most generous of aunts, and the ingratitude and ridicule by which he had
repaid her sacrifices. She imparted these stories gradually to Miss Crawley;
gave her the whole benefit of them; felt it to be her bounden duty as a
Christian woman and mother of a family to do so; had not the smallest remorse or
compunction for the victim whom her tongue was immolating; nay, very likely
thought her act was quite meritorious, and plumed herself upon her resolute
manner of performing it. Yes, if a man's character is to be abused, say what you
will, there's nobody like a relation to do the business. And one is bound to
own, regarding this unfortunate wretch of a Rawdon Crawley, that the mere truth
was enough to condemn him, and that all inventions of scandal were quite
superfluous pains on his friends' parts.
    Rebecca, too, being now a relative, came in for the fullest share of Mrs.
Bute's kind inquiries. This indefatigable pursuer of truth (having given strict
orders that the door was to be denied to all emissaries or letters from Rawdon),
took Miss Crawley's carriage, and drove to her old friend Miss Pinkerton, at
Minerva House, Chiswick Mall, to whom she announced the dreadful intelligence of
Captain Rawdon's seduction by Miss Sharp, and from whom she got sundry strange
particulars regarding the ex-governess's birth and early history. The friend of
the Lexicographer had plenty of information to give. Miss Jemima was made to
fetch the drawing-master's receipts and letters. This one was from a
spunging-house; that entreated an advance; another was full of gratitude for
Rebecca's reception by the ladies of Chiswick; and the last document from the
unlucky artist's pen was that in which, from his dying bed, he recommended his
orphan child to Miss Pinkerton's protection. There were juvenile letters and
petitions from Rebecca, too, in the collection, imploring aid for her father, or
declaring her own gratitude. Perhaps in Vanity Fair there are no better satires
than letters. Take a bundle of your dear friend's of ten years back - your dear
friend whom you hate now. Look at a file of your sister's! how you clung to each
other till you quarrelled about the twenty-pound legacy! Get down the round-hand
scrawls of your son who has half broken your heart with selfish undutifulness
since; or a parcel of your own, breathing endless ardour and love eternal, which
were sent back by your mistress when she married the Nabob - your mistress for
whom you now care no more than for Queen Elizabeth. Vows, love, promises,
confidences, gratitude, how queerly they read after a while! There ought to be a
law in Vanity Fair ordering the destruction of every written document (except
receipted tradesmen's bills) after a certain brief and proper interval. Those
quacks and misanthropes who advertise indelible Japan ink should be made to
perish along with their wicked discoveries. The best ink for Vanity Fair use
would be one that faded utterly in a couple of days, and left the paper clean
and blank, so that you might write on it to somebody else.
    From Miss Pinkerton's the indefatigable Mrs. Bute followed the track of
Sharp and his daughter back to the lodgings in Greek Street, which the defunct
painter had occupied; and where portraits of the landlady in white satin, and of
the husband in brass buttons, done by Sharp in lieu of a quarter's rent, still
decorated the parlour walls. Mrs. Stokes was a communicative person, and quickly
told all she knew about Mr. Sharp: how dissolute and poor he was; how good--
natured and amusing; how he was always hunted by bailiffs and duns; how, to the
landlady's horror, though she never could abide the woman, he did not marry his
wife till a short time before her death; and what a queer little wild vixen his
daughter was; how she kept them all laughing with her fun and mimicry; how she
used to fetch the gin from the public-house, and was known in all the studios in
the quarter: in brief, Mrs. Bute got such a full account of her new niece's
parentage, education, and behaviour as would scarcely have pleased Rebecca, had
the latter known that such inquiries were being made concerning her.
    Of all these industrious researches Miss Crawley had the full benefit. Mrs.
Rawdon Crawley was the daughter of an opera-girl. She had danced herself. She
had been a model to the painters. She was brought up as became her mother's
daughter. She drank gin with her father, etc., etc. It was a lost woman who was
married to a lost man; and the moral to be inferred from Mrs. Bute's tale was,
that the knavery of the pair was irremediable, and that no properly-conducted
person should ever notice them again.
    These were the materials which prudent Mrs. Bute gathered together in Park
Lane - the provisions and ammunition, as it were, with which she fortified the
house against the siege which she knew that Rawdon and his wife would lay to
Miss Crawley.
 
But if a fault may be found with her arrangements, it is this, that she was too
eager; she managed rather too well; undoubtedly she made Miss Crawley more ill
than was necessary; and though the old invalid succumbed to her authority, it
was so harassing and severe that the victim would be inclined to escape at the
very first chance which fell in her way. Managing women, the ornaments of their
sex - women who order everything for everybody, and know so much better than any
person concerned what is good for their neighbours - don't sometimes speculate
upon the possibility of a domestic revolt, or upon other extreme consequences
resulting from their overstrained authority.
    Thus, for instance, Mrs. Bute, with the best intentions no doubt in the
world, and wearing herself to death as she did by foregoing sleep, dinner, fresh
air, for the sake of her invalid sister-in-law, carried her conviction of the
old lady's illness so far that she almost managed her into her coffin. She
pointed out her sacrifices and their results one day to the constant apothecary,
Mr. Clump.
    »I am sure, my dear Mr. Clump,« she said, »no efforts of mine have been
wanting to restore our dear invalid, whom the ingratitude of her nephew has laid
on the bed of sickness. I never shrink from personal discomfort; I never refuse
to sacrifice myself.«
    »Your devotion, it must be confessed, is admirable,« Mr. Clump says, with a
low bow; »but -«
    »I have scarcely closed my eyes since my arrival; I give up sleep, health,
every comfort, to my sense of duty. When my poor James was in the small-pox, did
I allow any hireling to nurse him? No.«
    »You did what became an excellent mother, my dear Madam - the best of
mothers; but -«
    »As the mother of a family and the wife of an English clergyman, I humbly
trust that my principles are good,« Mrs. Bute said, with a happy solemnity of
conviction; »and, as long as Nature supports me, never, never, Mr. Clump, will I
desert the post of duty. Others may bring that grey head with sorrow to the bed
of sickness« (here Mrs. Bute, waving her hand, pointed to one of old Miss
Crawley's coffee-coloured fronts, which was perched on a stand in the
dressing-room), »but I will never quit it. Ah, Mr. Clump! I fear, I know, that
that couch needs spiritual as well as medical consolation.«
    »What I was going to observe, my dear Madam,« - here the resolute Clump once
more interposed with a bland air, - »what I was going to observe when you gave
utterance to sentiments which do you so much honour, was that I think you alarm
yourself needlessly about our kind friend, and sacrifice your own health too
prodigally in her favour.«
    »I would lay down my life for my duty, or for any member of my husband's
family,« Mrs. Bute interposed.
    »Yes, Madam, if need were; but we don't want Mrs. Bute Crawley to be a
martyr,« Clump said gallantly. »Dr. Squills and myself have both considered Miss
Crawley's case with every anxiety and care, as you may suppose. We see her
low-spirited and nervous; family events have agitated her.«
    »Her nephew will come to perdition,« Mrs. Crawley cried.
    »Have agitated her: and you arrived like a guardian angel, my dear Madam, a
positive guardian angel, I assure you, to soothe her under the pressure of
calamity. But Dr. Squills and I were thinking that our amiable friend is not in
such a state as renders confinement to her bed necessary. She is depressed, but
this confinement perhaps adds to her depression. She should have change, fresh
air, gaiety; the most delightful remedies in the pharmacopoeia,« Mr. Clump said,
grinning and showing his handsome teeth. »Persuade her to rise, dear Madam; drag
her from her couch and her low spirits; insist upon her taking little drives.
They will restore the roses, too, to your cheeks, if I may so speak to Mrs. Bute
Crawley.«
    »The sight of her horrid nephew casually in the Park, where I am told the
wretch drives with the brazen partner of his crimes,« Mrs. Bute said (letting
the cat of selfishness out of the bag of secrecy), »would cause her such a shock
that we should have to bring her back to bed again. She must not go out, Mr.
Clump. She shall not go out as long as I remain to watch over her. And as for my
health, what matters it? I give it cheerfully, sir. I sacrifice it at the altar
of my duty.«
    »Upon my word, Madam,« Mr. Chump now said bluntly, »I won't answer for her
life if she remains locked up in that dark room. She is so nervous that we may
lose her any day; and if you wish Captain Crawley to be her heir, I warn you
frankly, Madam, that you are doing your very best to serve him.«
    »Gracious mercy! is her life danger?« Mrs. Bute cried. »Why, why, Mr. Clump,
did you not inform me sooner?«
    The night before, Mr. Clump and Dr. Squills had had a consultation (over a
bottle of wine at the house of Sir Lapin Warren, whose lady was about to present
him with a thirteenth blessing) regarding Miss Crawley and her case.
    »What a little harpy that woman from Hampshire is, Clump,« Squills remarked,
»that has seized upon old Tilly Crawley. Devilish good Madeira.«
    »What a fool Rawdon Crawley has been,« Clump replied, »to go and marry a
governess! There was something about the girl too.«
    »Green eyes, fair skin, pretty figure, famous frontal development,« Squills
remarked. »There is something about her; and Crawley was a fool, Squills.«
    »A d-- fool - always was,« the apothecary replied.
    »Of course the old girl will fling him over,« said the physician; and after
a pause added, »She'll cut up well, I suppose.«
    »Cut up,« says Clump with a grin; »I wouldn't have her cut up for two
hundred a year.«
    »That Hampshire woman will kill her in two months, Clump, my boy, if she
stops about her,« Dr. Squills said. »Old woman; full feeder; nervous subject;
palpitation of the heart; pressure on the brain; apoplexy; off she goes. Get her
up, Clump; get her out; or I wouldn't give many weeks' purchase for your two
hundred a year.« And it was acting upon this hint that the worthy apothecary
spoke with so much candour to Mrs. Bute Crawley.
    Having the old lady under her hand, in bed, with nobody near, Mrs. Bute had
made more than one assault upon her, to induce her to alter her will. But Miss
Crawley's usual terrors regarding death increased greatly when such dismal
propositions were made to her, and Mrs. Bute saw that she must get her patient
into cheerful spirits and health before she could hope to attain the pious
object which she had in view. Whither to take her was the next puzzle. The only
place where she is not likely to meet those odious Rawdons is at church, and
that won't amuse her, Mrs. Bute justly felt. »We must go and visit our beautiful
suburbs of London,« she then thought. »I hear they are the most picturesque in
the world;« and so she had a sudden interest for Hampstead and Hornsey, and
found that Dulwich had great charms for her, and getting her victim into her
carriage, drove her to those rustic spots, beguiling the little journeys with
conversations about Rawdon and his wife, and telling every story to the old lady
which could add to her indignation against this pair of reprobates.
    Perhaps Mrs. Bute pulled the string unnecessarily tight; for though she
worked up Miss Crawley to a proper dislike of her disobedient nephew, the
invalid had a great hatred and secret terror of her victimizer, and panted to
escape from her. After a brief space, she rebelled against Highgate and Hornsey
utterly. She would go into the Park. Mrs. Bute knew they would meet the
abominable Rawdon there, and she was right. One day in the ring, Rawdon's
stanhope came in sight; Rebecca was seated by him. In the enemy's equipage Miss
Crawley occupied her usual place, with Mrs. Bute on her left, the poodle and
Miss Briggs on the back seat. It was a nervous moment, and Rebecca's heart beat
quick as she recognized the carriage; and as the two vehicles crossed each other
in a line, she clasped her hands, and looked towards the spinster with a face of
agonized attachment and devotion. Rawdon himself trembled, and his face grew
purple behind his dyed mustachios. Only old Briggs was moved in the other
carriage, and cast her great eyes nervously towards her old friends. Miss
Crawley's bonnet was resolutely turned towards the Serpentine. Mrs. Bute
happened to be in ecstasies with the poodle, and was calling him a little
darling, and a sweet little zoggy, and a pretty pet. The carriages moved on,
each in his line.
    »Done, by Jove!« Rawdon said to his wife.
    »Try once more, Rawdon,« Rebecca answered. »Could not you lock your wheels
into theirs, dearest?«
    Rawdon had not the heart for that manoeuvre. When the carriages met again,
he stood up in his stanhope; he raised his hand ready to doff his hat; he looked
with all his eyes. But this time Miss Crawley's face was not turned away; she
and Mrs. Bute looked him full in the face, and cut their nephew pitilessly. He
sank back in his seat with an oath, and, striking out of the ring, dashed away
desperately home-wards.
    It was a gallant and decided triumph for Mrs. Bute. But she felt the danger
of many such meetings, as she saw the evident nervousness of Miss Crawley; and
she determined that it was most necessary for her dear friend's health that they
should leave town for a while, and recommended Brighton very strongly.
 

                                   Chapter XX

            In which Captain Dobbin Acts as the Messenger of Hymen.

Without knowing how, Captain William Dobbin found himself the great promoter,
arranger, and manager of the match between George Osborne and Amelia. But for
him it never would have taken place. He could not but confess as much to
himself, and smiled rather bitterly as he thought that he of all men in the
world should be the person upon whom the care of this marriage had fallen. But
though indeed the conducting of this negotiation was about as painful a task as
could be set to him, yet when he had a duty to perform, Captain Dobbin was
accustomed to go through it without many words or much hesitation; and, having
made up his mind completely that if Miss Sedley was balked of her husband she
would die of the disappointment, he was determined to use all his best
endeavours to keep her alive.
    I forbear to enter into minute particulars of the interview between George
and Amelia, when the former was brought back to the feet (or should we venture
to say the arms?) of his young mistress by the intervention of his friend,
honest William. A much harder heart than George's would have melted at the sight
of that sweet face so sadly ravished by grief and despair, and at the simple,
tender accents in which she told her little broken-hearted story; but as she did
not faint when her mother, trembling, brought Osborne to her, and as she only
gave relief to her overcharged grief by laying her head on her lover's shoulders
and there weeping for a while the most tender, copious, and refreshing tears -
old Mrs. Sedley, too greatly relieved, thought it was best to leave the young
persons to themselves, and so quitted Emmy crying over George's hand, and
kissing it humbly, as if he were her supreme chief and master, and as if she
were quite a guilty and unworthy person needing every favour and grace from him.
    This prostration and sweet unrepining obedience exquisitely touched and
flattered George Osborne. He saw a slave before him in that simple, yielding,
faithful creature, and his soul within him thrilled secretly somehow at the
knowledge of his power. He would be generous-minded, Sultan as he was, and raise
up this kneeling Esther and make a queen of her. Besides, her sadness and beauty
touched him as much as her submission; and so he cheered her, and raised her up,
and forgave her, so to speak. All her hopes and feelings, which were dying and
withering, this her sun having been removed from her, bloomed again and at once,
its light being restored. You would scarcely have recognized the beaming little
face upon Amelia's pillow that night as the one that was laid there the night
before, so wan, so lifeless, so careless of all round about. The honest Irish
maid-servant, delighted with the change, asked leave to kiss the face that had
grown all of a sudden so rosy. Amelia put her arms round the girl's neck, and
kissed her with all her heart, like a child. She was little more. She had that
night a sweet, refreshing sleep, like one; and what a spring of inexpressible
happiness as she woke in the morning sunshine!
    »He will be here again to-day,« Amelia thought. »He is the greatest and best
of men.« And the fact is, that George thought he was one of the generousest
creatures alive, and that he was making a tremendous sacrifice in marrying this
young creature.
    While she and Osborne were having their delightful tête-à-tête above stairs,
old Mrs. Sedley and Captain Dobbin were conversing below upon the state of the
affairs, and the chances and future arrangements of the young people. Mrs.
Sedley having brought the two lovers together, and left them embracing each
other with all their might, like a true woman, was of opinion that no power on
earth would induce Mr. Sedley to consent to the match between his daughter and
the son of a man who had so shamefully, wickedly, and monstrously treated him.
And she told a long story about happier days and their earlier splendours, when
Osborne lived in a very humble way in the New Road, and his wife was too glad to
receive some of Jos's little baby things, with which Mrs. Sedley accommodated
her at the birth of one of Osborne's own children. The fiendish ingratitude of
that man, she was sure, had broken Mr. S.'s heart; and as for a marriage, he
would never, never, never, never consent.
    »They must run away together, Ma'am,« Dobbin said, laughing, »and follow the
example of Captain Rawdon Crawley and Miss Emmy's friend, the little governess.«
Was it possible? Well, she never! Mrs. Sedley was all excitement about this
news. She wished that Blenkinsop were here to hear it: Blenkinsop always
mistrusted that Miss Sharp. - What an escape Jos had had! and she described the
already well-known love-passages between Rebecca and the Collector of Boggley
Wollah.
    It was not, however, Mr. Sedley's wrath which Dobbin feared, so much as that
of the other parent concerned, and he owned that he had a very considerable
doubt and anxiety respecting the behaviour of the black-browed old tyrant of a
Russia merchant in Russell Square. He has forbidden the match peremptorily,
Dobbin thought. He knew what a savage, determined man Osborne was, and how he
stuck by his word. »The only chance George has of reconcilement,« argued his
friend, »is by distinguishing himself in the coming campaign. If he dies, they
both go together. If he fails in distinction - what then? He has some money from
his mother, I have heard - enough to purchase his majority; or he must sell out
and go and dig in Canada, or rough it in a cottage in the country.« With such a
partner, Dobbin thought he would not mind Siberia; and, strange to say, this
absurd and utterly imprudent young fellow never for a moment considered that the
want of means to keep a nice carriage and horses, and of an income which should
enable its possessors to entertain their friends genteelly, ought to operate as
bars to the union of George and Miss Sedley.
    It was these weighty considerations which made him think, too, that the
marriage should take place as quickly as possible. Was he anxious himself, I
wonder, to have it over? - as people, when death has occurred, like to press
forward the funeral, or when a parting is resolved upon, hasten it. It is
certain that Mr. Dobbin, having taken the matter in hand, was most
extraordinarily eager in the conduct of it. He urged on George the necessity of
immediate action; he showed the chances of reconciliation with his father which
a favourable mention of his name in the Gazette must bring about. If need were,
he would go himself and brave both the fathers in the business. At all events,
he besought George to go through with it before the orders came, which everybody
expected, for the departure of the regiment from England on foreign service.
    Bent upon these hymeneal projects, and with the applause and consent of Mrs.
Sedley, who did not care to break the matter personally to her husband, Mr.
Dobbin went to seek John Sedley at his house of call in the City, the Tapioca
Coffee-House, where, since his own offices were shut up, and fate had overtaken
him, the poor, broken-down old gentleman used to betake himself daily, and write
letters and receive them, and tie them up into mysterious bundles, several of
which he carried in the flaps of his coat. I don't know anything more dismal
than that business and bustle and mystery of a ruined man: those letters from
the wealthy which he shows you; those worn greasy documents, promising support
and offering condolence, which he places wistfully before you, and on which he
builds his hopes of restoration and future fortune. My beloved reader has no
doubt, in the course of his experience, been waylaid by many such a luckless
companion. He takes you into the corner; he has his bundle of papers out of his
gaping coat-pocket, and the tape off, and the string in his mouth, and the
favourite letters selected and laid before you: and who does not know the sad,
eager, half-crazy look which he fixes on you with his hopeless eyes?
    Changed into a man of this sort, Dobbin found the once florid, jovial, and
prosperous John Sedley. His coat, that used to be so glossy and trim, was white
at the seams, and the buttons showed the copper. His face had fallen in, and was
unshorn; his frill and neckcloth hung limp under his bagging waistcoat. When he
used to treat the boys in old days at a coffee-house, he would shout and laugh
louder than anybody there, and have all the waiters skipping round him: it was
quite painful to see how humble and civil he was to John of the Tapioca, a
blear-eyed old attendant in dingy stockings and cracked pumps, whose business it
was to serve glasses of wafers, and bumpers of ink in pewter, and slices of
paper to the frequenters of this dreary house of entertainment, where nothing
else seemed to be consumed. As for William Dobbin, whom he had tipped repeatedly
in his youth, and who had been the old gentleman's butt on a thousand occasions,
old Sedley gave his hand to him in a very hesitating, humble manner now, and
called him Sir. A feeling of shame and remorse took possession of William Dobbin
as the broken old man so received and addressed him, as if he himself had been
somehow guilty of the misfortunes which had brought Sedley so low.
    »I am very glad to see you, Captain Dobbin, sir,« says he, after a skulking
look or two at his visitor (whose lanky figure and military appearance caused
some excitement likewise to twinkle in the blear eyes of the waiter in the
cracked dancing-pumps, and awakened the old lady in black who dozed among the
mouldy old coffee-cups in the bar). »How is the worthy alderman, and my lady,
your excellent mother, sir?« He looked round at the waiter as he said »My lady,«
as much as to say, »Hark ye, John, I have friends still, and persons of rank and
reputation, too.« »Are you come to do anything in my way, sir? My young friends
Dale &amp; Spiggot do all my business for me now, until my new offices are
ready; for I'm only here temporarily, you know, Captain. What can we do for you,
sir? Will you like to take anything?«
    Dobbin, with a great deal of hesitation and stuttering, protested that he
was not in the least hungry or thirsty; that he had no business to transact;
that he only came to ask if Mr. Sedley was well, and to shake hands with an old
friend; and, he added, with a desperate perversion of truth, »My mother is very
well - that is, she's been very unwell, and is only waiting for the first fine
day to go out and call upon Mrs. Sedley. How is Mrs. Sedley, sir? I hope she's
quite well.« And here he paused, reflecting on his own consummate hypocrisy; for
the day was as fine and the sunshine as bright as it ever is in Coffin Court,
where the Tapioca Coffee-House is situated; and Mr. Dobbin remembered that he
had seen Mrs. Sedley himself only an hour before, having driven Osborne down to
Fulham in his gig, and left him there tête-à-tête with Miss Amelia.
    »My wife will be very happy to see her ladyship,« Sedley replied, pulling
out his papers. »I've a very kind letter here from your father, sir, and beg my
respectful compliments to him. Lady D. will find us in rather a smaller house
than we were accustomed to receive our friends in; but it's snug, and the change
of air does good to my daughter, who was suffering in town rather - you remember
little Emmy, sir? - yes, suffering a good deal.« The old gentleman's eyes were
wandering as he spoke, and he was thinking of something else, as he sate
thrumming on his papers and fumbling at the worn red tape.
    »You're a military man,« he went on: »I ask you, Bill Dobbins, could any man
ever have speculated upon the return of that Corsican scoundrel from Elba? When
the allied sovereigns were here last year, and we gave 'em that dinner in the
City, sir, and we saw the Temple of Concord, and the fireworks, and the Chinese
bridge in St. James's Park, could any sensible man suppose that peace wasn't't
really concluded, after we'd actually sung Te Deum for it, sir? I ask you,
William, could I suppose that the Emperor of Austria was a damned traitor - a
traitor, and nothing more? I don't mince words - a double-faced infernal traitor
and schemer, who meant to have his son-in-law back all along. And I say that the
escape of Boney from Elba was a damned imposition and plot, sir, in which half
the powers of Europe were concerned, to bring the funds down, and to ruin this
country. That's why I'm here, William. That's why my name's in the Gazette. Why,
sir? - because I trusted the Emperor of Russia and the Prince Regent. Look here.
Look at my papers. Look what the funds were on the 1st of March - what the
French fives were when I bought for the account. And what they're at now. There
was collusion, sir, or that villain never would have escaped. Where was the
English Commissioner who allowed him to get away? He ought to be shot, sir -
brought to a court-martial, and shot, by Jove.«
    »We're going to hunt Boney out, sir,« Dobbin said, rather alarmed at the
fury of the old man, the veins of whose forehead began to swell, and who sate
drumming his papers with his clenched fist. »We are going to hunt him out, sir;
the Duke's in Belgium already, and we expect marching orders every day.«
    »Give him no quarter! Bring back the villain's head, sir! Shoot the coward
down, sir!« Sedley roared. »I'd enlist myself, by --; but I'm a broken old man -
ruined by that damned scoundrel, and by a parcel of swindling thieves in this
country whom I made, sir, and who are rolling in their carriages now,« he added,
with a break in his voice.
    Dobbin was not a little affected by the sight of this once kind old friend,
crazed almost with misfortune and raving with senile anger. Pity the fallen
gentleman, you to whom money and fair repute are the chiefest good; and so,
surely, are they in Vanity Fair.
    »Yes,« he continued, »there are some vipers that you warm, and they sting
you afterwards. There are some beggars that you put on horseback, and they're
the first to ride you down. You know whom I mean, William Dobbin, my boy. I mean
a purse-proud villain in Russell Square, whom I knew without a shilling, and
whom I pray and hope to see a beggar as he was when I befriended him.«
    »I have heard something of this, sir, from my friend George,« Dobbin said,
anxious to come to his point. »The quarrel between you and his father has cut
him up a great deal, sir. Indeed, I'm the bearer of a message from him.«
    »Oh, that's your errand, is it?« cried the old man, jumping up. »What!
perhaps he condoles with me, does he? Very kind of him, the stiff-backed prig,
with his dandified airs and West End swagger. He's hankering about my house, is
he, still? If my son had the courage of a man, he'd shoot him. He's as big a
villain as his father. I won't have his name mentioned in my house. I curse the
day that ever I let him into it; and I'd rather see my daughter dead at my feet
than married to him.«
    »His father's harshness is not George's fault, sir. Your daughter's love for
him is as much your doing as his. Who are you, that you are to play with two
young people's affections and break their hearts at your will?«
    »Recollect it's not his father that breaks the match off,« old Sedley cried
out. »It's I that forbid it. That family and mine are separated for ever. I'm
fallen low, but not so low as that: no, no. And so you may tell the whole race -
son, and father, and sisters, and all.«
    »It's my belief, sir, that you have not the power or the right to separate
those two,« Dobbin answered in a low voice; »and that if you don't give your
daughter your consent, it will be her duty to marry without it. There's no
reason she should die or live miserably because you are wrong-headed. To my
thinking, she's just as much married as if the banns had been read in all the
churches in London. And what better answer can there be to Osborne's charges
against you, as charges there are, than that his son claims to enter your family
and marry your daughter?«
    A light of something like satisfaction seemed to break over old Sedley as
this point was put to him; but he still persisted that with his consent the
marriage between Amelia and George should never take place.
    »We must do it without,« Dobbin said, smiling, and told Mr. Sedley, as he
had told Mrs. Sedley in the day before, the story of Rebecca's elopement with
Captain Crawley. It evidently amused the old gentleman. »You're terrible
fellows, you Captains,« said he, tying up his papers; and his face wore
something like a smile upon it, to the astonishment of the blear-eyed waiter who
now entered, and had never seen such an expression upon Sedley's countenance
since he had used the dismal coffee-house.
    The idea of hitting his enemy Osborne such a blow soothed, perhaps, the old
gentleman; and, their colloquy presently ending, he and Dobbin parted pretty
good friends.
 
»My sisters say she has diamonds as big as pigeon's eggs,« George said,
laughing. »How they must set off her complexion! A perfect illumination it must
be when her jewels are on her neck. Her jet-black hair is as curly as Sambo's. I
daresay she wore a nose-ring when she went to court; and with a plume of
feathers in her top-knot she would look a perfect Belle Sauvage.«
    George, in conversation with Amelia, was rallying the appearance of a young
lady of whom his father and sisters had lately made the acquaintance, and who
was an object of vast respect to the Russell Square family. She was reported to
have I don't know how many plantations in the West Indies, a deal of money in
the funds, and three stars to her name in the East India stockholders' list. She
had a mansion in Surrey, and a house in Portland Place. The name of the rich
West India heiress had been mentioned with applause in The Morning Post. Mrs.
Haggistoun, Colonel Haggistoun's widow, her relative, chaperoned her, and kept
her house. She was just from school, where she had completed her education, and
George and his sisters had met her at an evening party at old Hulker's house,
Devonshire Place (Hulker, Bullock &amp; Co. were long the correspondents of her
house in the West Indies), and the girls had made the most cordial advances to
her, which the heiress had received with great good-humour. An orphan in her
position - with her money - so interesting! the Misses Osborne said. They were
full of their new friend when they returned from the Hulker ball to Miss Wirt,
their companion; they had made arrangements for continually meeting, and had the
carriage and drove to see her the very next day. Mrs. Haggistoun, Colonel
Haggistoun's widow, a relation of Lord Binkie, and always talking of him, struck
the dear, unsophisticated girls as rather haughty, and too much inclined to talk
about her great relations; but Rhoda was everything they could wish - the
frankest, kindest, most agreeable creature - wanting a little polish, but so
good-natured. The girls Christian-named each other at once.
    »You should have seen her dress for court, Emmy,« Osborne cried, laughing.
»She came to my sisters to show it off, before she was presented in state by my
Lady Binkie, the Haggistoun's kinswoman. She's related to every one, that
Haggistoun. Her diamonds blazed out like Vauxhall on the night we were there.
(Do you remember Vauxhall, Emmy, and Jos singing to his dearest
diddle-diddle-darling?) Diamonds and mahogany, my dear! think what an
advantageous contrast - and the white feathers in her hair - I mean in her wool.
She had earrings like chandeliers; you might have lighted 'em up, by Jove - and
a yellow satin train that streeled after her like the tail of a comet.«
    »How old is she?« asked Emmy, to whom George was rattling away regarding
this dark paragon, on the morning of their reunion - rattling away as no other
man in the world surely could.
    »Why, the Black Princess, though she has only just left school, must be two
or three and twenty. And you should see the hand she writes! Mrs. Colonel
Haggistoun usually writes her letters, but in a moment of confidence she put pen
to paper for my sisters; she spelt satin satting, and Saint James's, Saint
Jams.«
    »Why, surely it must be Miss Swartz, the parlour-boarder,« Emmy said,
remembering that good-natured young mulatto girl, who had been so hysterically
affected when Amelia left Miss Pinkerton's academy.
    »The very name,« George said. »Her father was a German Jew - a slave-owner
they say - connected with the Cannibal Islands in some way or other. He died
last year, and Miss Pinkerton has finished her education. She can play two
pieces on the piano; she knows three songs; she can write when Mrs. Haggistoun
is by to spell for her; and Jane and Maria already have got to love her as a
sister.«
    »I wish they would have loved me,« said Emmy wistfully. »They were always
very cold to me.«
    »My dear child, they would have loved you if you had had two hundred
thousand pounds,« George replied. »That is the way in which they have been
brought up. Ours is a ready-money society. We live among bankers and City
big-wigs, and be hanged to them! and every man, as he talks to you, is jingling
his guineas in his pocket. There is that jackass Fred Bullock is going to marry
Maria; there's Gold-more, the East India Director; there's Dipley, in the tallow
trade - our trade,« George said, with an uneasy laugh and a blush. »Curse the
whole pack of money-grubbing vulgarians! I fall asleep at their great heavy
dinners. I feel ashamed in my father's great stupid parties. I've been
accustomed to live with gentlemen, and men of the world and fashion, Emmy, not
with a parcel of turtle-fed tradesmen. Dear little woman, you are the only
person of our set who ever looked, or thought, or spoke like a lady; and you do
it because you're an angel, and can't help it. Don't remonstrate. You are the
only lady. Didn't Miss Crawley remark it, who has lived in the best company in
Europe? And as for Crawley, of the Life Guards, hang it, he's a fine fellow; and
I like him for marrying the girl he had chosen.«
    Amelia admired Mr. Crawley very much, too, for this; and trusted Rebecca
would be happy with him, and hoped (with a laugh) Jos would be consoled. And so
the pair went on prattling, as in quite early days; Amelia's confidence being
perfectly restored to her, though she expressed a great deal of pretty jealousy
about Miss Swartz, and professed to be dreadfully frightened - like a hypocrite
as she was - lest George should forget her for the heiress and her money and her
estates in Saint Kitts. But the fact is, she was a great deal too happy to have
fears or doubts or misgivings of any sort; and having George at her side again,
was not afraid of any heiress or beauty, or indeed of any sort of danger.
    When Captain Dobbin came back in the afternoon to these people - which he
did with a great deal of sympathy for them - it did his heart good to see how
Amelia had grown young again; how she laughed, and chirped, and sang familiar
old songs at the piano, which were only interrupted by the bell from without
proclaiming Mr. Sedley's return from the City, before whom George received a
signal to retreat.
    Beyond the first smile of recognition - and even that was a hypocrisy, for
she thought his arrival rather provoking - Miss Sedley did not once notice
Dobbin during his visit. But he was content, so that he saw her happy; and
thankful to have been the means of making her so.
 

                                  Chapter XXI

                          A Quarrel about an Heiress.

Love may be felt for any young lady endowed with such qualities as Miss Swartz
possessed; and a great dream of ambition entered into old Mr. Osborne's soul,
which she was to realize. He encouraged, with the utmost enthusiasm and
friendliness, his daughters' amiable attachment to the young heiress, and
protested that it gave him the sincerest pleasure as a father to see the love of
his girls so well disposed.
    »You won't find,« he would say to Miss Rhoda, »that splendour and rank to
which you are accustomed at the West End, my dear Miss, at our humble mansion in
Russell Square. My daughters are plain, disinterested girls, but their hearts
are in the right place, and they've conceived an attachment for you which does
them honour - I say, which does them honour. I'm a plain, simple, humble British
merchant - an honest one, as my respected friends Hulker and Bullock will vouch,
who were the correspondents of your late lamented father. You'll find us a
united, simple, happy, and I think I may say respected, family - a plain table,
a plain people, but a warm welcome, my dear Miss Rhoda - Rhoda, let me say, for
my heart warms to you, it does really. I'm a frank man, and I like you. - A
glass of champagne! Hicks, champagne to Miss Swartz.«
    There is little doubt that old Osborne believed all he said, and that the
girls were quite earnest in their protestations of affection for Miss Swartz.
People in Vanity Fair fasten on to rich folks quite naturally. If the simplest
people are disposed to look not a little kindly on great Prosperity (for I defy
any member of the British public to say that the notion of Wealth has not
something awful and pleasing to him; and you, if you are told that the man next
you at dinner has got half a million, not to look at him with a certain
interest) - if the simple look benevolently on money, how much more do your old
worldlings regard it! Their affections rush out to meet and welcome money. Their
kind sentiments awaken spontaneously towards the interesting possessors of it. I
know some respectable people who don't consider themselves at liberty to indulge
in friendship for any individual who has not a certain competency, or place in
society. They give a loose to their feelings on proper occasions. And the proof
is, that the major part of the Osborne family, who had not, in fifteen years,
been able to get up a hearty regard for Amelia Sedley, became as fond of Miss
Swartz in the course of a single evening as the most romantic advocate of
friendship at first sight could desire.
    What a match for George she'd be (the sisters and Miss Wirt agreed), and how
much better than that insignificant little Amelia! Such a dashing young fellow
as he is, with his good looks, rank, and accomplishments, would be the very
husband for her. Visions of balls in Portland Place, presentations at court, and
introductions to half the peerage, filled the minds of the young ladies, who
talked of nothing but George and his grand acquaintances to their beloved new
friend.
    Old Osborne thought she would be a great match, too, for his son. He should
leave the army; he should go into Parliament; he should cut a figure in the
fashion and in the state. His blood boiled with honest British exultation as he
saw the name of Osborne ennobled in the person of his son, and thought that he
might be the progenitor of a glorious line of baronets. He worked in the City
and on 'Change, until he knew everything relating to the fortune of the heiress
- how her money was placed, and where her estates lay. Young Fred Bullock, one
of his chief informants, would have liked to make a bid for her himself (it was
so the young banker expressed it), only he was booked to Maria Osborne. But not
being able to secure her as a wife, the disinterested Fred quite approved of her
as a sister-in-law. »Let George cut in directly and win her,« was his advice.
»Strike while the iron's hot, you know - while she's fresh to the town: in a few
weeks some d-- fellow from the West End will come in with a title and a rotten
rent-roll and cut all us City men out, as Lord Fitzrufus did last year with Miss
Grogram, who was actually engaged to Podder, of Podder &amp; Brown's. The sooner
it is done the better, Mr. Osborne; them's my sentiments,« the wag said; though,
when Osborne had left the bank parlour, Mr. Bullock remembered Amelia, and what
a pretty girl she was, and how attached to George Osborne; and he gave up at
least ten seconds of his valuable time to regretting the misfortune which had
befallen that unlucky young woman.
    While thus George Osborne's good feelings, and his good friend and genius,
Dobbin, were carrying back the truant to Amelia's feet, George's parent and
sisters were arranging this splendid match for him, which they never dreamed he
would resist.
    When the elder Osborne gave what he called a hint, there was no possibility
for the most obtuse to mistake his meaning. He called kicking a footman
downstairs a hint to the latter to leave his service. With his usual frankness
and delicacy he told Mrs. Haggistoun that he would give her a cheque for five
thousand pounds on the day his son was married to her ward; and called that
proposal a hint, and considered it a very dexterous piece of diplomacy. He gave
George finally such another hint regarding the heiress, and ordered him to marry
her out of hand, as he would have ordered his butler to draw a cork, or his
clerk to write a letter.
    This imperative hint disturbed George a good deal. He was in the very first
enthusiasm and delight of his second courtship of Amelia, which was
inexpressibly sweet to him. The contrast of her manners and appearance with
those of the heiress made the idea of a union with the latter appear doubly
ludicrous and odious. Carriages and opera-boxes, thought he; fancy being seen in
them by the side of such a mahogany charmer as that! Add to all that the junior
Osborne was quite as obstinate as the senior: when he wanted a thing, quite as
firm in his resolution to get it; and quite as violent when angered, as his
father in his most stern moments.
    On the first day when his father formally gave him the hint that he was to
place his affections at Miss Swartz's feet, George temporized with the old
gentleman. »You should have thought of the matter sooner, sir,« he said. »It
can't be done now, when we're expecting every day to go on foreign service. Wait
till my return, if I do return;« and then he represented that the time when the
regiment was daily expecting to quit England was exceedingly ill-chosen; that
the few days or weeks during which they were still to remain at home must be
devoted to business and not to love-making - time enough for that when he came
home with his majority; »for, I promise you,« said he, with a satisfied air,
»that one way or other you shall read the name of George Osborne in the
Gazette.«
    The father's reply to this was founded upon the information which he had got
in the City - that the West End chaps would infallibly catch hold of the heiress
if any delay took place; that if he didn't marry Miss S., he might at least have
an engagement in writing, to come into effect when he returned to England; and
that a man who could get ten thousand a year by staying at home was a fool to
risk his life abroad.
    »So that you would have me shown up as a coward, sir, and our name
dishonoured, for the sake of Miss Swartz's money,« George interposed.
    This remark staggered the old gentleman; but as he had to reply to it, and
as his mind was nevertheless made up, he said, »You will dine here to-morrow,
sir, and every day Miss Swartz comes, you will be here to pay your respects to
her. If you want for money, call upon Mr. Chopper.« Thus a new obstacle was in
George's way, to interfere with his plans regarding Amelia, and about which he
and Dobbin had more than one confidential consultation. His friend's opinion
respecting the line of conduct which he ought to pursue we know already. And as
for Osborne, when he was once bent on a thing, a fresh obstacle or two only
rendered him the more resolute.
 
The dark object of the conspiracy into which the chiefs of the Osborne family
had entered was quite ignorant of all their plans regarding her (which, strange
to say, her friend and chaperon did not divulge), and, taking all the young
ladies' flattery for genuine sentiment, and being, as we have before had
occasion to show, of a very warm and impetuous nature, responded to their
affection with quite a tropical ardour. And if the truth may be told, I daresay
that she too had some selfish attraction in the Russell Square house, and, in a
word, thought George Osborne a very nice young man. His whiskers had made an
impression upon her, on the very first night she beheld them at the ball at
Messrs. Hulkers'; and, as we know, she was not the first woman who had been
charmed by them. George had an air at once swaggering and melancholy, languid
and fierce. He looked like a man who had passions, secrets, and private
harrowing griefs and adventures. His voice was rich and deep. He would say it
was a warm evening, or ask his partner to take an ice, with a tone as sad and
confidential as if he were breaking her mother's death to her, or preluding a
declaration of love. He trampled over all the young bucks of his father's
circle, and was the hero among those third-rate men. Some few sneered at him and
hated him. Some, like Dobbin, fanatically admired him. And his whiskers had
begun to do their work, and to curl themselves round the affections of Miss
Swartz.
    Whenever there was a chance of meeting him in Russell Square, that simple
and good-natured young woman was quite in a flurry to see her dear Misses
Osborne. She went to great expenses in new gowns, and bracelets, and bonnets,
and in prodigious feathers. She adorned her person with her utmost skill to
please the Conqueror, and exhibited all her simple accomplishments to win his
favour. The girls would ask her, with the greatest gravity, for a little music,
and she would sing her three songs and play her two little pieces as often as
ever they asked, and with an always increasing pleasure to herself. During these
delectable entertainments, Miss Wirt and the chaperon sate by, and conned over
the peerage, and talked about the nobility.
    The day after George had his hint from his father, and a short time before
the hour of dinner, he was lolling upon a sofa in the drawing-room in a very
becoming and perfectly natural attitude of melancholy. He had been, at his
father's request, to Mr. Chopper in the City (the old gentleman, though he gave
great sums to his son, would never specify any fixed allowance for him, and
rewarded him only as he was in the humour). He had then been to pass three hours
with Amelia, his dear little Amelia, at Fulham; and he came home to find his
sisters spread in starched muslin in the drawing-room, the dowagers cackling in
the background, and honest Swartz in her favourite amber-coloured satin, with
turquoise bracelets, countless rings, flowers, feathers, and all sorts of tags
and gimcracks, about as elegantly decorated as a she chimney-sweep on May-day.
    The girls, after vain attempts to engage him in conversation, talked about
fashions and the last drawing-room until he was perfectly sick of their chatter.
He contrasted their behaviour with little Emmy's - their shrill voices with her
tender ringing tones; their attitudes and their elbows and their starch, with
her humble soft movements and modest graces. Poor Swartz was seated in a place
where Emmy had been accustomed to sit. Her bejewelled hands lay sprawling in her
amber satin lap. Her tags and earrings twinkled, and her big eyes rolled about.
She was doing nothing with perfect contentment, and thinking herself charming.
Anything so becoming as the satin the sisters had never seen.
    »Dammy,« George said to a confidential friend, »she looked like a China
doll, which has nothing to do all day but to grin and wag its head. By Jove,
Will, it was all I could do to prevent myself from throwing the sofa-cushion at
her.« He restrained that exhibition of sentiment, however.
    The sisters began to play the Battle of Prague. »Stop that d-- thing!«
George howled out in a fury from the sofa. »It makes me mad. - You play us
something, Miss Swartz, do. Sing something, anything but the Battle of Prague.«
    »Shall I sing Blue-Eyed Mary, or the air from the Cabinet?« Miss Swartz
asked.
    »That sweet thing from the Cabinet,« the sisters said.
    »We've had that,« replied the misanthrope on the sofa.
    »I can sing Fluvy du Tajy,« Swartz said, in a meek voice, »if I had the
words.« It was the last of the worthy young woman's collection.
    »Oh, Fleuve du Tage,« Miss Maria cried; »we have the song,« and went off to
fetch the book in which it was.
    Now it happened that this song, then in the height of the fashion, had been
given to the young ladies by a young friend of theirs, whose name was on the
title, and Miss Swartz, having concluded the ditty with George's applause (for
he remembered that it was a favourite of Amelia's), was hoping for an encore
perhaps, and fiddling with the leaves of the music, when her eye fell upon the
title, and she saw »Amelia Sedley« written in the corner.
    »Lor!« cried Miss Swartz, spinning swiftly round on the music-stool, »is it
my Amelia - Amelia that was at Miss P.'s at Hammersmith? I know it is. It's her,
and - Tell me about her - where is she?«
    »Don't mention her,« Miss Maria Osborne said hastily. »Her family has
disgraced itself. Her father cheated papa; and as for her, she is never to be
mentioned here.« This was Miss Maria's return for George's rudeness about the
Battle of Prague.
    »Are you a friend of Amelia's?« George said, bouncing up. »God bless you for
it, Miss Swartz. Don't believe what the girls say. She's not to blame, at any
rate. She's the best -« »You know you're not to speak about her, George,« cried
Jane. »Papa forbids it.«
    »Who's to prevent me?« George cried out. »I will speak of her. I say she's
the best, the kindest, the gentlest, the sweetest girl in England; and that,
bankrupt or no, my sisters are not fit to hold candles to her. - If you like
her, go and see her, Miss Swartz; she wants friends now; and I say, God bless
everybody who befriends her. Anybody who speaks kindly of her is my friend;
anybody who speaks against her is my enemy. Thank you, Miss Swartz;« and he went
up and wrung her hand.
    »George! George!« one of the sisters cried imploringly.
    »I say,« George said fiercely, »I thank everybody who loves Amelia Sed-« He
stopped. Old Osborne was in the room, with a face livid with rage and eyes like
hot coals.
    Though George had stopped in his sentence, yet, his blood being up, he was
not to be cowed by all the generations of Osborne; rallying instantly, he
replied to the bullying look of his father with another so indicative of
resolution and defiance, that the elder man quailed in his turn, and looked
away. He felt that the tussle was coming. »Mrs. Haggistoun, let me take you down
to dinner,« he said. - »Give your arm to Miss Swartz, George,« and they marched.
    »Miss Swartz, I love Amelia, and we've been engaged almost all our lives,«
Osborne said to his partner; and during all the dinner, George rattled on with a
volubility which surprised himself, and made his father doubly nervous for the
fight which was to take place as soon as the ladies were gone.
    The difference between the pair was, that while the father was violent and a
bully, the son had thrice the nerve and courage of the parent, and could not
merely make an attack, but resist it; and finding that the moment was now come
when the contest between him and his father was to be decided, he took his
dinner with perfect coolness and appetite before the engagement began. Old
Osborne, on the contrary, was nervous, and drank much. He floundered in his
conversation with the ladies, his neighbours - George's coolness only rendering
him more angry. It made him half mad to see the calm way in which George,
flapping his napkin, and with a swaggering bow, opened the door for the ladies
to leave the room; and filling himself a glass of wine, smacked it, and looked
his father full in the face, as if to say, »Gentleman of the Guard, fire first.«
The old man also took a supply of ammunition, but his decanter clinked against
the glass as he tried to fill it.
    After giving a great heave, and with a purple choking face, he then began.
»How dare you, sir, mention that person's name before Miss Swartz to-day, in my
drawing-room? I ask you, sir, how dare you do it?«
    »Stop, sir,« says George, »don't say dare, sir. Dare isn't a word to be used
to a Captain in the British Army.«
    »I shall say what I like to my son, sir. I can cut him off with a shilling
if I like. I can make him a beggar if I like. I will say what I like,« the elder
said.
    »I'm a gentleman though I am your son, sir,« George answered haughtily. »Any
communications which you have to make to me, or any orders which you may please
to give, I beg may be couched in that kind of language which I am accustomed to
hear.«
    Whenever the lad assumed his haughty manner, it always created either great
awe or great irritation in the parent. Old Osborne stood in secret terror of his
son as a better gentleman than himself; and perhaps my readers may have
remarked, in their experience of this Vanity Fair of ours, that there is no
character which a low-minded man so much mistrusts as that of a gentleman.
    »My father didn't give me the education you have had, nor the advantages you
have had, nor the money you have had. If I had kept the company some folks have
had through my means, perhaps my son wouldn't have any reason to brag, sir, of
his superiority and West End airs« (these words were uttered in the elder
Osborne's most sarcastic tones). »But it wasn't't considered the part of a
gentleman, in my time, for a man to insult his father. If I'd done any such
thing, mine would have kicked me downstairs, sir.«
    »I never insulted you, sir. I said I begged you to remember your son was a
gentleman as well as yourself. I know very well that you give me plenty of
money,« said George (fingering a bundle of notes which he had got in the morning
from Mr. Chopper). »You tell it me often enough, sir. There's no fear of my
forgetting it.«
    »I wish you'd remember other things as well, sir,« the sire answered. »I
wish you'd remember that in this house - so long as you choose to honour it with
your company, Captain - I'm the master, and that name, and that that - that you
- that I say -«
    »That what, sir?« George asked, with scarcely a sneer, filling another glass
of claret.
    »--!« burst out his father, with a screaming oath - »that the name of those
Sedleys never be mentioned here, sir - not one of the whole damned lot of 'em,
sir.«
    »It wasn't't I, sir, that introduced Miss Sedley's name. It was my sisters who
spoke ill of her to Miss Swartz; and by Jove I'll defend her wherever I go.
Nobody shall speak lightly of that name in my presence. Our family has done her
quite enough injury already, I think, and may leave off reviling her now she's
down. I'll shoot any man but you who says a word against her.«
    »Go on, sir, go on,« the old gentleman said, his eyes starting out of his
head.
    »Go on about what, sir? about the way in which we've treated that angel of a
girl? Who told me to love her? It was your doing. I might have chosen elsewhere,
and looked higher, perhaps, than your society; but I obeyed you. And now that
her heart's mine you give me orders to fling it away, and punish her - kill her
perhaps - for the faults of other people. It's a shame, by heavens,« said
George, working himself up into passion and enthusiasm as he proceeded, »to play
at fast and loose with a young girl's affections - and with such an angel as
that - one so superior to the people amongst whom she lived that she might have
excited envy, only she was so good and gentle that it's a wonder anybody dared
to hate her. If I desert her, sir, do you suppose she forgets me?«
    »I ain't going to have any of this dam sentimental nonsense and humbug here,
sir,« the father cried out. »There shall be no beggar-marriages in my family. If
you choose to fling away eight thousand a year, which you may have for the
asking, you may do it; but by Jove you take your pack and walk out of this
house, sir. Will you do as I tell you, once for all, sir, or will you not?«
    »Marry that mulatto woman?« George said, pulling up his shirt collars. »I
don't like the colour, sir. Ask the black that sweeps opposite Fleet Market,
sir. I'm not going to marry a Hottentot Venus.«
    Mr. Osborne pulled frantically at the cord by which he was accustomed to
summon the butler when he wanted wine, and, almost black in the face, ordered
that functionary to call a coach for Captain Osborne.
 
»I've done it,« said George, coming into the Slaughters' an hour afterwards,
looking very pale.
    »What, my boy?« says Dobbin.
    George told what had passed between his father and himself.
    »I'll marry her to-morrow,« he said, with an oath. »I love her more every
day, Dobbin.«
 

                                  Chapter XXII

                      A Marriage and Part of a Honeymoon.

Enemies the most obstinate and courageous can't hold out against starvation; so
the elder Osborne felt himself pretty easy about his adversary in the encounter
we have just described, and as soon as George's supplies fell short, confidently
expected his unconditional submission. It was unlucky, to be sure, that the lad
should have secured a stock of provisions on the very day when the first
encounter took place; but this relief was only temporary, old Osborne thought,
and would but delay George's surrender. No communication passed between father
and son for some days. The former was sulky at this silence, but not disquieted;
for, as he said, he knew where he could put the screw upon George, and only
waited the result of that operation. He told the sisters the upshot of the
dispute between them, but ordered them to take no notice of the matter, and
welcome George on his return as if nothing had happened. His cover was laid as
usual every day, and perhaps the old gentleman rather anxiously expected him;
but he never came. Some one inquired at the Slaughters' regarding him, where it
was said that he and his friend Captain Dobbin had left town.
    One gusty, raw day at the end of April - the rain whipping the pavement of
that ancient street where the old Slaughters' Coffee-House was once situated -
George Osborne came into the coffee-room, looking very haggard and pale;
although dressed rather smartly in a blue coat and brass buttons, and a neat
buff waistcoat of the fashion of those days. Here was his friend Captain Dobbin
in blue and brass too, having abandoned the military frock and French grey
trousers, which were the usual coverings of his lanky person.
    Dobbin had been in the coffee-room for an hour or more. He had tried all the
papers, but could not read them. He had looked at the clock many scores of
times; and at the street, where the rain was pattering down, and the people, as
they clinked by in pattens, left long reflections on the shining stone; he
tattooed at the table; he bit his nails most completely, and nearly to the quick
(he was accustomed to ornament his great big hands in this way); he balanced the
teaspoon dexterously on the milk-jug; upset it, etc., etc.; and in fact showed
those signs of disquietude, and practised those desperate attempts at amusement,
which men are accustomed to employ when very anxious, and expectant, and
perturbed in mind.
    Some of his comrades, gentlemen who used the room, joked him about the
splendour of his costume and his agitation of manner. One asked him if he was
going to be married. Dobbin laughed, and said he would send his acquaintance
(Major Wagstaff of the Engineers) a piece of cake when that event took place. At
length Captain Osborne made his appearance, very smartly dressed, but very pale
and agitated, as we have said. He wiped his pale face with a large yellow
bandanna pocket-handkerchief that was prodigiously scented. He shook hands with
Dobbin, looked at the clock, and told John, the waiter, to bring him some
curaçoa. Of this cordial he swallowed off a couple of glasses with nervous
eagerness. His friend asked with some interest about his health.
    »Couldn't get a wink of sleep till daylight, Dob,« said he. »Infernal
headache and fever. Got up at nine, and went down to the Hummums for a bath. I
say, Dob, I feel just as I did on the morning I went out with Rocket at Quebec.«
    »So do I,« William responded. »I was a deuced deal more nervous than you
were that morning. You made a famous breakfast, I remember. Eat something now.«
    »You're a good old fellow, Will. I'll drink your health, old boy, and
farewell to -«
    »No, no; two glasses are enough,« Dobbin interrupted him. - »Here, take away
the liqueurs, John. - Have some cayenne pepper with your fowl. Make haste
though, for it is time we were there.«
    It was about half an hour from twelve when this brief meeting and colloquy
took place between the two captains. A coach, into which Captain Osborne's
servant put his master's desk and dressing-case, had been in waiting for some
time; and into this the two gentlemen hurried under an umbrella, and the valet
mounted on the box, cursing the rain and the dampness of the coachman who was
steaming beside him. »We shall find a better trap than this at the church door,«
says he; »that's a comfort.« And the carriage drove on, taking the road down
Piccadilly, where Apsley House and St. George's Hospital wore red jackets still;
where there were oil-lamps; where Achilles was not yet born, nor the Pimlico
arch raised, nor the hideous equestrian monster which pervades it and the
neighbourhood: and so they drove down by Brompton to a certain chapel near the
Fulham Road there.
    A chariot was in waiting with four horses; likewise a coach of the kind
called glass coaches. Only a very few idlers were collected on account of the
dismal rain.
    »Hang it!« said George, »I said only a pair.«
    »My master would have four,« said Mr. Joseph Sedley's servant, who was in
waiting; and he and Mr. Osborne's man agreed, as they followed George and
William into the church, that it was a »reg'lar shabby turn-hout, and with
scarce so much as a breakfast or a wedding faviour.«
    »Here you are,« said our old friend, Jos Sedley, coming forward. »You're
five minutes late, George, my boy. What a day, eh? Demmy, it's like the
commencement of the rainy season in Bengal. But you'll find my carriage is
water-tight. Come along; my mother and Emma are in the vestry.«
    Jos Sedley was splendid. He was fatter than ever. His shirt-collars were
higher; his face was redder; his shirt-frill flaunted gorgeously out of his
variegated waistcoat. Varnished boots were not invented as yet; but the Hessians
on his beautiful legs shone so, that they must have been the identical pair in
which the gentleman in the old picture used to shave himself; and on his light
green coat there bloomed a fine wedding favour, like a great white spreading
magnolia.
    In a word, George had thrown the great cast. He was going to be married.
Hence his pallor and nervousness - his sleepless night and agitation in the
morning. I have heard people who have gone through the same thing own to the
same emotion. After three or four ceremonies you get accustomed to it, no doubt;
but the first dip, everybody allows, is awful.
    The bride was dressed in a brown silk pelisse (as Captain Dobbin has since
informed me), and wore a straw bonnet with a pink ribbon; over the bonnet she
had a veil of white Chantilly lace, a gift from Mr. Joseph Sedley, her brother.
Captain Dobbin himself had asked leave to present her with a gold chain and
watch, which she sported on this occasion; and her mother gave her her diamond
brooch - almost the only trinket which was left to the old lady. As the service
went on, Mrs. Sedley sat and whimpered a great deal in a pew, consoled by the
Irish maid-servant and Mrs. Clapp from the lodgings. Old Sedley would not be
present. Jos acted for his father, giving away the bride, whilst Captain Dobbin
stepped up as groomsman to his friend George.
    There was nobody in the church besides the officiating persons and the small
marriage party and their attendants. The two valets sat aloof superciliously.
The rain came rattling down on the windows. In the intervals of the service you
heard it, and the sobbing of old Mrs. Sedley in the pew. The parson's tones
echoed sadly through the empty walls. Osborne's »I will« was sounded in very
deep bass. Emmy's response came fluttering up to her lips from her heart, but
was scarcely heard by anybody except Captain Dobbin.
    When the service was completed, Jos Sedley came forward and kissed his
sister, the bride, for the first time for many months. George's look of gloom
had gone, and he seemed quite proud and radiant. »It's your turn, William,« says
he, putting his hand fondly upon Dobbin's shoulder; and Dobbin went up and
touched Amelia on the cheek.
    Then they went into the vestry and signed the register. »God bless you, old
Dobbin,« George said, grasping him by the hand, with something very like
moisture glistening in his eyes. William replied only by nodding his head; his
heart was too full to say much.
    »Write directly, and come down as soon as you can, you know,« Osborne said.
After Mrs. Sedley had taken an hysterical adieu of her daughter, the pair went
off to the carriage. »Get out of the way, you little devils!« George cried to a
small crowd of damp urchins that were hanging about the chapel door. The rain
drove into the bride and bridegroom's faces as they passed to the chariot. The
postilions' favours draggled on their dripping jackets. The few children made a
dismal cheer, as the carriage, splashing mud, drove away.
    William Dobbin stood in the church porch, looking at it, a queer figure. The
small crew of spectators jeered him. He was not thinking about them or their
laughter.
    »Come home and have some tiffin, Dobbin,« a voice cried behind him, as a
pudgy hand was laid on his shoulder, and the honest fellow's reverie was
interrupted. But the Captain had no heart to go a-feasting with Jos Sedley. He
put the weeping old lady and her attendants into the carriage along with Jos,
and left them without any further words passing. This carriage, too, drove away,
and the urchins gave another sarcastical cheer.
    »Here, you little beggars,« Dobbin said, giving some sixpences amongst them,
and then went off by himself through the rain. It was all over. They were
married, and happy, he prayed God. Never since he was a boy had he felt so
miserable and so lonely. He longed with a heart-sick yearn- ing for the first
few days to be over, that he might see her again.
 
Some ten days after the above ceremony, three young men of our acquaintance were
enjoying that beautiful prospect of bow windows on the one side and blue sea on
the other which Brighton affords to the traveller. Sometimes it is towards the
ocean - smiling with countless dimples, speckled with white sails, with a
hundred bathing-machines kissing the skirt of his blue garment - that the
Londoner looks enraptured; sometimes, on the contrary, a lover of human nature
rather than of prospects of any kind, it is towards the bow windows that he
turns, and that swarm of human life which they exhibit. From one issue the notes
of a piano, which a young lady in ringlets practises six hours daily, to the
delight of the fellow-lodgers: at another, lovely Polly, the nursemaid, may be
seen dandling Master Omnium in her arms; whilst Jacob, his papa, is beheld
eating prawns, and devouring The Times for breakfast, at the window below.
Yonder are the Misses Leery, who are looking out for the young officers of the
Heavies, who are pretty sure to be pacing the cliff; or again it is a City man,
with a nautical turn, and a telescope the size of a six-pounder, who has his
instrument pointed seawards, so as to command every pleasure-boat, herring-boat,
or bathing-machine that comes to or quits the shore, etc., etc. But have we any
leisure for a description of Brighton? - for Brighton, a clean Naples with
genteel lazzaroni; for Brighton, that always looks brisk, gay, and gaudy, like a
harlequin's jacket; for Brighton, which used to be seven hours distant from
London at the time of our story, which is now only a hundred minutes off, and
which may approach who knows how much nearer, unless Joinville comes and
untimely bombards it.
    »What a monstrous fine girl that is in the lodgings over the milliner's!«
one of these three promenaders remarked to the other; »Gad, Crawley, did you see
what a wink she gave me as I passed?«
    »Don't break her heart, Jos, you rascal,« said another. »Don't trifle with
her affections, you Don Juan!«
    »Get away,« said Jos Sedley, quite pleased, and leering up at the
maid-servant in question with a most killing ogle. Jos was even more splendid at
Brighton than he had been at his sister's marriage. He had brilliant
under-waistcoats, any one of which would have set up a moderate buck. He sported
a military frock-coat, ornamented with frogs, knobs, black buttons, and
meandering embroidery. He had affected a military appearance and habits of late;
and he walked with his two friends, who were of that profession, clinking his
boot-spurs, swaggering prodigiously, and shooting death-glances at all the
servant-girls who were worthy to be slain.
    »What shall we do, boys, till the ladies return?« the buck asked. The ladies
were out to Rottingdean in his carriage on a drive.
    »Let's have a game at billiards,« one of his friends said - the tall one,
with lacquered mustachios.
    »No, dammy; no, Captain,« Jos replied, rather alarmed. »No billiards to-day,
Crawley, my boy; yesterday was enough.«
    »You play very well,« said Crawley, laughing. - »Don't he, Osborne? How well
he made that five stroke, eh?«
    »Famous,« Osborne said. »Jos is a devil of a fellow at billiards, and at
everything else, too. I wish there were any tiger-hunting about here! we might
go and kill a few before dinner. (There goes a fine girl! what an ankle, eh,
Jos?) Tell us that story about the tiger-hunt, and the way you did for him in
the jungle; it's a wonderful story that, Crawley.« Here George Osborne gave a
yawn. »It's rather slow work,« said he, »down here; what shall we do?«
    »Shall we go and look at some horses that Snaffler's just brought from Lewes
Fair?« Crawley said.
    »Suppose we go and have some jellies at Dutton's?« said the rogue Jos,
willing to kill two birds with one stone. »Devilish fine gal at Dutton's.«
    »Suppose we go and see the Lightning come in? it's just about time,« George
said. This advice prevailing over the stables and the jelly, they turned towards
the coach-office to witness the Lightning's arrival.
    As they passed, they met the carriage - Jos Sedley's open carriage, with its
magnificent armorial bearings - that splendid conveyance in which he used to
drive about at Cheltenham, majestic and solitary, with his arms folded, and his
hat cocked; or, more happy, with ladies by his side.
    Two were in the carriage now - one a little person, with light hair, and
dressed in the height of the fashion; the other in a brown silk pelisse, and a
straw bonnet with pink ribbons, with a rosy, round, happy face, that did you
good to behold. She checked the carriage as it neared the three gentlemen, after
which exercise of authority she looked rather nervous, and then began to blush
most absurdly. »We have had a delightful drive, George,« she said, »and - and
we're so glad to come back; and, Joseph, don't let him be late.«
    »Don't be leading our husbands into mischief, Mr. Sedley, you wicked, wicked
man, you,« Rebecca said, shaking at Jos a pretty little finger covered with the
neatest French kid glove. »No billiards, no smoking, no naughtiness!«
    »My dear Mrs. Crawley - Ah now! upon my honour!« was all Jos could ejaculate
by way of reply; but he managed to fall into a tolerable attitude, with his head
lying on his shoulder, grinning upwards at his victim, with one hand at his
back, which he supported on his cane, and the other hand (the one with the
diamond ring) fumbling in his shirt-frill and among his under-waistcoats. As the
carriage drove off he kissed the diamond hand to the fair ladies within. He
wished all Cheltenham, all Chowringhee, all Calcutta, could see him in that
position, waving his hand to such a beauty, and in company with such a famous
buck as Rawdon Crawley of the Guards.
    Our young bride and bridegroom had chosen Brighton as the place where they
would pass the first few days after their marriage; and having engaged
apartments at the Ship Inn, enjoyed themselves there in great comfort and
quietude, until Jos presently joined them. Nor was he the only companion they
found there. As they were coming into the hotel from a seaside walk one
afternoon, on whom should they light but Rebecca and her husband. The
recognition was immediate. Rebecca flew into the arms of her dearest friend.
Crawley and Osborne shook hands together cordially enough; and Becky, in the
course of a very few hours, found means to make the latter forget that little
unpleasant passage of words which had happened between them. »Do you remember
the last time we met at Miss Crawley's, when I was so rude to you, dear Captain
Osborne? I thought you seemed careless about dear Amelia. It was that made me
angry, and so pert, and so unkind, and so ungrateful. Do forgive me!« Rebecca
said, and she held out her hand with so frank and winning a grace that Osborne
could not but take it. By humbly and frankly acknowledging yourself to be in the
wrong, there is no knowing, my son, what good you may do. I knew once a
gentleman and very worthy practitioner in Vanity Fair, who used to do little
wrongs to his neighbours on purpose, and in order to apologize for them in an
open and manly way afterwards; and what ensued? My friend Crocky Doyle was liked
everywhere, and deemed to be rather impetuous, but the honestest fellow. Becky's
humility passed for sincerity with George Osborne.
    These two young couples had plenty of tales to relate to each other. The
marriages of either were discussed; and their prospects in life canvassed with
the greatest frankness and interest on both sides. George's marriage was to be
made known to his father by his friend Captain Dobbin, and young Osborne
trembled rather for the result of that communication. Miss Crawley, on whom all
Rawdon's hopes depended, still held out. Unable to make an entry into her house
in Park Lane, her affectionate nephew and niece had followed her to Brighton,
where they had emissaries continually planted at her door.
    »I wish you could see some of Rawdon's friends who are always about our
door,« Rebecca said, laughing. »Did you ever see a dun, my dear; or a bailiff
and his man? Two of the abominable wretches watched all last week at the
greengrocer's opposite, and we could not get away until Sunday. If aunty does
not relent, what shall we do?«
    Rawdon, with roars of laughter, related a dozen amusing anecdotes of his
duns, and Rebecca's adroit treatment of them. He vowed with a great oath that
there was no woman in Europe who could talk a creditor over as she could. Almost
immediately after their marriage her practice had begun, and her husband found
the immense value of such a wife. They had credit in plenty, but they had bills
also in abundance, and laboured under a scarcity of ready money. Did these debt
difficulties affect Rawdon's good spirits? No. Everybody in Vanity Fair must
have remarked how well those live who are comfortably and thoroughly in debt -
how they deny themselves nothing; how jolly and easy they are in their minds.
Rawdon and his wife had the very best apartments at the inn at Brighton; the
landlord, as he brought in the first dish, bowed before them as to his greatest
customers; and Rawdon abused the dinners and wine with an audacity which no
grandee in the land could surpass. Long custom, a manly appearance, faultless
boots and clothes, and a happy fierceness of manner, will often help a man as
much as a great balance at the banker's.
    The two wedding parties met constantly in each other's apartments. After two
or three nights the gentlemen of an evening had a little piquet, as their wives
sate and chatted apart. This pastime, and the arrival of Jos Sedley, who made
his appearance in his grand open carriage, and who played a few games at
billiards with Captain Crawley, replenished Rawdon's purse somewhat, and gave
him the benefit of that ready money for which the greatest spirits are sometimes
at a standstill.
    So the three gentlemen walked down to see the Lightning coach come in.
Punctual to the minute, the coach crowded inside and out, the guard blowing his
accustomed tune on the horn, the Lightning came tearing down the street, and
pulled up at the coach-office.
    »Hallo! there's old Dobbin,« George cried, quite delighted to see his old
friend perched on the roof; and whose promised visit to Brighton had been
delayed until now. »How are you, old fellow? Glad you're come down. Emmy'll be
delighted to see you,« Osborne said, shaking his comrade warmly by the hand as
soon as his descent from the vehicle was effected; and then he added, in a lower
and agitated voice, »What's the news? Have you been in Russell Square? What does
the governor say? Tell me everything.«
    Dobbin looked very pale and grave. »I've seen your father,« said he. »How's
Amelia - Mrs. George? I'll tell you all the news presently; but I've brought the
great news of all, and that is -« »Out with it, old fellow,« George said.
    »We're ordered to Belgium. All the army goes - Guards and all. Heavytop's
got the gout, and is mad at not being able to move. O'Dowd goes in command, and
we embark from Chatham next week.« This news of war could not but come with a
shock upon our lovers, and caused all these gentlemen to look very serious.
 

                                 Chapter XXIII

                    Captain Dobbin Proceeds on His Canvass.

What is the secret mesmerism which friendship possesses, and under the operation
of which a person ordinarily sluggish, or cold, or timid, becomes wise, active,
and resolute, in another's behalf? As Alexis, after a few passes from Dr.
Elliotson, despises pain, reads with the back of his head, sees miles off, looks
into next week, and performs other wonders of which in his own private normal
condition he is quite incapable; so you see, in the affairs of the world and
under the magnetism of friendship, the modest man become bold, the shy
confident, the lazy active, or the impetuous prudent and peaceful. What is it,
on the other hand, that makes the lawyer eschew his own cause, and call in his
learned brother as an adviser? And what causes the doctor, when ailing, to send
for his rival, and not sit down and examine his own tongue in the chimney-glass,
or write his own prescription at his study-table? I throw out these queries for
intelligent readers to answer, who know at once how credulous we are and how
sceptical, how soft and how obstinate, how firm for others and how diffident
about ourselves; meanwhile it is certain that our friend William Dobbin, who was
personally of so complying a disposition, that if his parents had pressed him
much, it is probable he would have stepped down into the kitchen and married the
cook, and who, to further his own interests, would have found the most
insuperable difficulty in walking across the street, found himself as busy and
eager in the conduct of George Osborne's affairs as the most selfish tactician
could be in the pursuit of his own.
    Whilst our friend George and his young wife were enjoying the first blushing
days of the honeymoon at Brighton, honest William was left as George's
plenipotentiary in London, to transact all the business part of the marriage.
His duty it was to call upon old Sedley and his wife, and to keep the former in
good humour; to draw Jos and his brother-in-law nearer together, so that Jos's
position and dignity, as Collector of Boggley Wollah, might compensate for his
father's loss of station, and tend to reconcile old Osborne to the alliance; and
finally, to communicate it to the latter in such a way as should least irritate
the old gentleman.
    Now, before he faced the head of the Osborne house with the news which it
was his duty to tell, Dobbin bethought him that it would be politic to make
friends of the rest of the family, and, if possible, have the ladies on his
side. They can't be angry in their hearts, thought he. No woman ever was really
angry at a romantic marriage. A little crying out, and they must come round to
their brother, when the three of us will lay siege to old Mr. Osborne. So this
Machiavellian captain of infantry cast about him for some happy means or
stratagem by which he could gently and gradually bring the Misses Osborne to a
knowledge of their brother's secret.
    By a little inquiry regarding his mother's engagements, he was pretty soon
able to find out by whom of her ladyship's friends parties were given at that
season, where he would be likely to meet Osborne's sisters; and, though he had
that abhorrence of routs and evening parties which many sensible men, alas,
entertain, he soon found one where the Misses Osborne were to be present. Making
his appearance at the ball, where he danced a couple of sets with both of them,
and was prodigiously polite, he actually had the courage to ask Miss Osborne for
a few minutes' conversation at an early hour the next day, when he had, he said,
to communicate to her news of the very greatest interest.
    What was it that made her start back, and gaze upon him for a moment, and
then on the ground at her feet, and make as if she would faint on his arm, had
he not, by opportunely treading on her toes, brought the young lady back to
self-control? Why was she so violently agitated at Dobbin's request? This can
never be known. But when he came the next day, Maria was not in the drawing-room
with her sister, and Miss Wirt went off for the purpose of fetching the latter,
and the Captain and Miss Osborne were left together. They were both so silent
that the tick-tock of the Sacrifice of Iphigenia clock on the mantelpiece became
quite rudely audible.
    »What a nice party it was last night!« Miss Osborne at length began,
encouragingly; »and - how you're improved in your dancing, Captain Dobbin!
Surely somebody has taught you,« she added, with amiable archness.
    »You should see me dance a reel with Mrs. Major O'Dowd of ours; and a jig -
did you ever see a jig? But I think anybody could dance with you, Miss Osborne,
who dance so well.«
    »Is the Major's lady young and beautiful, Captain?« the fair questioner
continued. »Ah, what a terrible thing it must be to be a soldier's wife! I
wonder they have any spirits to dance, and in these dreadful times of war, too!
O Captain Dobbin, I tremble sometimes when I think of our dearest George, and
the dangers of the poor soldier. Are there many married officers of the - th,
Captain Dobbin?«
    »Upon my word, she's playing her hand rather too openly,« Miss Wirt thought;
but this observation is merely parenthetic, and was not heard through the
crevice of the door at which the governess uttered it.
    »One of our young men is just married,« Dobbin said, now coming to the
point. »It was a very old attachment, and the young couple are as poor as church
mice.«
    »Oh, how delightful! oh, how romantic!« Miss Osborne cried, as the Captain
said »old attachment« and »poor.« Her sympathy encouraged him.
    »The finest young fellow in the regiment,« he continued; »not a braver or
handsomer officer in the army. And such a charming wife! How you would like her!
how you will like her when you know her, Miss Osborne!« The young lady thought
the actual moment had arrived, and that Dobbin's nervousness, which now came on
and was visible in many twitchings of his face, in his manner of beating the
ground with his great feet, in the rapid buttoning and unbuttoning of his
frock-coat, etc. - Miss Osborne, I say, thought that when he had given himself a
little air, he would unbosom himself entirely, and prepared eagerly to listen.
And the clock, in the altar on which Iphigenia was situated, beginning, after a
preparatory convulsion, to toll twelve, the mere tolling seemed as if it would
last until one - so prolonged was the knell to the anxious spinster.
    »But it's not about marriage that I came to speak - that is, that marriage -
that is - no, I mean - my dear Miss Osborne, it's about our dear friend George,«
Dobbin said.
    »About George?« she said, in a tone so discomfited that Maria and Miss Wirt
laughed at the other side of the door, and even that abandoned wretch of a
Dobbin felt inclined to smile himself; for he was not altogether unconscious of
the state of affairs, George having often bantered him gracefully and said,
»Hang it, Will, why don't you take old Jane? She'll have you if you ask her.
I'll bet you five to two she will.«
    »Yes, about George, then,« he continued. »There has been a difference
between him and Mr. Osborne. And I regard him so much - for you know we have
been like brothers - that I hope and pray the quarrel may be settled. We must go
abroad, Miss Osborne. We may be ordered off at a day's warning. Who knows what
may happen in the campaign? Don't be agitated, dear Miss Osborne; and those two,
at least, should part friends.«
    »There has been no quarrel, Captain Dobbin, except a little usual scene with
papa,« the lady said. »We are expecting George back daily. What papa wanted was
only for his good. He has but to come back, and I'm sure all will be well; and
dear Rhoda, who went away from here in sad, sad anger, I know will forgive him.
Woman forgives but too readily, Captain.«
    »Such an angel as you I am sure would,« Mr. Dobbin said, with atrocious
astuteness. »And no man can pardon himself for giving a woman pain. What would
you feel if a man were faithless to you?«
    »I should perish - I should throw myself out of window - I should take
poison - I should pine and die. I know I should,« Miss cried, who had
nevertheless gone through one or two affairs of the heart without any idea of
suicide.
    »And there are others,« Dobbin continued, »as true and as kind-hearted as
yourself. I'm not speaking about the West Indian heiress, Miss Osborne, but
about a poor girl whom George once loved, and who was bred from her childhood to
think of nobody but him. I've seen her in her poverty uncomplaining,
broken-hearted, without a fault. It is of Miss Sedley I speak. Dear Miss
Osborne, can your generous heart quarrel with your brother for being faithful to
her? Could his own conscience ever forgive him if he deserted her? Be her friend
- she always loved you - and - and I am come here charged by George to tell you
that he holds his engagement to her as the most sacred duty he has; and to
entreat you, at least, to be on his side.«
    When any strong emotion took possession of Mr. Dobbin, and after the first
word or two of hesitation, he could speak with perfect fluency, and it was
evident that his eloquence on this occasion made some impression upon the lady
whom he addressed.
    »Well,« said she, »this is - most surprising - most painful - most
extraordinary - what will papa say? - that George should fling away such a
superb establishment as was offered to him; but, at any rate, he has found a
very brave champion in you, Captain Dobbin. It is of no use, however,« she
continued, after a pause. »I feel for poor Miss Sedley, most certainly - most
sincerely, you know. We never thought the match a good one, though we were
always very kind to her here - very. But papa will never consent, I am sure. And
a well-brought-up young woman, you know, with a well-regulated mind, must -
George must give her up, dear Captain Dobbin, indeed he must.«
    »Ought a man to give up the woman he loved, just when misfortune befell
her?« Dobbin said, holding out his hand. »Dear Miss Osborne, is this the counsel
I hear from you? My dear young lady! you must befriend her. He can't give her
up; he must not give her up. Would a man, think you, give you up if you were
poor?«
    This adroit question touched the heart of Miss Jane Osborne not a little. »I
don't know whether we poor girls ought to believe what you men say, Captain,«
she said. »There is that in woman's tenderness which induces her to believe too
easily. I'm afraid you are cruel, cruel deceivers;« and Dobbin certainly thought
he felt a pressure of the hand which Miss Osborne had extended to him.
    He dropped it in some alarm. »Deceivers!« said he. »No, dear Miss Osborne,
all men are not - your brother is not. George has loved Amelia Sedley ever since
they were children; no wealth would make him marry any but her. Ought he to
forsake her? Would you counsel him to do so?«
    What could Miss Jane say to such a question, and with her own peculiar
views? She could not answer it, so she parried it by saying, »Well, if you are
not a deceiver, at least you are very romantic;« and Captain William let this
observation pass without challenge.
    At length when, by the help of further polite speeches, he deemed that Miss
Osborne was sufficiently prepared to receive the whole news, he poured it into
her ear. »George could not give up Amelia - George was married to her -« And
then he related the circumstances of the marriage as we know them already: how
the poor girl would have died had not her lover kept his faith; how old Sedley
had refused all consent to the match, and a licence had been got, and Jos Sedley
had come from Cheltenham to give away the bride; how they had gone to Brighton
in Jos's chariot-and-four to pass the honeymoon; and how George counted on his
dear kind sisters to befriend him with their father, as women - so true and
tender as they were - assuredly would do. And so, asking permission (readily
granted) to see her again, and rightly conjecturing that the news he had brought
would be told in the next five minutes to the other ladies, Captain Dobbin made
his bow and took his leave.
    He was scarcely out of the house when Miss Maria and Miss Wirt rushed in to
Miss Osborne, and the whole wonderful secret was imparted to them by that lady.
To do them justice, neither of the sisters was very much displeased. There is
something about a runaway match with which few ladies can be seriously angry,
and Amelia rather rose in their estimation from the spirit which she had
displayed in consenting to the union. As they debated the story, and prattled
about it, and wondered what papa would do and say, came a loud knock, as of an
avenging thunder-clap, at the door, which made these conspirators start. It must
be papa, they thought. But it was not he. It was only Mr. Frederick Bullock, who
had come from the City according to appointment, to conduct the ladies to a
flower-show.
    This gentleman, as may be imagined, was not kept long in ignorance of the
secret. But his face, when he heard it, showed an amazement which was very
different from that look of sentimental wonder which the countenances of the
sisters wore. Mr. Bullock was a man of the world, and a junior partner of a
wealthy firm. He knew what money was, and the value of it, and a delightful
throb of expectation lighted up his little eyes, and caused him to smile on his
Maria, as he thought that by this piece of folly of Mr. George's she might be
worth thirty thousand pounds more than he had ever hoped to get with her.
    »Gad! Jane,« said he, surveying even the elder sister with some interest,
»Eels will be sorry he cried off. You may be a fifty thousand pounder yet.«
    The sisters had never thought of the money question up to that moment, but
Fred Bullock bantered them with graceful gaiety about it during their forenoon's
excursion; and they had risen not a little in their own esteem by the time when,
the morning amusement over, they drove back to dinner. And do not let my
respected reader exclaim against this selfishness as unnatural. It was but this
present morning, as he rode on the omnibus from Richmond: while it changed
horses, this present chronicler, being on the roof, marked three little children
playing in a puddle below, very dirty, and friendly, and happy. To these three
presently came another little one. »Polly,« says she, »your sister's got a
penny.« At which the children got up from the puddle instantly, and ran off to
pay their court to Peggy. And as the omnibus drove off I saw Peggy with the
infantine procession at her tail, marching with great dignity towards the stall
of a neighbouring lollipop-woman.
 

                                  Chapter XXIV

               In which Mr. Osborne Takes Down the Family Bible.

So having prepared the sisters, Dobbin hastened away to the City to perform the
rest and more difficult part of the task which he had undertaken. The idea of
facing old Osborne rendered him not a little nervous, and more than once he
thought of leaving the young ladies to communicate the secret, which, as he was
aware, they could not long retain. But he had promised to report to George upon
the manner in which the elder Osborne bore the intelligence; so going into the
City to the paternal counting-house in Thames Street, he dispatched thence a
note to Mr. Osborne begging for a half-hour's conversation relative to the
affairs of his son George. Dobbin's messenger returned from Mr. Osborne's house
of business, with the compliments of the latter, who would be very happy to see
the Captain immediately, and away accordingly Dobbin went to confront him.
    The Captain, with a half-guilty secret to confess, and with the prospect of
a painful and stormy interview before him, entered Mr. Osborne's offices with a
most dismal countenance and abashed gait, and, passing through the outer room
where Mr. Chopper presided, was greeted by that functionary from his desk with a
waggish air which further discomfited him. Mr. Chopper winked and nodded, and
pointed his pen towards his patron's door, and said, »You'll find the governor
all right,« with the most provoking good-humour.
    Osborne rose too, and shook him heartily by the hand, and said, »How do, my
dear boy?« with a cordiality that made poor George's ambassador feel doubly
guilty. His hand lay as if dead in the old gentleman's grasp. He felt that he,
Dobbin, was more or less the cause of all that had happened. It was he had
brought back George to Amelia; it was he had applauded, encouraged, transacted
almost the marriage which he was come to reveal to George's father: and the
latter was receiving him with smiles of welcome; patting him on the shoulder,
and calling him »Dobbin, my dear boy.« The envoy had indeed good reason to hang
his head.
    Osborne fully believed that Dobbin had come to announce his son's surrender.
Mr. Chopper and his principal were talking over the matter between George and
his father, at the very moment when Dobbin's messenger arrived. Both agreed that
George was sending in his submission. Both had been expecting it for some days -
and, »Lord! Chopper, what a marriage we'll have!« Mr. Osborne said to his clerk,
snapping his big fingers, and jingling all the guineas and shillings in his
great pocket as he eyed his subordinate with a look of triumph.
    With similar operations conducted in both pockets, and a knowing jolly air,
Osborne from his chair regarded Dobbin seated blank and silent opposite to him.
»What a bumpkin he is for a Captain in the army!« old Osborne thought. »I wonder
George hasn't taught him better manners.«
    At last Dobbin summoned courage to begin. »Sir,« said he, »I've brought you
some very grave news. I have been at the Horse Guards this morning, and there's
no doubt that our regiment will be ordered abroad, and on its way to Belgium
before the week is over. And you know, sir, that we shan't be home again before
a tussle which may be fatal to many of us.«
    Osborne looked grave. »My s--, the regiment will do its duty, sir, I
daresay,« he said.
    »The French are very strong, sir,« Dobbin went on. »The Russians and
Austrians will be a long time before they can bring their troops down. We shall
have the first of the fight, sir; and depend on it Boney will take care that it
shall be a hard one.«
    »What are you driving at, Dobbin?« his interlocutor said, uneasy and with a
scowl. »I suppose no Briton's afraid of any d-- Frenchman, hey?«
    »I only mean, that before we go, and considering the great and certain risk
that hangs over every one of us - if there are any differences between you and
George - it would be as well, sir, that - that you should shake hands: wouldn't
it? Should anything happen to him, I think you would never forgive yourself if
you hadn't parted in charity.«
    As he said this, poor William Dobbin blushed crimson, and felt and owned
that he himself was a traitor. But for him, perhaps, this severance need never
have taken place. Why had not George's marriage been delayed? What call was
there to press it on so eagerly? He felt that George would have parted from
Amelia at any rate without a mortal pang. Amelia, too, might have recovered the
shock of losing him. It was his counsel had brought about this marriage, and all
that was to ensue from it. And why was it? Because he loved her so much that he
could not bear to see her unhappy; or because his own sufferings of suspense
were so unendurable that he was glad to crush them at once - as we hasten a
funeral after a death, or, when a separation from those we love is imminent,
cannot rest until the parting be over.
    »You are a good fellow, William,« said Mr. Osborne in a softened voice; »and
me and George shouldn't part in anger, that is true. Look here. I've done for
him as much as any father ever did. He's had three times as much money from me
as I warrant your father ever gave you. But I don't brag about that. How I've
toiled for him, and worked and employed my talents and energy, I won't say. Ask
Chopper. Ask himself. Ask the city of London. Well, I propose to him such a
marriage as any nobleman in the land might be proud of - the only thing in life
I ever asked him - and he refuses me. Am I wrong? Is the quarrel of my making?
What do I seek but his good, for which I've been toiling like a convict ever
since he was born? Nobody can say there's anything selfish in me. Let him come
back. I say, here's my hand. I say, forget and forgive. As for marrying now,
it's out of the question. Let him and Miss S. make it up, and make out the
marriage afterwards, when he comes back a Colonel; for he shall be a Colonel, by
G-- he shall, if money can do it. I'm glad you've brought him round. I know it's
you, Dobbin. You've took him out of many a scrape before. Let him come. I shan't
be hard. Come along, and dine in Russell Square to-day - both of you. The old
shop, the old hour. You'll find a neck of venison, and no questions asked.«
    This praise and confidence smote Dobbin's heart very keenly. Every moment
the colloquy continued in this tone he felt more and more guilty. »Sir,« said
he, »I fear you deceive yourself. I am sure you do. George is much too
high-minded a man ever to marry for money. A threat on your part that you would
disinherit him in case of disobedience would only be followed by resistance on
his.«
    »Why, hang it, man, you don't call offering him eight or ten thousand a year
threatening him?« Mr. Osborne said, with still provoking good-humour. »'Gad, if
Miss S. will have me, I'm her man. I ain't particular about a shade or so of
tawny.« And the old gentleman gave his knowing grin and coarse laugh.
    »You forget, sir, previous engagements into which Captain Osborne had
entered,« the ambassador said gravely.
    »What engagements? What the devil do you mean? You don't mean,« Mr. Osborne
continued, gathering wrath and astonishment as the thought now first came upon
him - »you don't mean that he's such a d-- fool as to be still hankering after
that swindling old bankrupt's daughter? You've not come here for to make me
suppose that he wants to marry her? Marry her, that is a good one. My son and
heir marry a beggar's girl out of a gutter. D-- him, if he does, let him buy a
broom and sweep a crossing. She was always dangling and ogling after him, I
recollect now; and I've no doubt she was put on by her old sharper of a father.«
    »Mr. Sedley was your very good friend, sir,« Dobbin interposed, almost
pleased at finding himself growing angry. »Time was you called him better names
than rogue and swindler. The match was of your making. George had no right to
play fast and loose -«
    »Fast and loose!« howled out old Osborne. »Fast and loose! Why, hang me,
those are the very words my gentleman used himself when he gave himself airs,
last Thursday was a fortnight, and talked about the British army to his father
who made him. What, it's you who have been a setting of him up - is it? and my
service to you, Captain. It's you who want to introduce beggars into my family.
Thank you for nothing, Captain. Marry her indeed - he, he! why should he? I
warrant you she'd go to him fast enough without.«
    »Sir,« said Dobbin, starting up in undisguised anger, »no man shall abuse
that lady in my hearing, and you least of all.«
    »Oh, you're a going to call me out, are you? Stop, let me ring the bell for
pistols for two. Mr. George sent you here to insult his father, did he?« Osborne
said, pulling at the bell-cord.
    »Mr. Osborne,« said Dobbin, with a faltering voice, »it's you who are
insulting the best creature in the world. You had best spare her, sir, for she's
your son's wife.«
    And with this, feeling that he could say no more, Dobbin went away, Osborne
sinking back in his chair, and looking wildly after him. A clerk came in,
obedient to the bell; and the Captain was scarcely out of the court where Mr.
Osborne's offices were, when Mr. Chopper, the chief clerk, came rushing hatless
after him.
    »For God's sake, what is it?« Mr. Chopper said, catching the Captain by the
skirt. »The governor's in a fit. What has Mr. George been doing?«.
    »He married Miss Sedley five days ago,« Dobbin replied. »I was his
groomsman, Mr. Chopper, and you must stand his friend.«
    The old clerk shook his head. »If that's your news, Captain, it's bad. The
governor will never forgive him.«
    Dobbin begged Chopper to report progress to him at the hotel where he was
stopping, and walked off moodily westwards, greatly perturbed as to the past and
the future.
    When the Russell Square family came to dinner that evening, they found the
father of the house seated in his usual place, but with that air of gloom on his
face, which, whenever it appeared there, kept the whole circle silent. The
ladies, and Mr. Bullock who dined with them, felt that the news had been
communicated to Mr. Osborne. His dark looks affected Mr. Bullock so far as to
render him still and quiet; but he was unusually bland and attentive to Miss
Maria, by whom he sat, and to her sister, presiding at the head of the table.
    Miss Wirt, by consequence, was alone on her side of the board, a gap being
left between her and Miss Jane Osborne. Now this was George's place when he
dined at home; and his cover, as we said, was laid for him in expectation of
that truant's return. Nothing occurred during dinner-time except smiling Mr.
Frederick's flagging confidential whispers, and the clinking of plate and china,
to interrupt the silence of the repast. The servants went about stealthily doing
their duty. Mutes at funerals could not look more glum than the domestics of Mr.
Osborne. The neck of venison of which he had invited Dobbin to partake, was
carved by him in perfect silence; but his own share went away almost untasted,
though he drank much, and the butler assiduously filled his glass.
    At last, just at the end of the dinner, his eyes, which had been staring at
everybody in turn, fixed themselves for a while upon the plate laid for George.
He pointed to it presently with his left hand. His daughters looked at him and
did not comprehend, or choose to comprehend, the signal; nor did the servants at
first understand it.
    »Take that plate away,« at last he said, getting up with an oath; and with
this, pushing his chair back, he walked into his own room.
    Behind Mr. Osborne's dining-room was the usual apartment which went in his
house by the name of the study, and was sacred to the master of the house.
Hither Mr. Osborne would retire of a Sunday forenoon when not minded to go to
church, and here pass the morning in his crimson leather chair, reading the
paper. A couple of glazed bookcases were here, containing standard works in
stout gilt bindings. The »Annual Register,« the »Gentleman's Magazine,« »Blair's
Sermons,« and »Hume and Smollett.« From year's end to year's end he never took
one of these volumes from the shelf; but there was no member of the family that
would dare for his life to touch one of the books, except upon those rare Sunday
evenings when there was no dinner-party, and when the great scarlet Bible and
Prayer-book were taken out from the corner where they stood beside his copy of
the Peerage, and the servants being rung up to the dining-parlour, Osborne read
the evening service to his family in a loud grating pompous voice. No member of
the household, child or domestic, ever entered that room without a certain
terror. Here he checked the housekeeper's accounts, and overhauled the butler's
cellar-book. Hence he could command, across the clean gravel courtyard, the back
entrance of the stables, with which one of his bells communicated; and into this
yard the coachman issued from his premises as into a dock, and Osborne swore at
him from the study window. Four times a year Miss Wirt entered this apartment to
get her salary, and his daughters to receive their quarterly allowance. George
as a boy had been horsewhipped in this room many times; his mother sitting sick
on the stair listening to the cuts of the whip. The boy was scarcely ever known
to cry under the punishment; the poor woman used to fondle and kiss him
secretly, and give him money to soothe him when he came out.
    There was a picture of the family over the mantelpiece, removed thither from
the front room after Mrs. Osborne's death - George was on a pony, the elder
sister holding him up a bunch of flowers; the younger led by her mother's hand;
all with red cheeks and large red mouths, simpering on each other in the
approved family-portrait manner. The mother lay underground now, long since
forgotten - the sisters and brother had a hundred different interests of their
own, and, familiar still, were utterly estranged from each other. Some few score
of years afterwards, when all the parties represented are grown old, what bitter
satire there is in those flaunting childish family portraits, with their farce
of sentiment and smiling lies, and innocence so self-conscious and
self-satisfied. Osborne's own state portrait, with that of his great silver
inkstand and arm-chair, had taken the place of honour in the dining-room vacated
by the family piece.
    To this study old Osborne retired then, greatly to the relief of the small
party whom he left. When the servants had withdrawn, they began to talk for a
while volubly but very low; then they went upstairs quietly, Mr. Bullock
accompanying them stealthily on his creaking shoes. He had no heart to sit alone
drinking wine, and so close to the terrible old gentleman in the study hard at
hand.
    An hour at least after dark, the butler, not having received any summons,
ventured to tap at his door and take him in wax candles and tea. The master of
the house sate in his chair, pretending to read the paper; and when the servant,
placing the lights and refreshment on the table by him, retired, Mr. Osborne got
up and locked the door after him. This time there was no mistaking the matter:
all the household knew that some great catastrophe was going to happen which was
likely direly to affect Master George.
    In the large shining mahogany escritoire Mr. Osborne had a drawer especially
devoted to his son's affairs and papers. Here he kept all the documents relating
to him ever since he had been a boy; here were his prize copy-books and
drawing-books, all bearing George's hand, and that of the master; here were his
first letters in large round-hand sending his love to papa and mamma, and
conveying his petitions for a cake. His dear godpapa Sedley was more than once
mentioned in them. Curses quivered on old Osborne's livid lips, and horrid
hatred and disappointment writhed in his heart, as looking through some of these
papers he came on that name. They were all marked and docketed, and tied with
red tape. It was - »From Georgy, requesting 5s., April 23, 18-; answered, April
25,« - or »Georgy about a pony, October 13,« - and so forth. In another packet
were »Dr. S.'s accounts« - »G.'s tailor's bills and outfits, drafts on me by G.
Osborne, jun.,« etc., - his letters from the West Indies - his agent's letters,
and the newspapers containing his commissions: here was a whip he had when a
boy, and in a paper a locket containing his hair, which his mother used to wear.
    Turning one over after another, and musing over these memorials, the unhappy
man passed many hours. His dearest vanities, ambitious hopes, had all been here.
What pride he had in his boy! He was the handsomest child ever seen. Everybody
said he was like a nobleman's son. A royal princess had remarked him, and kissed
him, and asked his name in Kew Gardens. What City man could show such another?
Could a prince have been better cared for? Anything that money could buy had
been his son's. He used to go down on speech-days with four horses and new
liveries, and scatter new shillings among the boys at the school where George
was; when he went with George to the depôt of his regiment, before the boy
embarked for Canada, he gave the officers such a dinner as the Duke of York
might have sat down to. Had he ever refused a bill when George drew one? There
they were - paid without a word. Many a general in the army couldn't ride the
horses he had! He had the child before his eyes, on a hundred different days
when he remembered George - after dinner, when he used to come in as bold as a
lord and drink off his glass by his father's side, at the head of the table - on
the pony at Brighton, when he cleared the hedge and kept up with the huntsman -
on the day when he was presented to the Prince Regent at the levée, when all St.
James's couldn't produce a finer young fellow. And this, this was the end of
all! - to marry a bankrupt, and fly in the face of duty and fortune! What
humiliation and fury; what pangs of sickening rage, balked ambition and love;
what wounds of outraged vanity, tenderness even, had this old worldling now to
suffer under!
    Having examined these papers, and pondered over this one and the other, in
that bitterest of all helpless woe, with which miserable men think of happy past
times - George's father took the whole of the documents out of the drawer in
which he had kept them so long, and locked them into a writing-box, which he
tied, and sealed with his seal. Then he opened the bookcase, and took down the
great red Bible we have spoken of - a pompous book, seldom looked at, and
shining all over with gold. There was a frontispiece to the volume, representing
Abraham sacrificing Isaac. Here, according to custom, Osborne had recorded on
the fly leaf, and in his large clerk-like hand, the dates of his marriage and
his wife's death, and the births and Christian names of his children. Jane came
first, then George Sedley Osborne, then Maria Frances, and the days of the
christening of each. Taking a pen, he carefully obliterated George's name from
the page; and when the leaf was quite dry, restored the volume to the place from
which he had moved it. Then he took a document out of another drawer, where his
own private papers were kept; and having read it, crumpled it up and lighted it
at one of the candles, and saw it burn entirely away in the grate: it was his
will; which being burned, he sate down and wrote off a letter, and rang for his
servant, whom he charged to deliver it in the morning. It was morning already:
as he went up to bed, the whole house was alight with the sunshine; and the
birds were singing among the fresh green leaves in Russell Square.
    Anxious to keep all Mr. Osborne's family and dependants in good-humour, and
to make as many friends as possible for George in his hour of adversity, William
Dobbin, who knew the effect which good dinners and good wines have upon the soul
of man, wrote off immediately on his return to his inn the most hospitable of
invitations to Thomas Chopper, Esquire, begging that gentleman to dine with him
at the Slaughters' next day. The note reached Mr. Chopper before he left the
City, and the instant reply was, that »Mr. Chopper presents his respectful
compliments, and will have the honour and pleasure of waiting on Captain D.« The
invitation and the rough draft of the answer were shown to Mrs. Chopper and her
daughters on his return to Somers Town that evening, and they talked about
military gents and West End men with great exultation as the family sate and
partook of tea. When the girls had gone to rest, Mr. and Mrs. C. discoursed upon
the strange events which were occurring in the governor's family. Never had the
clerk seen his principal so moved. When he went in to Mr. Osborne, after Captain
Dobbin's departure, Mr. Chopper found his chief black in the face, and all but
in a fit: some dreadful quarrel, he was certain, had occurred between Mr. O. and
the young Captain. Chopper had been instructed to make out an account of all
sums paid to Captain Osborne within the last three years. »And a precious lot of
money he has had too,« the chief clerk said, and respected his old and young
master the more, for the liberal way in which the guineas had been flung about.
The dispute was something about Miss Sedley. Mrs. Chopper vowed and declared she
pitied that poor young lady to lose such a handsome young fellow as the Capting.
As the daughter of an unlucky speculator, who had paid a very shabby dividend,
Mr. Chopper had no great regard for Miss Sedley. He respected the house of
Osborne before all others in the city of London; and his hope and wish was that
Captain George should marry a nobleman's daughter. The clerk slept a great deal
sounder than his principal that night; and, cuddling his children after
breakfast (of which he partook with a very hearty appetite, though his modest
cup of life was only sweetened with brown sugar), he set off in his best Sunday
suit and frilled shirt for business, promising his admiring wife not to punish
Captain D.'s port too severely that evening.
    Mr. Osborne's countenance, when he arrived in the City at his usual time,
struck those dependants who were accustomed, for good reasons, to watch its
expression, as peculiarly ghastly and worn. At twelve o'clock Mr. Higgs (of the
firm of Higgs &amp; Blatherwick, solicitors, Bedford Row), called by
appointment, and was ushered into the governor's private room, and closeted
there for more than an hour. At about one Mr. Chopper received a note brought by
Captain Dobbin's man, and containing an enclosure for Mr. Osborne, which the
clerk went in and delivered. A short time afterwards Mr. Chopper and Mr. Birch,
the next clerk, were summoned, and requested to witness a paper. »I've been
making a new will,« Mr. Osborne said, to which these gentlemen appended their
names accordingly. No conversation passed. Mr. Higgs looked exceedingly grave as
he came into the outer rooms, and very hard in Mr. Chopper's face; but there
were not any explanations. It was remarked that Mr. Osborne was particularly
quiet and gentle all day, to the surprise of those who had augured ill from his
darkling demeanour. He called no man names that day, and was not heard to swear
once. He left business early, and before going away summoned his chief clerk
once more, and having given him general instructions, asked him, after some
seeming hesitation and reluctance to speak, if he knew whether Captain Dobbin
was in town?
    Chopper said he believed he was. Indeed, both of them knew the fact
perfectly.
    Osborne took a letter directed to that officer, and giving it to the clerk,
requested the latter to deliver it into Dobbin's own hands immediately.
    »And now, Chopper,« says he, taking his hat, and with a strange look, »my
mind will be easy.« Exactly as the clock struck two (there was no doubt an
appointment between the pair), Mr. Frederick Bullock called, and he and Mr.
Osborne walked away together.
    The Colonel of the -th regiment, in which Messieurs Dobbin and Osborne had
companies, was an old General who had made his first campaign under Wolfe at
Quebec, and was long since quite too old and feeble for command; but he took
some interest in the regiment of which he was the nominal head, and made certain
of his young officers welcome at his table, a kind of hospitality which I
believe is not now common amongst his brethren. Captain Dobbin was an especial
favourite of this old General. Dobbin was versed in the literature of his
profession, and could talk about the great Frederick, and the Empress Queen, and
their wars, almost as well as the General himself, who was indifferent to the
triumphs of the present day, and whose heart was with the tacticians of fifty
years back. This officer sent a summons to Dobbin to come and breakfast with
him, on the morning when Mr. Osborne altered his will and Mr. Chopper put on his
best shirt-frill, and then informed his young favourite, a couple of days in
advance, of that which they were all expecting - a marching order to go to
Belgium. The order for the regiment to hold itself in readiness would leave the
Horse Guards in a day or two; and as transports were in plenty, they would get
their route before the week was over. Recruits had come in during the stay of
the regiment at Chatham; and the old General hoped that the regiment which had
helped to beat Montcalm in Canada, and to rout Mr. Washington on Long Island,
would prove itself worthy of its historical reputation on the oft-trodden
battle-grounds of the Low Countries. »And so, my good friend, if you have any
affaire là,« said the old General, taking a pinch of snuff with his trembling
white old hand, and then pointing to the spot of his robe de chamber under which
his heart was still feebly beating, »if you have any Phillis to console, or to
bid farewell to papa and mamma, or any will to make, I recommend you to set
about your business without delay.« With which the General gave his young friend
a finger to shake, and a good-natured nod of his powdered and pig-tailed head;
and the door being closed upon Dobbin, sate down to pen a poulet (he was
exceedingly vain of his French) to Mademoiselle Aménaide of His Majesty's
Theatre.
    This news made Dobbin grave, and he thought of our friends at Brighton; and
then he was ashamed of himself that Amelia was always the first thing in his
thoughts (always before anybody - before father and mother, sisters and duty -
always at waking and sleeping indeed, and all day long); and returning to his
hotel, he sent off a brief note to Mr. Osborne acquainting him with the
information which he had received, and which might tend further, he hoped, to
bring about a reconciliation with George.
    This note, dispatched by the same messenger who had carried the invitation
to Chopper on the previous day, alarmed the worthy clerk not a little. It was
enclosed to him, and as he opened the letter he trembled lest the dinner should
be put off on which he was calculating. His mind was inexpressibly relieved when
he found that the envelope was only a reminder for himself. (»I shall expect you
at half-past five,« Captain Dobbin wrote.) He was very much interested about his
employer's family; but, que voulez-vous? a grand dinner was of more concern to
him than the affairs of any other mortal.
    Dobbin was quite justified in repeating the General's information to any
officers of the regiment whom he should see in the course of his peregrinations;
accordingly he imparted it to Ensign Stubble, whom he met at the agent's, and
who - such was his military ardour - went off instantly to purchase a new sword
at the accoutrement-maker's. Here this young fellow - who, though only seventeen
years of age, and about sixty-five inches high, with a constitution naturally
rickety and much impaired by premature brandy-and-water, had an undoubted
courage and a lion's heart - poised, tried, bent, and balanced a weapon such as
he thought would do execution amongst Frenchmen. Shouting, »Ha, ha!« and
stamping his little feet with tremendous energy, he delivered the point twice or
thrice at Captain Dobbin, who parried the thrust laughingly with his bamboo
walking-stick.
    Mr. Stubble, as may be supposed from his size and slenderness, was of the
Light Bobs. Ensign Spooney, on the contrary, was a tall youth, and belonged to
(Captain Dobbin's) the Grenadier Company; and he tried on a new bearskin cap,
under which he looked savage beyond his years. Then these two lads went off to
the Slaughters', and having ordered a famous dinner, sate down and wrote off
letters to the kind anxious parents at home - letters full of love and
heartiness, and pluck and bad spelling. Ah! there were many anxious hearts
beating through England at that time, and mothers' prayers and tears flowing in
many homesteads.
    Seeing young Stubble engaged in composition at one of the coffee-room tables
at the Slaughters', and the tears trickling down his nose on to the paper (for
the youngster was thinking of his mamma, and that he might never see her again),
Dobbin, who was going to write off a letter to George Osborne, relented, and
locked up his desk. »Why should I?« said he. »Let her have this night happy.
I'll go and see my parents early in the morning, and go down to Brighton myself
to-morrow.«
    So he went up and laid his big hand on young Stubble's shoulder, and backed
up that young champion, and told him if he would leave off brandy-and-water he
would be a good soldier, as he always was a gentlemanly good-hearted fellow.
Young Stubble's eyes brightened up at this, for Dobbin was greatly respected in
the regiment, as the best officer and the cleverest man in it.
    »Thank you, Dobbin,« he said, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, »I was
just - just telling her I would. And, O sir, she's so dam kind to me.« The
water-pumps were at work again, and I am not sure that the soft-hearted
Captain's eyes did not also twinkle.
    The two ensigns, the Captain, and Mr. Chopper dined together in the same
box. Chopper brought the letter from Mr. Osborne, in which the latter briefly
presented his compliments to Captain Dobbin, and requested him to forward the
enclosed to Captain George Osborne. Chopper knew nothing further. He described
Mr. Osborne's appearance, it is true, and his interview with his lawyer;
wondered how the governor had sworn at nobody, and - especially as the wine
circled round - abounded in speculations and conjectures. But these grew more
vague with every glass, and at length became perfectly unintelligible. At a late
hour Captain Dobbin put his guest into a hackney-coach, in a hiccupping state,
and swearing that he would be the kick - the kick - Captain's friend for ever
and ever.
    When Captain Dobbin took leave of Miss Osborne, we have said that he asked
leave to come and pay her another visit, and the spinster expected him for some
hours the next day; when, perhaps, had he come, and had he asked her that
question which she was prepared to answer, she would have declared herself as
her brother's friend, and a reconciliation might have been effected between
George and his angry father. But though she waited at home, the Captain never
came. He had his own affairs to pursue, his own parents to visit and console,
and at an early hour of the day to take his place on the Lightning coach and go
down to his friends at Brighton. In the course of the day Miss Osborne heard her
father give orders that that meddling scoundrel Captain Dobbin should never be
admitted within his doors again, and any hopes in which she may have indulged
privately were thus abruptly brought to an end. Mr. Frederick Bullock came, and
was particularly affectionate to Maria, and attentive to the broken-spirited old
gentleman. For though he said his mind would be easy, the means which he had
taken to secure quiet did not seem to have succeeded as yet, and the events of
the past two days had visibly shattered him.
 

                                  Chapter XXV

       In which All the Principal Personages Think Fit to Leave Brighton.

Conducted to the ladies, at the Ship Inn, Dobbin assumed a jovial and rattling
manner, which proved that this young officer was becoming a more consummate
hypocrite every day of his life. He was trying to hide his own private feelings,
first upon seeing Mrs. George Osborne in her new condition, and secondly to mask
the apprehensions he entertained as to the effect which the dismal news brought
down by him would certainly have upon her.
    »It is my opinion, George,« he said, »that the French Emperor will be upon
us, horse and foot, before three weeks are over, and will give the Duke such a
dance as shall make the Peninsula appear mere child's play. But you need not say
that to Mrs. Osborne, you know. There mayn't be any fighting on our side after
all, and our business in Belgium may turn out to be a mere military occupation.
Many persons think so; and Brussels is full of fine people and ladies of
fashion.« So it was agreed to represent the duty of the British army in Belgium
in this harmless light to Amelia.
    This plot being arranged, the hypocritical Dobbin saluted Mrs. George
Osborne quite gaily, tried to pay her one or two compliments relative to her new
position as a bride (which compliments, it must be confessed, were exceedingly
clumsy and hung fire woefully), and then fell to talking about Brighton, and the
sea air, and the gaieties of the place, and the beauties of the road and the
merits of the Lightning coach and horses, - all in a manner quite
incomprehensible to Amelia, and very amusing to Rebecca, who was watching the
Captain, as indeed she watched every one near whom she came.
    Little Amelia, it must be owned, had rather a mean opinion of her husband's
friend, Captain Dobbin. He lisped; he was very plain and homely-looking; and
exceedingly awkward and ungainly. She liked him for his attachment to her
husband (to be sure there was very little merit in that), and she thought George
was most generous and kind in extending his friendship to his brother officer.
George had mimicked Dobbin's lisp and queer manners many times to her, though,
to do him justice, he always spoke most highly of his friend's good qualities.
In her little day of triumph, and not knowing him intimately as yet, she made
light of honest William; and he knew her opinions of him quite well, and
acquiesced in them very humbly. A time came when she knew him better, and
changed her notions regarding him; but that was distant as yet.
    As for Rebecca, Captain Dobbin had not been two hours in the ladies' company
before she understood his secret perfectly. She did not like him, and feared him
privately; nor was he very much prepossessed in her favour. He was so honest,
that her arts and cajoleries did not affect him, and he shrank from her with
instinctive repulsion. And, as she was by no means so far superior to her sex as
to be above jealousy, she disliked him the more for his adoration of Amelia.
Nevertheless, she was very respectful and cordial in her manner towards him. A
friend to the Osbornes! a friend to her dearest benefactors! She vowed she
should always love him sincerely. She remembered him quite well on the Vauxhall
night, as she told Amelia archly, and she made a little fun of him when the two
ladies went to dress for dinner. Rawdon Crawley paid scarcely any attention to
Dobbin, looking upon him as a good-natured nincompoop and underbred City man.
Jos patronized him with much dignity.
    When George and Dobbin were alone in the latter's room, to which George had
followed him, Dobbin took from his desk the letter which he had been charged by
Mr. Osborne to deliver to his son. »It's not in my father's handwriting,« said
George, looking rather alarmed. Nor was it: the letter was from Mr. Osborne's
lawyer, and to the following effect: -
 
                                                      »Bedford Row, May 7, 1815.
        Sir, - I am commissioned by Mr. Osborne to inform you, that he abides by
        the determination which he before expressed to you, and that in
        consequence of the marriage which you have been pleased to contract, he
        ceases to consider you henceforth as a member of his family. This
        determination is final and irrevocable.
            Although the moneys expended upon you in your minority, and the
        bills which you have drawn upon him so unsparingly of late years, far
        exceed in amount the sum to which you are entitled in your own right
        (being the third part of the fortune of your mother, the late Mrs.
        Osborne, and which reverted to you at her decease, and to Miss Jane
        Osborne and Miss Maria Frances Osborne); yet I am instructed by Mr.
        Osborne to say, that he waives all claim upon your estate, and that the
        sum of £2000, 4 per cent. annuities, at the value of the day (being your
        one-third share of the sum of £6000), shall be paid over to yourself or
        your agents upon your receipt for the same, by
                                                           Your obedient Servt.,
                                                                       S. HIGGS.
        P.S. - Mr. Osborne desires me to say, once for all, that he declines to
        receive any messages, letters, or communications from you on this or any
        other subject.«
 
»A pretty way you have managed the affair,« said George, looking savagely at
William Dobbin. »Look there, Dobbin,« and he flung over to the latter his
parent's letter. »A beggar, by Jove, and all in consequence of my d--d
sentimentality. Why couldn't we have waited? A ball might have done for me in
the course of the war; and may still, and how will Emmy be bettered by being
left a beggar's widow? It was all your doing. You were never easy until you had
got me married and ruined. What the deuce am I to do with two thousand pounds?
Such a sum won't last two years. I've lost a hundred and forty to Crawley at
cards and billiards since I've been down here. A pretty manager of a man's
matters you are, forsooth.«
    »There's no denying that the position is a hard one,« Dobbin replied, after
reading over the letter with a blank countenance; »and, as you say, it is partly
of my making. There are some men who wouldn't mind changing with you,« he added,
with a bitter smile. »How many captains in the regiment have two thousand pounds
to the fore, think you? You must live on your pay till your father relents; and
if you die, you leave your wife a hundred a year.«
    »Do you suppose a man of my habits can live on his pay and a hundred a
year?« George cried out in great anger. »You must be a fool to talk so, Dobbin.
How the deuce am I to keep up my position in the world upon such a pitiful
pittance? I can't change my habits. I must have my comforts. I wasn't't brought up
on porridge, like MacWhirter, or on potatoes, like old O'Dowd. Do you expect my
wife to take in soldiers' washing, or ride after the regiment in a
baggage-wagon?«
    »Well, well,« said Dobbin, still good-naturedly, »we'll get her a better
conveyance. But try and remember that you are only a dethroned prince now,
George, my boy; and be quiet whilst the tempest lasts. It won't be for long. Let
your name be mentioned in the Gazette, and I'll engage the old father relents
towards you.«
    »Mentioned in the Gazette!« George answered. »And in what part of it? Among
the killed and wounded returns, and at the top of the list, very likely.«
    »Psha! It will be time enough to cry out when we are hurt,« Dobbin said.
»And if anything happens, you know, George, I have got a little, and I am not a
marrying man, and I shall not forget my godson in my will,« he added, with a
smile. Whereupon the dispute ended - as many scores of such conversations
between Osborne and his friend had concluded previously - by the former
declaring there was no possibility of being angry with Dobbin long, and
forgiving him very generously after abusing him without cause.
    »I say, Becky,« cried Rawdon Crawley out of his dressing-room, to his lady,
who was attiring herself for dinner in her own chamber.
    »What?« said Becky's shrill voice. She was looking over her shoulder in the
glass. She had put on the neatest and freshest white frock imaginable, and with
bare shoulders and a little necklace, and a light blue sash, she looked the
image of youthful innocence and girlish happiness.
    »I say, what'll Mrs. O. do, when O. goes out with the regiment?« Crawley
said, coming into the room, performing a duet on his head with two huge
hair-brushes, and looking out from under his hair with admiration on his pretty
little wife.
    »I suppose she'll cry her eyes out,« Becky answered. »She has been
whimpering half a dozen times, at the very notion of it, already to me.«
    »You don't care, I suppose?« Rawdon said, half angry at his wife's want of
feeling.
    »You wretch! don't you know that I intend to go with you?« Becky replied.
»Besides, you're different. You go as General Tufto's aide-de-camp. We don't
belong to the line,« Mrs. Crawley said, throwing up her head with an air that so
enchanted her husband that he stooped down and kissed it.
    »Rawdon dear - don't you think - you'd better, get that - money from Cupid
before he goes?« Becky continued, fixing on a killing bow. She called George
Osborne, Cupid. She had flattered him about his good looks a score of times
already. She watched over him kindly at écarté of a night when he would drop
into Rawdon's quarters for a half-hour before bedtime.
    She had often called him a horrid dissipated wretch, and threatened to tell
Emmy of his wicked ways and naughty extravagant habits. She brought his cigar
and lighted it for him; she knew the effect of that manoeuvre, having practised
it in former days upon Rawdon Crawley. He thought her gay, brisk, arch,
distinguée, delightful. In their little drives and dinners, Becky, of course,
quite outshone poor Emmy, who remained very mute and timid while Mrs. Crawley
and her husband rattled away together, and Captain Crawley (and Jos after he
joined the young married people) gobbled in silence.
    Emmy's mind somehow misgave her about her friend. Rebecca's wit, spirits,
and accomplishments troubled her with a rueful disquiet. They were only a week
married, and here was George already suffering ennui, and eager for others'
society! She trembled for the future. How shall I be a companion for him, she
thought, - so clever and so brilliant, and I such a humble, foolish creature?
How noble it was of him to marry me - to give up everything, and stoop down to
me! I ought to have refused him, only I had not the heart. I ought to have
stopped at home and taken care of poor papa. And her neglect of her parents (and
indeed there was some foundation for this charge which the poor child's uneasy
conscience brought against her) was now remembered for the first time, and
caused her to blush with humiliation. Oh! thought she, I have been very wicked
and selfish - selfish in forgetting them in their sorrows - selfish in forcing
George to marry me. I know I'm not worthy of him - I know he would have been
happy without me - and yet - I tried, I tried to give him up.
    It is hard when, before seven days of marriage are over, such thoughts and
confessions as these force themselves on a little bride's mind. But so it was;
and the night before Dobbin came to join these young people - on a fine
brilliant moonlight night of May, so warm and balmy that the windows were flung
open to the balcony, from which George and Mrs. Crawley were gazing upon the
calm ocean spread shining before them, while Rawdon and Jos were engaged at
backgammon within - Amelia crouched in a great chair quite neglected, and
watching both these parties, felt a despair and remorse such as were bitter
companions for that tender, lonely soul. Scarce a week was past, and it was come
to this! The future, had she regarded it, offered a dismal prospect; but Emmy
was too shy, so to speak, to look to that, and embark alone on that wide sea,
and unfit to navigate it without a guide and protector. I know Miss Smith has a
mean opinion of her. But how many, my dear Madam, are endowed with your
prodigious strength of mind?
    »Gad, what a fine night, and how bright the moon is!« George said, with a
puff of his cigar, which went soaring up skywards.
    »How delicious they smell in the open air! I adore them. Who'd think the
moon was two hundred and thirty-six thousand eight hundred and forty-seven miles
off?« Becky added, gazing at that orb with a smile. »Isn't it clever of me to
remember that? Pooh! we learned it all at Miss Pinkerton's! How calm the sea is,
and how clear everything. I declare I can almost see the coast of France!« and
her bright green eyes streamed out, and shot into the night as if they could see
through it.
    »Do you know what I intend to do one morning?« she said. »I find I can swim
beautifully; and some day, when my Aunt Crawley's companion - old Briggs, you
know - you remember her - that hook-nosed woman, with the long wisps of hair -
when Briggs goes out to bathe, I intend to dive under her awning, and insist on
a reconciliation in the water. Isn't that a stratagem?«
    George burst out laughing at the idea of this aquatic meeting. »What's the
row there, you two?« Rawdon shouted out, rattling the box. Amelia was making a
fool of herself in an absurd hysterical manner, and retired to her own room to
whimper in private.
    Our history is destined in this chapter to go backwards and forwards in a
very irresolute manner seemingly, and having conducted our story to to-morrow
presently, we shall immediately again have occasion to step back to yesterday,
so that the whole of the tale may get a hearing. As you behold, at Her Majesty's
drawing-room, the ambassadors' and high dignitaries' carriages whisk off from a
private door, while Captain Jones's ladies are waiting for their fly; as you
see, in the Secretary of the Treasury's antechamber, a half-dozen of petitioners
waiting patiently for their audience, and called out one by one, when suddenly
an Irish member or some eminent personage enters the apartment, and instantly
walks in to Mr. Under-Secretary over the heads of all the people present: so, in
the conduct of a tale, the romancer is obliged to exercise this most partial
sort of justice. Although all the little incidents must be heard, yet they must
be put off when the great events make their appearance; and surely such a
circumstance as that which brought Dobbin to Brighton - namely, the ordering out
of the Guards and the line to Belgium, and the mustering of the allied armies in
that country under the command of his Grace the Duke of Wellington - such a
dignified circumstance as that, I say, was entitled to the pas over all minor
occurrences whereof this history is composed mainly, and hence a little trifling
disarrangement and disorder was excusable and becoming. We have only now
advanced in time so far beyond Chapter XXII. as to have got our various
characters up into their dressing-rooms before the dinner, which took place as
usual on the day of Dobbin's arrival.
    George was too humane or too much occupied with the tie of his neckcloth to
convey at once all the news to Amelia which his comrade had brought with him
from London. He came into her room, however, holding the attorney's letter in
his hand, and with so solemn and important an air that his wife, always
ingeniously on the watch for calamity, thought the worst was about to befall,
and running up to her husband, besought her dearest George to tell her
everything - he was ordered abroad - there would be a battle next week - she
knew there would.
    Dearest George parried the question about foreign service, and with a
melancholy shake of the head said, »No, Emmy; it isn't that. It's not myself I
care about; it's you. I have had bad news from my father. He refuses any
communication with me; he has flung us off, and leaves us to poverty. I can
rough it well enough; but you, my dear, how will you bear it? Read here.« And he
handed her over the letter.
    Amelia, with a look of tender alarm in her eyes, listened to her noble hero
as he uttered the above generous sentiments, and sitting down on the bed, read
the letter which George gave her with such a pompous, martyr-like air. Her face
cleared up as she read the document, however. The idea of sharing poverty and
privation in company with the beloved object is, as we have before said, far
from being disagreeable to a warm-hearted woman. The notion was actually
pleasant to little Amelia. Then, as usual, she was ashamed of herself for
feeling happy at such an indecorous moment, and checked her pleasure, saying
demurely, »O George, how your poor heart must bleed at the idea of being
separated from your papa!«
    »It does,« said George, with an agonized countenance.
    »But he can't be angry with you long,« she continued; »nobody could, I'm
sure. He must forgive you, my dearest, kindest husband. Oh, I shall never
forgive myself if he does not.«
    »What vexes me, my poor Emmy, is not my misfortune, but yours,« George said.
»I don't care for a little poverty; and I think, without vanity, I've talents
enough to make my own way.«
    »That you have,« interposed his wife, who thought that war should cease, and
her husband should be made a general instantly.
    »Yes, I shall make my way as well as another,« Osborne went on; »but you, my
dear girl, how can I bear your being deprived of the comforts and station in
society which my wife has a right to expect? My dearest girl in barracks; the
wife of a soldier in a marching regiment; subject to all sorts of annoyance and
privation! It makes me miserable.«
    Emmy, quite at ease, as this was her husband's only cause of disquiet, took
his hand, and with a radiant face and smile began to warble that stanza from the
favourite song of »Wapping Old Stairs,« in which the heroine, after rebuking her
Tom for inattention, promises »his trousers to mend, and his grog too to make,«
if he will be constant and kind, and not forsake her. »Besides,« she said, after
a pause, during which she looked as pretty and happy as any young woman need,
»isn't two thousand pounds an immense deal of money, George?«
    George laughed at her naïveté; and finally they went down to dinner, Amelia
clinging to George's arm, still warbling the tune of »Wapping Old Stairs,« and
more pleased and light of mind than she had been for some days past.
    Thus the repast, which at length came off, instead of being dismal, was an
exceedingly brisk and merry one. The excitement of the campaign counteracted in
George's mind the depression occasioned by the disinheriting letter. Dobbin
still kept up his character of rattle. He amused the company with accounts of
the army in Belgium, where nothing but fêtes and gaiety and fashion were going
on. Then, having a particular end in view, this dexterous Captain proceeded to
describe Mrs. Major O'Dowd packing her own and her Major's wardrobe, and how his
best epaulets had been stowed into a tea canister, whilst her own famous yellow
turban, with the bird of paradise wrapped in brown paper, was locked up in the
Major's tin cocked-hat case, and wondered what effect it would have at the
French king's court at Ghent, or the great military balls at Brussels.
    »Ghent! Brussels!« cried out Amelia, with a sudden shock and start. »Is the
regiment ordered away, George - is it ordered away?« A look of terror came over
the sweet, smiling face, and she clung to George as by an instinct.
    »Don't be afraid, dear,« he said good-naturedly; »it is but a twelve hours'
passage. It won't hurt you. You shall go too, Emmy.«
    »I intend to go,« said Becky. »I'm on the staff. General Tufto is a great
flirt of mine. Isn't he, Rawdon?«
    Rawdon laughed out with his usual roar. William Dobbin flushed up quite red.
»She can't go,« he said; »think of the --« of the danger, he was going to add;
but had not all his conversation during the dinner-time tended to prove there
was none? He became very confused and silent.
    »I must and will go,« Amelia cried with the greatest spirit; and George,
applauding her resolution, patted her under the chin, and asked all the persons
present if they ever saw such a termagant of a wife, and agreed that the lady
should bear him company. »We'll have Mrs. O'Dowd to chaperon you,« he said. What
cared she so long as her husband was near her? Thus, somehow, the bitterness of
a parting was juggled away. Though war and danger were in store, war and danger
might not befall for months to come. There was a respite at any rate, which made
the timid little Amelia almost as happy as a full reprieve would have done, and
which even Dobbin owned in his heart was very welcome. For, to be permitted to
see her was now the greatest privilege and hope of his life, and he thought with
himself secretly how he would watch and protect her. I wouldn't have let her go
if I had been married to her, he thought. But George was the master, and his
friend did not think fit to remonstrate.
    Putting her arm round her friend's waist, Rebecca at length carried Amelia
off from the dinner-table, where so much business of importance had been
discussed, and left the gentlemen in a highly exhilarated state, drinking and
talking very gaily.
    In the course of the evening Rawdon got a little family note from his wife,
which, although he crumpled it up and burnt it instantly in the candle, we had
the good luck to read over Rebecca's shoulder. »Great news,« she wrote. »Mrs.
Bute is gone. Get the money from Cupid to-night, as he'll be off to-morrow most
likely. Mind this. - R.« So when the little company was about adjourning to
coffee in the women's apartment, Rawdon touched Osborne on the elbow, and said
gracefully, »I say, Osborne, my boy, if quite convenient, I'll trouble you for
that 'ere small trifle.« It was not quite convenient, but nevertheless George
gave him a considerable present instalment in bank-notes from his pocket-book,
and a bill on his agents at a week's date for the remaining sum.
    This matter arranged, George, and Jos, and Dobbin held a council of war over
their cigars, and agreed that a general move should be made for London in Jos's
open carriage the next day. Jos, I think, would have preferred staying until
Rawdon Crawley quitted Brighton; but Dobbin and George overruled him, and he
agreed to carry the party to town, and ordered four horses, as became his
dignity. With these they set off in state, after breakfast, the next day. Amelia
had risen very early in the morning, and packed her little trunks with the
greatest alacrity, while Osborne lay in bed deploring that she had not a maid to
help her. She was only too glad, however, to perform this office for herself. A
dim, uneasy sentiment about Rebecca filled her mind already; and although they
kissed each other most tenderly at parting, yet we know what jealousy is; and
Mrs. Amelia possessed that among other virtues of her sex.
 
Besides these characters who are coming and going away, we must remember that
there were some other old friends of ours at Brighton - Miss Crawley, namely,
and the suite in attendance upon her. Now, although Rebecca and her husband were
but a few stones' throw of the lodgings which the invalid Miss Crawley occupied,
the old lady's door remained as pitilessly closed to them as it had been
heretofore in London. As long as she remained by the side of her sister-in-law,
Mrs. Bute Crawley took care that her beloved Matilda should not be agitated by a
meeting with her nephew. When the spinster took her drive, the faithful Mrs.
Bute sate beside her in the carriage. When Miss Crawley took the air in a chair,
Mrs. Bute marched on one side of the vehicle, while honest Briggs occupied the
other wing. And if they met Rawdon and his wife by chance - although the former
constantly and obsequiously took off his hat - the Miss Crawley party passed him
by with such a frigid and killing indifference, that Rawdon began to despair.
    »We might as well be in London as here,« Captain Rawdon often said, with a
downcast air.
    »A comfortable inn in Brighton is better than a spunging-house in Chancery
Lane,« his wife answered, who was of a more cheerful temperament. »Think of
those two aides-de-camp of Mr. Moses, the sheriff's-officer, who watched our
lodgings for a week. Our friends here are very stupid, but Mr. Jos and Captain
Cupid are better companions than Mr. Moses' men, Rawdon, my love.«
    »I wonder the writs haven't followed me down here,« Rawdon continued, still
despondent.
    »When they do, we'll find means to give them the slip,« said dauntless
little Becky, and further pointed out to her husband the great comfort and
advantage of meeting Jos and Osborne, whose acquaintance had brought to Rawdon
Crawley a most timely little supply of ready-money.
    »It will hardly be enough to pay the inn bill,« grumbled the Guardsman.
    »Why need we pay it?« said the lady, who had an answer for everything.
    Through Rawdon's valet, who still kept up a trifling acquaintance with the
male inhabitants of Miss Crawley's servants' hall, and was instructed to treat
the coachman to drink whenever they met, old Miss Crawley's movements were
pretty well known by our young couple; and Rebecca luckily bethought herself of
being unwell, and of calling in the same apothecary who was in attendance upon
the spinster, so that their information was on the whole tolerably complete. Nor
was Miss Briggs, although forced to adopt a hostile attitude, secretly inimical
to Rawdon and his wife. She was naturally of a kindly and forgiving disposition.
Now that the cause of jealousy was removed, her dislike for Rebecca disappeared
also, and she remembered the latter's invariable good words and good-humour.
And, indeed, she and Mrs. Firkin, the lady's-maid, and the whole of Miss
Crawley's household, groaned under the tyranny of the triumphant Mrs. Bute.
    As often will be the case, that good but imperious woman pushed her
advantages too far, and her successes quite unmercifully. She had in the course
of a few weeks brought the invalid to such a state of helpless docility, that
the poor soul yielded herself entirely to her sister's orders, and did not even
dare to complain of her slavery to Briggs or Firkin. Mrs. Bute measured out the
glasses of wine which Miss Crawley was daily allowed to take, with irresistible
accuracy, greatly to the annoyance of Firkin and the butler, who found
themselves deprived of control over even the sherry-bottle. She apportioned the
sweetbreads, jellies, chickens; their quantity and order. Night and noon and
morning she brought the abominable drinks ordained by the doctor, and made her
patient swallow them with so affecting an obedience, that Firkin said, »My poor
Missus du take her physic like a lamb.« She prescribed the drive in the carriage
or the ride in the chair, and, in a word, ground down the old lady in her
convalescence in such a way as only belongs to your proper-managing, motherly,
moral woman. If ever the patient faintly resisted, and pleaded for a little bit
more dinner or a little drop less medicine, the nurse threatened her with
instantaneous death, when Miss Crawley instantly gave in. »She's no spirit left
in her,« Firkin remarked to Briggs; »she ain't 'ave called me a fool these three
weeks.« Finally, Mrs. Bute had made up her mind to dismiss the aforesaid honest
lady's-maid, Mr. Bowls, the large confidential man, and Briggs herself, and to
send for her daughters from the Rectory, previous to removing the dear invalid
bodily to Queen's Crawley, when an odious accident happened which called her
away from duties so pleasing. The Reverend Bute Crawley, her husband, riding
home one night, fell from his horse and broke his collar-bone. Fever and
inflammatory symptoms set in, and Mrs. Bute was forced to leave Sussex for
Hampshire. As soon as ever Bute was restored, she promised to return to her
dearest friend, and departed, leaving the strongest injunctions with the
household regarding their behaviour to their mistress; and as soon as she got
into the Southampton coach, there was such a jubilee and sense of relief in all
Miss Crawley's house, as the company of persons assembled there had not
experienced for many a week before. That very day Miss Crawley left off her
afternoon dose of medicine; that afternoon Bowls opened an independent bottle of
sherry for himself and Mrs. Firkin; that night Miss Crawley and Miss Briggs
indulged in a game of piquet instead of one of Porteus's sermons. It was as in
the old nursery-story, when the stick forgot to beat the dog, and the whole
course of events underwent a peaceful and happy revolution.
    At a very early hour in the morning, twice or thrice a week, Miss Briggs
used to betake herself to a bathing-machine, and disport in the water in a
flannel gown and an oilskin cap. Rebecca, as we have seen, was aware of this
circumstance, and though she did not attempt to storm Briggs as she had
threatened, and actually dive into that lady's presence and surprise her under
the sacredness of the awning, Mrs. Rawdon determined to attack Briggs as she
came away from her bath, refreshed and invigorated by her dip, and likely to be
in good-humour.
    So getting up very early the next morning, Becky brought the telescope in
their sitting-room, which faced the sea, to bear upon the bathing-machines on
the beach; saw Briggs arrive, enter her box, and put out to sea; and was on the
shore just as the nymph of whom she came in quest stepped out of the little
caravan on to the shingles. It was a pretty picture: the beach, the
bathing-women's faces, the long line of rocks and building were blushing and
bright in the sunshine. Rebecca wore a kind, tender smile on her face, and was
holding out her pretty white hand as Briggs emerged from the box. What could
Briggs do but accept the salutation?
    »Miss Sh--, Mrs. Crawley,« she said.
    Mrs. Crawley seized her hand, pressed it to her heart, and with a sudden
impulse, flinging her arms round Briggs, kissed her affectionately. »Dear, dear
friend!« she said, with a touch of such natural feeling that Miss Briggs of
course at once began to melt, and even the bathing-woman was mollified.
    Rebecca found no difficulty in engaging Briggs in a long, intimate, and
delightful conversation. Everything that had passed since the morning of Becky's
sudden departure from Miss Crawley's house in Park Lane up to the present day,
and Mrs. Bute's happy retreat, was discussed and described by Briggs. All Miss
Crawley's symptoms, and the particulars of her illness and medical treatment,
were narrated by the confidante with that fullness and accuracy which women
delight in. About their complaints and their doctors do ladies ever tire of
talking to each other? Briggs did not on this occasion; nor did Rebecca weary of
listening. She was thankful, truly thankful, that the dear kind Briggs, that the
faithful, the invaluable Firkin, had been permitted to remain with their
benefactress through her illness. Heaven bless her! though she, Rebecca, had
seemed to act undutifully towards Miss Crawley, yet was not her fault a natural
and excusable one? Could she help giving her hand to the man who had won her
heart? Briggs, the sentimental, could only turn up her eyes to heaven at this
appeal, and heave a sympathetic sigh, and think that she, too, had given away
her affections long years ago, and own that Rebecca was no very great criminal.
    »Can I ever forget her who so befriended the friendless orphan? No, though
she has cast me off,« the latter said, »I shall never cease to love her, and I
would devote my life to her service. As my own benefactress, as my beloved
Rawdon's adored relative, I love and admire Miss Crawley, dear Miss Briggs,
beyond any woman in the world; and next to her I love all those who are faithful
to her. I would never have treated Miss Crawley's faithful friends as that
odious, designing Mrs. Bute has done. Rawdon, who was all heart,« Rebecca
continued, »although his outward manners might seem rough and careless, had said
a hundred times, with tears in his eyes, that he blessed Heaven for sending his
dearest Aunty two such admirable nurses as her attached Firkin and her admirable
Miss Briggs.« Should the machinations of the horrible Mrs. Bute end, as she too
much feared they would, in banishing everybody that Miss Crawley loved from her
side, and leaving that poor lady a victim of those harpies at the Rectory,
Rebecca besought her (Miss Briggs) to remember that her own home, humble as it
was, was always open to receive Briggs. »Dear friend,« she exclaimed, in a
transport of enthusiasm, »some hearts can never forget benefits; all women are
not Bute Crawleys! Though why should I complain of her,« Rebecca added; »though
I have been her tool and the victim to her arts, do I not owe my dearest Rawdon
to her?« And Rebecca unfolded to Briggs all Mrs. Bute's conduct at Queen's
Crawley, which, though unintelligible to her then, was clearly enough explained
by the events now, - now that the attachment had sprung up which Mrs. Bute had
encouraged by a thousand artifices, - now that two innocent people had fallen
into the snares which she had laid for them, and loved and married and been
ruined through her schemes.
    It was all very true. Briggs saw the stratagems as clearly as possible. Mrs.
Bute had made the match between Rawdon and Rebecca. Yet, though the latter was a
perfectly innocent victim, Miss Briggs could not disguise from her friend her
fear that Miss Crawley's affections were hopelessly estranged from Rebecca, and
that the old lady would never forgive her nephew for making so imprudent a
marriage.
    On this point Rebecca had her own opinion, and still kept up a good heart.
If Miss Crawley did not forgive them at present, she might at least relent on a
future day. Even now there was only that puling, sickly Pitt Crawley between
Rawdon and a baronetcy; and should anything happen to the former, all would be
well. At all events, to have Mrs. Bute's designs exposed, and herself well
abused, was a satisfaction, and might be advantageous to Rawdon's interest; and
Rebecca, after an hour's chat with her recovered friend, left her with the most
tender demonstrations of regard, and quite assured that the conversation they
had had together would be reported to Miss Crawley before many hours were over.
    This interview ended, it became full time for Rebecca to return to her inn,
where all the party of the previous day were assembled at a farewell breakfast.
Rebecca took such a tender leave of Amelia as became two women who loved each
other as sisters; and having used her handkerchief plentifully, and hung on her
friend's neck as if they were parting for ever, and waved the handkerchief
(which was quite dry, by the way) out of window, as the carriage drove off, she
came back to the breakfast table and ate some prawns, with a good deal of
appetite, considering her emotion; and while she was munching these delicacies,
explained to Rawdon what had occurred in her morning walk between herself and
Briggs. Her hopes were very high; she made her husband share them. She generally
succeeded in making her husband share all her opinions, whether melancholy or
cheerful.
    »You will now, if you please, my dear, sit down at the writing-table and pen
me a pretty little letter to Miss Crawley, in which you'll say that you are a
good boy, and that sort of thing.« So Rawdon sate down, and wrote off,
»Brighton, Thursday,« and »My dear Aunt,« with great rapidity; but there the
gallant officer's imagination failed him. He mumbled the end of his pen, and
looked up in his wife's face. She could not help laughing at his rueful
countenance, and marching up and down the room, with her hands behind her, the
little woman began to dictate a letter, which he took down.
    »Before quitting the country and commencing a campaign, which very possibly
may be fatal -«
    »What?« said Rawdon, rather surprised, but took the humour of the phrase,
and presently wrote it down with a grin.
    »Which very possibly may be fatal, I have come hither -«
    »Why not say come here, Becky? come here's grammar,« the dragoon interposed.
    »I have come hither,« Rebecca insisted, with a stamp of her foot, »to say
farewell to my dearest and earliest friend. I beseech you before I go, not
perhaps to return, once more to let me press the hand from which I have received
nothing but kindnesses all my life.«
    »Kindnesses all my life,« echoed Rawdon, scratching down the words, and
quite amazed at his own facility of composition.
    »I ask nothing from you but that we should part not in anger. I have the
pride of my family on some points, though not on all. I married a painter's
daughter, and am not ashamed of the union.«
    »No, run me through the body if I am!« Rawdon ejaculated.
    »You old booby,« Rebecca said, pinching his ear and looking over to see that
he made no mistakes in spelling - »beseech is not spelt with an a, and earliest
is.« So he altered these words, bowing to the superior knowledge of his little
Missis.
    »I thought that you were aware of the progress of my attachment,« Rebecca
continued: »I knew that Mrs. Bute Crawley confirmed and encouraged it. But I
make no reproaches. I married a poor woman, and am content to abide by what I
have done. Leave your property, dear Aunt, as you will. I shall never complain
of the way in which you dispose of it. I would have you believe that I love you
for yourself, and not for money's sake. I want to be reconciled to you ere I
leave England. Let me, let me see you before I go. A few weeks or months hence
it may be too late, and I cannot bear the notion of quitting the country without
a kind word of farewell from you.«
    »She won't recognize my style in that,« said Becky. »I made the sentences
short and brisk on purpose.« And this authentic missive was dispatched under
cover to Miss Briggs.
    Old Miss Crawley laughed when Briggs, with great mystery, handed her over
this candid and simple statement. »We may read it now Mrs. Bute is away,« she
said. »Read it to me, Briggs.«
    When Briggs had read the epistle out, her patroness laughed more. »Don't you
see, you goose,« she said to Briggs, who professed to be much touched by the
honest affection which pervaded the composition - »don't you see that Rawdon
never wrote a word of it? He never wrote to me without asking for money in his
life, and all his letters are full of bad spelling, and dashes, and bad grammar.
It is that little serpent of a governess who rules him.« They are all alike,
Miss Crawley thought in her heart. They all want me dead, and are hankering for
my money.
    »I don't mind seeing Rawdon,« she added, after a pause, and in a tone of
perfect indifference. »I had just as soon shake hands with him as not. Provided
there is no scene, why shouldn't we meet? I don't mind. But human patience has
its limits; and mind, my dear, I respectfully decline to receive Mrs. Rawdon; I
can't support that quite.« And Miss Briggs was fain to be content with this
half-message of conciliation; and thought that the best method of bringing the
old lady and her nephew together, was to warn Rawdon to be in waiting on the
Cliff, when Miss Crawley went out for her air in her chair.
    There they met. I don't know whether Miss Crawley had any private feeling of
regard or emotion upon seeing her old favourite; but she held out a couple of
fingers to him with as smiling and good-humoured an air, as if they had met only
the day before. And as for Rawdon, he turned as red as scarlet, and wrung off
Briggs's hand, so great was his rapture and his confusion at the meeting.
Perhaps it was interest that moved him, or perhaps affection; perhaps he was
touched by the change which the illness of the last weeks had wrought in his
aunt.
    »The old girl has always acted like a trump to me,« he said to his wife, as
he narrated the interview; »and I felt, you know, rather queer, and that sort of
thing. I walked by the side of the whatdyecallem - you know, and to her own
door, where Bowls came to help her in. And I wanted to go in very much, only -«
    »You didn't go in, Rawdon?« screamed his wife.
    »No, my dear; I'm hanged if I wasn't't afraid when it came to the point.«
    »You fool! you ought to have gone in, and never come out again,« Rebecca
said.
    »Don't call me names,« said the big Guardsman sulkily. »Perhaps I was a
fool, Becky, but you shouldn't say so;« and he gave his wife a look, such as his
countenance could wear when angered, and such as was not pleasant to face.
    »Well, dearest, to-morrow you must be on the look-out, and go and see her,
mind, whether she asks you or no,« Rebecca said, trying to soothe her angry
yoke-mate. On which he replied, that he would do exactly as he liked, and would
just thank her to keep a civil tongue in her head; and the wounded husband went
away, and passed the forenoon at the billiard-room, sulky, silent, and
suspicious.
 
But before the night was over he was compelled to give in, and own, as usual, to
his wife's superior prudence and foresight, by the most melancholy confirmation
of the presentiments which she had regarding the consequences of the mistake
which he had made. Miss Crawley must have had some emotion upon seeing him and
shaking hands with him after so long a rupture. She mused upon the meeting a
considerable time. »Rawdon is getting very fat and old, Briggs,« she said to her
companion. »His nose has become red, and he is exceedingly coarse in appearance.
His marriage to that woman has hopelessly vulgarized him. Mrs. Bute always said
they drank together; and I have no doubt they do. Yes; he smelt of gin
abominably. I remarked it. Didn't you?«
    In vain Briggs interposed that Mrs. Bute spoke ill of everybody; and, as far
as a person in her humble position could judge, was an -
    »An artful, designing woman? Yes, so she is, and she does speak ill of every
one; but I am certain that woman has made Rawdon drink. All those low people do
-«
    »He was very much affected at seeing you, ma'am,« the companion said, »and I
am sure, when you remember that he is going to the field of danger -«
    »How much money has he promised you, Briggs?« the old spinster cried out,
working herself into a nervous rage; - »there now, of course you begin to cry. I
hate scenes. Why am I always to be worried? Go and cry up in your own room, and
send Firkin to me, - no, stop, sit down and blow your nose, and leave off
crying, and write a letter to Captain Crawley.« Poor Briggs went and placed
herself obediently at the writing-book. Its leaves were blotted all over with
relics of the firm, strong, rapid handwriting of the spinster's late amanuensis,
Mrs. Bute Crawley.
    »Begin My dear sir, or Dear sir, that will be better, and say you are
desired by Miss Crawley - no, by Miss Crawley's medical man, by Mr. Creamer, to
state, that my health is such that all strong emotions would be dangerous in my
present delicate condition; and that I must decline any family discussions or
interviews whatever. And thank him for coming to Brighton, and so forth, and beg
him not to stay any longer on my account. And, Miss Briggs, you may add that I
wish him a bon voyage; and that if he will take the trouble to call upon my
lawyers in Gray's Inn Square, he will find there a communication for him. Yes,
that will do; and that will make him leave Brighton.« The benevolent Briggs
penned this sentence with the utmost satisfaction.
    »To seize upon me the very day after Mrs. Bute was gone,« the old lady
prattled on; »it was too indecent. Briggs, my dear, write to Mrs. Crawley, and
say she needn't come back. No - she needn't - and she shan't - and I won't be a
slave in my own house - and I won't be starved and choked with poison. They all
want to kill me - all - all« - and with this the lonely old woman burst into a
scream of hysterical tears.
    The last scene of her dismal Vanity Fair comedy was fast approaching; the
tawdry lamps were going out one by one, and the dark curtain was almost ready to
descend.
    That final paragraph which referred Rawdon to Miss Crawley's solicitor in
London, and which Briggs had written so good-naturedly, consoled the dragoon and
his wife somewhat, after their first blank disappointment on reading the
spinster's refusal of a reconciliation. And it effected the purpose for which
the old lady had caused it to be written, by making Rawdon very eager to get to
London.
    Out of Jos's losings and George Osborne's bank-notes he paid his bill at the
inn, the landlord whereof does not probably know to this day how doubtfully his
account once stood. For, as a general sends his baggage to the rear before an
action, Rebecca had wisely packed up all their chief valuables and sent them off
under care of George's servant, who went in charge of the trunks on the coach
back to London. Rawdon and his wife returned by the same conveyance next day.
    »I should have liked to see the old girl before we went,« Rawdon said. »She
looks so cut up and altered that I'm sure she can't last long. I wonder what
sort of a cheque I shall have at Waxy's. Two hundred - it can't be less than two
hundred, - hey, Becky?«
    In consequence of the repeated visits of the aides-de-camp of the Sheriff of
Middlesex, Rawdon and his wife did not go back to their lodgings at Brompton,
but put up at an inn. Early the next morning, Rebecca had an opportunity of
seeing them as she skirted that suburb on her road to old Mrs. Sedley's house at
Fulham, whither she went to look for her dear Amelia and her Brighton friends.
They were all off to Chatham, thence to Harwich, to take shipping for Belgium
with the regiment - kind old Mrs. Sedley very much depressed and tearful,
solitary. Returning from this visit, Rebecca found her husband, who had been off
to Gray's Inn, and learned his fate. He came back furious.
    »By Jove, Becky,« says he, »she's only given me twenty pound!«
    Though it told against themselves, the joke was too good, and Becky burst
out laughing at Rawdon's discomfiture.
 

                                  Chapter XXVI

                          Between London and Chatham.

On quitting Brighton, our friend George, as became a person of rank and fashion
travelling in a barouche with four horses, drove in state to a fine hotel in
Cavendish Square, where a suite of splendid rooms and a table magnificently
furnished with plate and surrounded by a half-dozen of black and silent waiters,
was ready to receive the young gentleman and his bride. George did the honours
of the place with a princely air to Jos and Dobbin; and Amelia, for the first
time, and with exceeding shyness and timidity, presided at what George called
her own table.
    George pooh-poohed the wine and bullied the waiters royally, and Jos gobbled
the turtle with immense satisfaction. Dobbin helped him to it; for the lady of
the house, before whom the tureen was placed, was so ignorant of the contents
that she was going to help Mr. Sedley without bestowing upon him either calipash
or calipee.
    The splendour of the entertainment, and the apartments in which it was
given, alarmed Mr. Dobbin, who remonstrated after dinner, when Jos was asleep in
the great chair. But in vain he cried out against the enormity of turtle and
champagne that was fit for an archbishop. »I've always been accustomed to travel
like a gentleman,« George said, »and, damme, my wife shall travel like a lady.
As long as there's a shot in the locker, she shall want for nothing,« said the
generous fellow, quite pleased with himself for his magnificence of spirit. Nor
did Dobbin try to convince him that Amelia's happiness was not centred in
turtle-soup.
    A while after dinner, Amelia timidly expressed a wish to go and see her
mamma, at Fulham; which permission George granted her with some grumbling. And
she tripped away to her enormous bedroom, in the centre of which stood the
enormous funereal bed »that the Emperor Halixander's sister slept in when the
allied sufferings was here,« and put on her little bonnet and shawl with the
utmost eagerness and pleasure. George was still drinking claret when she
returned to the dining-room, and made no signs of moving. »Aren't you coming
with me, dearest?« she asked him. No; the »dearest« had »business« that night.
His man should get her a coach and go with her. And the coach being at the door
of the hotel, Amelia made George a little disappointed curtsy after looking
vainly into his face once or twice, and went sadly down the great staircase,
Captain Dobbin after, who handed her into the vehicle, and saw it drive away to
its destination. The very valet was ashamed of mentioning the address to the
hackney-coachman before the hotel waiters, and promised to instruct him when
they got further on.
    Dobbin walked home to his old quarters at the Slaughters', thinking very
likely that it would be delightful to be in that hackney-coach along with Mrs.
Osborne. George was evidently of quite a different taste; for when he had taken
wine enough, he went off to half-price at the play, to see Mr. Kean perform in
Shylock. Captain Osborne was a great lover of the drama, and had himself
performed high-comedy characters with great distinction in several garrison
theatrical entertainments. Jos slept on until long after dark, when he woke up
with a start at the motions of his servant, who was removing and emptying the
decanters on the table; and the hackney-coach stand was again put into
requisition for a carriage to convey this stout hero to his lodgings and bed.
 
Mrs. Sedley, you may be sure, clasped her daughter to her heart with all
maternal eagerness and affection, running out of the door, as the carriage drew
up before the little garden-gate, to welcome the weeping, trembling young bride.
Old Mr. Clapp, who was in his shirt-sleeves, trimming the garden-plot, shrank
back alarmed. The Irish servant-lass rushed up from the kitchen and smiled a
»God bless you.« Amelia could hardly walk along the flags and up the steps into
the parlour.
    How the floodgates were opened, and mother and daughter wept when they were
together embracing each other in this sanctuary, may readily be imagined by
every reader who possesses the least sentimental turn. When don't ladies weep?
At what occasion of joy, sorrow, or other business of life? And after such an
event as a marriage, mother and daughter were surely at liberty to give way to a
sensibility which is as tender as it is refreshing. About a question of marriage
I have seen women who hate each other kiss and cry together quite fondly. How
much more do they feel when they love! Good mothers are married over again at
their daughters' weddings; and as for subsequent events, who does not know how
ultra-maternal grandmother, are? in fact a woman, until she is a grandmother,
does not often really know what to be a mother is. Let us respect Amelia and her
mamma whispering and whimpering and laughing and crying in the parlour and the
twilight. Old Mr. Sedley did. He had not divined who was in the carriage when it
drove up. He had not flown out to meet his daughter, though he kissed her very
warmly when she entered the room (where he was occupied, as usual, with his
papers and tapes and statements of accounts), and after sitting with the mother
and daughter for a short time, he very wisely left the little apartment in their
possession.
    George's valet was looking on in a very supercilious manner at Mr. Clapp in
his shirt-sleeves watering his rose-bushes. He took off his hat, however, with
much condescension to Mr. Sedley, who asked news about his son-in-law, and about
Jos's carriage, and whether his horses had been down to Brighton, and about that
infernal traitor Bonaparty and the war; until the Irish maid-servant came with a
plate and a bottle of wine, from which the old gentleman insisted upon helping
the valet. He gave him a half-guinea, too, which the servant pocketed with a
mixture of wonder and contempt. »To the health of your master and mistress,
Trotter,« Mr. Sedley said; »and here's something to drink your health when you
get home, Trotter.«
    There were but nine days past since Amelia had left that little cottage and
home, and yet how far off the time seemed since she had bidden if farewell. What
a gulf lay between her and that past life! She could look back to it from her
present standing-place, and contemplate, almost as another being, the young
unmarried girl absorbed in her love, having no eyes but for one special object,
receiving parental affection, if not ungratefully, at least indifferently, and
as if it were her due - her whole heart and thoughts bent on the accomplishment
of one desire. The review of those days, so lately gone yet so far away, touched
her with shame, and the aspect of the kind parents filled her with tender
remorse. Was the prize gained - the heaven of life - and the winner still
doubtful and unsatisfied? As his hero and heroine pass the matrimonial barrier,
the novelist generally drops the curtain, as if the drama were over then, the
doubts and struggles of life ended; as if, once landed in the marriage country,
all were green and pleasant there, and wife and husband had nothing to do but to
link each other's arms together, and wander gently downwards towards old age in
happy and perfect fruition. But our little Amelia was just on the bank of her
new country, and was already looking anxiously back towards the sad friendly
figures waving farewell to her across the stream from the other distant shore.
    In honour of the young bride's arrival, her mother thought it necessary to
prepare I don't know what festive entertainment, and after the first ebullition
of talk, took leave of Mrs. George Osborne for a while, and dived down to the
lower regions of the house to a sort of kitchen-parlour (occupied by Mr. and
Mrs. Clapp, and in the evening, when her dishes were washed and her curl-papers
removed, by Miss Flannigan, the Irish servant), there to take measures for the
preparing of a magnificent ornamented tea. All people have their ways of
expressing kindness, and it seemed to Mrs. Sedley that a muffin and a quantity
of orange marmalade spread out in a little cut-glass saucer would be peculiarly
agreeable refreshments to Amelia in her most interesting situation.
    While these delicacies were being transacted below, Amelia, leaving the
drawing-room, walked upstairs, and found herself, she scarce knew how, in the
little room which she had occupied before her marriage, and in that very chair
in which she had passed so many bitter hours. She sank back in its arms as if it
were an old friend, and fell to thinking over the past week and the life beyond
it. Already to be looking sadly and vaguely back, always to be pining for
something which when obtained brought doubt and sadness rather than pleasure -
here was the lot of our poor little creature and harmless lost wanderer in the
great struggling crowds of Vanity Fair.
    Here she sate, and I recalled to herself fondly that image of George to
which she had knelt before marriage. Did she own to herself how different the
real man was from that superb young hero whom she had worshipped? It requires
many, many years - and a man must be very bad indeed - before a woman's pride
and vanity will let her own to such a confession. Then Rebecca's twinkling green
eyes and baleful smile lighted upon her, and filled her with dismay. And so she
sate for a while indulging in her usual mood of selfish brooding, in that very
listless, melancholy attitude in which the honest maid-servant had found her on
the day when she brought up the letter in which George renewed his offer of
marriage.
    She looked at the little white bed, which had been hers a few days before,
and thought she would like to sleep in it that night, and wake, as formerly,
with her mother smiling over her in the morning. Then she thought with terror of
the great funereal damask pavilion in the vast and dingy state bedroom which was
awaiting her at the grand hotel in Cavendish Square. Dear little white bed! how
many a long night had she wept on its pillow! How had she despaired, and hoped
to die there; and now were not all her wishes accomplished, and the lover of
whom she had despaired her own for ever? Kind mother! how patiently and tenderly
had she watched round that bed! She went and knelt down by the bedside, and
there this wounded and timorous but gentle and loving soul sought for
consolation where as yet, it must be owned, our little girl had but seldom
looked for it. Love had been her faith hitherto, and the sad, bleeding,
disappointed heart began to feel the want of another consoler.
    Have we a right to repeat or to overhear her prayers? These, brother, are
secrets, and out of the domain of Vanity Fair, in which our story lies.
    But this may be said, that when the tea was finally announced, our young
lady came downstairs a great deal more cheerful; that she did not despond, or
deplore her fate, or think about George's coldness, or Rebecca's eyes, as she
had been wont to do of late. She went downstairs, and kissed her father and
mother, and talked to the old gentleman, and made him more merry than he had
been for many a day. She sate down at the piano which Dobbin had bought for her,
and sang over all her father's favourite old songs. She pronounced the tea to be
excellent, and praised the exquisite taste in which the marmalade was arranged
in the saucers. And in determining to make everybody else happy, she found
herself so; and was sound asleep in the great funereal pavilion, and only woke
up with a smile when George arrived from the theatre.
    For the next day George had more important »business« to transact than that
which took him to see Mr. Kean in Shylock. Immediately on his arrival in London
he had written off to his father's solicitors, signifying his royal pleasure
that an interview should take place between them on the morrow. His hotel bill,
losses at billiards and cards to Captain Crawley, had almost drained the young
man's purse, which wanted replenishing before he set out on his travels, and he
had no resource but to infringe upon the two thousand pounds which the attorneys
were commissioned to pay over to him. He had a perfect belief in his own mind
that his father would relent before very long. How could any parent be obdurate
for a length of time against such a paragon as he was? If his mere past and
personal merits did not succeed in mollifying his father, George determined that
he would distinguish himself so prodigiously in the ensuing campaign that the
old gentleman must give in to him. And if not? Bah! the world was before him.
His luck might change at cards, and there was a deal of spending in two thousand
pounds.
    So he sent off Amelia once more in a carriage to her mamma, with strict
orders and carte blanche to the two ladies to purchase everything requisite for
a lady of Mrs. George Osborne's fashion, who was going on a foreign tour. They
had but one day to complete the outfit, and it may be imagined that their
business therefore occupied them pretty fully. In a carriage once more, bustling
about from milliner to linen-draper, escorted back to the carriage by obsequious
shopmen or polite owners, Mrs. Sedley was herself again almost, and sincerely
happy for the first time since their misfortunes. Nor was Mrs. Amelia at all
above the pleasure of shopping, and bargaining, and seeing and buying pretty
things. (Would any man, the most philosophic, give twopence for a woman who
was?) She gave herself a little treat, obedient to her husband's orders, and
purchased a quantity of lady's gear, showing a great deal of taste and elegant
discernment, as all the shopfolks said.
    And about the war that was ensuing Mrs. Osborne was not much alarmed;
Bonaparty was to be crushed almost without a struggle. Margate packets were
sailing every day, filled with men of fashion and ladies of note, on their way
to Brussels and Ghent. People were going not so much to a war as to a
fashionable tour. The newspapers laughed the wretched upstart and swindler to
scorn. Such a Corsican wretch as that withstand the armies of Europe and the
genius of the immortal Wellington! Amelia held him in utter contempt; for it
needs not to be said that this soft and gentle creature took her opinions from
those people who surrounded her, such fidelity being much too humble-minded to
think for itself. Well, in a word, she and her mother performed a great day's
shopping, and she acquitted herself with considerable liveliness and credit on
this her first appearance in the genteel world of London.
    George meanwhile, with his hat on one side, his elbows squared, and his
swaggering martial air, made for Bedford Row, and stalked into the attorney's
offices as if he was lord of every pale-faced clerk who was scribbling there. He
ordered somebody to inform Mr. Higgs that Captain Osborne was waiting, in a
fierce and patronizing way, as if the pékin of an attorney, who had thrice his
brains, fifty times his money, and a thousand times his experience, was a
wretched underling who should instantly leave all his business in life to attend
on the Captain's pleasure. He did not see the sneer of contempt which passed all
round the room, from the first clerk to the articled gents, from the articled
gents to the ragged writers and white-faced runners, in clothes too tight for
them, as he sate there tapping his boot with his cane, and thinking what a
parcel of miserable poor devils these were. The miserable poor devils knew all
about his affairs. They talked about them over their pints of beer at their
public-house clubs to other clerks of a night. Ye gods, what do not attorneys
and attorneys' clerks know in London! Nothing is hidden from their inquisition,
and their familiars mutely rule our city.
    Perhaps George expected, when he entered Mr. Higgs's apartment, to find that
gentleman commissioned to give him some message of compromise or conciliation
from his father; perhaps his haughty and cold demeanour was adopted as a sign of
his spirit and resolution: but if so, his fierceness was met by a chilling
coolness and indifference on the attorney's part that rendered swaggering
absurd. He pretended to be writing at a paper when the Captain entered. »Pray
sit down, sir,« said he, »and I will attend to your little affair in a moment. -
Mr. Poe, get the release papers, if you please;« and then he fell to writing
again.
    Poe having produced those papers, his chief calculated the amount of two
thousand pounds stock at the rate of the day, and asked Captain Osborne whether
he would take the sum in a cheque upon the bankers, or whether he should direct
the latter to purchase stock to that amount. »One of the late Mrs. Osborne's
trustees is out of town,« he said indifferently, »but my client wishes to meet
your wishes, and have done with the business as quick as possible.«
    »Give me a cheque, sir,« said the Captain very surlily. »Damn the shillings
and halfpence, sir,« he added, as the lawyer was making out the amount of the
draft; and flattering himself that by this stroke of magnanimity he had put the
old quiz to the blush, he stalked out of the office with the paper in his
pocket.
    »That chap will be in jail in two years,« Mr. Higgs said to Mr. Poe.
    »Won't O. come round, sir, don't you think?«
    »Won't the monument come round?« Mr. Higgs replied.
    »He's going it pretty fast,« said the clerk. »He's only married a week, and
I saw him and some other military chaps handing Mrs. Highflyer to her carriage
after the play.« And then another case was called, and Mr. George Osborne
thenceforth dismissed from these worthy gentlemen's memory.
    The draft was upon our friends Hulker &amp; Bullock of Lombard Street, to
whose house, still thinking he was doing business, George bent his way, and from
whom he received his money. Frederick Bullock, Esq., whose yellow face was over
a ledger, at which sate a demure clerk, happened to be in the banking-room when
George entered. His yellow face turned to a more deadly colour when he saw the
Captain, and he slunk back guiltily into the inmost parlour. George was too busy
gloating over the money (for he had never had such a sum before) to mark the
countenance or flight of the cadaverous suitor of his sister.
    Fred Bullock told old Osborne of his son's appearance and conduct. »He came
in as bold as brass,« said Frederick. »He has drawn out every shilling. How long
will a few hundred pounds last such a chap as that?« Osborne swore with a great
oath that he little cared when or how soon he spent it. Fred dined every day in
Russell Square now. But altogether George was highly pleased with his day's
business. All his own baggage and outfit was put into a state of speedy
preparation, and he paid Amelia's purchases with cheques on his agents, and with
the splendour of a lord.
 

                                 Chapter XXVII

                      In which Amelia Joins Her Regiment.

When Jos's fine carriage drove up to the inn door at Chatham, the first face
which Amelia recognized was the friendly countenance of Captain Dobbin, who had
been pacing the street for an hour past in expectation of his friend's arrival.
The Captain, with shells on his frock-coat, and a crimson sash and sabre,
presented a military appearance, which made Jos quite proud to be able to claim
such an acquaintance, and the stout civilian hailed him with a cordiality very
different from the reception which Jos vouchsafed to his friend in Brighton and
Bond Street.
    Along with the Captain was Ensign Stubble, who, as the barouche neared the
inn, burst out with an exclamation of, »By Jove, what a pretty girl!« highly
applauding Osborne's choice. Indeed Amelia, dressed in her wedding-pelisse and
pink ribbons, with a flush in her face occasioned by rapid travel through the
open air, looked so fresh and pretty as fully to justify the Ensign's
compliment. Dobbin liked him for making it. As he stepped forward to help the
lady out of the carriage, Stubble saw what a pretty little hand she gave him,
and what a sweet, pretty little foot came tripping down the step. He blushed
profusely, and made the very best bow of which he was capable; to which Amelia,
seeing the number of the -th regiment embroidered on the Ensign's cap, replied
with a blushing smile and a curtsy on her part which finished the young Ensign
on the spot. Dobbin took most kindly to Mr. Stubble from that day, and
encouraged him to talk about Amelia in their private walks and at each other's
quarters. It became the fashion, indeed, among all the honest young fellows of
the -th, to adore and admire Mrs. Osborne. Her simple, artless behaviour, and
modest kindness of demeanour, won all their unsophisticated hearts; all which
simplicity and sweetness are quite impossible to describe in print. But who has
not beheld these among women, and recognized the presence of all sorts of
qualities in them, even though they say no more to you than that they are
engaged to dance the next quadrille, or that it is very hot weather? George,
always the champion of his regiment, rose immensely in the opinion of the youth
of the corps by his gallantry in marrying this portionless young creature, and
by his choice of such a pretty, kind partner.
    In the sitting-room which was awaiting the travellers, Amelia, to her
surprise, found a letter addressed to Mrs. Captain Osborne. It was a triangular
billet, on pink paper, and sealed with a dove and an olive branch, and a
profusion of light blue sealing-wax, and it was written in a very large though
undecided female hand.
    »It's Peggy O'Dowd's fist,« said George, laughing. »I know it by the kisses
on the seal.« And, in fact, it was a note from Mrs. Major O'Dowd, requesting the
pleasure of Mrs. Osborne's company that very evening to a small friendly party.
»You must go,« George said. »You will make acquaintance with the regiment there.
O'Dowd goes in command of the regiment, and Peggy goes in command of O'Dowd.«
    But they had not been for many minutes in the enjoyment of Mrs. O'Dowd's
letter when the door was flung open, and a stout, jolly lady, in a riding habit,
followed by a couple of officers of Ours, entered the room.
    »Sure, I couldn't stop till tay-time. Present me, Garge, my dear fellow, to
your lady. - Madam, I'm deloighted to see ye, and to present to you me husband,
Meejor O'Dowd;« and with this the jolly lady in the riding habit grasped
Amelia's hand very warmly, and the latter knew at once that the lady was before
her whom her husband had so often laughed at. »You've often heard of me from
that husband of yours,« said the lady, with great vivacity.
    »You've often heard of her,« echoed her husband, the Major.
    Amelia answered, smiling, »that she had.«
    »And small good he's told you of me,« Mrs. O'Dowd replied; adding that
»George was a wicked divvle.«
    »That I'll go bail for,« said the Major, trying to look knowing, at which
George laughed; and Mrs. O'Dowd, with a tap of her whip, told the Major to be
quiet, and then requested to be presented in form to Mrs. Captain Osborne.
    »This, my dear,« said George, with great gravity, »is my very good, kind,
and excellent friend Auralia Margaretta, otherwise called Peggy.«
    »Faith, you're right,« interposed the Major.
    »Otherwise called Peggy, lady of Major Michael O'Dowd, of our regiment, and
daughter of Fitzjurld Ber'sford de Burgo Malony of Glenmalony, County Kildare.«
    »And Muryan Squeer, Dobblin,« said the lady, with calm superiority.
    »And Muryan Squeer, sure enough,« the Major whispered.
    »'Twas there ye coorted me, Meejor dear,« the lady said; and the Major
assented to this as to every other proposition which was made generally in
company.
    Major O'Dowd, who had served his sovereign in every quarter of the world,
and had paid for every step in his profession by some more than equivalent act
of daring and gallantry, was the most modest, silent, sheepfaced, and meek of
little men, and as obedient to his wife as if he had been her tay-boy. At the
mess-table he sat silently, and drank a great deal. When full of liquor, he
reeled silently home. When he spoke, it was to agree with everybody on every
conceivable point; and he passed through life in perfect ease and good-humour.
The hottest suns of India never heated his temper, and the Walcheren ague never
shook it. He walked up to a battery with just as much indifference as to a
dinner-table, had dined on horse-flesh and turtle with equal relish and
appetite, and had an old mother, Mrs. O'Dowd of O'Dowdstown indeed, whom he had
never disobeyed but when he ran away and enlisted, and when he persisted in
marrying that odious Peggy Malony.
    Peggy was one of five sisters, and eleven children, of the noble house of
Glenmalony; but her husband, though her own cousin, was of the mother's side,
and so had not the inestimable advantage of being allied to the Malonys, whom
she believed to be the most famous family in the world. Having tried nine
seasons at Dublin and two at Bath and Cheltenham, and not finding a partner for
life, Miss Malony ordered her cousin Mick to marry her when she was about
thirty-three years of age; and the honest fellow obeying, carried her off to the
West Indies, to preside over the ladies of the -th regiment, into which he had
just exchanged.
    Before Mrs. O'Dowd was half an hour in Amelia's (or indeed in anybody
else's) company, this amiable lady told all her birth and pedigree to her new
friend. »My dear,« said she good-naturedly, »it was my intention that Garge
should be a brother of my own, and my sister Glorvina would have suited him
entirely. But as bygones are bygones, and he was engaged to yourself, why, I'm
determined to take you as a sister instead, and to look upon you as such, and to
love you as one of the family. Faith, you've got such a nice good-natured face
and way widg you, that I'm sure we'll agree, and that you'll be an addition to
our family anyway.«
    »'Deed and she will,« said O'Dowd, with an approving air, and Amelia felt
herself not a little amused and grateful to be thus suddenly introduced to so
large a party of relations.
    »We're all good fellows here,« the Major's lady continued. »There's not a
regiment in the service where you'll find a more united society nor a more
agreeable mess-room. There's no quarrelling, bickering, slandthering, nor small
talk amongst us. We all love each other.«
    »Especially Mrs. Magenis,« said George, laughing.
    »Mrs. Captain Magenis and me has made up, though her treatment of me would
bring me grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.«
    »And you with such a beautiful front of black, Peggy, my dear,« the Major
cried.
    »Hould your tongue, Mick, you booby. - Them husbands are always in the way,
Mrs. Osborne, my dear; and as for my Mick, I often tell him he should never open
his mouth but to give the word of command, or to put meat and drink into it.
I'll tell you about the regiment, and warn you when we're alone. Introduce me to
your brother now; sure he's a mighty fine man, and reminds me of me cousin, Dan
Malony (Malony of Ballymalony, my dear, you know, who mar'ied Ophalia Scully, of
Oysterstown, own cousin to Lord Poldoody). - Mr. Sedley, sir, I'm deloighted to
be made known te ye. I suppose you'll dine at the mess to-day? (Mind that divvle
of a docther, Mick, and whatever ye du, keep yourself sober for me party this
evening)«
    »It's the 150th gives us a farewell dinner, my love,« interposed the Major,
»but we'll easy get a card for Mr. Sedley.«
    »Run, Simple (Ensign Simple, of Ours, my dear Amelia. I forgot to introjuice
him to ye) - run in a hurry with Mrs. Major O'Dowd's compliments to Colonel
Tavish, and Captain Osborne has brought his brothernlaw down, and will bring him
to the 150th mess at five o'clock sharp - when you and I, my dear, will take a
snack here, if you like.« Before Mrs. O'Dowd's speech was concluded, the young
Ensign was trotting downstairs on his commission.
    »Obedience is the soul of the army. We will go to our duty while Mrs. O'Dowd
will stay and enlighten you, Emmy,« Captain Osborne said; and the two gentlemen,
taking each a wing of the Major, walked out with that officer, grinning at each
other over his head.
    And now, having her new friend to herself, the impetuous Mrs. O'Dowd
proceeded to pour out such a quantity of information as no poor little woman's
memory could ever tax itself to bear. She told Amelia a thousand particulars
relative to the very numerous family of which the amazed young lady found
herself a member. »Mrs. Heavytop, the Colonel's wife, died in Jamaica of the
yellow faver and a broken heart comboined; for the horrud old Colonel, with a
head as bald as a cannon-ball, was making sheep's eyes at a half-caste girl
there. Mrs. Magenis, though without education, was a good woman, but she had the
divvle's tongue, and would cheat her own mother at whist. Mrs. Captain Kirk must
turn up her lobster eyes, forsooth, at the idea of an honest round game (wherein
me fawther, as pious a man as ever went to church, me uncle Dane Malony, and our
cousin the Bishop, took a hand at loo or whist every night of their lives).
Nayther of 'em's goin' with the regiment this time,« Mrs. O'Dowd added. »Fanny
Magenis stops with her mother, who sells small coal and potatoes, most likely,
in Islington-town, hard by London, though she's always bragging of her father's
ships, and pointing them out to us as they go up the river; and Mrs. Kirk and
her children will stop here in Bethesda Place, to be nigh to her favourite
preacher, Dr. Ramshorn. Mrs. Bunny's in an interesting situation - faith, and
she always is, then - and has given the Lieutenant seven already. And Ensign
Posky's wife, who joined two months before you, my dear, has quarl'd with Tom
Posky a score of times, till you can hear 'm all over the bar'ck (they say
they're come to broken pleets, and Tom never accounted for his black oi), and
she'll go back to her mother, who keeps a ladies' siminary at Richmond - bad
luck to her for running away from it! Where did ye get your finishing, my dear?
I had moin, and no expince spared, at Madame Flanahan's, at Ilyssus Grove,
Booterstown, near Dublin, wid a Marchioness to teach us the true Parisian
pronunciation, and a retired Mejor-General of the French service to put us
through the exercise.«
    Of this incongruous family our astonished Amelia found herself all of a
sudden a member, with Mrs. O'Dowd as an elder sister. She was presented to her
other female relations at tea-time, on whom, as she was quiet, good-natured, and
not too handsome, she made rather an agreeable impression until the arrival of
the gentlemen from the mess of the 150th, who all admired her so that her
sisters began, of course, to find fault with her.
    »I, hope Osborne has sown his wild oats,« said Mrs. Magenis to Mrs. Bunny.
»If reformed rake makes a good husband, sure it's she will have the fine chance
with Garge,« Mrs. O'Dowd remarked to Posky, who had lost her position as bride
in the regiment, and was quite angry with the usurper. And as for Mrs. Kirk,
that disciple of Dr. Ramshorn put one or two leading professional questions to
Amelia, to see whether she was awakened, whether she was a professing Christian,
and so forth; and finding from the simplicity of Mrs. Osborne's replies that she
was yet in utter darkness, put into her hands three little penny books with
pictures - namely, the »Howling Wilderness,« the »Washer-woman of Wandsworth
Common,« and the »British Soldier's Best Bayonet« - which, bent upon awakening
her before she slept, Mrs. Kirk begged Amelia to read that night ere she went to
bed.
    But all the men, like good fellows as they were, rallied round their
comrade's pretty wife, and paid her their court with soldierly gallantry. She
had a little triumph, which flushed her spirits and made her eyes sparkle.
George was proud of her popularity, and pleased with the manner (which was very
gay and graceful, though naïve and a little timid) with which she received the
gentlemen's attentions and answered their compliments. And he in his uniform -
how much handsomer he was than any man in the room! She felt that he was
affectionately watching her, and glowed with pleasure at his kindness. »I will
make all his friends welcome,« she resolved in her heart. »I will love all as I
love him. I will always try and be gay and good-humoured and make his home
happy.«
    The regiment indeed adopted her with acclamation. The Captains approved, the
Lieutenants applauded, the Ensigns admired. Old Cutler, the Doctor, made one or
two jokes, which, being professional, need not be repeated; and Cackle, the
Assistant M.D. of Edinburgh, condescended to examine her upon leeterature, and
tried her with his three best French quotations. Young Stubble went about from
man to man whispering, »Jove, isn't she a pretty gal?« and never took his eyes
off her except when the negus came in.
    As, for Captain Dobbin, he never so much as spoke to her during the whole
evening. But he and Captain Porter of the 150th took home Jos to the hotel, who
was in a very maudlin state, and had told his tiger-hunt story with great
effect, both at the mess-table and at the soirrée, to Mrs. O'Dowd in her turban
and bird of paradise. Having put the Collector into the hands of his servant,
Dobbin loitered about, smoking his cigar before the inn door. George had
meanwhile very carefully shawled his wife, and brought her away from Mrs.
O'Dowd's after a general handshaking from the young officers, who accompanied
her to the fly, and cheered that vehicle as it drove off. So Amelia gave Dobbin
her little hand as she got out of the carriage, and rebuked him smilingly for
not having taken any notice of her all night.
    The Captain continued that deleterious amusement of smoking long after the
inn and the street were gone to bed. He watched the lights vanish from George's
sitting-room windows and shine out in the bedroom close at hand. It was almost
morning when he returned to his own quarters. He could hear the cheering from
the ships in the river, where the transports were already taking in their
cargoes preparatory to dropping down the Thames.
 

                                 Chapter XXVIII

                   In which Amelia Invades the Low Countries.

The regiment with its officers was to be transported in ships provided by His
Majesty's Government for the occasion; and in two days after the festive
assembly at Mrs. O'Dowd's apartments, in the midst of cheering from all the East
India ships in the river and the military on shore, the band playing »God save
the King,« the officers waving their hats, and the crews hurrahing gallantly,
the transports went down the river and proceeded under convoy to Ostend.
Meanwhile the gallant Jos had agreed to escort his sister and the Major's wife,
the bulk of whose goods and chattels, including the famous bird of paradise and
turban, were with the regimental baggage; so that our two heroines drove pretty
much unencumbered to Ramsgate, where there were plenty of packets plying, in one
of which they had a speedy passage to Ostend.
    That period of Jos's life which now ensued was so full of incident that it
served him for conversation for many years after, and even the tiger-hunt story
was put aside for more stirring narratives which he had to tell about the great
campaign of Waterloo. As soon as he had agreed to escort his sister abroad, it
was remarked that he ceased shaving his upper lip. At Chatham he followed the
parades and drills with great assiduity. He listened with the utmost attention
to the conversation of his brother officers (as he called them in after days
sometimes), and learned as many military names as he could. In these studies the
excellent Mrs. O'Dowd was of great assistance to him; and on the day finally
when they embarked on board the Lovely Rose, which was to carry them to their
destination, he made his appearance in a braided frock-coat and duck trousers,
with a foraging cap ornamented with a smart gold band. Having his carriage with
him, and informing everybody on board confidentially that he was going to join
the Duke of Wellington's army, folks mistook him for a great personage, a
commissary-general, or a government courier at the very least.
    He suffered hugely on the voyage, during which the ladies were likewise
prostrate; but Amelia was brought to life again, as the packet made Ostend, by
the sight of the transports conveying her regiment, which entered the harbour
almost at the same time with the Lovely Rose. Jos went in a collapsed state to
an inn, while Captain Dobbin escorted the ladies, and then busied himself in
freeing Jos's carriage and luggage from the ship and the custom-house; for Mr.
Jos was at present without a servant, Osborne's man and his own pampered menial
having conspired together at Chatham, and refused point-blank to cross the
water. This revolt, which came very suddenly and on the last day, so alarmed Mr.
Sedley, junior, that he was on the point of giving up the expedition; but
Captain Dobbin (who made himself immensely officious in the business, Jos said)
rated him and laughed at him soundly: the mustachios were grown in advance, and
Jos finally was persuaded to embark. In place of the well-bred and well-fed
London domestics, who could only speak English, Dobbin procured for Jos's party
a swarthy little Belgian servant who could speak no language at all, but who, by
his bustling behaviour, and by invariably addressing Mr. Sedley as »My Lord,«
speedily acquired that gentleman's favour. Times are altered at Ostend now: of
the Britons who go thither, very few look like lords, or act like those members
of our hereditary aristocracy. They seem for the most part shabby in attire,
dingy of linen, lovers of billiards and brandy, and cigars and greasy
ordinaries.
    But it may be said, as a rule, that every Englishman in the Duke of
Wellington's army paid his way. The remembrance of such a fact surely becomes a
nation of shopkeepers. It was a blessing for a commerce-loving country to be
overrun by such an army of customers, and to have such creditable warriors to
feed. And the country which they came to protect is not military. For a long
period of history they have let other people fight there. When the present
writer went to survey with eagle glance the field of Waterloo, we asked the
conductor of the diligence, a portly, warlike-looking veteran, whether he had
been at the battle. »Pas si bête« - such an answer and sentiment as no Frenchman
would own to - was his reply. But, on the other hand, the postilion who drove us
was a Viscount, a son of some bankrupt Imperial General, who accepted a
pennyworth of beer on the road. The moral is surely a good one.
    This flat, flourishing, easy country never could have looked more rich and
prosperous than in that opening summer of 1815, when its green fields and quiet
cities were enlivened by multiplied red-coats; when its wide chaussées swarmed
with brilliant English equipages; when its great canal-boats, gliding by rich
pastures and pleasant, quaint old villages, by old châteaux lying amongst old
trees, were all crowded with well-to-do English travellers; when the soldier who
drank at the village inn not only drank but paid his score, and Donald the
Highlander,1 billeted in the Flemish farmhouse, rocked the baby's cradle while
Jean and Jeannette were out getting in the hay. As our painters are bent on
military subjects just now, I throw out this as a good subject for the pencil,
to illustrate the principle of an honest English war.
    All looked as brilliant and harmless as a Hyde Park review. Meanwhile
Napoleon, screened behind his curtain of frontier-fortresses, was preparing for
the outbreak which was to drive all these orderly people into fury and blood,
and lay so many of them low.
    Everybody had such a perfect feeling of confidence in the leader (for the
resolute faith which the Duke of Wellington had inspired in the whole English
nation was as intense as that more frantic enthusiasm with which at one time the
French regarded Napoleon), the country seemed in so perfect a state of orderly
defence, and the help at hand in case of need so near and overwhelming, that
alarm was unknown, and our travellers, among whom two were naturally of a very
timid sort, were, like all the other multiplied English tourists, entirely at
ease. The famous regiment, with so many of whose officers we have made
acquaintance, was drafted in canal-boats to Bruges and Ghent, thence to march to
Brussels. Jos accompanied the ladies in the public boats, the which all old
travellers in Flanders must remember for the luxury and accommodation they
afforded. So prodigiously good was the eating and drinking on board these
sluggish but most comfortable vessels, that there are legends extant of an
English traveller who, coming to Belgium for a week and travelling in one of
these boats, was so delighted with the fare there that he went backwards and
forwards from Ghent to Bruges perpetually until the railroads were invented,
when he drowned himself on the last trip of the passage-boat. Jos's death was
not to be of this sort, but his comfort was exceeding, and Mrs. O'Dowd insisted
that he only wanted her sister Glorvina to make his happiness complete. He sate
on the roof of the cabin all day drinking Flemish beer, shouting for Isidor his
servant, and talking gallantly to the ladies.
    His courage was prodigious. »Boney attack us!« he cried. »My dear creature,
my poor Emmy, don't be frightened. There's no danger. The Allies will be in
Paris in two months, I tell you; when I'll take you to dine in the Palais Royal,
by Jove! There are three hundred thousand Rooshians, I tell you, now entering
France by Mayence and the Rhine - three hundred thousand under Wittgenstein and
Barclay de Tolly, my poor love. You don't know military affairs, my dear. I do,
and I tell you there's no infantry in France can stand against Rooshian
infantry, and no general of Boney's that's fit to hold a candle to Wittgenstein.
Then there are the Austrians - they are five hundred thousand if a man, and they
are within ten marches of the frontier by this time, under Schwartzenberg and
Prince Charles. Then there are the Prooshians, under the gallant Prince Marshal.
Show me a cavalry chief like him now that Murat is gone. - Hey, Mrs. O'Dowd! Do
you think our little girl here need be afraid? - Is there any cause for fear,
Isidor? Hey, sir! get some more beer.«
    Mrs. O'Dowd said that her »Glorvina was not afraid of any man alive, let
alone a Frenchman,« and tossed off a glass of beer with a wink which expressed
her liking for the beverage.
    Having frequently been in presence of the enemy, or, in other words, faced
the ladies at Cheltenham and Bath, our friend the Collector had lost a great
deal of his pristine timidity, and was now, especially when fortified with
liquor, as talkative as might be. He was rather a favourite with the regiment,
treating the young officers with sumptuosity, and amusing them by his military
airs. And as there is one well-known regiment of the army which travels with a
goat heading the column, whilst another is led by a deer, George said with
respect to his brother-in-law that his regiment marched with an elephant.
    Since Amelia's introduction to the regiment, George began to be rather
ashamed of some of the company to which he had been forced to present her, and
determined, as he told Dobbin (with what satisfaction to the latter it need not
be said), to exchange into some better regiment soon, and to get his wife away
from those damned vulgar women. But this vulgarity of being ashamed of one's
society is much more common among men than women (except very great ladies of
fashion, who, to be sure, indulge in it); and Mrs. Amelia, a natural and
unaffected person, had none of that artificial shamefacedness which her husband
mistook for delicacy on his own part. Thus Mrs. O'Dowd had a cock's plume in her
hat, and a very large »repayther« on her stomach, which she used to ring on all
occasions, narrating how it had been presented to her by her fawther, as she
stipt into the car'ge after her mar'ge; and these ornaments, with other outward
peculiarities of the Major's wife, gave excruciating agonies to Captain Osborne
when his wife and the Major's came in contact; whereas Amelia was only amused by
the honest lady's eccentricities, and not in the least ashamed of her company.
    As they made that well-known journey, which almost every Englishman of
middle rank has travelled since, there might have been more instructive but few
more entertaining companions than Mrs. Major O'Dowd. »Talk about kenal boats, my
dear! Ye should see the kenal boats between Dublin and Ballinasloe. It's there
the rapid travelling is, and the beautiful cattle. Sure me fawther got a goold
medal (and his Excellency himself eat a slice of it, and said never was finer
mate in his loif) for a four-year-old heifer, the like of which ye never saw in
this country any day.« And Jos owned, with a sigh, »that for good streaky beef,
really mingled with fat and lean, there was no country like England.«
    »Except Ireland, where all your best mate comes from,« said the Major's
lady, proceeding, as is not unusual with patriots of her nation, to make
comparisons greatly in favour of her own country. The idea of comparing the
market at Bruges with those of Dublin, although she had suggested it herself,
caused immense scorn and derision on her part. »I'll thank ye tell me what they
mean by that old gazabo on the top of the market-place,« said she, in a burst of
ridicule fit to have brought the old tower down. The place was full of English
soldiery as they passed. English bugles woke them in the morning; at nightfall
they went to bed to the note of the British fife and drum: all the country and
Europe was in arms, and the greatest event of history pending; and honest Peggy
O'Dowd, whom it concerned as well as another, went on prattling about
Ballinafad, and the horses in the stables at Glenmalony, and the clar't drunk
there; and Jos Sedley interposed about curry and rice at Dumdum; and Amelia
thought about her husband, and how best she should show her love for him - as if
these were the great topics of the world.
    Those who like to lay down the History-book, and to speculate upon what
might have happened in the world, but for the fatal occurrence of what actually
did take place (a most puzzling, amusing, ingenious, and profitable kind of
meditation), have no doubt often thought to themselves what a specially bad time
Napoleon took to come back from Elba, and to let loose his eagle from Gulf San
Juan to Notre Dame. The historians on our side tell us that the armies of the
allied powers were all providentially on a war footing, and ready to bear down
at a moment's notice upon the Elban Emperor. The august jobbers assembled at
Vienna, and carving out the kingdoms of Europe according to their wisdom, had
such causes of quarrel among themselves as might have set the armies which had
overcome Napoleon to fight against each other, but for the return of the object
of unanimous hatred and fear. This monarch had an army in full force because he
had jobbed to himself Poland, and was determined to keep it; another had robbed
half Saxony, and was bent upon maintaining his acquisition; Italy was the object
of a third's solicitude. Each was protesting against the rapacity of the other;
and could the Corsican but have waited in prison until all these parties were by
the ears, he might have returned and reigned unmolested. But what would have
become of our story and all our friends then? If all the drops in it were dried
up, what would become of the sea?
    In the meanwhile the business of life and living, and the pursuits of
pleasure, especially, went on as if no end were to be expected to them, and no
enemy in front. When our travellers arrived at Brussels, in which their regiment
was quartered - a great piece of good fortune, as all said - they found
themselves in one of the gayest and most brilliant little capitals in Europe,
and where all the Vanity Fair booths were laid out with the most tempting
liveliness and splendour. Gambling was here in profusion, and dancing in plenty;
feasting was there to fill with delight that great gourmand of a Jos; there was
a theatre where a miraculous Catalani was delighting all hearers; beautiful
rides, all enlivened with martial splendour; a rare old city, with strange
costumes and wonderful architecture, to delight the eyes of little Amelia, who
had never before seen a foreign country, and fill her with charming surprises:
so that now and for a few weeks' space in a fine handsome lodging, whereof the
expenses were borne by Jos and Osborne, who was flush of money and full of kind
attentions to his wife - for about a fortnight, I say, during which her
honeymoon ended, Mrs. Amelia was as pleased and happy as any little bride out of
England.
    Every day during this happy time there was novelty and amusement for all
parties. There was a church to see or a picture-gallery - there was a ride or an
opera. The bands of the regiments were making music at all hours. The greatest
folks of England walked in the Park - there was a perpetual military festival.
George, taking out his wife to a new jaunt or junket every night, was quite
pleased with himself as usual, and swore he was becoming quite a domestic
character. And a jaunt or a junket with him! Was it not enough to set this
little heart beating with joy? Her letters home to her mother were filled with
delight and gratitude at this season. Her husband bade her buy laces, millinery,
jewels, and gimcracks of all sorts. Oh, he was the kindest, best, and most
generous of men!
    The sight of the very great company of lords and ladies and fashionable
persons who thronged the town and appeared in every public place, filled
George's truly British soul with intense delight. They flung off that happy
frigidity and insolence of demeanour which occasionally characterizes the great
at home, and appearing in numberless public places, condescended to mingle with
the rest of the company whom they met there. One night, at a party given by the
General of the division to which George's regiment belonged, he had the honour
of dancing with Lady Blanche Thistlewood, Lord Bareacres' daughter. He bustled
for ices and refreshments for the two noble ladies; he pushed and squeezed for
Lady Bareacres' carriage; he bragged about the Countess when he got home in a
way which his own father could not have surpassed. He called upon the ladies the
next day; he rode by their side in the Park; he asked their party to a great
dinner at a restaurateur's, and was quite wild with exultation when they agreed
to come. Old Bareacres, who had not much pride and a large appetite, would go
for a dinner anywhere.
    »I hope there will be no women besides our own party,« Lady Bareacres said,
after reflecting upon the invitation which had been made, and accepted with too
much precipitancy.
    »Gracious Heaven, Mamma, you don't suppose the man would bring his wife!«
shrieked Lady Blanche, who had been languishing in George's arms in the
newly-imported waltz for hours the night before. »The men are bearable, but
their women -«
    »Wife, just married, dev'lish pretty woman, I hear,« the old Earl said.
    »Well, my dear Blanche,« said the mother, »I suppose, as Papa wants to go,
we must go; but we needn't know them in England, you know.« And so, determined
to cut their new acquaintance in Bond Street, these great folks went to eat his
dinner at Brussels, and condescending to make him pay for their pleasure, showed
their dignity by making his wife uncomfortable, and carefully excluding her from
the conversation. This is a species of dignity in which the high-bred British
female reigns supreme. To watch the behaviour of a fine lady to other and
humbler women is a very good sport for a philosophical frequenter of Vanity
Fair.
    This festival, on which honest George spent a great deal of money, was the
very dismallest of all the entertainments which Amelia had in her honeymoon. She
wrote the most piteous accounts of the feast home to her mamma: how the Countess
of Bareacres would not answer when spoken to; how Lady Blanche stared at her
with her eye-glass; and what a rage Captain Dobbin was in at their behaviour;
and how my lord, as they came away from the feast, asked to see the bill, and
pronounced it a d-- bad dinner and d-- dear. But though Amelia told all these
stories, and wrote home regarding her guests' rudeness and her own discomfiture,
old Mrs. Sedley was mightily pleased nevertheless, and talked about Emmy's
friend, the Countess of Bareacres, with such assiduity that the news how his son
was entertaining Peers and Peeresses actually came to Osborne's ears in the
City.
    Those who know the present Lieutenant-General, Sir George Tufto, K.C.B., and
have seen him, as they may on most days in the season, padded and in stays,
strutting down Pall Mall with a rickety swagger on his high-heeled lacquered
boots, leering under the bonnets of passers-by, or riding a showy chestnut, and
ogling broughams in the Park - those who know the present Sir George Tufto would
hardly recognize the daring Peninsular and Waterloo officer. He has thick,
curling brown hair and black eyebrows now, and his whiskers are of the deepest
purple. He was light-haired and bald in 1815, and stouter in the person and in
the limbs, which especially have shrunk very much of late. When he was about
seventy years of age (he is now nearly eighty), his hair, which was very scarce
and quite white, suddenly grew thick and brown and curly, and his whiskers and
eyebrows took their present colour. Ill-natured people say that his chest is all
wool, and that his hair, because it never grows, is a wig. Tom Tufto, with whose
father he quarrelled ever so many years ago, declares that Mademoiselle de
Jaisey, of the French theatre, pulled his grandpapa's hair off in the
green-room; but Tom is notoriously spiteful and jealous, and the General's wig
has nothing to do with our story.
    One day, as some of our friends of the -th were sauntering in the
flower-market of Brussels, having been to see the Hôtel de Ville, which Mrs.
Major O'Dowd declared was not near so large or handsome as her fawther's mansion
of Glenmalony, an officer of rank, with an orderly behind him, rode up to the
market, and descending from his horse, came amongst the flowers, and selected
the very finest bouquet which money could buy. The beautiful bundle being tied
up in a paper, the officer remounted, giving the nosegay into the charge of his
military groom, who carried it with a grin, following his chief, who rode away
in great state and self-satisfaction.
    »You should see the flowers at Glenmalony,« Mrs. O'Dowd was remarking. »Me
fawther has three Scotch garners with nine helpers. We have an acre of
hothouses, and pines as common as pays in the sayson. Our greeps weighs six
pounds every bunch of 'em, and upon me honour and conscience I think our
magnolias is as big as tay-kettles.« Dobbin, who never used to »draw out« Mrs.
O'Dowd, as that wicked Osborne delighted in doing (much to Amelia's terror, who
implored him to spare her), fell back in the crowd, crowing and sputtering until
he reached a safe distance, when he exploded amongst the astonished
market-people with shrieks of yelling laughter.
    »Hwhat's that gawky guggling about?« said Mrs. O'Dowd. »Is it his nose
bleedn? He always used to say 'twas his nose bleedn, till he must have pomped
all the blood out of 'um. An't the magnolias at Glenmalony as big as
tay-kettles, O'Dowd?«
    »'Deed then they are, and bigger, Peggy,« the Major said, when the
conversation was interrupted in the manner stated by the arrival of the officer
who purchased the bouquet.
    »Dev'lish fine horse; who is it?« George asked.
    »You should see me brother Molloy Malony's horse Molasses, that won the cop
at the Curragh,« the Major's wife was exclaiming, and was continuing the family
history, when her husband interrupted her by saying, -
    »It's General Tufto, who commands the -- cavalry division;« adding quietly,
»He and I were both shot in the same leg at Talavera.«
    »Where you got your step,« said George, with a laugh. »General Tufto! Then,
my dear, the Crawleys are come.«
    Amelia's heart fell, she knew not why. The sun did not seem to shine so
bright. The tall old roofs and gables looked less picturesque all of a sudden,
though it was a brilliant sunset, and one of the brightest and most beautiful
days at the end of May.
 

                                  Chapter XXIX

                                   Brussels.

Mr. Jos had hired a pair of horses for his open carriage, with which cattle and
the smart London vehicle he made a very tolerable figure in the drives about
Brussels. George purchased a horse for his private riding, and he and Captain
Dobbin would often accompany the carriage in which Jos and his sister took daily
excursions of pleasure. They went out that day in the Park for their accustomed
diversion, and there, sure enough, George's remark with regard to the arrival of
Rawdon Crawley and his wife proved to be correct. In the midst of a little troop
of horsemen, consisting of some of the very greatest persons in Brussels,
Rebecca was seen in the prettiest and tightest of riding habits, mounted on a
beautiful little Arab, which she rode to perfection (having acquired the art at
Queen's Crawley, where the baronet, Mr. Pitt, and Rawdon himself had given her
many lessons), and by the side of the gallant General Tufto.
    »Sure it's the Juke himself,« cried Mrs. Major O'Dowd to Jos, who began to
blush violently; »and that's Lord Uxbridge on the bay. How elegant he looks! Me
brother, Molloy Malony, is as like him as two pays.«
    Rebecca did not make for the carriage; but as soon as she perceived her old
acquaintance Amelia seated in it, acknowledged her presence by a gracious nod
and smile, and by kissing and shaking her fingers playfully in the direction of
the vehicle. Then she resumed her conversation with General Tufto, who asked
»who the fat officer was in the gold-laced cap?« on which Becky replied, »that
he was an officer in the East Indian service.« But Rawdon Crawley rode out of
the ranks of his company, and came up and shook hands heartily with Amelia, and
said to Jos, »Well, old boy, how are you?« and stared in Mrs. O'Dowd's face and
at the blackcock's feathers until she began to think she had made a conquest of
him.
    George, who had been delayed behind, rode up almost immediately with Dobbin,
and they touched their caps to the august personages, among whom Osborne at once
perceived Mrs. Crawley. He was delighted to see Rawdon leaning over his carriage
familiarly and talking to Amelia, and met the aide-de-camp's cordial greeting
with more than corresponding warmth. The nods between Rawdon and Dobbin were of
the very faintest specimens of politeness.
    Crawley told George where they were stopping, with General Tufto at the
Hôtel du Parc, and George made his friend promise to come speedily to Osborne's
own residence. »Sorry I hadn't seen you three days ago,« George said. »Had a
dinner at the restaurateur's - rather a nice thing. Lord Bareacres, and the
Countess, and Lady Blanche were good enough to dine with us - wish we'd had
you.« Having thus let his friend know his claims to be a man of fashion, Osborne
parted from Rawdon, who followed the august squadron down an alley into which
they cantered, while George and Dobbin resumed their places, one on each side of
Amelia's carriage.
    »How well the Juke looked!« Mrs. O'Dowd remarked. »The Wellesleys and
Malonys are related; but, of course, poor I would never dream of introjuicing
myself unless His Grace thought proper to remember our family tie.«
    »He's a great soldier,« Jos said, much more at ease now the great man was
gone. »Was there ever a battle won like Salamanca? Hey, Dobbin? But where was it
he learned his art? In India, my boy! The jungle's the school for a general,
mark me that. I knew him myself, too, Mrs. O'Dowd; we both of us danced the same
evening with Miss Cutler, daughter of Cutler of the Artillery, and a devilish
fine girl, at Dumdum.«
    The apparition of the great personages held them all in talk during the
drive, and at dinner, and until the hour came when they were all to go to the
Opera. It was almost like old England. The house was filled with familiar
British faces, and those toilettes for which the British female has long been
celebrated. Mrs. O'Dowd's was not the least splendid amongst these, and she had
a curl on her forehead, and a set of Irish diamonds and cairngorms which
outshone all the decorations in the house, in her notion. Her presence used to
excruciate Osborne; but go she would upon all parties of pleasure on which she
heard her young friends were bent. It never entered into her thought but that
they must be charmed with her company.
    »She's been useful to you, my dear,« George said to his wife, whom he could
leave alone with less scruple when she had this society. »But what a comfort it
is that Rebecca's come! you will have her for a friend, and we may get rid now
of this d--d Irishwoman.« To this Amelia did not answer yes or no; and how do we
know what her thoughts were?
    The coup-d'oeil of the Brussels Opera-House did not strike Mrs. O'Dowd as
being so fine as the theatre in Fishamble Street, Dublin, nor was French music
at all equal, in her opinion, to the melodies of her native country. She
favoured her friends with these and other opinions in a very loud tone of voice,
and tossed about a great clattering fan she sported with the most splendid
complacency.
    »Who is that wonderful woman with Amelia, Rawdon, love?« said a lady in an
opposite box (who, almost always civil to her husband in private, was more fond
than ever of him in company).
    »Don't you see that creature with a yellow thing in her turban, and a red
satin gown, and a great watch?«
    »Near the pretty little woman in white?« asked a middle-aged gentleman
seated by the querist's side, with orders in his button, and several
under-waistcoats, and a great, choky white stock.
    »That pretty woman in white is Amelia, General. You are remarking all the
pretty women, you naughty man.«
    »Only one, begad, in the world!« said the General, delighted, and the lady
gave him a tap with a large bouquet which she had.
    »Bedad it's him,« said Mrs. O'Dowd; »and that's the very bokay he bought in
the Marshy aux Flures!« and when Rebecca, having caught her friend's eye,
performed the little hand-kissing operation once more, Mrs. Major O'D., taking
the compliment to herself, returned the salute with a gracious smile, which sent
that unfortunate Dobbin shrieking out of the box again.
    At the end of the act George was out of the box in a moment, and he was even
going to pay his respects to Rebecca in her loge. He met Crawley in the lobby,
however, where they exchanged a few sentences upon the occurrences of the last
fortnight.
    »You found my cheque all right at the agent's?« George said, with a knowing
air.
    »All right, my boy,« Rawdon answered. »Happy to give you your revenge.
Governor come round?«
    »Not yet,« said George, »but he will; and you know I've some private fortune
through my mother. Has aunty relented?«
    »Sent me twenty pound, damned old screw. When shall we have a meet? The
General dines out on Tuesday. Can't you come Tuesday? I say, make Sedley cut off
his moustache. What the devil does a civilian mean with a moustache and those
infernal frogs to his coat! By-bye. Try and come on Tuesday;« and Rawdon was
going off with two brilliant young gentlemen of fashion, who were, like himself,
on the staff of a general officer.
    George was only half pleased to be asked to dinner on that particular day
when the General was not to dine. »I will go in and pay my respects to your
wife,« said he; at which Rawdon said, »H'm, as you please,« looking very glum,
and at which the two young officers exchanged knowing glances. George parted
from them and strutted down the lobby to the General's box, the number of which
he had carefully counted. »Entrez,« said a clear little voice, and our friend
found himself in Rebecca's presence; who jumped up, clapped her hands together,
and held out both of them to George, so charmed was she to see him. The General,
with the orders in his button, stared at the newcomer with a sulky scowl, as
much as to say, Who the devil are you?
    »My dear Captain George!« cried little Rebecca, in an ecstasy. »How good of
you to come! The General and I were moping together tête-à-tête. - General, this
is my Captain George, of whom you heard me talk.«
    »Indeed,« said the General, with a very small bow; »of what regiment is
Captain George?«
    George mentioned the -th; how he wished he could have said it was a crack
cavalry corps!
    »Come home lately from the West Indies, I believe. Not seen much service in
the late war. Quartered here, Captain George?« the General went on, with killing
haughtiness.
    »Not Captain George, you stupid man; Captain Osborne,« Rebecca said. The
General all the while was looking savagely from one to the other.
    »Captain Osborne, indeed! Any relation to the L-- Osbornes?«
    »We bear the same arms,« George said, as indeed was the fact; Mr. Osborne
having consulted with a herald in Long Acre, and picked the L-- arms out of the
peerage, when he set up his carriage, fifteen years before. The General made no
reply to this announcement, but took up his opera-glass - the double-barrelled
lorgnon was not invented in those days - and pretended to examine the house; but
Rebecca saw that his disengaged eye was working round in her direction, and
shooting out bloodshot glances at her and George.
    She redoubled in cordiality. »How is dearest Amelia? But I needn't ask; how
pretty she looks! And who is that nice good-natured-looking creature with her -
a flame of yours? Oh, you wicked men! And there is Mr. Sedley eating ice, I
declare; how he seems to enjoy it! - General, why have we not had any ices?«
    »Shall I go and fetch you some?« said the General, bursting with wrath.
    »Let me go, I entreat you,« George said.
    »No; I will go to Amelia's box. Dear, sweet girl! - Give me your arm,
Captain George;« and so saying, and with a nod to the General, she tripped into
the lobby. She gave George the queerest, knowingest look, when they were
together, a look which might have been interpreted, »Don't you see the state of
affairs, and what a fool I'm making of him?« But he did not perceive it. He was
thinking of his own plans, and lost in pompous admiration of his own
irresistible powers of pleasing.
    The curses to which the General gave a low utterance, as soon as Rebecca and
her conqueror had quitted him, were so deep that I am sure no compositor would
venture to print them were they written down. They came from the General's
heart; and a wonderful thing it is to think that the human heart is capable of
generating such produce, and can throw out, as occasion demands, such a supply
of lust and fury, rage and hatred.
    Amelia's gentle eyes, too, had been fixed anxiously on the pair, whose
conduct had so chafed the jealous General; but when Rebecca entered her box, she
flew to her friend with an affectionate rapture which showed itself in spite of
the publicity of the place; for she embraced her dearest friend in the presence
of the whole house, at least in full view of the General's glass, now brought to
bear upon the Osborne party. Mrs. Rawdon saluted Jos, too, with the kindliest
greeting; she admired Mrs. O'Dowd's large cairngorm brooch and superb Irish
diamonds, and wouldn't believe that they were not from Golconda direct. She
bustled, she chattered, she turned and twisted, and smiled upon one, and smirked
on another, all in full view of the jealous opera-glass opposite. And when the
time for the ballet came (in which there was no dancer that went through her
grimaces or performed her comedy of action better), she skipped back to her own
box, leaning on Captain Dobbin's arm this time. No, she would not have George's;
he must stay and talk to his dearest, best little Amelia.
    »What a humbug that woman is!« honest old Dobbin mumbled to George when he
came back from Rebecca's box, whither he had conducted her in perfect silence,
and with a countenance as glum as an undertaker's. »She writhes and twists about
like a snake. All the time she was here, didn't you see, George, how she was
acting at the General over the way?«
    »Humbug - acting! Hang it, she's the nicest little woman in England,« George
replied, showing his white teeth, and giving his ambrosial whiskers a twirl.
»You ain't a man of the world, Dobbin. Dammy, look at her now; she's talked over
Tufto in no time. Look how he's laughing! 'Gad, what a shoulder she has! - Emmy,
why didn't you have a bouquet? everybody has a bouquet.«
    »Faith, then, why didn't you boy one?« Mrs. O'Dowd said; and both Amelia and
William Dobbin thanked her for this timely observation. But beyond this neither
of the ladies rallied. Amelia was overpowered by the flash and the dazzle and
the fashionable talk of her worldly rival. Even the O'Dowd was silent and
subdued after Becky's brilliant apparition, and scarcely said a word more about
Glenmalony all the evening.
    »When do you intend to give up play, George, as you have promised me - any
time these hundred years?« Dobbin said to his friend a few days after the night
at the Opera.
 
»When do you intend to give up sermonizing?« was the other's reply. »What the
deuce, man, are you alarmed about? We play low; I won last night. You don't
suppose Crawley cheats? With fair play it comes to pretty much the same thing at
the year's end.«
    »But I don't think he could pay if he lost,« Dobbin said; and his advice met
with the success which advice usually commands. Osborne and Crawley were
repeatedly together now. General Tufto dined abroad almost constantly. George
was always welcome in the apartments (very close indeed to those of the General)
which the aide-de-camp and his wife occupied in the hotel.
    Amelia's manners were such when she and George visited Crawley and his wife
at these quarters, that they had very nearly come to their first quarrel - that
is, George scolded his wife violently for her evident unwillingness to go, and
the high and mighty manner in which she comported herself towards Mrs. Crawley,
her old friend; and Amelia did not say one single word in reply, but with her
husband's eye upon her, and Rebecca scanning her as she felt, was, if possible,
more bashful and awkward on the second visit which she paid to Mrs. Rawdon than
on her first call.
    Rebecca was doubly affectionate, of course, and would not take notice, in
the least, of her friend's coolness. »I think Emmy has become prouder since her
father's name was in the --, since Mr. Sedley's misfortunes,« Rebecca said,
softening the phrase charitably for George's ear. »Upon my word, I thought when
we were at Brighton she was doing me the honour to be jealous of me; and now I
suppose she is scandalized because Rawdon and I and the General live together.
Why, my dear creature, how could we, with our means, live at all, but for a
friend to share expenses? And do you suppose that Rawdon is not big enough to
take care of my honour? But I'm very much obliged to Emmy, very,« Mrs. Rawdon
said.
    »Pooh, jealousy!« answered George; »all women are jealous.«
    »And all men too. Weren't you jealous of General Tufto, and the General of
you, on the night of the Opera? Why, he was ready to eat me for going with you
to visit that foolish little wife of yours; as if I care a pin for either of
you,« Crawley's wife said, with a pert toss of her head. »Will you dine here?
The dragon dines with the Commander-in-Chief. Great news is stirring. They say
the French have crossed the frontier. We shall have a quiet dinner.«
    George accepted the invitation, although his wife was a little ailing. They
were now not quite six weeks married. Another woman was laughing or sneering at
her expense, and he not angry. He was not even angry with himself, this
good-natured fellow. It is a shame, he owned to himself; but hang it, if a
pretty woman will throw herself in your way, why, what can a fellow do, you
know? I am rather free about women, he had often said, smiling and nodding
knowingly to Stubble and Spooney, and other comrades of the mess-table; and they
rather respected him than otherwise for this prowess. Next to conquering in war,
conquering in love has been a source of pride, time out of mind, amongst men in
Vanity Fair, or how should schoolboys brag of their amours, or Don Juan be
popular?
    So Mr. Osborne, having a firm conviction in his own mind that he was a
woman-killer and destined to conquer, did not run counter to his fate, but
yielded himself up to it quite complacently. And as Emmy did not say much or
plague him with her jealousy, but merely became unhappy and pined over it
miserably in secret, he chose to fancy that she was not suspicious of what all
his acquaintance were perfectly aware - namely, that he was carrying on a
desperate flirtation with Mrs. Crawley. He rode with her whenever she was free.
He pretended regimental business to Amelia (by which falsehood she was not in
the least deceived), and consigning his wife to solitude or her brother's
society, passed his evenings in the Crawleys' company - losing money to the
husband, and flattering himself that the wife was dying of love for him. It is
very likely that this worthy couple never absolutely conspired and agreed
together in so many words - the one to cajole the young gentleman, whilst the
other won his money at cards - but they understood each other perfectly well,
and Rawdon let Osborne come and go with entire good-humour.
    George was so occupied with his new acquaintances that he and William Dobbin
were by no means so much together as formerly. George avoided him in public and
in the regiment, and, as we see, did not like those sermons which his senior was
disposed to inflict upon him. If some parts of his conduct made Captain Dobbin
exceedingly grave and cool, of what use was it to tell George that, though his
whiskers were large, and his own opinion of his knowingness great, he was as
green as a schoolboy? that Rawdon was making a victim of him, as he had done of
many before, and as soon as he had used him would fling him off with scorn? He
would not listen; and so, as Dobbin, upon those days when he visited the Osborne
house, seldom had the advantage of meeting his old friend, much painful and
unavailing talk between them was spared. Our friend George was in the full
career of the pleasures of Vanity Fair.
    There never was, since the days of Darius, such a brilliant train of
camp-followers as hung round the Duke of Wellington's army in the Low Countries
in 1815, and led it, dancing and feasting as it were, up to the very brink of
battle. A certain ball which a noble Duchess gave at Brussels on the 15th of
June in the above-named year is historical. All Brussels had been in a state of
excitement about it, and I have heard, from ladies who were in that town at the
period, that the talk and interest of persons of their own sex regarding the
ball was much greater even than in respect of the enemy in their front. The
struggles, intrigues, and prayers to get tickets were such as only English
ladies will employ, in order to gain admission to the society of the great of
their own nation.
    Jos and Mrs. O'Dowd, who were panting to be asked, strove in vain to
procures tickets; but others of our friends were more lucky. For instance,
through the interest of my Lord Bareacres, and as a set-off for the dinner at
the restaurateur's, George got a card for Captain and Mrs. Osborne; which
circumstance greatly elated him. Dobbin, who was a friend of the General
commanding the division in which their regiment was, came laughing one day to
Mrs. Osborne, and displayed a similar invitation; which made Jos envious, and
George wonder how the deuce he should be getting into society. Mr. and Mrs.
Rawdon, finally, were of course invited, as became the friends of a General
commanding a cavalry brigade.
    On the appointed night, George, having commanded new dresses and ornaments
of all sorts for Amelia, drove to the famous ball, where his wife did not know a
single soul. After looking about for Lady Bareacres - who cut him, thinking the
card was quite enough - and after placing Amelia on a bench he left her to her
own cogitations there, thinking, on his own part, that he had behaved very
handsomely in getting her new clothes and bringing her to the ball, where she
was free to amuse herself as she liked. Her thoughts were not of the
pleasantest, and nobody except honest Dobbin came to disturb them.
    Whilst her appearance was an utter failure (as her husband felt with a sort
of rage), Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's début was, on the contrary, very brilliant. She
arrived very late. Her face was radiant, her dress perfection. In the midst of
the great persons assembled, and the eye-glasses directed to her, Rebecca seemed
to be as cool and collected as when she used to marshal Miss Pinkerton's little
girls to church. Numbers of the men she knew already, and the dandies thronged
round her. As for the ladies, it was whispered among them that Rawdon had run
away with her from out of a convent, and that she was a relation of the
Montmorency family. She spoke French so perfectly that there might be some truth
in this report, and it was agreed that her manners were fine and her air
distingué. Fifty would-be partners thronged round her at once, and pressed to
have the honour to dance with her. But she said she was engaged, and only going
to dance very little; and made her way at once to the place where Emmy sate
quite unnoticed, and dismally unhappy. And so, to finish the poor child at once,
Mrs. Rawdon ran and greeted affectionately her dearest Amelia, and began
forthwith to patronize her. She found fault with her friend's dress and her
hairdresser, and wondered how she could be so chaussée, and vowed that she must
send her corsetière the next morning. She vowed that it was a delightful ball;
that there was everybody that every one knew, and only a very few nobodies in
the whole room. It is a fact that in a fortnight, and after three dinners in
general society, this young woman had got up the genteel jargon so well that a
native could not speak it better, and it was only from her French being so good
that you could know she was not a born woman of fashion.
    George, who had left Emmy on her bench on entering the ballroom, very soon
found his way back when Rebecca was by her dear friend's side. Becky was just
lecturing Mrs. Osborne upon the follies which her husband was committing. »For
God's sake, stop him from gambling, my dear,« she said, »or he will ruin
himself. He and Rawdon are playing at cards every night; and you know he is very
poor, and Rawdon will win every shilling from him if he does not take care. Why
don't you prevent him, you little, careless creature? Why don't you come to us
of an evening, instead of moping at home with that Captain Dobbin? I daresay he
is très aimable; but how could one love a man with feet of such size? Your
husband's feet are darlings - here he comes. - Where have you been, wretch? Here
is Emmy crying her eyes out for you. Are you coming to fetch me for the
quadrille?« And she left her bouquet and shawl by Amelia's side, and tripped off
with George to dance. Women only know how to wound so. There is a poison on the
tips of their little shafts which stings a thousand times more than a man's
blunter weapon. Our poor Emmy, who had never hated, never sneered all her life,
was powerless in the hands of her remorseless little enemy.
    George danced with Rebecca twice or thrice - how many times Amelia scarcely
knew. She sate quite unnoticed in her corner, except when Rawdon came up with
some words of clumsy conversation; and later in the evening, when Captain Dobbin
made so bold as to bring her refreshments and sit beside her. He did not like to
ask her why she was so sad; but as a pretext for the tears which were filling in
her eyes, she told him that Mrs. Crawley had alarmed her by telling her that
George would go on playing.
    »It is curious, when a man is bent upon play, by what clumsy rogues he will
allow himself to be cheated,« Dobbin said; and Emmy said, »Indeed.« She was
thinking of something else. It was not the loss of the money that grieved her.
    At last George came back for Rebecca's shawl and flowers. She was going
away. She did not even condescend to come back and say good-bye to Amelia. The
poor girl let her husband come and go without saying a word, and her head fell
on her breast. Dobbin had been called away, and was whispering deep in
conversation with the General of the division, his friend, and had not seen this
last parting. George went away then with the bouquet; but when he gave it to the
owner, there lay a note, coiled like a snake among the flowers. Rebecca's eye
caught it at once; she had been used to deal with notes in early life. She put
out her hand and took the nosegay. He saw by her eyes as they met that she was
aware what she should find there. Her husband hurried her away, still too intent
upon his own thoughts, seemingly, to take note of any marks of recognition which
might pass between his friend and his wife. These were, however, but trifling.
Rebecca gave George her hand with one of her usual quick, knowing glances, and
made a curtsy and walked away. George bowed over the hand, said nothing in reply
to a remark of Crawley's - did not hear it even, his brain was so throbbing with
triumph and excitement - and allowed them to go away without a word.
    His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet-scene. It was quite
natural that George should come at Rebecca's request to get her her scarf and
flowers - it was no more than he had done twenty times before in the course of
the last few days; but now it was too much for her. »William,« she said,
suddenly clinging to Dobbin, who was near her, »you've always been very kind to
me - I'm - I'm not well. Take me home.« She did not know she called him by his
Christian name, as George was accustomed to do. He went away with her quickly.
Her lodgings were hard by; and they threaded through the crowd without, where
everything seemed to be more astir than even in the ballroom within. George had
been angry twice or thrice at finding his wife up on his return from the parties
which he frequented, so she went straight to bed now; but although she did not
sleep, and although the din and clatter and the galloping of horsemen were
incessant, she never heard any of these noises, having quite other disturbances
to keep her awake.
    Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a play-table, and began to
bet frantically. He won repeatedly. »Everything succeeds with me to-night,« he
said. But his luck at play even did not cure him of his restlessness, and he
started up after a while, pocketing his winnings, and went to a buffet where he
drank off many bumpers of wine.
    Here, as he was rattling away to the people around, laughing loudly and wild
with spirits, Dobbin found him. He had been to the card-tables to look there for
his friend. Dobbin looked as pale and grave as his comrade was flushed and
jovial.
    »Hallo, Dob! Come and drink, old, Dob! The Duke's wine is famous. - Give me
some more, you sir;« and he held; out a trembling glass for the liquor.
    »Come out, George,« said Dobbin, still gravely; »don't drink.«
    »Drink! there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and light up your lantern
jaws, old boy. Here's to you.«
    Dobbin went up and whispered something to him, at which George, giving a
start and a wild hurray, tossed off his glass, clapped if on the table, and
walked away speedily on his friend's arm. »The enemy has passed the Sambre,«
William said, »and our left is already engaged. Come away. We are to march in
three hours.«
    Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement at the news so long
looked for, so sudden when it came. What were love and intrigue now? He thought
about a thousand things but these in his rapid walk to his quarters - his past
life and future chances - the fate which might be before him - the wife, the
child perhaps, from whom unseen he might be about to part. Oh, how he wished
that night's work undone, and that with a clear conscience at least he might say
farewell to the tender and guileless being by whose love he had set such little
store!
    He thought over his brief married life. In those few weeks he had
frightfully dissipated his little capital. How wild and reckless he had been!
Should any mischance befall him, what was then left for her? How unworthy he was
of her! Why had he married her? He was not fit for marriage. Why had he
disobeyed his father, who had been always so generous to him? Hope, remorse,
ambition, tenderness, and selfish regret filled his heart. He sate down and
wrote to his father, remembering what he had said once before when he was
engaged to fight a duel. Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this
farewell letter. He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He thought how he
had deserted that generous father, and of the thousand kindnesses which the
stern old man had done him.
    He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered; she lay quiet, and her
eyes seemed closed, and he was glad that she was asleep. On arriving at his
quarters from the ball, he had found his regimental servant already making
preparations for his departure; the man had understood his signal to be still,
and these arrangements were very quickly and silently made. Should he go in and
wake Amelia, he thought, or leave a note for her brother to break the news of
departure to her? He went in to look at her once again.
    She had been awake when he first entered her room, but had kept her eyes
closed, so that even her wakefulness should not seem to reproach him. But when
he had returned, so soon after herself too, this timid little heart had felt
more at ease, and turning towards him as he stepped softly out of the room, she
had fallen into a light sleep. George came in and looked at her again, entering
still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could see her sweet, pale face; the
purple eyelids were fringed and closed, and one round arm, smooth and white, lay
outside of the coverlet. Good God! how pure she was; how gentle, how tender, and
how friendless! and he - how selfish, brutal, and black with crime!
Heart-stained and shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's foot and looked at the
sleeping girl. How dared he - who was he, to pray for one so spotless! God bless
her! God bless her! He came to the bedside, and looked at the hand, the little
soft hand, lying asleep; and he bent over the pillow noiselessly towards the
gentle, pale face.
    Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he stooped down. »I am
awake, George,« the poor child said, with a sob fit to break the little heart
that nestled so closely by his own. She was awake, poor soul, and to what? At
that moment a bugle from the Place of Arms began sounding clearly, and was taken
up through the town; and amidst the drums of the infantry and the shrill pipes
of the Scotch, the whole city awoke.
 

                                  Chapter XXX

                          »The Girl I Left Behind Me.«

We do not claim to rank among the military novelists. Our place is with the
non-combatants. When the decks are cleared for action, we go below, and wait
meekly. We should only be in the way of the manoeuvres that the gallant fellows
are performing overhead. We shall? go no further with the -th than to the city
gate; and leaving Major O'Dowd to his duty, come back to the Major's wife, and
the ladies, and the baggage.
    Now the Major and his lady, who had not been invited to the ball at which in
our last chapter other of our friends figured, had much more time to take their
wholesome natural rest in bed than was accorded to people who wished to enjoy
pleasure as well as to do duty. »It's my belief, Peggy, my dear,« said he, as he
placidly pulled his nightcap over his ears, »that there will be such a ball
danced in a day or two as some of 'em has never heard the chune of;« and he was
much more happy to retire to rest after partaking of a quiet tumbler, than to
figure at any other sort of amusement. Peggy, for her part, would have liked to
have shown her turban and bird of paradise at the ball, but for the information
which her husband had given her, and which made her very grave.
    »I'd like ye wake me about half an hour before the assembly beats,« the
Major said to his lady. »Call me at half-past one, Peggy, dear, and see me
things is ready. Maybe I'll not come back to breakfast, Mrs. O'D.« With which
words, which signified his opinion that the regiment would march the next
morning, the Major ceased talking, and fell asleep.
    Mrs. O'Dowd, the good housewife, arrayed in curl-papers and a camisole, felt
that her duty was to act, and not to sleep, at this juncture. »Time enough for
that,« she said, »when Mick's gone;« and so she packed his travelling valise
ready for the march, brushed, his cloak, his cap, and other warlike habiliments;
set them out in order for him; and stowed away in the cloak pockets a light
package of portable refreshments, and a wicker-covered flask or pocket-pistol,
containing near a pint of a remarkably sound Cognac brandy, of which she and the
Major approved very much; and as soon as the hands of the »repayther« pointed to
half-past one, and its interior arrangements (it had a tone quite equal to a
cathaydral, its fair owner considered) knelled forth that fatal hour, Mrs.
O'Dowd woke up her Major, and had as comfortable a cup of coffee prepared for
him as any made that morning in Brussels. And who is there will deny that this
worthy lady's preparations betokened affection as much as the fits of tears and
hysterics by which more sensitive females exhibited their love; and that their
partaking of this coffee, which they drank together while the bugles were
sounding the turn-out and the drums beating in the various quarters of the town,
was not more useful and to the purpose than the outpouring of any mere sentiment
could be? The consequence was, that the Major appeared on parade quite trim,
fresh, and alert, his well-shaved rosy countenance, as he sate on horseback,
giving cheerfulness and confidence to the whole corps. All the officers saluted
her when the regiment marched by the balcony on which this brave woman stood,
and waved them a cheer as they passed; and I daresay it was not from want of
courage, but from a sense of female delicacy and propriety, that she refrained
from leading the gallant -th personally into action.
    On Sundays, and at periods of a solemn nature, Mrs. O'Dowd used to read with
great gravity out of a large volume of her uncle the Dean's sermons. It had been
of great comfort to her on board the transport as they were coming home, and
were very nearly wrecked, on their return from the West Indies. After the
regiment's departure she betook herself to this volume for meditation. Perhaps
she did not understand much of what she was reading, and her thoughts were
elsewhere; but the sleep project, with poor Mick's nightcap there, on the
pillow, was quite a vain one. So it is in the world. Jack or Donald marches away
to glory with his knapsack on his shoulder, stepping out briskly to the tune of
»The Girl I left behind me.« It is she who remains and suffers, - and has the
leisure to think, and brood, and remember.
    Knowing how useless regrets are, and how the indulgence of sentiment only
serves to make people more miserable, Mrs. Rebecca wisely determined to give way
to no vain feelings of sorrow, and bore the parting from her husband with quite
a Spartan equanimity. Indeed, Captain Rawdon himself was much more affected at
the leave-taking, than the resolute little woman to whom he bade farewell. She
had mastered this rude coarse nature, and he loved and worshipped her with all
his faculties of regard and admiration. In all his life he had never been so
happy as, during the past few months, his wife had made him. All former delights
of turf, mess, hunting-field, and gambling-table; all previous loves and
courtships, of milliners, opera-dancers, and the like easy triumphs of the
clumsy military Adonis, were quite insipid when compared with the lawful
matrimonial pleasures which of late he had enjoyed. She had known perpetually
how to divert him; and he had found his house and her society a thousand times
more pleasant than any place or company which he had ever frequented from his
childhood until now. And he cursed his past follies and extravagances, and
bemoaned his vast outlying debts above all, which must remain, for ever as
obstacles to prevent his wife's advancement in the world. He had often groaned
over these in midnight conversations with Rebecca, although as a bachelor they
had never given him any disquiet. He himself was struck with this phenomenon.
»Hang it,« he would say (or perhaps use a still stronger expression out of his
simple vocabulary), »before I was married I didn't care what bills I put my name
to, and so long as Moses would wait or Levy would renew for three months, I kept
on never minding. But since I'm married, except renewing, of course, I give you
my honour I've not touched a bit of stamped paper.«
    Rebecca always knew how to conjure away these moods of melancholy. »Why, my
stupid love,« she would say, »we have not done with your aunt yet. If she fails
us, isn't there what you call the Gazette? or, stop, when your uncle Bute's life
drops, I have another scheme. The living has always belonged to the younger
brother, and why shouldn't you sell out and go into the Church?« The idea of
this conversion set Rawdon into roars of laughter: you might have heard the
explosion through the hotel at midnight, and the haw-haws of the great dragoon's
voice. General Tufto heard him from his quarters on the first floor above them;
and Rebecca acted the scene with great spirit, and preached Rawdon's first
sermon, to the immense delight of the General at breakfast.
    But these were mere bygone days and talk. When the final news arrived that
the campaign was opened, and the troops were to march, Rawdon's gravity became
such that Becky rallied him about it in a manner which rather hurt the feelings
of the Guardsman. »You don't suppose I'm afraid, Becky, I should think,« he
said, with a tremor in his voice.
    »But I'm a pretty good mark for a shot; and you see if it brings me down,
why I leave one, and perhaps two, behind me, whom I should wish to provide for,
as I brought 'em into the scrape. It is no laughing matter that, Mrs. C.,
anyways.«
    Rebecca by a hundred caresses and kind words tried to soothe the feelings of
the wounded lover. It was only when her vivacity and sense of humour got the
better of this sprightly creature (as they would do under most circumstances of
life indeed) that she would break out with her satire, but she could soon put on
a demure face. »Dearest love,« she said, »do you suppose I feel nothing?« and
hastily dashing something from her eyes, she looked up in her husband's face
with a smile.
    »Look here,« said he. »If I drop, let us see what there is for you. I have
had a pretty good run of luck here, and here's two hundred and thirty pounds. I
have got ten napoleons in my pocket. That is as much as I shall want - for the
General pays everything like a prince - and if I'm hit, why you know I cost
nothing. Don't cry, little woman; I may live to vex you yet. Well, I shan't take
either of my horses, but shall ride the General's grey charger; it's cheaper,
and I told him mine was lame. If I'm done, those two ought to fetch you
something. Grigg offered ninety for the mare yesterday, before this confounded
news came, and like a fool I wouldn't let her go under the two 0's. Bullfinch
will fetch his price any day; only you'd better sell him in this country,
because the dealers have so many bills of mine, and so I'd rather he shouldn't
go back to England. Your little mare the General gave you will fetch something;
and there's no d--d livery-stable bills here as there are in London,« Rawdon
added, with a laugh. »There's that dressing-case cost me two hundred - that is,
I owe two for it; and the gold tops and bottles must be worth thirty or forty.
Please to put that up the spout, ma'am, with my pins, and rings, and watch and
chain, and things. They cost a precious lot of money. Miss Crawley, I know, paid
a hundred down for the chain and ticker. Gold tops and bottles, indeed! dammy,
I'm sorry I didn't take more now. Edwards pressed on me a silver-gilt boot-jack;
and I might have had a dressing-case fitted up with a silver warming-pan, and a
service of plate. But we must make the best of what we've got, Becky, you know.«
    And so, making his last dispositions, Captain Crawley, who had seldom
thought about anything but himself, until the last few months of his life, when
Love had obtained the mastery over the dragoon, went through the various items
of his little catalogue of effects, striving to see how they might be turned
into money for his wife's benefit, in case any accident should befall him. He
pleased himself by noting down with a pencil, in his big schoolboy handwriting,
the various items of his portable property which might be sold for his widow's
advantage - as, for example, »My double-barril by Manton, say 40 guineas; my
driving cloak, lined with sable fur, £50; my duelling pistols in rosewood case
(same which I shot Captain Marker), £20; my regulation saddle-holsters and
housings; my Laurie ditto,« and so forth, over all of which articles he made
Rebecca the mistress.
    Faithful to his plan of economy, the Captain dressed himself in his oldest
and shabbiest uniform and epaulets, leaving the newest behind under his wife's
(or it might be his widow's) guardianship. And this famous dandy of Windsor and
Hyde Park went off on his campaign with a kit as modest as that of a sergeant,
and with something like a prayer on his lips for the woman he was leaving. He
took her up from the ground, and held her in his arms for a minute, tight
pressed against his strong-beating heart. His face was purple and his eyes dim,
as he put her down and left her. He rode by his General's side, and smoked his
cigar in silence, as they hastened after the troops of the General's brigade,
which preceded them; and it was not until they were some miles on their way that
he left off twirling his mustachio and broke silence.
    And Rebecca, as we have said, wisely determined not to give way to
unavailing sentimentality on her husband's departure. She waved him an adieu
from the window, and stood there for a moment looking out after he was gone. The
cathedral towers and the full gables of the quaint old houses were just
beginning to blush in the sunrise. There had been no rest for her that night.
She was still in her pretty ball-dress, her fair hair hanging somewhat out of
curl on her neck, and the circles round her eyes dark with watching. »What a
fright I seem,« she said, examining herself in the glass; »and how pale this
pink makes one look!« So she divested herself of this pink raiment; in doing
which a note fell out from her corsage, which she picked up with a smile, and
locked into her dressing-box. And then she put her bouquet of the ball into a
glass of water, and went to bed, and slept very comfortably.
    The town was quite quiet when she woke up at ten o'clock, and partook of
coffee, very requisite and comforting after the exhaustion and grief of the
morning's occurrences.
    This meal over, she resumed honest Rawdon's calculations of the night
previous, and surveyed her position. Should the worst befall, all things
considered, she was pretty well-to-do. There were her own trinkets and
trousseau, in addition to those which her husband had left behind. Rawdon's
generosity, when they were first married, has already been described and lauded.
Besides these, and the little mare, the General, her slave and worshipper, had
made her many very handsome presents, in the shape of cashmere shawls bought at
the auction of a bankrupt French general's lady, and numerous tributes from the
jewellers' shops, all of which betokened her admirer's taste and wealth. As for
»tickers,« as poor Rawdon called watches, her apartments were alive with their
clicking. For, happening to mention one night that hers, which Rawdon had given
to her, was of English workmanship, and went ill, on the very next morning there
came to her a little bijou marked Leroy, with a chain and cover charmingly set
with turquoises, and another signed Breguet, which was covered with pearls, and
yet scarcely bigger than a half-crown. General Tufto had bought one, and Captain
Osborne had gallantly presented the other. Mrs. Osborne had no watch, though, to
do George justice, she might have had one for the asking; and the Honourable
Mrs. Tufto in England had an old instrument of her mother's that might have
served for the plate warming-pan which Rawdon talked about. If Messrs. Howell
&amp; James were to publish a list of the purchasers of all the trinkets which
they sell, how surprised would some families be; and if all these ornaments;
went to gentlemen's lawful wives and daughters, what a profusion, of jewellery
there would be exhibited in the genteelest homes of Vanity Fair!
    Every calculation made of these valuables, Mrs. Rebecca found, not without a
pungent feeling of triumph and self-satisfaction, that should circumstances
occur, she might reckon, on six or seven hundred pounds at the very least, to
begin the world with; and she passed the morning disposing, ordering, looking
out, and locking up her properties in the most agreeable manner. Among the notes
in Rawdon's pocket-book was a draft for twenty pounds on Osborne's banker. This
made her think about Mrs. Osborne. »I will go and get the draft cashed,« she
said, »and pay a visit afterwards to poor little Emmy.« If this is a novel
without a hero, at least let us lay claim to a heroine. No man in the British
army which has marched away, not the great Duke himself, could be more cool or
collected in the presence of doubts and difficulties, than the indomitable
little aide-de-camp's wife.
 
And there was another of our acquaintances who was also to be left behind, a
non-combatant, and whose emotions and behaviour we have therefore a right to
know. This was our friend, the ex-Collector of Boggley Wollah, whose rest was
broken, like other people's, by the sounding of the bugles in the early morning.
Being a great sleeper, and fond of his bed, it is possible he would have snoozed
on until his usual hour of rising in the forenoon, in spite of all the drums,
bugles, and bagpipes in the British army, but for an interruption, which did not
come from George Osborne, who shared Jos's quarters with him, and was as usual
occupied too much with his own affairs, on with grief at parting with his wife,
to think of taking leave of his slumbering brother-in-law - it was not George,
we say, who interposed between Jos Sedley and sleep, but Captain Dobbin, who
came and roused him up, insisting on shaking hands with him before his
departure.
    »Very kind of you,« said Jos, yawning, and wishing the Captain at the deuce.
    »I - I didn't like to go off without saying good-bye, you know,« Dobbin said
in a very incoherent manner; »because you know some of us mayn't come back
again, and I like to see you all well, and - and that sort of thing, you know.«
    »What do you mean?« Jos asked, rubbing his eyes. The Captain, did not in the
least hear him, or look at the stout gentleman in the nightcap, about whom he
professed to have such a tender interest. The hypocrite was looking and
listening with all his might, in the direction of George's apartments, striding
about the room, upsetting the chairs, beating the tattoo, biting his nails, and
showing other signs of great inward emotion.
    Jos had always had rather a mean opinion of the Captain, and now began to
think his courage was somewhat equivocal. »What is it I can do for you, Dobbin?«
he said in a sarcastic tone.
    »I tell you what you can do,« the Captain replied, coming up to the bed: »we
march in a quarter of an hour, Sedley, and neither George nor I may ever come
back. Mind you, you are not to stir from this town until you ascertain how
things go. You are to stay here and watch over your sister, and comfort her, and
see that no harm comes to her. If anything happens to George, remember she has
no one but you in the world to look to. If it goes wrong with the army, you'll
see her safe back to England; and you will promise me on your word that you will
never desert her. I know you won't: as far as money goes, you were always free
enough with that. Do you want any? - I mean, have you enough gold to take you
back to England in case of a misfortune?«
    »Sir,« said Jos majestically, »when I want money, I know where to ask for
it. And as for my sister, you needn't tell me how I ought to behave to her.«
    »You speak like a man of spirit, Jos,« the other answered good-naturedly,
»and I am glad; that George can leave her in such good; hands. So I may give him
your word of honour, may I, that in case of extremity you will stand by her?«
    »Of course, of course,« answered Mr. Jos, whose generosity in money matters
Dobbin estimated quite correctly.
    »And you'll see her safe out of Brussels in the event of a defeat?«
    »A defeat! D-- it, sir, it's impossible. Don't try and frighten me,« the
hero cried from his bed; and Dobbin's mind was thus perfectly set at ease, now
that Jos had spoken out so resolutely respecting his conduct to his sister. »At
least,« thought the Captain, »there will be a retreat secured for her in case
the worst should ensue.«
    If Captain Dobbin expected to get any personal comfort and satisfaction from
having one more view of Amelia before the regiment marched away, his selfishness
was punished just as such odious egotism deserved to be. The door of Jos's
bedroom opened into the sitting-room which was common to the family party, and
opposite this door was that of Amelia's chamber. The bugles had wakened
everybody; there was no use in concealment now. George's servant was packing in
this room, Osborne coming in and out of the contiguous bedroom, flinging to the
man such articles as he thought fit to carry on the campaign. And presently
Dobbin had the opportunity which his heart coveted, and he got sight of Amelia's
face once more. But what a face it was! So white, so wild and despair-stricken,
that the remembrance of it haunted him afterwards like a crime, and the sight
smote him with inexpressible pangs of longing and pity.
    She was wrapped in a white morning dress, her hair falling on her shoulders,
and her large eyes fixed and without light. By way of helping on the
preparations for the departure, and showing that she too could be useful at a
moment so critical, this poor soul had taken up a sash of George's from the
drawers whereon it lay, and followed, him to and fro with the sash in her, hand,
looking on mutely as his packing proceeded. She came out and stood, leaning at
the wall, holding this sash against her bosom, from which the heavy net of
crimson dropped like a large stain of blood. Out gentle-hearted Captain felt a
guilty shock as he looked at her. »Good God,« thought he, »and is it grief like
this I dared to pry into?« And there was no help; no means to soothe and comfort
this helpless, speechless misery. He stood for a moment and looked at her,
powerless and torn with pity, as a parent regards an infant in pain.
    At last, George took Emmy's hand, and led her back into the bedroom, from
whence he came out alone. The parting had taken place in that moment, and he was
gone.
    »Thank Heaven that is over,« George thought, bounding down the stair, his
sword under his arm, as he ran swiftly to the alarm ground, where the regiment
was mustered, and whither trooped men and officers hurrying from their billets;
his pulse was throbbing and his cheeks flushed: the great game of war was going
to be played, and he one of the players. What a fierce excitement of doubt,
hope, and pleasure! What tremendous hazards of loss or gain! What were all the
games of chance he had ever played compared to this one? Into all contests
requiring athletic skill and courage, the young man, from his boyhood upwards,
had flung himself with all his might. The champion of his school and his
regiment, the bravos of his companions had followed him everywhere; from the
boys' cricket match to the garrison races, he had won a hundred of triumphs; and
wherever he went, women and men had admired and envied him. What qualities are
there for which a man gets so speedy a return of applause, as those of bodily
superiority, activity, and valour? Time out of mind strength and courage have
been the theme of bards and romances; and from the story, of Troy down to
to-day, poetry has always chosen a soldier for a hero. I wonder is it because
men are cowards in heart that they admire bravery so much, and place military
valour so far beyond every other quality for reward and worship?
    So, at the sound of that stirring call to battle, George jumped away from
the gentle arms in which he had been dallying; not without a feeling of shame
(although his wife's hold on him had been but feeble), that he should have been
detained there so long. The same feeling of eagerness and excitement was amongst
all those friends of his of whom we have had occasional glimpses, from the stout
senior Major, who led the regiment into action, to little Stubble, the Ensign,
who was to bear its colours on that day.
    The sun was just rising as the march began - it was a gallant sight - the
band led the column, playing the regimental march - then came the Major in
command, riding upon Pyramus, his stout charger - then marched the grenadiers,
their Captain at their head; in the centre were the colours, borne by the senior
and junior Ensigns - then George came marching at the head of his company. He
looked up, and smiled at Amelia, and passed on; and even the sound of the music
died away.
 

                                  Chapter XXXI

                 In which Jos Sedley Takes Care of His Sister.

Thus all the superior officers being summoned on duty elsewhere, Jos Sedley was
left in command of the little colony at Brussels, with Amelia invalided, Isidor,
his Belgian servant, and the bonne who was maid-of-all-work for the
establishment, as a garrison under him. Though he was disturbed in spirit, and
his rest destroyed by Dobbin's interruption and the occurrences of the morning,
Jos nevertheless remained for many hours in bed, wakeful and rolling about there
until his usual hour of rising had arrived. The sun was high in the heavens, and
our gallant friends of fee -th miles on their march, before the civilian
appeared in his flowered dressing-gown at breakfast.
    About George's absence, his brother-in-law was very easy in mind. Perhaps
Jos was rather pleased in his heart that Osborne was gone; for during George's
presence, the other had played but a very secondary part in the household, and
Osborne did not scruple to show his contempt for the stout civilian. But Emmy
had always been good and attentive to him. It was she who ministered to his
comforts, who superintended the dishes that he liked, who walked or rode with
him (as she had many, too many opportunities of doing; for where was George?),
and who interposed her sweet face between his anger and her husband's scorn.
Many timid remonstrances had she uttered to George in behalf of her brother; but
the former in his trenchant way cut these entreaties short. »I'm an honest man,«
he said, »and if I have a feeling I show it, as an honest man will. How the
deuce, my dear, would you have me behave respectfully to such a fool as your
brother?« So Jos was pleased with George's absence. His plain hat and gloves on
a sideboard, and the idea that the owner was away, caused Jos I don't know what
secret thrill of pleasure. »He won't be troubling me this morning,« Jos thought,
»with his dandified airs and his impudence.«
    »Put the Captain's hat into the anteroom,« he said to Isidor, the servant.
    »Perhaps he won't want it again,« replied the lackey, looking knowingly at
his master. He hated George too, whose insolence towards him was quite of the
English sort.
    »And ask if Madame is coming to breakfast,« Mr. Sedley said with great
majesty, ashamed to enter with a servant upon the subject of his dislike for
George. The truth is, he had abused his brother to the valet a score of times
before.
    Alas! Madame could not come to breakfast and cut the tartines that Mr. Jos
liked. Madame was a great deal too ill, and had been in a frightful state ever
since her husband's departure, so her bonne said. Jos showed his sympathy by
pouring her out a large cup of tea. It was his way of exhibiting kindness: and
he improved on this; he not only sent her breakfast, but he bethought him what
delicacies she would most like for dinner.
    Isidor, the valet, had looked on very sulkily while Osborne's servant was
disposing of his master's baggage previous to the Captain's departure: for, in
the first place, he hated Mr. Osborne, whose conduct to him, and to all
inferiors, was generally overbearing (nor does the Continental domestic like to
be treated with insolence as our own better-tempered servants do); and secondly,
he was angry that so many valuables should be removed from under his hands, to
fall into other people's possession when the English discomfiture should arrive.
Of this defeat he and a vast number of other persons in Brussels and Belgium did
not make the slightest doubt. The almost universal belief was, that the Emperor
would divide the Prussian and English armies, annihilate one after the other,
and march into Brussels before three days were over; when all the movables of
his present masters, who would be killed, or fugitives, or prisoners, would
lawfully become the property of Monsieur Isidor.
    As he helped Jos through his toilsome and complicated daily toilette, this
faithful servant would calculate what he should do with the very articles with
which he was decorating his master's person. He would make a present of the
silver essence-bottles and toilette nicknacks to a young lady of whom he was
fond, and keep the English cutlery and the large ruby pin for himself. It would
look very smart upon one of the fine frilled shirts which, with the gold-laced
cap and the frogged frock-coat, that might easily be cut down to suit his shape,
and the Captain's gold-headed cane, and the great double ring with the rubies,
which he would have made into a pair of beautiful earrings, he calculated would
make a perfect Adonis of himself, and render Mademoiselle Reine an easy prey.
»How those sleeve-buttons will suit me!« thought he, as he fixed a pair on the
fat pudgy wrists of Mr. Sedley. »I long for sleeve-buttons; and the Captain's
boots with brass spurs, in the next room, corbleu! what an effect they will make
in the Allée Verte!« So while Monsieur Isidor with bodily fingers was holding on
to his master's nose, and shaving the lower part of Jos's face, his imagination
was rambling along the Green Avenue, dressed out in a frogged coat and lace and
in company with Mademoiselle Reine; he was loitering in spirit on the banks, and
examining the barges sailing slowly under the cool shadows of the trees by the
canal, or refreshing himself with a mug of Faro at the bench of a beerhouse on
the road to Laeken.
    But Mr. Joseph Sedley, luckily for his own peace, no more knew what was
passing in his domestic's mind than the respected reader and I suspect what John
and Mary, whose wages we pay, think of ourselves. What our servants think of us!
- Did we know what our intimates and dear relations thought of us, we should
live in a world that we should be glad to quit, and in a frame of mind and a
constant terror that would be perfectly unbearable. So Jos's man was marking his
victim down, as you see one of Mr. Paynter's assistants in Leadenhall Street
ornament an unconscious turtle with a placard on which is written, »Soup
to-morrow.«
 
Amelia's attendant was much less selfishly disposed. Few dependants could come
near that kind and gentle creature without paying their usual tribute of loyalty
and affection to her sweet and affectionate nature. And it is a fact that
Pauline, the cook, consoled her mistress more than anybody whom she saw on this
wretched morning; for when she found how Amelia remained for hours, silent,
motionless, and haggard, by the windows in which she had placed herself to watch
the last bayonets of the column as it marched away, the honest girl took the
lady's hand, and said, »Tenez, Madame, est-ce qu'il n'est pas aussi à l'armée,
mon homme à moi?« with which she burst into tears, and Amelia falling into her
arms did likewise, and so each pitied and soothed the other.
    Several times during the forenoon Mr. Jos's Isidor went from his lodgings
into the town, and to the gates of the hotels and lodging-houses round about the
Parc, where the English were congregated, and there mingled with other valets,
couriers, and lackeys, gathered such news as was abroad, and brought
back-bulletins for his master's information. Almost all these gentlemen were in
heart partisans of the Emperor, and had their opinions about the speedy end of
the campaign. The Emperor's proclamation from Avesnes had been distributed
eyerywhere plentifully in Brussels. »Soldiers!« it said, »this is the
anniversary of Marengo and Friedland, by which the destinies of Europe were
twice decided. Then, as after Austerlitz, as after Wagram, we were too generous.
We believed in the oaths and promises of princes whom we suffered to remain upon
their thrones. Let us march once more to meet them. We and they, are we not
still the same men? Soldiers! these same Prussians, who are so arrogant to-day,
were three to one against you at Jena, and six to one at Montmirail. Those among
you who were prisoners in England can tell their comrades what frightful
torments they suffered on board the English hulks. Madmen! a moment of
prosperity has blinded them; and if they enter into France, it will be to find a
grave there!« But the partisans of the French prophesied a more speedy
extermination of the Emperor's enemies than this, and it was agreed on all hands
that Prussians and British would never return except as prisoners in the rear of
the conquering army.
    These opinions in the course of the day were brought to operate upon Mr.
Sedley. He was told that the Duke of Wellington had gone to try to rally his
army, the advance of which had been utterly crushed the night before.
    »Crushed, psha!« said Jos, whose heart was pretty stout at breakfast-time.
»The Duke has gone to beat the Emperor, as he has beaten all his generals
before.«
    »His papers are burned, his effects are removed, and his quarters are being
got ready for the Duke of Dalmatia,« Jos's informant replied. »I had it from his
own maître d'hôtel. Milor Duc de Richemont's people are packing up everything.
His Grace has fled already, and the Duchess is only waiting to see the plate
packed to join the King of France at Ostend.«
    »The King of France is at Ghent, fellow,« replied Jos, affecting
incredulity.
    »He fled last night to Bruges, and embarks to-day from Ostend. The Duc de
Berri is taken prisoner. Those who wish to be safe had better go soon, for the
dykes will be opened to-morrow, and who can fly when the whole country is under
water?«
    »Nonsense, sir; we are three to one, sir, against any force Boney can bring
into the field,« Mr. Sedley objected; »the Austrians and the Russians are on
their march. He must, he shall be crushed!« Jos said, slapping his hand on the
table.
    »The Prussians were three to one at Jena, and he took their army and kingdom
in a week. They were six to one at Montmirail, and he scattered them like,
sheep. The Austrian army is coming, but with the Empress and the King of Rome at
its head; and the Russians, bah! the Russians will withdraw. No quarter is to be
given to the English, on account of their cruelty to our braves on board the
infamous pontoons. Look here, here it is in black and white. Here's the
proclamation of His Majesty the Emperor and King,« said the now declared
partisan of Napoleon, and taking the document from his pocket, Isidor sternly
thrust it into his master's face, and already looked upon the frogged coat and
valuables as his own spoil.
    Jos was, if not seriously alarmed as yet, at least considerably disturbed in
mind. »Give me my coat and cap, sir,« said he, »and follow me. I will go myself
and learn the truth of these reports.« Isidor was furious as Jos put on the
braided frock. »Milor had better not wear that military coat,« said he; »the
Frenchmen have sworn not to give quarter to a single British soldier.«
    »Silence, sirrah!« said Jos, with a resolute countenance still, and thrust
his arm into the sleeve with indomitable resolution, in the performance of which
heroic act he was found by Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who at this juncture came up to
visit Amelia, and entered without ringing at the antechamber door.
    Rebecca was dressed very neatly and smartly as usual. Her quiet sleep after
Rawdon's departure had refreshed her; and her pink, smiling cheeks were quite
pleasant to look at, in a town and on a day when everybody else's countenance
wore the appearance of the deepest anxiety and gloom. She laughed at the
attitude in which Jos was discovered, and the struggles and convulsions with
which the stout gentleman thrust himself into the braided coat.
    »Are you preparing to join the army, Mr. Joseph?« she said. »Is there to be
nobody left in Brussels to protect us poor women?« Jos succeeded in plunging
into the coat, and came forward blushing and stuttering out excuses to his fair
visitor. »How was she after the events of the morning - after the fatigues of
the ball the night before?« Monsieur Isidor disappeared into his master's
adjacent bedroom, bearing off the flowered dressing-gown.
    »How good of you to ask,« said she, pressing one of his hands in both her
own. »How cool and collected you look when everybody else is frightened! How is
our dear little Emmy? It must have been an awful, awful parting.«
    »Tremendous,« Jos said.
    »You men can bear anything,« replied the lady. »Parting or danger are
nothing to you. Own now that you were going to join the army and leave us to our
fate. I know you were - something tells me you were. I was so frightened, when
the thought came into my head (for I do sometimes think of you when I am alone,
Mr. Joseph), that I ran off immediately to beg and entreat you not to fly from
us.«
    This speech might be interpreted, »My dear sir, should an accident befall
the army, and a retreat be necessary, you have a very comfortable carriage, in
which I propose to take a seat.« I don't know whether Jos understood the words
in this sense. But he was profoundly mortified by the lady's inattention to him
during their stay at Brussels. He had never been presented to any of Rawdon
Crawley's great acquaintances: he had scarcely been invited to Rebecca's
parties; for he was too timid to play much, and his presence bored George and
Rawdon equally, who neither of them, perhaps, liked to have a witness of the
amusements in which the pair chose to indulge. »Ah!« thought Jos, »now she wants
me she comes to me. When there is nobody else in the way she can think about old
Joseph Sedley!« But besides these doubts, he felt flattered at the idea Rebecca
expressed of his courage. He blushed a good deal, and put on an air of
importance. »I should like, to see the action,« he said. »Every man of any
spirit would, you know. I've seen a little service in India, but nothing on this
grand scale.«
    »You men would sacrifice anything for a pleasure,« Rebecca answered.
»Captain Crawley left me this morning as gay as if he were going to a hunting
party. What does he care? What do any of you care for the agonies and tortures
of a poor forsaken, woman? (I wonder whether he could really have been going to
the troops, this great lazy gourmand?) Oh, dear Mr. Sedley, I have come to you
for comfort - for consolation. I have been on my knees all the morning. I
tremble at the frightful danger into which our husbands, our friends, our brave
troops and allies, are rushing. And I come here for shelter, and find another of
my friends - the last remaining to me - bent upon plunging into the dreadful
scene!«
    »My dear madam,« Jos replied, now beginning to be quite soothed, »don't be
alarmed. I only said I should like to go - what Briton would not? But my duty
keeps me here; I can't leave that poor creature in the next room.« And he
pointed with his finger to the door of the chamber in which Amelia was.
    »Good, noble brother!« Rebecca said, putting her handkerchief to her eyes,
and smelling the eau-de-Cologne with which it was scented. »I have done you
injustice: you have got a heart. I thought you had not.«
    »Oh, upon my honour!« Jos said, making a motion as if he would lay his hand
upon the spot in question, »you do me injustice, indeed you do - my dear Mrs.
Crawley.«
    »I do, now your heart is true to your sister. But I remember two years ago -
when it was false to me!« Rebecca said, fixing her eyes upon him for an instant,
and then turning away into the window.
    Jos blushed violently. That organ which he was accused by Rebecca of not
possessing began to thump tumultuously. He recalled the days when he had fled
from her, and the passion which had once inflamed him - the days when he had
driven her in his curricle; when she had knit the green purse for him; when he
had sate enraptured gazing at her white arms and bright eyes.
    »I know you think me ungrateful,« Rebecca continued, coming out of the
window, and once more looking at him and addressing him in a low tremulous
voice. »Your coldness, your averted looks, your manner when we have met of late
- when I came in just now, all proved it to me. But were there no reasons why I
should avoid you? Let your own heart answer that question. Do you think my
husband was too much inclined to welcome you? The only unkind words I have ever
had from him (I will do Captain Crawley that justice) have been about you - and
most cruel, cruel words they were.«
    »Good gracious!; what have I done?« asked Jos in a flurry of pleasure and
perplexity; »what have I done - to - to -«
    »Is jealousy nothing?« said Rebecca. »He makes me miserable about you. And
whatever it might have been once - my heart is all his. I am innocent now. Am I
not, Mr. Sedley?«
    All Jos's blood tingled with delight as he surveyed this victim to his
attractions. A few adroit words, one or two knowing tender glances of the eyes,
and his heart was inflamed again, and his doubts and suspicions forgotten. From
Solomon downwards, have not wiser men than he been cajoled and befooled by
women? »If the worst comes to the worst,« Becky thought, »my retreat is secure;
and I have a right-hand seat in the barouche.«
    There is no knowing into what declarations of love and ardour the tumultuous
passions of Mr. Joseph might have led him, if Isidor the valet had not made his
reappearance at this minute, and begun to busy himself about the domestic
affairs. Jos, who was just going to gasp out an avowal, choked almost with the
emotion that he was obliged to restrain. Rebecca too bethought her that it was
time she should go in and comfort her dearest Amelia. »Au revoir,« she said,
kissing her hand to Mr. Joseph and tapped gently at the door of his sister's
apartment. As she entered and closed the door on herself, he sank down in a
chair, and gazed and sighed and puffed portentously. »That coat is very tight
for Milor,« Isidor said, still having his eye on the frogs. But his master heard
him not; his thoughts were elsewhere - now glowing, maddening, upon the
contemplation of the enchanting Rebecca; anon shrinking guiltily before the
vision of the jealous Rawdon Crawley, with his curling, fierce mustachios, and
his terrible duelling pistols loaded and cocked.
    Rebecca's appearance struck Amelia, with terror, and made her shrink back.
It recalled her to the world, and the remembrance of yesterday. In the
overpowering fears about to-morrow she had forgotten Rebecca, - jealousy, -
everything except that her husband was gone and was in danger. Until this
dauntless worldling came in and broke the spell, and lifted the latch, we too
have forborne to enter into that sad chamber. How long had that poor girl been
on her knees! what hours of speechless prayer and bitter prostration had she
passed there! The war-chroniclers who write brilliant stories of fight and
triumph scarcely tell us of these. These are too mean parts; of the pageant; and
you don't hear widows' cries or mothers' sobs in the midst of the shouts and
jubilation in the great Chorus of Victory. And yet when was the time that such
have not cried out - heartbroken, humble protestants, unheard in the uproar of
the triumph!
    After the first movement of terror in Amelia's mind - when Rebecca's green
eyes lighted upon her, and, rustling in her fresh silks and brilliant ornaments,
the latter tripped up with extended arms to embrace her - a feeling of anger
succeeded; and from being deadly pale before, her face flushed up red, and she
returned Rebecca's look after a moment with a steadiness which surprised and
somewhat abashed her rival.
    »Dearest Amelia, you are very unwell,« the visitor said, putting forth her
hand to take Amelia's. »What is it? I could riot rest until I knew how you
were.«
    Amelia drew back her hand: never since her life began had that gentle soul
refused to believe or to answer any demonstration of goodwill or affection. But
she drew back her hand, and trembled all over. »Why are you here, Rebecca?« she
said, still looking at her solemnly with her large eyes. These glances troubled
her visitor.
    »She must have seen him give me the letter at the ball,« Rebecca thought.
»Don't be agitated, dear Amelia,« she said, looking down. »I came but to see if
I could - if you were well.«
    »Are you well?« said Amelia. »I daresay you are. You don't love your
husband. You would not be here if you did. Tell me, Rebecca, did I ever do you
anything but kindness?«
    »Indeed, Amelia, no,« the other said, still hanging down her head.
    »When you were quite poor, who was it that befriended you? Was I not a
sister to you? You saw us all in happier days before he married me. I was all in
all then to him; or would he have given up his fortune, his family, as he nobly
did, to make me happy? Why did you come between my love and me? Who sent you to
separate those whom God joined, and take my darling's heart from me - my own
husband? Do you think you could love him as I did? His love was everything to
me. You knew it, and wanted to rob me of it. For shame, Rebecca! bad and wicked
woman - false friend and false wife!«
    »Amelia, I protest before God, I have done my husband no wrong,« Rebecca
said, turning from her.
    »Have you done me no wrong, Rebecca? You did not succeed, but you tried. Ask
your heart if you did not.«
    She knows nothing, Rebecca thought.
    »He came back to me. I knew he would. I knew that no falsehood, no flattery
could keep him from me long. I knew he would come. I prayed so that, he should.«
The poor girl spoke these words with a spirit and volubility which Rebecca had
never before seen in her, and before which the latter was quite dumb. »But what
have I done to you,« she continued, in a more pitiful tone, »that your should
try and take him from me? I had him but for six weeks. You might have spared me
those, Rebecca. And yet, from the very first day of our wedding, you came and
blighted it. Now he is gone, are you come to see how unhappy I am« she
continued. »You made me wretched enough for the past fortnight; you might have
spared me to-day.«
    »I - I never came here,« interposed Rebecca, with unlucky truth.
    »No, you didn't come. You took him away. Are you come to fetch him from me?«
she continued in a wilder tone. »He was here, but he is gone now There, on that
very sofa, he sate. Don't touch it. We sate and, talked there. I was on his
knee, and my arms were round his-neck, and we said, Our Father. Yes, he was
here: and they came and took him away, but he promised me to come back.«
    »He will come back, my dear,« said Rebecca, touched in spite of herself.
    »Look,« said Amelia, »this is his sash - isn't it a pretty colour?« and she
took up the fringe and kissed it. She had tied it round her waist at some part
of the day. She had forgotten her anger, her jealousy, the very presence of her
rival seemingly. For she walked silently and almost with a smile on her face
towards the bed, and began to smooth down George's pillow.
    Rebecca walked, too, silently away. »How is Amelia?« asked Jos, who still
held his position in the chair.
    »There should be somebody with her,« said Rebecca. »I think she is very
unwell.« And she went away with a very grave face, refusing Mr. Sedley's
entreaties that she would stay and partake of the early dinner which he had
ordered.
 
Rebecca was of a good-natured and obliging disposition; and she liked Amelia
rather than otherwise. Even her hard words, reproachful as they were, were
complimentary - the groans of a person stinging under defeat. Meeting Mrs.
O'Dowd, whom the Dean's sermons had by no means comforted, and who was walking
very disconsolately in the Parc, Rebecca accosted the latter, rather to the
surprise of the Major's wife, who was not accustomed to such marks of politeness
from Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, and informing her that poor little Mrs. Osborne was in
a desperate condition, and almost mad with grief, sent off the good-natured
Irishwoman straight to see if she could console her young favourite.
    »I've cares of my own enough,« Mrs. O'Dowd said gravely, »and I thought poor
Amelia would be little wanting for company this day. But if she's so bad as you
say, and you can't attend to her, who used to be so fond of her, faith I'll see
if I can be of service. And so good-marning to ye, Madam;« with which speech and
a toss of her head, the lady of the repayther took a farewell of Mrs. Crawley,
whose company she by no means courted.
    Becky watched her marching off, with a smile on her lip. She had the keenest
sense of humour, and the Parthian look which the retreating Mrs. O'Dowd flung
over her shoulder almost upset Mrs. Crawley's gravity. »My service to ye, me
fine Madam, and I'm glad to see ye so cheerful,« thought Peggy. »It's not you
that will cry your eyes out with grief, any way.« And with this she passed on,
and speedily found her way to Mrs. Osborne's lodgings.
    The poor soul was still at the bedside, where Rebecca had left her, and
stood almost crazy with grief. The Major's wife, a strong-minded woman,
endeavoured her best to comfort her young friend. »You must bear up, Amelia
dear,« she said kindly, »for he mustn't find you ill when he sends for you after
the victory. It's not you are the only woman that are in the hands of God this
day.«
    »I know that. I am very wicked, very weak,« Amelia said. She knew her own
weakness well enough. The presence of the more resolute friend checked it,
however; and she was the better of this control and company. They went on till
two o'clock; their hearts were with the column as it marched further and further
away. Dreadful doubt and anguish - prayers and fears and griefs unspeakable -
followed the regiment. It was the women's tribute to the war. It taxes both
alike, and takes the blood of the men, and the tears of the women.
    At half-past two, an event occurred of daily importance to Mr. Joseph - the
dinner-hour arrived. Warriors may fight and perish, but he must dine. He came
into Amelia's room to see if he could coax her to share that meal. »Try,« said
he; »the soup is very good. Do try, Emmy,« and he kissed her hand. Except when
she was married, he had not done so much for years before. »You are very good
and kind, Joseph,« she said. »Everybody is, but, if you please, I will stay in
my room to-day.«
    The savour of the soup, however, was agreeable to Mrs. O'Dowd's nostrils,
and she thought she would bear Mr. Jos company. So the two sate down to their
meal. »God bless the meat,« said the Major's wife solemnly: she was thinking of
her honest Mick, riding at the head of the regiment. »'Tis but a bad dinner
those poor boys will get to-day,« she said, with a sigh, and then, like a
philosopher, fell to.
    Jos's spirits rose with his meal. He would drink the regiment's health; or,
indeed, take any other excuse to indulge in a glass of champagne. »We'll drink
to O'Dowd and the brave -th,« said he, bowing gallantly to his guest. »Hey, Mrs.
O'Dowd? Fill Mrs. O'Dowd's glass, Isidor.«
    But all of a sudden Isidor started, and the Major's wife laid down her knife
and fork. The windows of the room were open and looked southward, and a dull
distant sound came over the sun-lighted roofs from that direction. »What is it?«
said Jos. »Why don't you pour, you rascal?«
    »C'est le feu!« said Isidor, running to the balcony.
    »God defend us; it's cannon!« Mrs. O'Dowd cried, starting up, and followed
too the window. A thousand pale and anxious faces might have been seen looking
from other casements. And presently it seemed as if the whole population of the
city rushed into the streets.
 

                                 Chapter XXXII

         In which Jos Takes Flight, and the War Is Brought to a Close.

We of peaceful London City have never beheld - and please God never shall
witness - such a scene of hurry and alarm as that which Brussels presented.
Crowds rushed to the Namur gate, from which direction the noise proceeded, and
many rode along the level chaussée, to be in advance of any intelligence from
the army. Each man asked his neighbour for news; and even great English lords
and ladies condescended to speak to persons whom they did not know. The friends
of the French went abroad, wild with excitement, and prophesying the triumph of
their Emperor. The merchants closed their shops, and came out, to swell the
general chorus of alarm and clamour. Women rushed to the churches, and crowded
the chapels, and knelt and prayed on the flags and steps. The dull sound of the
cannon went on rolling, rolling. Presently carriages with travellers began to
leave the town, galloping away by the Ghent barrier. The prophecies of the
French partisans began to pass for facts. »He has cut the armies in two,« it was
said. »He is marching straight on Brussels. He will overpower the English, and
be here to-night.« »He will overpower the English,« shrieked Isidor to his
master, »and will be here to-night.« The man bounded in and out from the
lodgings to the street, always returning with some fresh particulars of
disaster. Jos's face grew paler and paler. Alarm began to take entire possession
of the stout civilian. All the champagne he drank brought no courage to him.
Before sunset he was worked up to such a pitch of nervousness as gratified his
friend Isidor to behold, who now counted surely upon the spoils of the owner of
the laced coat.
    The women were away all this time. After hearing the firing for a moment,
the stout Major's wife bethought her of her friend in the next chamber, and ran
in to watch, and if possible to console, Amelia. The idea that she had that
helpless and gentle creature to protect, gave additional strength to the natural
courage of the honest Irishwoman. She passed five hours by her friend's side,
sometimes in remonstrance, sometimes talking cheerfully, oftener silence and
terrified mental supplication. »I never let go her hand once,« said the stout
lady afterwards, »until after sunset, when the firing was over.« Pauline, the
bonne, was on her knees at church hard by, praying for son homme à elle.
    When the noise of the cannonading was over, Mrs. O'Dowd issued out of
Amelia's room into the parlour adjoining, where Jos sate with two emptied
flasks, and courage entirely gone. Once or twice he had ventured into his
sister's bedroom, looking very much alarmed, and as if he would say something.
But the Major's wife kept her place, and he went away without disburthening
himself of his speech. He was ashamed to tell her that he wanted to fly. But
when she made her appearance in the dining-room, where he sate in the twilight
in the cheerless company of his empty champagne bottles, he began to open his
mind to her.
    »Mrs. O'Dowd,« he said, »hadn't you better get Amelia ready?«
    »Are you going to take her out for a walk?« said the Major's lady; »sure
she's too weak to stir.«
    »I - I've ordered the carriage,« he said, »and - and post-horses; Isidor is
gone for them,« Jos continued.
    »What do you want with driving to-night?« answered the lady. »Isn't she
better on her bed? I've just got her to lie down.«
    »Get her up,« said Jos; »she must get up, I say;« and he stamped his foot
energetically. »I say the horses are ordered - yes, the horses are ordered. It's
all over, and -«
    »And what?« asked Mrs. O'Dowd.
    »I'm off for Ghent,« Jos answered. »Everybody is going; there's a place for
you! We shall start in half an hour.«
    The Major's wife looked at him with infinite scorn. »I don't move till
O'Dowd gives me the route,« said she. »You may go if you like, Mr. Sedley; but,
faith, Amelia and I stop here.«
    »She shall go,« said Jos, with another stamp of his foot.
    Mrs. O'Dowd put herself with arms akimbo before the bedroom door.
    »Is it her mother you're going to take her to?« she said; »or do you want to
go to Mamma yourself, Mr. Sedley? Good-marning - a pleasant journey to ye, sir.
Bon voyage, as they say; and take my counsel, and shave off them mustachios, or
they'll bring you into mischief.«
    »D--n!« yelled out Jos, wild with fear, rage, and mortification; and Isidor
came in at this juncture, swearing in his turn. »Pas de chevaux, sacrebleu!«
hissed out the furious domestic. All the horses were gone. Jos was not the only
man in Brussels seized with panic that day.
    But Jos's fears, great and cruel as they were already, were destined to
increase to an almost frantic pitch before the night was over. It has been
mentioned how Pauline, the bonne, had son homme à elle also in the ranks of the
army that had gone out to meet the Emperor Napoleon. This lover was a native of
Brussels, and a Belgian hussar. The troops of his nation signalized themselves
in this war for anything but courage, and young Van Cutsum, Pauline's admirer,
was too good a soldier to disobey his colonel's orders to run away. Whilst in
garrison at Brussels young Regulus (he had been born in the revolutionary times)
found his great comfort, and passed almost all his leisure moments, in Pauline's
kitchen; and it was with pockets and holsters crammed full of good things from
her larder, that he had taken leave of his weeping sweetheart, to proceed upon
the campaign, a few days before.
    As far as his regiment was concerned, this campaign was over now. They had
formed a part of the division under the command of his sovereign-apparent, the
Prince of Orange; and as respected length of swords and mustachios, and the
richness of uniform and equipments, Regulus and his comrades looked to be as
gallant a body of men as ever trumpet sounded for.
    When Ney dashed upon the advance of the allied troops, carrying one position
after the other, until the arrival of the great body of the British army from
Brussels changed the aspect of the combat of Quatre Bras, the squadrons among
which Regulus rode showed the greatest activity in retreating before the French,
and were dislodged from one post and another, which they occupied with perfect
alacrity on their part. Their movements were only checked by the advance of the
British in their rear. Thus forced to halt, the enemy's cavalry (whose
bloodthirsty obstinacy cannot be too severely reprehended) had at length an
opportunity of coming to close quarters with the brave Belgians before them; who
preferred to encounter the British rather than the French, and at once turning
tail rode through the English regiments that were behind them, and scattered in
all directions. The regiment in fact did not exist any more; it was nowhere; it
had no headquarters. Regulus found himself galloping many miles from the field
of action, entirely alone; and whither should he fly for refuge so naturally as
to that kitchen and those faithful arms in which Pauline had so often welcomed
him?
    At some ten o'clock the clinking of a sabre might have been heard up the
stair of the house where the Osbornes occupied a story in the Continental
fashion. A knock might have been heard the kitchen door; and poor Pauline, come
back from church, fainted almost with terror as she opened it and saw before her
her haggard hussar. He looked as pale as the midnight dragoon who came to
disturb Leonora. Pauline would have screamed, but that her cry would have called
her masters, and discovered her friend. She stifled her scream, then, and
leading her hero into the kitchen, gave him beer, and the choice bits from the
dinner, which Jos had not had the heart to taste. The hussar showed he was no
ghost by the prodigious quantity of flesh and beer which he devoured - and
during the mouthfuls he told his tale of disaster.
    His regiment had performed prodigies of courage, and had withstood for a
while the onset of the whole French army. But they were overwhelmed at last, as
was the whole British army by this time. Ney destroyed each regiment as it came
up. The Belgians in vain interposed to prevent the butchery of the English. The
Brunswickers were routed and had fled their Duke was killed. It was a general
débâcle. He sought to drown his sorrow for the defeat in floods of beer.
    Isidor, who had come into the kitchen, heard the conversation, and rushed
out to inform his master. »It is all over,« he shrieked to Jos. »Milor Duke is a
prisoner - the Duke of Brunswick is killed - the British army is in full flight;
there is only one man escaped, and he is in the kitchen now - come and hear
him.« So Jos tottered into that apartment, where Regulus still sate on the
kitchen table, and clung fast to his flagon of beer. In the best French which he
could muster and which was in sooth of a very ungrammatical sort, Jos besought
the hussar to tell his tale. The disasters deepened as Regulus spoke. He was the
only man of his regiment not slain on the field. He had seen the Duke of
Brunswick fall, the black hussars fly, the Ecossais pounded down by the cannon.
    »And the -th?« gasped Jos.
    »Cut in pieces,« said the hussar; upon which Pauline cried out, »O my
mistress, ma bonne petite dame,« went off fairly into hysterics, and filled the
house with her screams.
 
Wild with terror, Mr. Sedley knew not how or where to seek for safety. He rushed
from the kitchen back to the sitting room, and cast an appealing look at
Amelia's door, which Mrs. O'Dowd had closed and locked in his face; but he
remembered how scornfully the latter had received him, and after pausing and
listening for a brief space at the door, he left it, and resolved to go into the
street, for the first time that day. So, seizing a candle, he looked about for
his gold-laced cap, and found it lying in its usual place, on a console-table,
in the anteroom, placed before a mirror at which Jos used to coquet, always
giving his side-locks a twirl, and his cap the proper cock over his eye, before
he went forth to make appearance in public. Such is the force of habit, that
even in the midst of his terror he began mechanically to twiddle with his hair,
and arrange the cock of his hat. Then he looked amazed at the pale face in the
glass before him, and especially at his mustachios, which had attained a rich
growth in the course of near seven weeks, since they had come into the world.
They will mistake me for a military man, thought he, remembering Isidor's
warning as to the massacre with which all the defeated British army was
threatened; and staggering back to his bed-chamber, he began wildly pulling the
bell which summoned his valet.
    Isidor answered that summons. Jos had sunk in a chair - he had torn off his
neckcloths, and turned down his collars, and was sitting with both his hands
lifted to his throat.
    »Coupez-moi, Isidor,« shouted he; »vite coupez-moi!«
    Isidor thought for a moment he had gone mad, and that he wished his valet to
cut his throat.
    »Les moustaches,« gasped Jos; »les moustaches - coupy, rasy, vite!« - his
French was of this sort - voluble, as we have said, but not remarkable, for
grammar.
    Isidor swept off the mustachios in no time with the razor, and heard with
inexpressible delight his master's orders that he should fetch a hat and a plain
coat. »Ne porty ploo - habit militair - bonny - bonny a voo, prenny dehors« -
were Jos's words: the coat and cap were at last his property.
    This gift being made, Jos selected a plain black coat and waistcoat from his
stock, and put on a large white neckcloth and a plain beaver. If he could have
got a shovel-hat he would have worn it. As it was, you would have fancied he was
a flourishing, large parson of the Church of England.
    »Venny maintenong,« he continued, »sweevy - ally - party - dong la roo.« And
so having said, he plunged swiftly down the stairs of the house, and passed into
the street.
    Although Regulus had vowed that he was the only man of his regiment, or of
the allied army, almost, who had escaped being cut to pieces by Ney, it appeared
feat his statement was incorrect, and that a good number more of the supposed
victims had survived the massacre. Many scores of Regulus's comrades had found
their way back to Brussels, and - all agreeing that they had run away - filled
the whole town with an idea of the defeat, of the allies. The arrival of the
French was expected hourly; the panic continued, and preparations for flight
went on everywhere. No horses! thought Jos, in terror. He made Isidor inquire of
scores of persons whether they had any to lend or sell; and his heart sank
within him at the negative answers returned everywhere. Should he take the
journey on foot? Even fear could not render that ponderous body so active.
    Almost all the hotels occupied by the English in Brussels face the Parc, and
Jos wandered irresolutely about in this quarter, with crowds of other people,
oppressed as he was by fear and curiosity. Some families he saw more happy than
himself, having discovered a team of horses, and rattling through the streets in
retreat; others again there were whose case was like his own, and who could not
for any bribes or entreaties procure the necessary means of flight. Amongst
these would-be fugitives, Jos remarked the Lady Bareacres and her daughter, who
sat in their carriage in the porte-cochère of their hotel, all their imperials
packed, and the only drawback to whose flight was the same want of motive power
which kept Jos stationary.
    Rebecca Crawley occupied apartments in this hotel, and had before this
period had sundry hostile meetings with the ladies of the Bareacres family. My
Lady Bareacres cut Mrs. Crawley on the stairs when they met by chance; and in
all places where the latter's name was mentioned, spoke perseveringly ill of her
neighbour. The Countess was shocked at the familiarity of General Tufto with the
aide-de-camp's wife. The Lady Blanche avoided her as if she had been an
infectious disease. Only the Earl himself kept up a sly occasional acquaintance
with her, when out of the jurisdiction of his ladies.
    Rebecca had her revenge now upon these insolent enemies. It became known in
the hotel that Captain Crawley's horses had been left behind; and when the panic
began, Lady Bareacres condescended to send her maid to the Captain's wife with
her Ladyship's compliments, and a desire to know the price of Mrs. Crawley's
horses. Mrs. Crawley returned a note with her compliments, and an intimation
that it was not her custom to transact bargains with ladies'-maids.
    This curt reply brought the Earl in person to Becky's apartment; but he
could get no more success than the first ambassador. »Send a lady's-maid to me!«
Mrs. Crawley cried in great anger; »why didn't my Lady Bareacres tell me to go
and saddle the horses? Is it her Ladyship that wants to escape, or her
Ladyship's femme de chamber?«
    And this was all the answer that the Earl bore back to his Countess.
    What will not necessity do? The Countess herself actually came to wait upon
Mrs. Crawley on the failure of her second envoy. She entreated her to name her
own price; she even offered to invite Becky to Bareacres House, if the latter
would but give her the means of returning to that residence. Mrs. Crawley
sneered at her.
    »I don't want to be waited? on by bailiffs in livery,« she said; »you will
never get back though most probably - at least not you and your diamonds
together. The French will have those. They will be here in two hours, and I
shall be halfway to Ghent by that time. I wound not sell you my horses, no, not
for the two largest diamonds that your Ladyship wore at the ball.« Lady
Bareacres trembled with rage and terror. The diamonds were sewed into her habit,
and secreted in my Lord's padding and boots. »Woman, the diamonds are at the
banker's, and I will have the horses,« she said. Rebecca laughed in her face.
The infuriate Countess went below, and sat in her carriage; her maid, her
courier, and her husband, were sent once more through the town, each to look for
cattle: and woe betide those who came last! Her Ladyship was resolved on
departing the very instant the horses arrived from any quarter - with her
husband or without him.
    Rebecca had the pleasure of seeing her Ladyship in the horseless carriage,
and keeping her eyes fixed upon her, and bewailing, in the loudest tone of
voice, the Countess's perplexities. »Not to be able to get horses!« she said,
»and to have all those diamonds sewed into the carriage cushions! What a prize
it will be for the French when they come! - the carriage and the diamonds, I
mean; not the lady!« She gave this information to the landlord, to the servants,
to the guests, and the innumerable stragglers about the courtyard. Lady
Bareacres could have shot her from the carriage window. It was while enjoying
the humiliation of her enemy that Rebecca caught sight of Jos, who made towards
her directly he perceived her.
    That altered, frightened, fat face told his secret well enough. He too
wanted to fly, and was on the look-out for the means of escape. »He shall buy my
horses,« thought Rebecca, »and I'll ride the mare.«
    Jos walked up to his friend, and put the question for the hundredth time
during the past hour, »Did she know where horses were to be had?«
    »What, you fly?« said Rebecca with a laugh. »I thought you were the champion
of all the ladies, Mr. Sedley.«
    »I - I'm not a military man,« gasped he.
    »And Amelia? - Who is to protect that poor little sister of yours?« asked
Rebecca. »You surely would not desert her?«
    »What good can I do her, suppose - suppose the enemy arrive?« Jos answered.
»They'll spare the women; but my man tells me that they have taken an oath to
give no quarter to the men - the dastardly cowards.«
    »Horrid!« cried Rebecca, enjoying his perplexity.
    »Besides, I don't want to desert her,« cried the brother. »She shan't be
deserted. There is a seat for her in my carriage, and one for you, dear Mrs.
Crawley, if you will come, and if we can get horses« - sighed he --
    »I have two to sell,« the lady said. Jos could have flung himself into her
arms at the news. »Get the carriage, Isidor,« he cried; »we've found them - we
have found them!«
    »My horses never were in harness,« added the lady. »Bullfinch would kick the
carriage to pieces, if you put him in the traces.«
    »But he is quiet to ride?« asked the civilian.
    »As quiet as a lamb, and as fast as a hare,« answered Rebecca.
    »Do you think he is up to my weight?« Jos said. He was already on his back,
in imagination, without ever so much as a thought for poor Amelia. What person
who loved a horse-speculation could resist such a temptation?
    In reply, Rebecca asked him to come into her room, whither he followed her
quite breathless to conclude the bargain. Jos seldom spent a half-hour in his
life which cost him so much money. Rebecca, measuring the value of the goods
which she had for sale by Jos's eagerness to purchase as well as by the scarcity
of the article, put upon her horses a price so prodigious as to make even the
civilian draw back. »She would sell both, or neither,« she said resolutely.
Rawdon had ordered her not to part with them for a price less than that which
she specified. Lord Bareacres below would give her the same money; and with all
her love and regard for the Sedley family, her dear Mr. Joseph must conceive
that poor people must live: nobody, in a word, could be more affectionate, but
more firm about the matter of business.
    Jos ended by agreeing, as might be supposed of him. The sum he had to give
her was so large that he was obliged to ask for time - so large as to be a
little fortune to Rebecca, who rapidly calculated that with this sum and the
sale of the residue of Rawdon's effects, and her pension as a widow should he
fall, she would now be absolutely independent of the world, and might look her
weeds steadily in the face.
    Once or twice in the day she certainly had herself thought about flying. But
her reason gave her better counsel. »Suppose the French do come,« thought Becky,
»what can they do to a poor officer's widow? Bah! The times of sacks and sieges
are over. We shall be let to go home quietly; or I may live pleasantly abroad
with a snug little income.«
    Meanwhile Jos and Isidor went off to the stables to inspect the
newly-purchased cattle. Jos bade his man saddle the horses at once. He would
ride away that very night - that very hour. And he left the valet busy in
getting the horses ready, and went homewards himself to prepare for his
departure. It must be secret. He would go to his chamber by the back entrance.
He did not care to face Mrs. O'Dowd and Amelia, and own to them that he was
about to run.
    By the time Jos's bargain with Rebecca was completed, and his horses had
been visited and examined, it was almost morning once more. But though midnight
was long past, there was no rest for the city: the people were up, the lights in
the houses flamed, crowds were still about the doors, and the streets were busy.
Rumours of various natures went still from mouth to mouth: one report averred
that the Prussians had been utterly defeated; another that it was the English
who had been attacked and conquered; a third that the latter had held their
ground. This last rumour gradually got strength. No Frenchmen had made their
appearance. Stragglers had come in from the army bringing reports more and more
favourable. At last an aide-de-camp actually reached Brussels with dispatches
for the Commandant of the place, who placarded presently through the town an
official announcement of the success of the allies at Quatre Bras, and the
entire repulse of the French under Ney after a six hours' battle. The
aide-de-camp must have arrived some time while Jos and Rebecca were making their
bargain together, or the latter was inspecting his purchase. When he reached his
own hotel, he found a score of its numerous inhabitants on the threshold
discoursing of the news; there was no doubt as to its truth. And he went up to
communicate it to the ladies under his charge. He did not think it was necessary
to tell them how he had intended to take leave of them, how he had bought
horses, and what a price he had paid for them.
    But success or defeat was a minor matter to them, who had only thought for
the safety of those they loved. Amelia, at the news of the victory, became still
more agitated even than before. She was for going that moment to the army. She
besought her brother with tears to conduct her thither. Her doubts and terrors
reached their paroxysm; and the poor girl, who for many hours had been plunged
into stupor, raved and ran hither and thither in hysteric insanity - a piteous
sight. No man writhing in pain on the hard-fought field fifteen miles off, where
lay, after their struggles, so many of the brave - no man suffered more keenly
than this poor harmless victim of the war. Jos could not bear the sight of her
pain. He left his sister in the charge of her stouter female companion, and
descended once more to the threshold of the hotel, where everybody still
lingered, and talked, and waited for more news.
    It grew to be broad daylight as they stood here, and fresh news began to
arrive from the war, brought by men who had been actors in the scene. Wagons and
long country carts laden with wounded came rolling into the town: ghastly groans
came from within them, and haggard faces looked up sadly from out of the straw.
Jos Sedley was looking at one of these carriages with a painful curiosity. The
moans of the people within were frightful; the wearied horses could hardly pull
the cart. »Stop! Stop!« a feeble voice cried from the straw, and the carriage
stopped opposite Mr. Sedley's hotel.
    »It is George! I know it is!« cried Amelia, rushing in a moment to the
balcony, with a pallid face and loose flowing hair. It was not George, however,
but it was the next best thing - it was news of him. It was poor Tom Stubble,
who had marched out of Brussels so gallantly twenty-four hours before, bearing
the colours of the regiment, which he had defended very gallantly upon the
field. A French lancer had speared the young Ensign in the leg, who fell, still
bravely holding to his flag. At the conclusion of the engagement, a place had
been found for the poor boy in a cart, and he had been brought back to Brussels.
    »Mr. Sedley, Mr. Sedley!« cried the boy faintly, and Jos came up almost
frightened at the appeal. He had not at first distinguished who it was that
called him.
    Little Tom Stubble held out his hot and feeble hand. »I'm to be taken in
here,« he said. »Osborne - and - and Dobbin said I was; and you are to give the
man two napoleons: my mother will pay you.« This young fellow's thoughts during
the long feverish hours passed in the cart, had been wandering to his father's
parsonage which he had quitted only a few months before, and he had sometimes
forgotten his pain in that delirium.
    The hotel was large, and the people kind, and all the inmates of the cart
were taken in and placed on various couches. The young Ensign was conveyed
upstairs to Osborne's quarters. Amelia and the Major's wife had rushed down to
him, when the latter had recognized him from the balcony. You may fancy the
feelings of these women when they were told that the day was over, and both
their husbands were safe; in what mute rapture Amelia fell on her good friend's
neck, and embraced her; in what a grateful passion of prayer she fell on her
knees, and thanked the Power which had saved her husband.
    Our young lady, in her fevered and nervous condition, could have had no more
salutary medicine prescribed for her by any physician than that which chance put
in her way. She and Mrs. O'Dowd watched incessantly by the wounded lad, whose
pains were very severe; and in the duty thus forced upon her, Amelia had not
time to brood over her personal anxieties, or to give herself up to her own
fears and forebodings after her wont. The young patient told in his simple
fashion the events of the day, and the actions of our friends of the gallant
-th. They had suffered severely. They had lost very many officers and men. The
Major's horse had been shot under him as the regiment charged, and they all
thought that O'Dowd was gone, and that Dobbin had got his majority, until, on
their return from the charge to their old ground, the Major was discovered
seated on Pyramus's carcass, refreshing himself from a case-bottle. It was
Captain Osborne that cut down the French lancer who had speared the Ensign.
Amelia turned so pale at the notion, that Mrs. O'Dowd stopped the young Ensign
in his story. And it was Captain Dobbin who, at the end of the day, though
wounded himself, took up the lad in his arms and carried him to the surgeon, and
thence to the cart which was to bring him back to Brussels. And it was he who
promised the driver two louis if he would make his way to Mr. Sedley's hotel in
the city, and tell Mrs. Captain Osborne that the action was over, and that her
husband was unhurt and well.
    »Indeed, but he has a good heart that William Dobbin,« Mrs. O'Dowd said,
»though he is always laughing at me.«
    Young Stubble vowed there was not such another officer in the army, and
never ceased his praises of the senior captain, his modesty, his kindness, and
his admirable coolness in the field. To these parts of the conversation, Amelia
lent a very distracted attention; it was only when George was spoken of that she
listened, and when he was not mentioned she thought about him.
    In tending her patient, and in thinking of the wonderful escapes of the day
before, her second day passed away not too slowly with Amelia. There was only
one man in the army for her; and as long as he was well, it must be owned that
its movements interested her little. All the reports which Jos brought from the
streets fell very vaguely on her ears; though they were sufficient to give that
timorous gentle- man, and many other people then in Brussels, every disquiet.
The French had been repulsed certainly; but it was after a severe and doubtful
struggle, and with only a division of the French army. The Emperor, with the
main body, was away at Ligny, where he had utterly annihilated the Prussians;
and was now free to bring his whole force to bear upon the allies. The Duke of
Wellington was retreating upon the capital, and a great battle must be fought
under its walls probably, of which the chances were more than doubtful. The Duke
of Wellington had but twenty thousand British troops on whom he could rely, for
the Germans were raw militia, the Belgians disaffected; and with this handful
his Grace had to resist a hundred and fifty thousand men that had broken into
Belgium under Napoleon. Under Napoleon! what warrior was there, however famous
and skilful, that could fight at odds with him?
    Jos thought of all these things, and trembled. So did all the rest of
Brussels - where people felt that the fight of the day before was but the
prelude to the greater combat which was imminent. One of the armies opposed to
the Emperor was scattered to the winds already. The few English that could be
brought to resist him would perish at their posts, and the conqueror would pass
over their bodies into the city. Woe be to those whom he found there! Addresses
were prepared, public functionaries assembled and debated secretly, apartments
were got ready, and tricoloured banners and triumphal emblems manufactured, to
welcome the arrival of His Majesty the Emperor and King.
    The emigration still continued, and wherever families could find means of
departure they fled. When Jos, on the afternoon of the 17th of June, went to
Rebecca's hotel, he found that the great Bareacres carriage had at length rolled
away from the porte-cochère. The Earl had procured a pair of horses somehow, in
spite of Mrs. Crawley, and was rolling on the road to Ghent. Louis the Desired
was getting ready his portmanteau in that city too. It seemed as if Misfortune
was never tired of worrying into motion that unwieldy exile.
    Jos felt that the delay of yesterday had been only a respite, and that his
dearly-bought horses must of a surety be put into requisition. His agonies were
very severe all this day. As long as there was an English army between Brussels
and Napoleon, there was no need of immediate flight; but he had his horses
brought from their distant stables to the stables in the courtyard of the hotel
where he lived, so that they might be under his own eyes, and beyond the risk of
violent abduction. Isidor watched the stable-door constantly, and had the horses
saddled, to be ready for the start. He longed intensely for that event.
    After the reception of the previous day, Rebecca did not care to come near
her dear Amelia. She clipped the bouquet which George had brought her, and gave
fresh water to the flowers, and read over the letter which he had sent her.
»Poor wretch,« she said, twirling round the little bit of paper in her fingers,
»how I could crush her with this! - And it is for a thing like this that she
must break her heart, forsooth - for a man who is stupid - a coxcomb - and who
does not care for her! My poor good Rawdon is worth ten of this creature.« And
then she fell to thinking what she should do if - if anything happened to poor
good Rawdon, and what a great piece of luck it was that he had left his horses
behind.
    In the course of this day too, Mrs. Crawley, who saw not without anger the
Bareacres party drive off, bethought her of the precaution which the Countess
had taken, and did a little needlework for her own advantage. She stitched away
the major part of her trinkets, bills, and bank-notes about her person; and so
prepared, was ready for any event - to fly if she thought fit, or to stay, and
welcome the conqueror, were he Englishman or Frenchman. And I am not sure that
she did not dream that night of becoming a duchess and Madame la Maréchale;
while Rawdon, wrapped in his cloak, and making his bivouac under the rain at
Mount St. John, was thinking, with all the force of his heart, about the little
wife whom he had left behind him.
    The next day was a Sunday. And Mrs. Major O'Dowd had the satisfaction of
seeing both her patients refreshed in health and spirits by some rest which they
had taken during the night. She herself had slept in a great chair in Amelia's
room, ready to wait upon her poor friend or the Ensign, should either need her
nursing. When morning came, this robust woman went back to the house where she
and her Major, had their billet, and here performed an elaborate and splendid
toilette befitting the day. And it is very possible that whilst alone in that
chamber, which her husband had inhabited, and where his cap still lay on the
pillow, and his cane stood in the corner, one prayer at least was sent up to
Heaven for the welfare of the brave soldier, Michael O'Dowd.
    When she returned she brought her prayer-book with her, and her uncle the
Dean's famous book of sermons, out of which she never failed to read every
Sabbath; not understanding all, haply, not pronouncing many of the words aright,
which were long and abstruse - for the Dean was a learned man, and loved long
Latin words - but with great gravity, vast emphasis, and with tolerable
correctness in the main. How often has my Mick listened to these sermons, she
thought, and me reading in the cabin of a calm! She proposed to resume this
exercise on the present day, with Amelia and the wounded Ensign for a
congregation. The same service was read on that day in twenty thousand churches
at the same hour; and millions of British men and women, on their knees,
implored protection of the Father of all.
    They did not hear the noise which disturbed our little congregation at
Brussels. Much louder than that which had interrupted them two days previously,
as Mrs. O'Dowd was reading the service in her best voice, the cannon of Waterloo
began to roar.
    When Jos heard that dreadful sound, he made up his mind that he would bear
this perpetual recurrence of terrors no longer, and would fly at once. He rushed
into the sick man's room, where our three friends had paused in their prayers,
and further interrupted them by a passionate appeal to Amelia.
    »I can't stand it any more, Emmy,« he said; »I won't stand it; and you must
come with me. I have bought a horse for you - never mind at what price - and you
must dress and come with me, and ride behind Isidor.«
    »God forgive me, Mr. Sedley! but you are no better than a coward,« Mrs.
O'Dowd said, laying down the book.
    »I say come, Amelia,« the civilian went on; »never mind what she says. Why
are we to stop here and be butchered by the Frenchmen?«
    »You forget the -th, my boy,« said the little Stubble, the wounded hero,
from his bed - »and - and you won't leave me, will you, Mrs. O'Dowd?«
    »No, my dear fellow,« said she, going up and kissing the boy. »No harm shall
come to you while I stand by. I don't budge till I get the word from Mick. A
pretty figure I'd be, wouldn't I, stuck behind that chap on a pillion?«
    This image caused the young patient to burst out laughing in his bed, and
even made Amelia smile. »I don't ask her,« Jos shouted out - »I don't ask that -
that Irishwoman, but you, Amelia; once for all, will you come?«
    »Without my husband, Joseph?« Amelia said, with a look of wonder, and gave
her hand to the Major's wife. Jos's patience was exhausted.
    »Good-bye, then,« he said, shaking his fist in a rage, and slamming the door
by which he retreated. And this time he really gave his order for march, and
mounted in the courtyard. Mrs. O'Dowd heard the clattering hoofs of the horses
as they issued from the gate; and looking on, made many scornful remarks on poor
Joseph as he rode down the street with Isidor after him in the laced cap. The
horses, which had not been exercised for some days, were lively, and sprang
about the street. Jos, a clumsy and timid horseman, did not look to advantage in
the saddle. »Look at him, Amelia dear, driving into the parlour window. Such a
bull in a china-shop I never saw.« And presently the pair of riders disappeared
at a canter down the street leading in the direction of the Ghent road, Mrs.
O'Dowd pursuing them with a fire of sarcasm so long as they were in sight.
    All that day, from morning until past sunset, the cannon never ceased to
roar. It was dark when the cannonading stopped all of a sudden.
    All of us have read of what occurred during that interval. The tale is in
every Englishman's mouth; and you and I, who were children when the great battle
was won and lost, are never tired of hearing and recounting the history of that
famous action. Its remembrance rankles still in the bosoms of millions of the
countrymen of those brave men who lost the day. They pant for an opportunity of
revenging that humiliation; and if a contest, ending in a victory on their part,
should ensue, elating them in their turn, and leaving its cursed legacy of
hatred and rage behind to us, there is no end to the so-called glory and shame,
and to the alternations of successful and unsuccessful murder, in which two
high-spirited nations might engage. Centuries hence, we Frenchmen and Englishmen
might be boasting and killing each other still, carrying out bravely the Devil's
code of honour.
    All our friends took their share and fought like men in the great field. All
day long, whilst the women were praying ten miles away, the lines of the
dauntless English infantry were receiving and repelling the furious charges of
the French horsemen. Guns which were heard at Brussels were ploughing up their
ranks, and comrades falling, and the resolute survivors closing in. Towards
evening, the attack of the French, repeated and resisted so bravely, slackened
in its fury. They had other foes besides the British to engage, or were
preparing for a final onset. It came at last: the columns of the Imperial Guard
marched up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep the English
from the height which they had maintained all day, and spite of all. Unscared by
the thunder of the artillery, which hurled death from the English line, the dark
rolling column pressed on and up the hill. It seemed almost to crest the
eminence, when it began to wave and falter. Then it stopped, still facing the
shot. Then at last the English troops rushed from the post from which no enemy
had been able to dislodge them, and the Guard turned and fled.
    No more firing was heard at Brussels - the pursuit rolled miles away.
Darkness came down on the field and city; and Amelia was praying for George, who
was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart.
 

                                 Chapter XXXIII

         In which Miss Crawley's Relations Are Very Anxious about Her.

The kind reader must please to remember - while the army is marching from
Flanders, and, after its heroic actions there, is advancing to take the
fortifications on the frontiers of France, previous to an occupation of that
country - that there are a number of persons living peaceably in England who
have to do with the history at present in hand, and must come in for their share
of the chronicle. During the time of these battles and dangers old Miss Crawley
was living at Brighton, very moderately moved by the great events that were
going on. The great events rendered the newspapers rather interesting, to be
sure; and Briggs read out the Gazette, in which Rawdon Crawley's gallantry was
mentioned with honour, and his promotion was presently recorded.
    »What a pity that young man has taken such an irretrievable step in the
world!« his aunt said. »With his rank and distinction he might have married a
brewer's daughter with a quarter of a million - like Miss Grains - or have
looked to ally himself with the best families in England. He would have had my
money some day or other, or his children would - for I'm not in a hurry to go,
Miss Briggs, although you may be in a hurry to be rid of me; and instead of
that, he is a doomed pauper, with a dancing-girl for a wife.«
    »Will my dear Miss Crawley not cast an eye of compassion upon the heroic
soldier, whose name is inscribed in the annals of his country's glory?« said
Miss Briggs, who was greatly excited by the Waterloo proceedings, and loved
speaking romantically when there was an occasion. »Has not the Captain - or the
Colonel, as I may now style him - done deeds which make the, name of Crawley
illustrious?«
    »Briggs, you are a fool,« said Miss Crawley. »Colonel Crawley has dragged
the name of Crawley through the mud, Miss Briggs. Marry a drawing-master's
daughter, indeed! marry a dame de compagnie - for she was no better, Briggs; no,
she was just what you are, only younger, and a great deal prettier and cleverer.
Were you an accomplice of that abandoned wretch, I wonder, of whose vile arts he
became a victim, and of whom you used to be such an admirer? Yes, I daresay you
were an accomplice. But you will find yourself disappointed in my will, I can
tell you; and you will have the goodness to write to Mr. Waxy, and say that I
desire to see him immediately.« Miss Crawley was now in the habit of writing to
Mr. Waxy, her solicitor, almost every day in the week; for her arrangements
respecting her property were all revoked, and her perplexity was great as to the
future disposition of her money.
    The spinster had, however, rallied considerably, as was proved by the
increased vigour and frequency of her sarcasm upon Miss Briggs, all which
attacks the poor companion bore with meekness, with cowardice, with a
resignation that was half generous and half hypocritical - with the slavish
submission, in a word, that women of her disposition and station are compelled
to show. Who has not seen how women bully women? What tortures have men to
endure comparable to these daily repeated shafts of scorn and cruelty with which
poor women are riddled by the tyrants of their sex? Poor victims! But we are
starting from our proposition, which is, that Miss Crawley was always
particularly annoying and savage when she was rallying from illness - as they
say wounds tingle most when they are about to heal.
    While thus approaching, as all hoped, to convalescence, Miss Briggs was the
only victim admitted into the presence of the invalid; yet Miss Crawley's
relatives afar off did not forget their beloved kinswoman, and by a number of
tokens, presents, and kind, affectionate messages, strove to keep themselves
alive in her recollection.
    In the first place, let us mention her nephew, Rawdon Crawley. A few weeks
after the famous fight of Waterloo, and after the Gazette had made known to her
the promotion and gallantry of that distinguished officer, the Dieppe packet
brought over to Miss Crawley at Brighton a box containing presents, and a
dutiful letter, from the Colonel her nephew. In the box were a pair of French
epaulets, a Cross of the Legion of Honour, and the hilt of a sword - relies from
the field of battle; and the letter described with a good deal of humour how the
latter belonged to a commanding officer of the Guard, who, having sworn that
»the Guard died, but never surrendered,« was taken prisoner the next minute by a
private soldier, who broke the Frenchman's sword with the butt of his musket,
when Rawdon made himself master of the shattered weapon. As for the cross and
epaulets, they came from a Colonel of French cavalry, who had fallen under the
aide-de-camp's arm in the battle; and Rawdon Crawley did not know what better to
do with the spoils than to send them to his kindest and most affectionate old
friend. Should he continue to write to her from Paris, whither the army was
marching? He might be able to give her interesting news from that capital, and
of some of Miss Crawley's old friends of the emigration, to whom she had shown
so much kindness during their distress.
    The spinster caused Briggs to write back to the Colonel a gracious and
complimentary letter, encouraging him to continue his correspondence. His first
letter was so excessively lively and amusing that she should look with pleasure
for its successors. »Of course, I know,« she explained to Miss Briggs, »that
Rawdon could not write such a good letter any more than you could, my poor
Briggs, and that it is that clever little wretch of a Rebecca, who dictates
every word to him; but that is no reason why my nephew should not amuse me, and
so I wish to let him understand that I am in high good-humour.«
    I wonder whether she knew that it was not only Becky who wrote the letters,
but that Mrs. Rawdon actually took and sent home the trophies - which she bought
for a few francs, from one of the innumerable pedlars who immediately began to
deal in relics of the war. The novelist, who knows everything, knows this also.
Be this, however, as it may, Miss Crawley's gracious reply greatly encouraged
our young friends, Rawdon and his lady, who hoped for the best from their aunt's
evidently pacified humour; and they took care to entertain her with many
delightful letters from Paris, whither, as Rawdon said, they had the good luck
to go in the track of the conquering army.
    To the Rector's lady, who went off to tend her husband's broken collar-bone
at the Rectory at Queen's Crawley, the spinster's communications were by no
means so gracious. Mrs. Bute, that brisk, managing, lively, imperious woman, had
committed the most fatal of all errors with regard to her sister-in-law. She had
not merely oppressed her and her household - she had bored Miss Crawley; and if
poor Miss Briggs had been a woman of any spirit, she might have been made happy
by the commission which her principal gave her to write a letter to Mrs. Bute
Crawley, saying that Miss Crawley's health was greatly improved since Mrs. Bute
had left her, and begging the latter on no account to put herself to trouble, or
quit her family for Miss Crawley's sake. This triumph over a lady who had been
very haughty and cruel in her behaviour to Miss Briggs would have rejoiced most
women; but the truth is, Briggs was a woman of no spirit at all, and the moment
her enemy was discomfited, she began to feel compassion in her favour.
    »How silly I was,« Mrs. Bute thought, and with reason, »ever to hint that I
was coming, as I did, in that foolish letter when we sent Miss Crawley the
guinea-fowls! I ought to have gone without a word to the poor dear doting old
creature, and taken her out of the hands of that ninny Briggs, and that harpy of
a femme de chamber. O Bute, Bute, why did you break your collar-bone?«
    Why, indeed? We have seen how Mrs. Bute, having the game in her hands, had
really played her cards too well. She had ruled over Miss Crawley's household
utterly and completely, to be utterly and completely routed when a favourable
opportunity for rebellion came. She and her household, however, considered that
she had been the victim of horrible selfishness and treason, and that her
sacrifices in Miss Crawley's behalf had met with the most savage ingratitude.
Rawdon's promotion, and the honourable mention made of his name in the Gazette,
filled this good Christian lady also with alarm. Would his aunt relent towards
him now that he was a Lieutenant-Colonel and a C.B.? and would that odious
Rebecca once more get into favour? The Rector's wife wrote a sermon for her
husband about the vanity of military glory and the prosperity of the wicked,
which the worthy parson read in his best voice and without understanding one
syllable of it. He had Pitt Crawley for one of his auditors - Pitt, who had come
with his two half-sisters to church, which the old Baronet could now by no means
be brought to frequent.
    Since the departure of Becky Sharp that old wretch had given himself up
entirely to his bad courses, to the great scandal of the county and the mute
horror of his son. The ribbons in Miss Horrocks's cap became more splendid than
ever. The polite families fled the Hall and its owner in terror. Sir Pitt went
about tippling at his tenants' houses, and drank rum-and-water with the farmers
at Mudbury and the neighbouring places on market-days. He drove the family
coach-and-four to Southampton with Miss Horrocks inside, and the county people
expected every week, as his son did in speechless agony, that his marriage with
her would be announced in the provincial paper. It was indeed a rude burden for
Mr. Crawley to bear. His eloquence was palsied at the missionary meetings and
other religious assemblies in the neighbourhood, where he had been in the habit
of presiding, and of speaking for hours; for he felt, when he rose, that the
audience said, »That is the son of the old reprobate Sir Pitt, who is very
likely drinking at the public-house at this very moment.« And once when he was
speaking of the benighted condition of the King of Timbuctoo, and the number of
his wives who were likewise in darkness, some gipsy miscreant from the crowd
asked, »How many is there at Queen's Crawley, Young Squaretoes?« to the surprise
of the platform and the ruin of Mr. Pitt's speech. And the two daughters of the
house of Queen's Crawley would have been allowed to run utterly wild (for Sir
Pitt swore that no governess should ever enter into his doors again), had not
Mr. Crawley, by threatening the old gentleman, forced the latter to send them to
school.
    Meanwhile, as we have said, whatever individual differences there might be
between them all, Miss Crawley's dear nephews and nieces were unanimous in
loving her and sending her tokens of affection. Thus Mrs. Bute sent
guinea-fowls, and some remarkably fine cauliflowers, and a pretty purse or
pincushion worked by her darling girls, who begged to keep a little place in the
recollection of their dear aunt, while Mr. Pitt sent peaches and grapes and
venison from the Hall. The Southampton coach used to carry these tokens of
affection to Miss Crawley at Brighton; it used sometimes to convey Mr. Pitt
thither too, for his differences with Sir Pitt caused Mr. Crawley to absent
himself a good deal from home now; and besides, he had an attraction at Brighton
in the person of Lady Jane Sheepshanks, whose engagement to Mr. Crawley has been
formerly mentioned in this history. Her Ladyship and her sisters lived at
Brighton with their mamma, the Countess Southdown, that strong-minded woman so
favourably known in the serious world.
    A few words ought to be said regarding her Ladyship and her noble family,
who are bound by ties of present and future relationship to the house of
Crawley. Respecting the chief of the Southdown family, Clement William, fourth
Earl of Southdown, little need be told, except that his Lordship came into
Parliament (as Lord Wolsey) under the auspices of Mr. Wilberforce, and for a
time was a credit to his political sponsor, and decidedly a serious young man.
But words cannot describe the feelings of his admirable mother when she learned,
very shortly after her noble husband's demise, that her son was a member of
several worldly clubs; had lost largely at play at Wattier's and the Cocoa Tree;
that he had raised money on post-obits, and encumbered the family estate; that
he drove four-in-hand, and patronized the ring; and that he actually had an
opera-box, where he entertained the most dangerous bachelor company. His name
was only mentioned with groans in the dowager's circle.
    The Lady Emily was her brother's senior by many years, and took considerable
rank in the serious world as author of some of the delightful tracts before
mentioned, and of many hymns and spiritual pieces. A mature spinster, and having
but faint ideas of marriage, her love for the blacks occupied almost all her
feelings. It is to her, I believe, we owe that beautiful poem -
 
»Lead us to some sunny isle
Yonder in the western deep,
Where the skies for ever smile,
And the blacks for ever weep,« etc.
 
She had correspondences with clerical gentlemen in most of our East and West
India possessions and was secretly attached to the Reverend Silas Hornblower,
who was tattooed in the South Sea Islands.
    As for the Lady Jane, on whom, as it has been said, Mr. Pitt Crawley's
affection had been placed, she was gentle, blushing, silent, and timid. In spite
of his falling away, she wept for her brother, and was quite ashamed of loving
him still. Even yet she used to send him little hurried smuggled, notes, and pop
them into the post in private. The one dreadful secret which weighed upon her
life was, that she and the old housekeeper had been to pay Southdown a furtive
visit at his chambers in the Albany, and found him - oh the naughty, dear,
abandoned wretch! - smoking a cigar, with a bottle of curaçoa before him. She
admired her sister, she adored her mother, she thought Mr. Crawley the most
delightful and accomplished of men, after Southdown, that fallen angel; and her
mamma and sister, who were ladies of the most superior sort, managed everything
for her, and regarded her with that amiable pity of which your really superior
woman always has such a share to give away. Her mamma ordered her dresses, her
books, her bonnets, and her ideas for her. She was made to take pony-riding, or
piano-exercise, or any other sort of bodily medicament, according as my Lady
Southdown saw meet; and her Ladyship would have kept her daughter in pinafores
up to her present age of six-and-twenty, but that they were thrown off when Lady
Jane was presented to Queen Charlotte.
    When these ladies first came to their house at Brighton, it was to them
alone that Mr. Crawley paid his personal visits, contenting himself by leaving a
card at his aunt's house, and making a modest inquiry of Mr. Bowls, or his
assistant-footman, with respect to the health of the invalid. When he met Miss
Briggs coming home from the library with a cargo of novels under her arm, Mr.
Crawley blushed in a manner quite unusual to him as he stepped forward and shook
Miss Crawley's companion by the hand. He introduced Miss Briggs to the lady with
whom he happened to be walking - the Lady Jane Sheepshanks - saying, »Lady Jane,
permit me to introduce to you my aunt's kindest friend and most affectionate
companion, Miss Briggs, whom you know under another title, as authoress of the
delightful Lyrics of the Heart, of which you are so fond.« Lady Jane blushed too
as she held out a kind little hand to Miss Briggs, and said something very civil
and incoherent about mamma, and proposing to call on Miss Crawley, and being
glad to be made known to the friends and relatives of Mr. Crawley; and with
soft, dove-like eyes saluted Miss Briggs as they separated, while Pitt Crawley
treated her to a profound courtly bow, such as he had used to H.H. the Duchess
of Pumpernickel when he was attaché at that court.
    The artful diplomatist and disciple of the Machiavellian Binkie! It was he
who had given Lady Jane that copy of poor Briggs's early poems which he
remembered to have seen at Queen's Crawley, with dedication from the poetess to
his father's late wife; and he brought the volume with him to Brighton, reading
it in the Southampton coach and marking it with his own pencil before he
presented it to the gentle Lady Jane. It was he, too, who laid before Lady
Southdown the great advantages which might occur from an intimacy between her
family and Miss Crawley - advantages both worldly and spiritual, he said: for
Miss Crawley was now quite alone; the monstrous dissipation and alliance of his
brother Rawdon had estranged her affections from that reprobate young man; the
greedy tyranny and avarice of Mrs. Bute Crawley had caused the old lady to
revolt against th exorbitant pretentions of that part of the family; and though
he himself had off all his life from cultivating Miss Crawley's friendship with
perhaps an improper pride, he thought now that every becoming means should be
taken, both to save her soul from perdition and to secure her fortune to himself
as the head of the house of Crawley.
    The strong-minded Lady Southdown quite agreed in both proposal of her
son-in-law, and was for converting Miss Crawley offhand. At her own home both at
Southdown and at Trottermore Castle, this tall and awful missionary of the truth
rode about the country in her barouche with outriders, launched packets of
tracts among the cottagers and tenants, and would order Gaffer Jones to be
converted as she would order Goody Hicks to take a James's powder, without
appeal resistance, or benefit of clergy. My Lord Southdown, her late husband, an
epileptic and simpleminded nobleman, was in the habit of approving of everything
which his Matilda did and thought. So that whatever changes her own belief might
undergo (and it accommodated itself to a prodigious variety of opinion, taken
from all sorts of doctors among the Dissenters), she had not the least scruple
in ordering all her tenants and inferiors to follow and believe after her. Thus,
whether she received the Reverend Saunders M'Nitre, the Scotch divine; or the
Reverend Luke Waters, the mild Wesleyan; or the Reverend Giles Jowls, the
illuminated Cobbler, who dubbed himself Reverend as Napoleon crowned himself
Emperor - the household, children, tenantry of my Lady Southdown were expected
to go down on their knees with her Ladyship, and say Amen to the prayers of
either Doctor. During these exercises old Southdown, on account of his invalid
condition, was allowed to sit in his own room, and have negus, and the paper
read to him. Lady Jane was the old Earl's favourite daughter, and tended him and
loved him sincerely; as for Lady Emily, the authoress of the »Washerwoman of
Finchley Common,« her denunciations of future punishment (at this period, for
her opinions modified afterwards) were so awful that they used to frighten the
timid old gentleman her father, and the physicians declared his fits always
occurred after one of her Ladyship's sermons.
    »I will certainly call,« said Lady Southdown then, in reply to the
exhortation of her daughter's prétendu, Mr. Pitt Crawley. »Who is Miss Crawley's
medical man?«
    Mr. Crawley mentioned the name of Mr. Creamer.
    »A most dangerous and ignorant practitioner, my dear Pitt. I have
providentially been the means of removing him from several houses, though in one
or two instances I did not arrive in time. I could not save poor dear General
Glanders, who was dying under the hands of that ignorant man - dying. He rallied
a little under the Podgers' pills which I administered to him; but, alas, it was
too late. His death was delightful, however; and his change was only for the
better. Creamer, my dear Pitt, must leave your aunt.«
    Pitt expressed his perfect acquiescence. He, too, had been carried along by
the energy of his noble kinswoman and future mother-in-law. He had been made to
accept Saunders M'Nitre, Luke Waters, Giles Jowls, Podgers' Pills, Rodgers'
Pills, Pokey's Elixir - every one of her Ladyship's remedies, spiritual or
temporal. He never left her house without carrying respectfully away with him
piles of her quack theology and medicine. O my dear brethren and fellow--
sojourners in Vanity Fair, which among you does not know and suffer under such
benevolent despots? It is in vain you say to them, »Dear Madam, I took Podgers'
specific at your orders last year, and believe in it. Why, why am I to recant
and accept the Rodgers' articles now?« There, is no help for it; the faithful
proselytizer, if she cannot convince by argument, bursts, into tears, and the
recusant finds himself, at the end of the contest, taking down the bolus, and
saying, »Well, well, Rodgers be it.«
    »And as for her spiritual state,« continued the lady, »that, of course, must
be looked to immediately; with Creamer about her she may go off any day - and in
what a condition, my dear Pitt, in what a dreadful condition! I will send the
Reverend Mr. Irons to her instantly. - Jane, write a line to the Reverend
Bartholomew Irons, in the third person, and say that I desire the pleasure of
his company this evening at tea at half-past six. He is an awakening man, he
ought to see Miss Crawley before she rests this night. - And, Emily, my love,
get ready a packet of books for Miss Crawley. Put up A Voice from the Flames, A
Trumpet-warning to Jericho, and the Fleshpots Broken; or, the Converted
Canibal.«
    »And the Washerwoman of Finchley Common, Mamma,« said Lady Emily. »It is as
well to begin soothingly at first.«
    »Stop, my dear ladies,« said Pitt, the diplomatist. »With every deference,
to the opinion of my beloved and respected Lady Southdown, I think it would be
quite unadvisable to commence so early upon serious topics with Miss Crawley.
Remember her delicate condition, and how little, how very little accustomed she
has hitherto been to considerations connected with her immortal welfare.«
    »Can we then begin too early, Pitt?« said Lady Emily, rising with six little
books already in her hand.
    »If you begin abruptly, you will frighten her altogether. I know my aunt's
worldly nature so well as to be sure that any abrupt attempt at conversion will
be the very worst means that can be employed for the welfare of that unfortunate
lady. You will only frighten and annoy her. She will very likely fling the books
away, and refuse all acquaintance with givers.«
    »You are as worldly as Miss Crawley, Pitt,« said Lady Emily, tossing out of
the room, her books in her hand.
    »And I need not tell you, my dear Lady Southdown,« Pitt continued, in a low
voice, and without heeding the interruption, »how fatal a little want of
gentleness and caution may be to any hopes which we may entertain with regard to
the worldly possessions of my aunt. Remember she has seventy thousand pounds.
Think of her age and her highly nervous and delicate condition. I know that she
has destroyed the will which was made in my brother's (Colonel Crawley's)
favour. It is by soothing that wounded spirit that we must lead it into the
right path, and not by frightening it; and so I think you will agree with me
that - that -«
    »Of course, of course,« Lady Southdown remarked. - »Jane, my love, you need
not send that note to Mr. Irons. - If her health is such that discussions
fatigue her, we will wait her amendment. I will call upon Miss Crawley
to-morrow.«
    »And if I might suggest, my sweet lady,« Pitt said, in a bland tone, »it
would be as well not to take our precious Emily, who is too enthusiastic, but
rather that you should be accompanied by our sweet and dear Lady Jane.«
    »Most certainly Emily would ruin everything,« Lady Southdown said, and this
time agreed to forego her usual practice, which was, as we have said, before she
bore down personally upon any individual whom she proposed to subjugate, to fire
in a quantity of tracts upon the menaced party (as a charge, of the French was
always preceded by a furious cannonade). Lady Southdown, we say, for the sake of
the invalid's health, or for the sake of her soul's ultimate welfare, or for the
sake of her money, agreed to temporize.
    The next day the great Southdown female family carriage, with the Earl's
coronet and the lozenge (upon which the three lambs trottant argent upon the
field vert of the Southdowns were quartered with sable on a bend or, three
snuff-mulls gules, the cognizance of the house of Binkie), drove up in state to
Miss Crawley's door, and the tall, serious footman handed in to Mr. Bowls her
Ladyship's cards for Miss Crawley, and one likewise for Miss Briggs. By way of
compromise, Lady Emily sent in a packet in the evening for the latter lady,
containing copies of the »Washerwoman« and other mild and favourite tracts for
Miss B.'s own perusal; and a few for the servants' hall - namely, »Crumbs from
the Pantry,« »The Frying-Pan and the Fire,« and »The Livery of Sin,« of a much
stronger kind.
 

                                 Chapter XXXIV

                        James Crawley's Pipe Is Put Out.

The amiable behaviour of Mr. Crawley, and Lady Jane's kind reception of her,
highly flattered Miss Briggs, who was enabled to speak a good word for the
latter after the cards of the Southdown family had been presented to Miss
Crawley. A Countess's card left personally too for her, Briggs, was not a little
pleasing to the poor friendless companion. »What could Lady Southdown mean by
leaving, a card upon you, I wonder, Miss Briggs?« said the republican Miss
Crawley; upon which the companion meekly said »that she hoped there could be no
harm in a lady of rank taking notice of a poor gentlewoman,« and she put away
this card in her work-box amongst her most cherished personal treasures.
Furthermore, Miss Briggs explained how she had met Mr. Crawley walking with his
cousin and long-affianced bride the day before, and she told how kind and
gentle-looking the lady was, and what a plain, not to say common, dress she had,
all the articles of which, from the bonnet down to the boots, she described and
estimated with female accuracy.
    Miss Crawley allowed Briggs to prattle on without interrupting her too much.
As she got well she was pining for society. Mr. Creamer, her medical man, would
not hear of her returning to her old haunts and dissipation in London. The old
spinster was too glad to find any companionship at Brighton, and not only were
the cards acknowledged the very next day, but Pitt Crawley was graciously
invited to come and see his aunt. He came, bringing with him Lady Southdown and
her daughter. The dowager did not say a word about the state of Miss Crawley's
soul, but talked with much discretion about the weather, about the war and the
downfall of the monster Bonaparte, and above all, about doctors, quacks, and the
particular merits of Dr. Podgers, whom she then patronized.
    During their interview Pitt Crawley made a great stroke, and one which
showed that, had his diplomatic career not been blighted by early neglect, he
might have risen to a high rank in his profession. When the Countess Dowager of
Southdown fell foul of the Corsican upstart, as the fashion was in those days,
and showed that he was a monster stained with every conceivable crime, a coward
and a tyrant not fit to live, one whose fall was predicted, etc., Pitt Crawley
suddenly took up the cudgels in favour of the man of Destiny. He described the
First Consul as he saw him at Paris at the Peace of Amiens, when he, Pitt
Crawley, had the gratification of making the acquaintance of the great and good
Mr. Fox, a statesman whom, however much he might differ with him, it was
impossible not to admire fervently - a statesman who had always had the highest
opinion of the Emperor Napoleon. And he spoke in terms of the strongest
indignation of the faithless conduct of the allies towards this dethroned
monarch, who, after giving himself generously up to their mercy, was consigned
to an ignoble and cruel banishment, while a bigoted Popish rabble was
tyrannizing over France in his stead.
    This orthodox horror of Romish superstition saved Pitt Crawley in Lady
Southdown's opinion, whilst his admiration for Fox and Napoleon raised him
immeasurably in Miss Crawley's eyes. Her friendship with that defunct British
statesman was mentioned when we first introduced her in this history. A true
Whig, Miss Crawley had been in opposition all through the war; and though, to be
sure, the downfall of the Emperor did not very much agitate the old lady, or his
ill-treatment tend to shorten her life or natural rest, yet Pitt spoke to her
heart when he lauded both her idols, and by that single speech made immense
progress in her favour.
    »And what do you think, my dear?« Miss Crawley said to the young lady, for
whom she had taken a liking at first sight, as she always did for pretty and
modest young people; though it must be owned her affections cooled as rapidly as
they rose.
    Lady Jane blushed very much, and said »that she did not understand politics,
which she left to wiser heads than hers; but though Mamma was no doubt correct,
Mr. Crawley had spoken beautifully.« And when the ladies were retiring at the
conclusion of their visit, Miss Crawley hoped »Lady Southdown would be so kind
as to send her Lady Jane sometimes, if she could be spared, to come down and
console a poor, sick, lonely old woman.« This promise was graciously accorded,
and they separated upon great terms of amity.
    »Don't let Lady Southdown come again, Pitt,« said the old lady. »She is
stupid and pompous, like all your mother's family, whom I never could endured.
But bring that nice good-natured little Jane as often as ever you please.« Pitt
promised that he would do so. He did not tell the Countess of Southdown what
opinion his aunt had formed of her Ladyship, who, on the contrary, thought that
she had made a most delightful and majestic impression on Miss Crawley. And so
nothing loth to comfort a sick lady, and perhaps not sorry in her heart to be
freed now and again from the dreary spouting of the Reverend Bartholomew Irons,
and the serious toadies who gathered round the footstool of the pompous
Countess, her mamma, Lady Jane became a pretty constant visitor to Miss Crawley,
accompanied her in her drives, and solaced many of her evenings. She was so
naturally good and soft that even Firkin was not jealous of her, and the gentle
Briggs thought her friend was less cruel to her when kind Lady Jane was by.
Towards her Ladyship Miss Crawley's manners were charming. The old spinster told
her a thousand anecdotes about her youth, talking to her in a very different
strain from that in which she had been accustomed to converse with the godless
little Rebecca; for there was that in Lady Jane's innocence which rendered light
talking impertinence before her, and Miss Crawley was too much of a gentlewoman
to offend such purity. The young lady herself had never received kindness except
from this old spinster and her brother and father, and she repaid Miss Crawley's
engoûment by artless sweetness and friendship.
    In the autumn evenings (when Rebecca was flaunting in Paris, the gayest
among the gay conquerors there, and our Amelia, our dear wounded Amelia, ah!
where was she?) Lady Jane would be sitting in Miss Crawley's drawing-room,
singing sweetly to her, in the twilight, her little simple songs and hymns,
while the sun was setting, and the sea was roaring on the beach. The old
spinster used to wake up when these ditties ceased, and ask for more. As for
Briggs, and the quantity of tears of happiness which she now shed as she
pretended to knit, and looked out at the splendid ocean darkling before the
windows, and the lamps of heaven beginning more brightly to shine - who, I say,
can measure the happiness and sensibility of Briggs?
    Pitt meanwhile in the dining-room, with a pamphlet on the Corn Laws or a
Missionary Register by his side, took that kind of recreation which suits
romantic and unromantic men after dinner. He sipped Madeira, built castles in
the air, thought himself a fine fellow, fell himself much more in love with Jane
than he had been any time these seven years, during which their liaison had
lasted without the slightest impatience on Pitt's part - and slept a good deal.
When the time for coffee came, Mr. Bowls used to enter in a noisy manner, and
summon Squire Pitt, who would be found in the dark very busy with his pamphlet.
    »I wish, my love, I could get somebody to play piquet with me,« Miss Crawley
said one night when this functionary made his appearance with the candles and
the coffee. »Poor Briggs can no more play than an owl, she is so stupid« (the
spinster always took an opportunity of abusing Briggs before the servants); »and
I think I should sleep better if I had my game.«
    At this Lady Jane blushed to the tips of her little ears, and down to the
ends of her pretty fingers; and when Mr. Bowls had quitted the room and the door
was quite shut, she said, -
    »Miss Crawley, I can play a little. I used to - to play a little with poor,
dear papa.«
    »Come and kiss me - come and kiss me this instant, you dear, good little
soul,« cried Miss Crawley, in an ecstasy; and in this picturesque and friendly
occupation Mr. Pitt found the old lady and the young one when he came upstairs
with his pamphlet in his hand. How she did blush all the evening, that poor Lady
Jane!
 
It must not be imagined that Mr. Pitt Crawley's artifices escaped the attention
of his dear relations at the Rectory at Queen's Crawley. Hampshire and Sussex
lie very close together, and Mrs. Bute had friends in the latter county who took
care to inform her of all, and a great deal more than all, that passed at Miss
Crawley's house at Brighton. Pitt was there more and more. He did not come for
months together to the Hall, where his abominable old father abandoned himself
completely to rum-and-water and the odious society of the Horrocks family.
Pitt's success rendered the Rector's family furious, and Mrs. Bute regretted
more (though she confessed less) than ever her monstrous fault in so insulting
Miss Briggs, and in being so haughty and parsimonious to Bowls and Firkin, that
she had not a single person left in Miss Crawley's household to give her
information of what took place there. »It was all Bute's collar-bone,« she
persisted in saying; »if that had not broke, I never would have left her. I am a
martyr to duty and to your odious unclerical habit of hunting, Bute.«
    »Hunting! nonsense. It was you that frightened her, Barbara,« the divine
interposed. »You're a clever woman, but you've got a devil of a temper; and
you're a screw with your money, Barbara.«
    »You'd have been screwed in jail, Bute, if I had not kept your money.«
    »I know I would, my dear,« said the Rector good-naturedly. »You are a clever
woman, but you manage too well, you know,« and the pious, man consoled himself
with a big glass of port.
    »What the deuce can she find in that spooney of a Pitt Crawley?« he
continued. »The fellow has not pluck enough to say Bo to a goose. I remember
when Rawdon, who is a man, and be hanged to him, used to flog him round the
stables as if he was a whipping-top; and Pitt would go howling home to his ma -
ha, ha! Why, either of my boys would whop him with one hand. Jim says he's
remembered at Oxford as Miss Crawley still - the spooney.«
    »I say, Barbara,« his Reverence continued, after a pause.
    »What?« said Barbara, who was biting her nails and drumming the table.
    »I say, why not send Jim over to Brighton to see if he can do anything with
the old lady? He's very near getting his degree, you know. He's only been
plucked twice - so was I - but he's had the advantages of Oxford and a
university education. He knows some of the best chaps there. He pulls stroke in
the Boniface boat. He's a handsome feller. D-- it, ma'am, let's put him on the
old woman, hey! and tell him to thrash Pitt if he says anythink. Ha, ha, ha!«
    »Jim might go down and see her, certainly,« the housewife said; adding with
a sigh, »If we could but get one of the girls into the house; but she could
never endure them, because they are not pretty!« Those unfortunate and
well-educated women made themselves heard from the neighbouring drawing-room,
where they were thrumming away, with hard fingers, an elaborate music-piece on
the pianoforte, as their mother spoke; and indeed they were at music, or at
backboard, or at geography, or at history, the whole day long. But what avail
all these accomplishments in Vanity Fair to girls who are short, poor, plain,
and have a bad complexion? Mrs. Bute could think of nobody but the Curate to
take one of them off her hands; and Jim coming in from the stable at this
minute, through the parlour window, with a short pipe stuck in his oilskin cap,
he and his father fell to talking about odds on the St. Leger, and the colloquy
between the Rector and his wife ended.
    Mrs. Bute did not augur much good to the cause from the sending of her son
James as an ambassador, and saw him depart in rather a despairing mood. Nor did
the young fellow himself, when told what his mission was to be, expect much
pleasure or benefit from it; but he was consoled by the thought that possibly
the old lady would give him some handsome remembrance of her, which would pay a
few of his most pressing bills at the commencement of the ensuing Oxford term,
and so took his place by the coach from Southampton, and was safely landed at
Brighton on the same evening, with his portmanteau, his favourite bull-dog
Towzer, and an immense basket of farm and garden produce from the dear Rectory
folks to the dear Miss Crawley.
    Considering it was too late to disturb the invalid lady on the first night
of his arrival, he put up at an inn, and did not wait upon Miss Crawley until a
late hour in the noon of next day.
    James Crawley, when his aunt had last beheld him, was a gawky lad, at that
uncomfortable age when the voice varies between an unearthly treble and a
preternatural bass; when the face not uncommonly blooms out with appearances for
which Roland's Kalydor is said to act as a cure; when boys are seen to shave
furtively with their sisters' scissors, and the sight of other young women
produces intolerable sensations of terror, in them; when the great hands and
ankles protrude a long way from garments which have grown too tight for them;
when their presence after dinner is at once frightful to the ladies, who are
whispering in the twilight in the drawing-room, and inexpressibly odious to the
gentlemen over the mahogany, who are restrained from freedom of intercourse and
delightful interchange of wit by the presence of that gawky innocence; when, at
the conclusion of the second glass, papa says, »Jack, my boy, go out and see if
the evening holds up,« and the youth, willing to be free, yet hurt at not being
yet a man, quits the incomplete banquet. James, then a hobbadehoy, was now
become a young man, having had the benefits of a university education, and
acquired the inestimable polish is gained by living in a fast set at a small
college, and contracting debts, and being rusticated, and being plucked.
    Her was a handsome lad, however, when he came to present himself to his aunt
at Brighton, and good looks were always a title to the fickle old lady's favour.
Nor did his blushes and awkwardness take away from it; she was pleased with
these healthy tokens of the young gentleman's ingenuousness.
    He said »he had come down for a couple of days to see a man of his college,
and - and to pay my respects to you, Ma'am and my father's and mother's, who
hope you are well.«
    Pitt was in the room with Miss Crawley when the lad was announced, and
looked very blank when his name was mentioned. The old lady had plenty of
humour, and enjoyed her correct nephew's perplexity. She asked after all the
people at the Rectory with great interest; and said she was thinking of paying
them a visit. She praised the lad to his face, and said he was well-grown and
very much improved, and that it was a pity his sisters had not some of his good
looks; and finding on inquiry that he had taken up his quarters at a hotel,
would not hear of his stopping there, but bade Mr. Bowls send for Mr. James
Crawley's things instantly. »And hark ye, Bowls,« she added, with great
graciousness, »you will have the goodness to pay Mr. James's bill.«
    She flung Pitt a look of arch triumph which caused that diplomatist almost
to choke with envy. Much as he had ingratiated himself with his aunt, she had
never yet invited him to stay under her roof, and here was a young
whipper-snapper who at first sight was made welcome there.
    »I beg your pardon, sir,« says Bowls, advancing with a profound bow; »what
'otel, sir, shall Thomas fetch the luggage from?«
    »Oh, dam,« said young James, starting up as if in some alarm, »I'll go.«
    »What!« said Miss Crawley.
    »The Tom Cribb's Arms,« said James, blushing deeply.
    Miss Crawley burst out laughing at this title. Mr. Bowls gave one abrupt
guffaw, as a confidential servant of the family, but choked the rest of the
volley; the diplomatist only smiled.
    »I - I didn't know any better,« said James, looking down. »I've never been
here before; it was the coachman told me.« The young story-teller! The fact is,
that on the Southampton coach, the day previous, James Crawley had met the
Tutbury Pet, who was coming to Brighton to make a match with the Rottingdean
Fibber; and enchanted by the Pet's conversation, had passed the evening in
company with that scientific man and his friends at the inn in question.
    »I - I'd best go and settle the score,« James continued. »Couldn't think of
asking you, Ma'am,« he added generously. This delicacy made his aunt laugh the
more.
    »Go and settle the bill, Bowls,« she said, with a wave of her hand, »and
bring it to me.«
    Poor lady, she did not know what she had done! »There - there's a little
dawg,« said James looking frightfully guilty. »I'd best go for him. He bites
footmen's calves.«
    All the party cried out with laughing at this description, even Briggs and
Lady Jane, who was sitting mute during the interview between Miss Crawley and
her nephew; and Bowls, without a word, quitted the room.
    Still, by way of punishing her elder nephew, Miss Crawley persisted in being
gracious to the young Oxonian. There were no limits to her kindness or her
compliments when they once began. She told Pitt he might come to dinner, and
insisted that James should accompany her in her drive, and paraded him solemnly
up and down the cliff, on the back seat of the barouche. During all this
excursion she condescended to say civil things to him; she quoted Italian and
French poetry to the poor bewildered lad, and persisted that he was a fine
scholar, and was perfectly sure he would gain a gold medal, and be a Senior
Wrangler.
    »Haw, haw,« laughed James, encouraged by these compliments; »Senior
Wrangler, indeed! that's at the other shop.«
    »What is the other shop, my dear child?« said the lady.
    »Senior Wranglers at Cambridge, not Oxford,« said the scholar, with a
knowing air; and would probably have been more confidential, but that suddenly
there appeared on the cliff, in a tax-cart drawn by a bang-up pony, dressed in
white flannel coats with mother-of-pearl buttons, his friends the Tutbury Pet
and the Rottingdean Fibber, with three other gentlemen of their acquaintance,
who all saluted poor James there in the carriage as he sate. This incident
damped the ingenuous youth's spirits, and no word of yea or nay could he be
induced to utter during the rest of the drive.
    On his return he found his room prepared and his portmanteau ready, and
might have remarked that Mr. Bowls's countenance, when the latter conducted him
to his apartments, wore a look of gravity, wonder, and compassion. But the
thought of Mr. Bowls did not enter his head. He was deploring the dreadful
predicament in which he found himself, in a house full of old women, jabbering
French and Italian, and talking poetry to him. »Regularly up a tree, by Jingo!«
exclaimed the modest boy, who could not face the gentlest of her sex - not even
Briggs - when she began to talk to him; whereas, put him at Iffley Lock, and he
could outslang the boldest bargeman.
    At dinner, James appeared choking in a white neckcloth, and had the honour
of handing my Lady Jane downstairs, while Briggs and Mr. Crawley followed
afterwards, conducting the old lady, with her apparatus of bundles, and shawls,
and cushions. Half of Briggs's riffle at dinner was spent in superintending the
invalid's comfort, and in cutting up chicken for her fat spaniel. James did not
talk much, but he made a point of asking all the ladies to drink wine, and
accepted Mr. Crawley's challenge, and consumed the greater part of a bottle of
champagne which Mr. Bowls was ordered to produce in his honour. The ladies
having withdrawn, and the two cousins being left together, Pitt, the
ex-diplomatist, became very communicative and friendly. He asked after James's
career at college - what his prospects in life were - hoped heartily he would
get on, and, in a word, was frank and amiable. James's tongue unloosed with the
port, and he told his cousin his life, his prospects, his debts, his troubles at
the little-go, and his rows with the proctors, filling rapidly from the bottles
before him, and flying from port to Madeira with joyous activity.
    »The chief pleasure which my aunt has,« said Mr. Crawley, filling his glass,
»is that people should do as they like in her house. This is Liberty Hall,
James, and you can't do Miss Crawley a greater kindness than to do as you
please, and ask for what you will. I know you have all sneered at me in the
country for being a Tory. Miss Crawley is liberal enough to suit any fancy. She
is a republican in principle, and despises everything like rank or title.«
    »Why are you going to marry an Earl's daughter?« said James.
    »My dear friend, remember it is not poor Lady Jane's fault that she is
well-born,« Pitt replied, with a courtly air. »She cannot help being a lady.
Besides, I am a Tory, you know.«
    »Oh, as for that,« said Jim, »there is nothing like old blood - no, dammy,
nothing like it. I'm none of your Radicals. I know what, it is to be a
gentleman, dammy. See the chaps in a boat-race; look at the fellows in a fight;
ay, look, at a dawg killing rats - which is it wins? the good-blooded ones. -
Get some more port, Bowls, old boy, whilst I buzz this bottle here. - What was I
a-saying?«
    »I think you were speaking of dogs killing rats,« Pitt remarked mildly,
handing, his cousin the decanter to »buzz.«
    »Killing rats was I? Well, Pitt, are you a sporting man? Do you want to see
a dawg as can kill a rat? If you do, come down with me to Tom Corduroy's, in
Castle Street Mews, and I'll show you such a bull-terrier as - Pooh! gammon,«
cried James, bursting out laughing at his own absurdity - »you don't care about
a dawg or rat; it's all nonsense. I'm blessed if I think you know the difference
between a dawg and a duck.«
    »No; by the way,« Pitt continued, with increased blandness, »it was about
blood you were talking, and the personal advantages which people derive from
patrician birth. Here's the fresh bottle.«
    »Blood's the word,« said James, gulping the ruby fluid down. »Nothing; like
blood, sir, in horses, dawgs, and men. Why, only last term, just before I was
rusticated - that is, I mean just before I had the measles, ha, ha! - there was
me and Ringwood of Christchurch, Bob Ringwood, Lord Cinqbar's son, having our
beer at the Bell, at Blenheim, when the Banbury bargeman offered to fight either
of us for a bowl of punch. I couldn't. My arm was in a sling; couldn't even take
the drag down. A brute of a mare of mine had fell with me only two days before,
out with the Abingdon, and I thought my arm was broke. Well, sir, I couldn't
finish him; but Bob had his coat off at once. He stood up, to the Banbury man
for three minutes, and polished him off in four rounds easy. 'Gad, how he did
drop, sir! And what was it? Blood, sir, all blood.«
    »You don't drink, James,« the ex-attaché continued. »In my time at Oxford
the men passed round the bottle a little quicker than you young fellows seem to
do.«
    »Come, come,« said James, putting his hand to his nose and winking at his
cousin with a pair of vinous eyes, »no jokes, old boy, no trying it on me. You
want to trot me out, but it's no go. In vino veritas, old boy. Mars, Bacchus,
Apollo virorum, hey? I wish my aunt would send down some of this to the
governor; it's a precious good tap.«
    »You had better ask her,« Machiavel continued, »or make the best of your
time now. What says the bard? Nunc vino pellite curas, Cras ingens interabimus
æquor,« and the Bachanalian, quoting the above with a House of Commons air,
tossed off nearly a thimbleful of wine with an immense flourish of his glass.
    At the Rectory, when the bottle of port wine was opened after dinner, the
young ladies had each a glass from a bottle of currant wine. Mrs. Bute took one
glass of port. Honest James had a couple commonly; but as his father grew very
sulky if he made further inroads on the bottle, the good lad generally refrained
from trying for more, and subsided either into the currant wine or to some
private gin-and-water in the stables, which he enjoyed in the company of the
coachman and his pipe. At Oxford the quantity of wine was unlimited, but the
quality was inferior; but when quantity and quality united, as at his aunt's
house, James showed that he could appreciate them indeed, and hardly needed any
of his cousin's encouragement in draining off the second bottle supplied by Mr.
Bowls.
    When the time for coffee came, however, and for a return to the ladies, of
whom he stood in awe, the young gentleman's agreeable frankness left him, and he
relapsed into his usual surly timidity, contenting himself by saying yes and no,
by scowling at Lady Jane, and by upsetting one cup of coffee during the evening.
    If he did not speak, he yawned in a pitiable manner, and his presence threw
a damp upon the modest proceedings of the evening; for Miss Crawley and Lady
Jane at their piquet, and Miss Briggs at her work, felt that his eyes were
wildly fixed on them, and were uneasy under that maudlin look.
    »He seems a very silent, awkward, bashful lad,« said Miss Crawley to Mr.
Pitt.
    »He is more communicative in men's society than with ladies,« Machiavel
dryly replied, perhaps rather disappointed that the port wine had not, made Jim
speak more.
    He had spent the early part of the next morning in writing home to his
mother a most flourishing account of his reception by Miss Crawley. But ah! he
little knew what evils the day was bringing for him, and how short his reign of
favour was destined to be. A circumstance which Jim had forgotten - a trivial
but fatal circumstance - had taken place at the Cribb's Arms on the night before
he had come to his aunt's house. It was no other than this: - Jim, who was
always of a generous disposition, and when in his cups especially hospitable,
had in the course of the night treated the Tutbury champion and the Rottingdean
man, and their friends, twice or thrice to the refreshment of gin-and-water, so
that no less than eighteen glasses of that fluid, at eightpence per glass, were
charged in Mr. James Crawley's bill. It was not the amount of eightpences but
the quantity of gin which told fatally against poor James's character, when his
aunt's butler, Mr. Bowls, went down at his mistress's request to pay the young
gentleman's bill. The landlord, fearing lest the account should be refused
altogether, swore solemnly that the young gent had consumed personally every
farthing's worth of the liquor; and Bowls paid the bill finally, and showed it
on his return home to Mrs. Firkin, who was shocked at the frightful prodigality
of gin, and took the bill to Miss Briggs as accountant-general, who thought it
her duty to mention the circumstance to her principal, Miss Crawley.
    Had he drunk a dozen bottles of claret, the old spinster could have pardoned
him. Mr. Fox and Mr. Sheridan drank claret. Gentlemen drank claret. But eighteen
glasses of gin consumed among boxers in an ignoble pot-house - it was an odious
crime, and not to be pardoned readily. Everything went against the lad. He came
home perfumed from the stables, whither he had been to pay his dog Towzer a
visit, and whence he was going to take his friend out for an airing, when he met
Miss Crawley and her wheezy Blenheim spaniel, which Towzer would have eaten up
had not the Blenheim fled squealing to the protection of Miss Briggs, while the
atrocious master of the bull-dog stood laughing at the horrible persecution.
    This day, too, the unlucky boy's modesty had likewise forsaken him. He was
lively and facetious at dinner. During the repast he levelled one or two jokes
against Pitt Crawley; he drank as much wine as upon the previous day; and going
quite unsuspiciously to the drawing-room, began to entertain the ladies there,
with some choice Oxford stories. He described the different pugilistic qualities
of Molyneux and Dutch Sam, offered playfully to give Lady Jane the odds upon the
Tutbury Pet against the Rottingdean man, or take them, as her Ladyship chose;
and crowned the pleasantry by proposing to back himself against his cousin Pitt
Crawley, either with or without the gloves. »And that's a fair offer, my buck,«
he said, with a loud laugh, slapping Pitt on the shoulder, »and my father told
me to make it too, and he'll go halves in the bet, ha, ha!« So saying, the
engaging youth nodded knowingly at poor Miss Briggs, and pointed his thumb over
his shoulder at Pitt Crawley in a jocular and exulting manner.
    Pitt was not pleased altogether perhaps, but still not unhappy in the main.
Poor Jim had his laugh out, and staggered across the room with his aunt's candle
when the old lady moved to retire, and offered to salute her with the blandest
tipsy smile; and he took his own leave and went upstairs to his bedroom
perfectly satisfied with himself, and with a pleased notion that his aunt's
money would be left to him in preference to his father and all the rest of the
family.
    Once up in the bedroom, one would have thought he could not make matters
worse; and yet this unlucky boy did. The moon was shining very pleasantly out on
the sea, and Jim, attracted to the window by the romantic appearance of the
ocean, and the heavens, thought he would further enjoy them while smoking.
Nobody would smell the tobacco, he thought, if he cunningly opened the window
and kept his head and pipe in the fresh air. This he did; but being in an
excited state, poor Jim had forgotten that his door was open all this time, so
that the breeze blowing inwards and a fine thorough draught being established,
the clouds of tobacco were carried downstairs, and arrived with quite
undiminished fragrance to Miss Crawley and Miss Briggs.
    The pipe of tobacco finished the business, and the Bute-Crawleys never knew
how many thousand pounds it cost them. Firkin rushed downstairs to Bowls, who
was reading out the »Fire and the Frying-Pan« to his aide-de-camp in a loud and
ghostly voice. The dreadful secret was told to him by Firkin with so frightened
a look that for the first moment Mr. Bowls and his young man thought that
robbers were in the house, the legs of whom had probably been discovered by the
woman under Miss Crawley's bed. When made aware of the fact, however, to rush
upstairs at three steps at a time, to enter the unconscious James's apartment,
calling out, »Mr. James,« in a voice stifled with alarm, and to cry, »For Gawd's
sake, sir, stop that 'ere pipe,« was the work of a minute with Mr. Bowls. »O Mr.
James, what 'ave you done!« he said, in a voice of the deepest pathos, as he
threw the implement out of the window. »What 'ave you done, sir! Missis can't
abide 'em.«
    »Missis needn't smoke,« said James, with a frantic misplaced laugh, and
thought the whole matter an excellent joke. But his feelings were very different
in the morning, when Mr. Bowls's young man, who operated upon Mr. James's boots,
and brought him his hot water to shave that beard which he was so anxiously
expecting, handed a note in to Mr. James in bed, in the handwriting of Miss
Briggs.
    »Dear Sir,« it said, »Miss Crawley has passed an exceedingly disturbed
night, owing to the shocking manner in which the house has been polluted by
tobacco. Miss Crawley bids me say she regrets that she is too unwell to see you
before you go, and above all that she ever induced you to remove from the
alehouse, where she is sure you will be much more comfortable during the rest of
your stay at Brighton.«
    And herewith honest James's career as a candidate for his aunt's favour
ended. He had in fact, and without knowing it, done what he menaced to do; he
had fought his cousin Pitt with the gloves.
 
Where meanwhile was he who had been once first favourite for this race for
money? Becky and Rawdon, as we have seen, were come together after Waterloo, and
were passing the winter of 1815 at Paris, in great splendour and gaiety. Rebecca
was a good economist, and the price poor Jos Sedley had paid for her two horses
was in itself sufficient to keep their little establishment afloat for a year at
the least; there was no occasion to turn into money »my pistols, the same which
I shot Captain Marker,« or the gold dressing-case, or the cloak lined with
sable. Becky had it made into a pelisse for herself, in which she rode in the
Bois de Boulogne to the admiration of all; and you should have seen the scene
between her and her delighted husband, whom she rejoined after the army had
entered Cambray, and when she unsewed herself, and let out of her dress all
those watches, nicknacks, bank-notes, cheques, and valuables which she had
secreted in the wadding previous to her meditated flight from Brussels! Tufto
was charmed, and Rawdon roared with delightful laughter, and swore that she was
better than any play he ever saw, by Jove. And the way in which she jockeyed
Jos, and which she described with infinite fun, carried up his delight to a
pitch of quite insane enthusiasm. He believed in his wife as much as the French
soldiers in Napoleon.
    Her success in Paris was remarkable. All the French ladies voted her
charming. She spoke their language admirably. She adopted at once their grace,
their liveliness, their manner. Her husband was stupid certainly - all English
are stupid - and, besides, a dull husband at Paris is always a point in a lady's
favour. He was the heir of the rich and spirituelle Miss Crawley, whose house
had been open to so many of the French noblesse during the emigration. They
received the Colonel's wife in their own hotels. »Why,« wrote a great lady to
Miss Crawley, who had bought her lace and trinkets at the Duchess's own price,
and given her many a dinner during the pinching times after the Revolution -
»why does not our dear Miss come to her nephew and niece, and her attached
friends in Paris? All the world raffoles of the charming Mistress and her
espiègle beauty. Yes, we see in her the grace, the charm, the wit of our dear
friend Miss Crawley. The King took notice of her yesterday at the Tuileries, and
we are all jealous of the attention which Monsieur pays her. If you could have
seen the spite of a certain stupid Miladi Bareacres (whose eagle-beak and toque
and feathers may be seen peering over the heads of all assemblies) when Madame
the Duchess of Angoulême, the august daughter and companion of kings, desired
especially to be presented to Mrs. Crawley, as your dear daughter and protégée,
and thanked her in the name of France for all your benevolence towards our
unfortunates during their exile! She is of all the societies, of all the balls -
of the balls, yes - of the dances, no; and yet how interesting and pretty this
fair creature looks, surrounded by the homage of the men, and so soon to be a
mother! To hear her speak of you, her protectress, her mother, would bring tears
to the eyes of ogres. How she loves you! how we all love our admirable, our
respectable Miss Crawley!«
    It is to be feared that this letter of the Parisian great lady did not by
any means advance Mrs. Becky's interest with her admirable, her respectable
relative. On the contrary, the fury of the old spinster was beyond bounds when
she found what was Rebecca's situation, and how audaciously she had made use of
Miss Crawley's name to get an entrée into Parisian society. Too much shaken in
mind and body to compose a letter in the French language in reply to that of her
correspondent, she dictated to Briggs a furious answer in her own native tongue,
repudiating Mrs. Rawdon Crawley altogether, and warning the public to beware of
her as a most artful and dangerous person. But as Madame the Duchess of X-- had
only been twenty years in England, she did not understand a single word of the
language, and contented herself by informing Mrs. Rawdon Crawley at their next
meeting that she had received a charming letter from that chère Mees, and that
it was full of benevolent things for Mrs. Crawley, who began seriously to have
hopes that the spinster would relent.
    Meanwhile she was the gayest and most admired of Englishwomen, and had a
little European congress on her reception night. Prussians and Cossacks, Spanish
and English - all the world was at Paris during this famous winter; to have seen
the stars and cordons in Rebecca's humble saloon would have made all Baker
Street pale with envy. Famous warriors rode by her carriage in the Bois, or
crowded her modest little box at the Opera. Rawdon was in the highest spirits.
There were no duns in Paris as yet: there were parties every day at Véry's or
Beauvilliers'; play was plentiful and his luck good. Tufto perhaps was sulky.
Mrs. Tufto had come over to Paris at her own invitation; and besides this
contretemps, there were a score of generals now round Becky's chair, and she
might take her choice of a dozen bouquets when she went to the play. Lady
Bareacres and the chiefs of the English society, stupid and irreproachable
females, writhed with anguish at the success of the little upstart Becky, whose
poisoned jokes quivered and rankled in their chaste breasts. But she had all the
men on her side. She fought the women with indomitable courage, and they could
not talk scandal in any tongue but their own.
    So in fêtes, pleasures, and prosperity the winter of 1815-16 passed away
with Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who accommodated herself to polite life as if her
ancestors had been people of fashion for centuries past, and who, from her wit,
talent, and energy, indeed merited a place of honour in Vanity Fair. In the
early spring of 1816, Galignani's Journal contained the following announcement
in an interesting corner of the paper: »On the 26th of March, the Lady of
Lieutenant-Colonel Crawley, of the Life Guards Green, of a son and heir.«
    This event was copied into the London papers, out of which Miss Briggs read
the statement to Miss Crawley, at breakfast, at Brighton. The intelligence,
expected as it might have been, caused a crisis in the affairs of the Crawley
family. The spinster's rage rose to its height, and sending instantly for Pitt
her nephew, and for the Lady Southdown from Brunswick Square, she requested an
immediate celebration of the marriage which had been so long pending between the
two families. And she announced that it was her intention to allow the young
couple a thousand a year during her lifetime, at the expiration of which the
bulk of her property would be settled upon her nephew and her dear niece Lady
Jane Crawley. Waxy came down to ratify the deeds. Lord Southdown gave away his
sister. She was married by a Bishop, and not by the Rev. Bartholomew Irons - to
the disappointment of the irregular prelate.
    When they were married, Pitt would have liked to take a hymeneal tour with
his bride, as became people of their condition. But the affection of the old
lady towards Lady Jane had grown so strong that she fairly owned she could not
part with her favourite. Pitt and his wife came therefore and lived with Miss
Crawley, and (greatly to the annoyance of poor Pitt, who conceived himself a
most injured character - being subject to the humours of his aunt on one side,
and of his mother-in-law on the other) Lady Southdown, from her neighbouring
house, reigned over the whole family - Pitt, Lady Jane, Miss Crawley, Briggs,
Bowls, Firkin, and all. She pitilessly dosed them with her tracts and her
medicine, she dismissed Creamer, she installed Rodgers, and soon stripped Miss
Crawley of even the semblance of authority. The poor soul grew so timid that she
actually left off bullying Briggs any more, and clung to her niece, more fond
and terrified every day. Peace to thee, kind and selfish, vain and generous old
heathen! We shall see thee no more. Let us hope that Lady Jane supported her
kindly, and led her with gentle hand out of the busy struggle of Vanity Fair.
 

                                  Chapter XXXV

                               Widow and Mother.

The news of the great fights of Quatre Bras and Waterloo reached England at the
same time. The Gazette first published the result of the two battles; at which
glorious intelligence all England thrilled with triumph and fear. Particulars
then followed, and after the announcement of the victories came the list of the
wounded and the slain. Who can tell the dread with which that catalogue was
opened and read! Fancy, at every village and homestead almost through the three
kingdoms, the great news coming of the battles in Flanders, and the feelings of
exultation and gratitude, bereavement and sickening dismay, when the lists of
the regimental losses were gone through, and it became known whether the dear
friend and relative had escaped or fallen. Anybody who will take the trouble of
looking back to a file of the newspapers of the time must even now feel at
second-hand this breathless pause of expectation. The lists of casualties are
carried on from day to day; you stop in the midst as in a story which is to be
continued in our next. Think what the feelings must have been as those papers
followed each other fresh from the press; and if such an interest could be felt
in our country, and about a battle where but twenty thousand of our people were
engaged, think of the condition of Europe for twenty years before, where people
were fighting, not by thousands, but by millions, each one of whom as he struck
his enemy wounded horribly some other innocent heart far away.
    The news which that famous Gazette brought to the Osbornes gave a dreadful
shock to the family and its chief. The girls indulged unrestrained in their
grief. The gloom-stricken old father was still more borne down by his fate and
sorrow. He strove to think that a judgment was on the boy for his disobedience.
He dared not own that the severity of the sentence frightened him, and that its
fulfilment had come too soon upon his curses. Sometimes a shuddering terror
struck him, as if he had been the author of the doom which he had called down on
his son. There was a chance before of reconciliation. The boy's wife might have
died, or he might have come back and said, Father, I have sinned. But there was
no hope now. He stood on the other side of the gulf impassable, haunting his
parent with sad eyes. He remembered them once before so in a fever, when every
one thought the lad was dying, and he lay on his bed speechless, and gazing with
a dreadful gloom. Good God! how the father clung to the doctor then, and with
what a sickening anxiety he followed him; what a weight of grief was off his
mind when, after the crisis of the fever, the lad recovered, and looked at his
father once more with eyes that recognized him. But now there was no help or
cure, or chance of reconcilement; above all, there were no humble words to
soothe vanity outraged and furious, or bring to its natural flow the poisoned,
angry blood. And it is hard to say which pang it was that tore the proud
father's heart most keenly - that his son should have gone out of the reach of
his forgiveness, or that the apology which his own pride expected should have
escaped him.
    Whatever his sensations might have been, however, the stern old man would
have no confidant. He never mentioned his son's name to his daughters, but
ordered the elder to place all the females of the establishment in mourning, and
desired that the male servants should be similarly attired in deep black. All
parties and entertainments, of course, were to be put off. No communications
were made to his future son-in-law, whose marriage-day had been fixed; but there
was enough in Mr. Osborne's appearance to prevent Mr. Bullock from making any
inquiries, or in any way pressing forward that ceremony. He and the ladies
whispered about it under their voices in the drawing-room sometimes, whither the
father never came. He remained constantly in his own study; the whole front part
of the house being closed until some time after the completion of the general
mourning.
    About three weeks after the 18th of June, Mr. Osborne's acquaintance, Sir
William Dobbin, called at Mr. Osborne's house in Russell Square, with a very
pale and agitated face, and insisted upon seeing that gentleman. Ushered into
his room, and after a few words which neither the speaker nor the host
understood, the former produced from an enclosure a letter sealed with a large
red seal. »My son, Major Dobbin,« the Alderman said, with some hesitation,
»dispatched me a letter by an officer of the - th, who arrived in town to-day.
My son's letter contains one for you, Osborne.« The Alderman placed the letter
on the table, and Osborne stared at him for a moment or two in silence. His
looks frightened the ambassador, who, after looking guiltily for a little time
at the grief-stricken man, hurried away without another word.
    The letter was in George's well-known bold handwriting. It was that one
which he had written before daybreak on the 16th of June, and just before he
took leave of Amelia. The great red seal was emblazoned with the sham coat of
arms which Osborne had assumed from the Peerage, with »Pax in bello« for a motto
- that of the ducal house with which the vain old man tried to fancy himself
connected. The hand that signed it would never hold pen or sword more. The very
seal that sealed it had been robbed from George's dead body as it lay on the
field of battle. The father knew nothing of this, but sat and looked at the
letter in terrified vacancy. He almost fell when he went to open it.
    Have you ever had a difference with a dear friend? How his letters, written
in the period of love and confidence, sicken and rebuke you! What a dreary
mourning it is to dwell upon these vehement protests of dead affection! What
lying epitaphs they make over the corpse of Love! What dark, cruel comments upon
Life and Vanities! Most of us have got or written drawers full of them. They are
closet-skeletons which we keep and shun. Osborne trembled long before the letter
from his dead son.
    The poor boy's letter did not say much. He had been too proud to acknowledge
the tenderness which his heart felt. He only said that on the eve of a great
battle he wished to bid his father farewell, and solemnly to implore his good
offices for the wife - it might be for the child - whom he left behind him. He
owned with contrition that his irregularities and his extravagance had already
wasted a large part of his mother's little fortune. He thanked his father for
his former generous conduct, and he promised him that, if he fell on the field
or survived it, he would act in a manner worthy of the name of George Osborne.
    His English habit, pride, awkwardness perhaps, had prevented him from saying
more. His father could not see the kiss George had placed on the superscription
of his letter. Mr. Osborne dropped it with the bitterest, deadliest pang of
balked affection and revenge. His son was still beloved and unforgiven.
    About two months afterwards, however, as the young ladies of the family went
to church with their father, they remarked how he took a different seat from
that which he usually occupied when he chose to attend divine worship, and that
from his cushion opposite he looked up at the wall over their heads. This caused
the young women likewise to gaze in the direction towards which their father's
gloomy eyes pointed; and they saw an elaborate monument upon the wall, where
Britannia was represented weeping over an urn, and a broken sword and a couchant
lion indicated that the piece of sculpture had been erected in honour of a
deceased warrior. The sculptors of those days had stocks of such funereal
emblems in hand; as you may see still on the walls of St. Paul's, which are
covered with hundreds of these braggart heathen allegories. There was a constant
demand for them during the first fifteen years of the present century.
    Under the memorial in question were emblazoned the well-known and pompous
Osborne arms, and the inscription said that the monument was »Sacred to the
Memory of George Osborne, Junior, Esq., late a Captain in His Majesty's -th
regiment of foot, who fell on the 18th of June, 1815, aged 28 years, while
fighting for his king and country in the glorious victory of Waterloo. Dulce et
decorum est pro patriâ mori.«
    The sight of that stone agitated the nerves of the sisters so much that Miss
Maria was compelled to leave the church. The congregation made way respectfully
for those sobbing girls clothed in deep black, and pitied the stern old father
seated opposite the memorial of the dead soldier. »Will he forgive Mrs. George?«
the girls said to themselves as soon as their ebullition of grief was over. Much
conversation passed, too, among the acquaintances of the Osborne family, who
knew of the rupture between the son and father caused by the former's marriage,
as to the chance of a reconciliation with the young widow. There were bets among
the gentlemen both about Russell Square and in the City.
    If the sisters had any anxiety regarding the possible recognition of Amelia
as a daughter of the family, it was increased presently, and towards the end of
the autumn, by their father's announcement that he was going abroad. He did not
say whither, but they knew at once that his steps would be turned towards
Belgium, and were aware that George's widow was still in Brussels. They had
pretty accurate news indeed of poor Amelia from Lady Dobbin and her daughters.
Our honest Captain had been promoted in consequence of the death of the second
Major of the regiment on the field; and the brave O'Dowd, who had distinguished
himself greatly here, as upon all occasions where he had a chance to show his
coolness and valour, was a Colonel and Companion of the Bath.
    Very many of the brave -th, who had suffered severely upon both days of
action, were still at Brussels in the autumn, recovering of their wounds. The
city was a vast military hospital for months after the great battles; and as men
and officers began to rally from their hurts, the gardens and places of public
resort swarmed with maimed warriors, old and young, who, just rescued out of
death, fell to gambling, and gaiety, and love-making, as people of Vanity Fair
will do. Mr. Osborne found out some of the -th easily. He knew their uniform
quite well, and had been used to follow all the promotions and exchanges in the
regiment, and loved to talk about it and its officers as if he had been one of
the number. On the day after his arrival at Brussels, and as he issued from his
hotel, which faced the Parc, he saw a soldier in the well-known facings,
reposing on a stone bench in the garden, and went and sate down trembling by the
wounded convalescent man.
    »Were you in Captain Osborne's company?« he said, and added, after a pause,
»He was my son, sir.«
    The man was not of the Captain's company, but he lifted up his wounded arm
and touched his cap sadly and respectfully to the haggard, broken-spirited
gentleman who questioned him. »The whole army didn't contain a finer or a better
officer,« the soldier said. »The Sergeant of the Captain's company (Captain
Raymond had it now) was in town, though, and was just well of a shot in the
shoulder. His honour might see him if he liked, who could tell him anything he
wanted to know about - about the -th's actions. But his honour had seen Major
Dobbin, no doubt, the brave Captain's great friend; and Mrs. Osborne, who was
here too, and had been very bad, he heard everybody say. They say she was out of
her mind like for six weeks or more. But your honour knows all about that - and
asking your pardon -« the man added.
    Osborne put a guinea into the soldier's hand, and told him he should have
another if he would bring the Sergeant to the Hôtel du Parc; a promise which
very soon brought the desired officer to Mr. Osborne's presence. And the first
soldier went away; and after telling a comrade or two how Captain Osborne's
father was arrived, and what a free-handed, generous gentleman he was, they went
and made good cheer with drink and feasting, as long as the guineas lasted which
had come from the proud purse of the mourning old father.
    In the Sergeant's company, who was also just convalescent, Osborne made the
journey of Waterloo and Quatre Bras - a journey which thousands of his
countrymen were then taking. He took the Sergeant with him in his carriage, and
went through both fields under his guidance. He saw the point of the road where
the regiment marched into action on the sixteenth, and the slope down which they
drove the French cavalry who were pressing on the retreating Belgians. There was
the spot where the noble Captain cut down the French officer who was grappling
with the young Ensign for the colours, the Colour-Sergeants having been shot
down. Along this road they retreated on the next day, and here was the bank at
which the regiment bivouacked under the rain of the night of the seventeenth.
Farther on was the position which they took and held during the day, forming
time after time to receive the charge of the enemy's horsemen, and lying down
under the shelter of the bank from the furious French cannonade. And it was at
this declivity, when at evening the whole English line received the order to
advance as the enemy fell back after his last charge, that the Captain,
hurrahing and rushing down the hill waving his sword, received a shot and fell
dead. »It was Major Dobbin who took back the Captain's body to Brussels,« the
Sergeant said, in a low voice, »and had him buried, as your honour knows.« The
peasants and relic-hunters about the place were screaming round the pair as the
soldier told his story, offering for sale all sorts of mementoes of the fight -
crosses, and epaulets, and shattered cuirasses, and eagles.
    Osborne gave a sumptuous reward to the Sergeant when he parted with him,
after having visited the scenes of his son's last exploits. His burial-place he
had already seen. Indeed, he had driven thither immediately after his arrival at
Brussels. George's body lay in the pretty burial-ground of Laeken, near the
city, in which place, having once visited it on a party of pleasure, he had
lightly expressed a wish to have his grave made. And there the young officer was
laid by his friend, in the unconsecrated corner of the garden, separated by a
little hedge from the temples and towers and plantations of flowers and shrubs
under which the Roman Catholic dead repose. It seemed a humiliation to old
Osborne to think that his son, an English gentleman, a captain in the famous
British army, should not be found worthy to lie in ground where mere foreigners
were buried. Which of us is there can tell how much vanity lurks in our warmest
regard for others, and how selfish our love is? Old Osborne did not speculate
much on the mingled nature of his feelings, and how his instinct and selfishness
were combating together. He firmly believed that everything he did was right,
that he ought on all occasions to have his own way, and like the sting of a wasp
or serpent his hatred rushed out armed and poisonous against anything like
opposition. He was proud of his hatred as of everything else. Always to be
right, always to trample forward, and never to doubt - are not these the great
qualities with which dullness takes the lead in the world?
    As, after the drive to Waterloo, Mr. Osborne's carriage was nearing the
gates of the city at sunset, they met another open barouche, in which were a
couple of ladies and a gentleman, and by the side of which an officer was
riding. Osborne gave a start back, and the Sergeant, seated with him, cast a
look of surprise at his neighbour as he touched his cap to the officer, who
mechanically returned his salute. It was Amelia, with the lame young Ensign by
her side, and opposite to her her faithful friend Mrs. O'Dowd. It was Amelia,
but how changed from the fresh and comely girl Osborne knew! Her face was white
and thin. Her pretty brown hair was parted under a widow's cap - the poor child.
Her eyes were fixed, and looked nowhere. They stared blank in the face of
Osborne as the carriages crossed each other, but she did not know him, nor did
he recognize her, until, looking up, he saw Dobbin riding by her, and then he
knew who it was. He hated her. He did not know how much until he saw her there.
When her carriage had passed on, he turned and stared at the Sergeant, with a
curse and defiance in his eye cast at his companion, who could not help looking
at him - as much as to say, »How dare you look at me? Damn you! I do hate her.
It is she who has tumbled my hopes and all my pride down.« »Tell the scoundrel
to drive on quick,« he shouted, with an oath, to the lackey on the box. A minute
afterwards a horse came clattering over the pavement behind Osborne's carriage,
and Dobbin rode up. His thoughts had been elsewhere as the carriages passed each
other, and it was not until he had ridden some paces forward that he remembered
it was Osborne who had just passed him. Then he turned to examine if the sight
of her father-in-law had made any impression on Amelia; but the poor girl did
not know who had passed. Then William, who daily used to accompany her in her
drives, taking out his watch, made some excuse about an engagement which he
suddenly recollected, and so rode off. She did not remark that either, but sate
looking before her, over the homely landscape towards the woods in the distance
by which George marched away.
    »Mr. Osborne, Mr. Osborne!« cried Dobbin, as he rode up and held out his
hand. Osborne made no motion to take it, but shouted out once more, and with
another curse, to his servant to drive on.
    Dobbin laid his hand on the carriage side. »I will see you, sir,« he said.
»I have a message for you.«
    »From that woman?« said Osborne fiercely.
    »No,« replied the other, »from your son;« at which Osborne fell back into
the corner of his carriage, and Dobbin allowing it to pass on, rode close behind
it, and so through the town until they reached Mr. Osborne's hotel, and without
a word. There he followed Osborne up to his apartments. George had often been in
the rooms; they were the lodgings which the Crawleys had occupied during their
stay in Brussels.
    »Pray, have you any commands for me, Captain Dobbin? or, I beg your pardon,
I should say Major Dobbin, since better men than you are dead, and you step into
their shoes,« said Mr. Osborne, in that sarcastic tone which he sometimes was
pleased to assume.
    »Better men are dead,« Dobbin replied. »I want to speak to you about one.«
    »Make it short, sir,« said the other with an oath, scowling at his visitor.
    »I am here as his closest friend,« the Major resumed, »and the executor of
his will. He made it before he went into action. Are you aware how small his
means are, and of the straitened circumstances of his widow?«
    »I don't know his widow, sir,« Osborne said. »Let her go back to her
father.« But the gentleman whom he addressed was determined to remain in good
temper, and went on without heeding the interruption.
    »Do you know, sir, Mrs. Osborne's condition? Her life and her reason almost
have been shaken by the blow which has fallen on her. It is very doubtful
whether she will rally. There is a chance left for her, however, and it is about
this I came to speak to you. She will be a mother soon. Will you visit the
parent's offence upon the child's head? or will you forgive the child for poor
George's sake?«
    Osborne broke out into a rhapsody of self-praise and imprecations - by the
first, excusing himself to his own conscience for his conduct; by the second,
exaggerating the undutifulness of George. No father in all England could have
behaved more generously to a son who had rebelled against him wickedly. He had
died without even so much as confessing he was wrong. Let him take the
consequences of his undutifulness and folly. As for himself, Mr. Osborne, he was
a man of his word. He had sworn never to speak to that woman, or to recognize
her as his son's wife. »And that's what you may tell her,« he concluded, with an
oath; »and that's what I will stick to to the last day of my life.«
    There was no hope from that quarter then. The widow must live on her slender
pittance, or on such aid as Jos could give her. »I might tell her, and she would
not heed it,« thought Dobbin sadly; for the poor girl's thoughts were not here
at all since her catastrophe, and, stupefied under the pressure of her sorrow,
good and evil were alike indifferent to her.
    So, indeed, were even friendship and kindness. She received them both
uncomplainingly, and having accepted them, relapsed into her grief.
 
Suppose some twelve months after the above conversation took place to have
passed in the life of our poor Amelia. She has spent the first portion of that
time in a sorrow so profound and pitiable that we who have been watching and
describing some of the emotions of that weak and tender heart must draw back in
the presence of the cruel grief under which it is bleeding. Tread silently round
the hapless couch of the poor prostrate soul. Shut gently the door of the dark
chamber wherein she suffers, as those kind people did who nursed her through the
first months of her pain, and never left her until Heaven had sent her
consolation. A day came, of almost terrified delight and wonder, when the poor
widowed girl pressed a child upon her breast - a child, with the eyes of George
who was gone - a little boy, as beautiful as a cherub. What a miracle it was to
hear its first cry! How she laughed and wept over it! how love, and hope, and
prayer woke again in her bosom as the baby nestled there! She was safe. The
doctors who attended her, and had feared for her life or for her brain, had
waited anxiously for this crisis before they could pronounce that either was
secure. It was worth the long months of doubt and dread which the persons who
had constantly been with her had passed to see her eyes once more beaming
tenderly upon them.
    Our friend Dobbin was one of them. It was he who brought her back to England
and to her mother's house, when Mrs. O'Dowd, receiving a peremptory summons from
her Colonel, had been forced to quit her patient. To see Dobbin holding the
infant, and to hear Amelia's laugh of triumph as she watched him, would have
done any man good who had a sense of humour. William was the godfather of the
child, and exerted his ingenuity in the purchase of cups, spoons, papboats, and
corals for this little Christian.
    How his mother nursed him, and dressed him, and lived upon him; how she
drove away all nurses, and would scarce allow any hand but her own to touch him;
how she considered that the greatest favour she could confer upon his godfather,
Major Dobbin, was to allow the Major occasionally to dandle him, need not be
told here. This child was her being. Her existence was a maternal caress. She
enveloped the feeble and unconscious creature with love and worship. It was her
life which the baby drank in from her bosom. Of nights, and when alone, she had
stealthy and intense raptures of motherly love, such as God's marvellous care
has awarded to the female instinct - joys how far higher and lower than reason -
blind, beautiful devotions which only women's hearts know. It was William
Dobbin's task to muse upon these movements of Amelia's, and to watch her heart;
and if his love made him divine almost all the feelings which agitated it, alas!
he could see with a fatal perspicuity that there was no place there for him. And
so, gently, he bore his fate, knowing it, and content to bear it.
    I suppose Amelia's father and mother saw through the intentions of the
Major, and were not ill-disposed to encourage him; for Dobbin visited their
house daily, and stayed for hours with them, or with Amelia, or with the honest
landlord, Mr. Clapp, and his family. He brought, on one pretext or another,
presents to everybody, and almost every day; and went, with the landlord's
little girl, who was rather a favourite with Amelia, by the name of Major
Sugarplums. It was this little child who commonly acted as mistress of the
ceremonies to introduce him to Mrs. Osborne. She laughed one day when Major
Sugarplums' cab drove up to Fulham, and he descended from it, bringing out a
wooden horse, a drum, a trumpet, and other warlike toys, for little Georgy, who
was scarcely six months old, and for whom the articles in question were entirely
premature.
    The child was asleep. »Hush!« said Amelia, annoyed perhaps at the creaking
of the Major's boots; and she held out her hand, smiling because William could
not take it until he had rid himself of his cargo of toys. »Go down-stairs,
little Mary,« said he presently to the child; »I want to speak to Mrs. Osborne.«
She looked up rather astonished, and laid down the infant on its bed.
    »I am come to say good-bye, Amelia,« said he, taking her slender little
white hand gently.
    »Good-bye? and where are you going?« she said, with a smile.
    »Send the letters to the agents,« he said - »they will forward them; for you
will write to me, won't you? I shall be away a long time.«
    »I'll write to you about Georgy,« she said. »Dear William, how good you have
been to him and to me! Look at him. Isn't he like an angel?«
    The little pink hands of the child closed mechanically round the honest
soldier's finger, and Amelia looked up in his face with bright maternal
pleasure. The cruellest looks could not have wounded him more than that glance
of hopeless kindness. He bent over the child and mother. He could not speak for
a moment. And it was only with all his strength that he could force himself to
say a God bless you. »God bless you,« said Amelia, and held up her face and
kissed him.
    »Hush! don't wake Georgy!« she added, as William Dobbin went to the door
with heavy steps. She did not hear the noise of his cab wheels as he drove away;
she was looking at the child, who was laughing in his sleep.
 

                                 Chapter XXXVI

                      How to Live Well on Nothing a Year.

I suppose there is no man in this Vanity Fair of ours so little observant as not
to think sometimes about the worldly affairs of his acquaintances, or so
extremely charitable as not to wonder how his neighbour Jones or his neighbour
Smith can make both ends meet at the end of the year. With the utmost regard for
the family, for instance (for I dine with them twice or thrice in the season), I
cannot but own that the appearance of the Jenkinses in the Park, in the large
barouche with the grenadier-footmen, will surprise and mystify me to my dying
day; for though I know the equipage is only jobbed, and all the Jenkins people
are on board wages, yet those three men and the carriage must represent an
expense of six hundred a year at the very least. And then there are the splendid
dinners; the two boys at Eton; the prize governess and masters for the girls;
the trip abroad, or to Eastbourne or Worthing, in the autumn; the annual ball,
with a supper from Gunter's (who, by the way, supplies most of the first-rate
dinners which J. gives, as I know very well, having been invited to one of them
to fill a vacant place, when I saw at once that these repasts are very superior
to the common run of entertainments for which the humbler sort of J.'s
acquaintances get cards). Who, I say, with the most good-natured feelings in the
world, can help wondering how the Jenkinses make out matters? What is Jenkins?
We all know: Commissioner of the Tape and Sealing-Wax Office, with £1,200 a year
for a salary. Had his wife a private fortune? Pooh! Miss Flint - one of eleven
children of a small squire in Buckinghamshire. All she ever gets from her family
is a turkey at Christmas, in exchange for which she has to board two or three of
her sisters in the off season, and lodge and feed her brothers when they come to
town. How does Jenkins balance his income? I say, as every friend of his must
say, How is it that he has not been outlawed long since, and that he ever came
back (as he did to the surprise of everybody) last year from Boulogne?
    »I« is here introduced to personify the world in general - the Mrs. Grundy
of each respected reader's private circle, every one of whom can point to some
families of his acquaintance who live nobody knows how. Many a glass of wine
have we all of us drunk, I have very little doubt, hob-and-nobbing with the
hospitable giver, and wondering how the deuce he paid for it.
    Some three or four years after his stay in Paris, when Rawdon Crawley and
his wife were established in a very small, comfortable house in Curzon Street,
Mayfair, there was scarcely one of the numerous friends whom they entertained at
dinner that did not ask the above question regarding them. The novelist, it has
been said before, knows everything; and as I am in a situation to be able to
tell the public how Crawley and his wife lived without any income, may I entreat
the public newspapers, which are in the habit of extracting portions of the
various periodical works now published, not to reprint the following exact
narrative and calculations, of which I ought, as the discoverer (and at some
expense, too), to have the benefit? My son, I would say, were I blessed with a
child, you may, by deep inquiry and constant intercourse with him, learn how a
man lives comfortably on nothing a year. But it is best not to be intimate with
gentlemen of this profession, and to take the calculations at second-hand, as
you do logarithms; for to work them yourself, depend upon it, will cost you
something considerable.
    On nothing per annum then, and during a course of some two or three years,
of which we can afford to give but a very brief history, Crawley and his wife
lived very happily and comfortably at Paris. It was in this period that he
quitted the Guards, and sold out of the army. When we find him again, his
mustachios, and the title of Colonel on his card, are the only relics of his
military profession.
    It has been mentioned that Rebecca, soon after her arrival in Paris, took a
very smart and leading position in the society of that capital, and was welcomed
at some of the most distinguished houses of the restored French nobility. The
English men of fashion in Paris courted her, too, to the disgust of the ladies
their wives, who could not bear the parvenue. For some months the salons of the
Faubourg St. Germain, in which her place was secured, and the splendours of the
new Court, where she was received with much distinction, delighted and perhaps a
little intoxicated Mrs. Crawley, who may have been disposed during this period
of elation to slight the people - honest young military men mostly - who formed
her husband's chief society.
    But the Colonel yawned sadly among the duchesses and great ladies of the
Court. The old women who played écarté made such a noise about a five-franc
piece that it was not worth Colonel Crawley's while to sit down at a card-table.
The wit of their conversation he could not appreciate, being ignorant of their
language. And what good could his wife get, he urged, by making curtsies every
night to a whole circle of princesses? He left Rebecca presently to frequent
these parties alone, resuming his own simple pursuits and amusements amongst the
amiable friends of his own choice.
    The truth is, when we say of a gentleman that he lives elegantly on nothing
a year, we use the word »nothing« to signify something unknown - meaning,
simply, that we don't know how the gentleman in question defrays the expenses of
his establishment. Now, our friend the Colonel had a great aptitude for all
games of chance; and exercising himself, as he continually did, with the cards,
the dice-box, or the cue, it is natural to suppose that he attained a much
greater skill in the use of these articles than men can possess who only
occasionally handle them. To use a cue at billiards well is like using a pencil,
or a German flute, or a small-sword: you cannot master any one of these
implements at first, and it is only by repeated study and perseverance, joined
to a natural taste, that a man can excel in the handling of either. Now Crawley,
from being only a brilliant amateur, had grown to be a consummate master of
billiards. Like a great general, his genius used to rise with the danger; and
when the luck had been unfavourable to him for a whole game, and the bets were
consequently against him, he would, with consummate skill and boldness, make
some prodigious hits which would restore the battle, and come in a victor at the
end, to the astonishment of everybody - of everybody, that is, who was a
stranger to his play. Those who were accustomed to see it were cautious how they
staked their money against a man of such sudden resources and brilliant and
overpowering skill.
    At games of cards he was equally skilful; for though he would constantly
lose money at the commencement of an evening, playing so carelessly and making
such blunders that new-comers were often inclined to think meanly of his talent,
yet when roused to action, and awakened to caution by repeated small losses, it
was remarked that Crawley's play became quite different, and that he was pretty
sure of beating his enemy thoroughly before the night was over. Indeed, very few
men could say that they ever had the better of him.
    His successes were so repeated that no wonder the envious and the vanquished
spoke sometimes with bitterness regarding them. And as the French say of the
Duke of Wellington, who never suffered a defeat, that only an astonishing series
of lucky accidents enabled him to be an invariable winner - yet even they allow
that he cheated at Waterloo, and was enabled to win the last great trick - so it
was hinted at headquarters in England that some foul play must have taken place
in order to account for the continued successes of Colonel Crawley.
    Though Frascati's and the Salon were open at that time in Paris, the mania
for play was so widely spread that the public gambling-rooms did not suffice for
the general ardour, and gambling went on in private houses as much as if there
had been no public means for gratifying the passion. At Crawley's charming
little réunions of an evening this fatal amusement commonly was practised, much
to good-natured little Mrs. Crawley's annoyance. She spoke about her husband's
passion for dice with the deepest grief; she bewailed it to everybody who came
to her house. She besought the young fellows never, never to touch a box; and
when young Green of the Rifles lost a very considerable sum of money, Rebecca
passed a whole night in tears, as the servant told the unfortunate gentleman,
and actually went on her knees to her husband to beseech him to remit the debt
and burn the acknowledgement. How could he? He had lost just as much himself to
Blackstone of the Hussars and Count Punter of the Hanoverian Cavalry. Green
might have any decent time; but pay? of course he must pay; to talk of burning I
O U's was child's play.
    Other officers, chiefly young - for the young fellows gathered round Mrs.
Crawley - came from her parties with long faces, having dropped more or less
money at her fatal card-tables. Her house began to have an unfortunate
reputation. The old hands warned the less experienced of their danger. Colonel
O'Dowd, of the -th regiment, one of those occupying in Paris, warned Lieutenant
Spooney of that corps. A loud and violent fracas took place between the infantry
colonel and his lady, who were dining at the Café de Paris, and Colonel and Mrs.
Crawley, who were also taking their meal there. The ladies engaged on both
sides. Mrs. O'Dowd snapped her fingers in Mrs. Crawley's face, and called her
husband »no betther than a blackleg.« Colonel Crawley challenged Colonel O'Dowd,
C.B. The Commander-in-Chief, hearing of the dispute, sent for Colonel Crawley,
who was getting ready the same pistols »which he shot Captain Marker,« and had
such a conversation with him that no duel took place. If Rebecca had not gone on
her knees to General Tufto, Crawley would have been sent back to England; and he
did not play, except with civilians, for some weeks after.
    But in spite of Rawdon's undoubted skill and constant successes, it became
evident to Rebecca, considering these things, that their position was but a
precarious one, and that, even although they paid scarcely anybody, their little
capital would end one day by dwindling into zero. »Gambling,« she would say,
»dear, is good to help your income, but not as an income itself. Some day people
may be tired of play, and then where are we?« Rawdon acquiesced in the justice
of her opinion; and in truth he had remarked that after a few nights of his
little suppers, etc., gentlemen were tired of play with him, and, in spite of
Rebecca's charms, did not present themselves very eagerly.
    Easy and pleasant as their life at Paris was, it was, after all, only an
idle dalliance and amiable trifling, and Rebecca saw that she must push Rawdon's
fortune in their own country. She must get him a place or appointment at home or
in the colonies, and she determined to make a move upon England as soon as the
way could be cleared for her. As a first step she had made Crawley sell out of
the Guards and go on half-pay. His function as aide-de-camp to General Tufto had
ceased previously. Rebecca laughed in all companies at that officer, at his
toupee (which he mounted on coming to Paris), at his waistband, at his false
teeth, at his pretensions to be a lady-killer above all, and his absurd vanity
in fancying every woman whom he came near was in love with him. It was to Mrs.
Brent, the beetle-browed wife of Mr. Commissary Brent, to whom the General
transferred his attentions now - his bouquets, his dinners at the
restaurateurs', his opera-boxes, and his nicknacks. Poor Mrs. Tufto was no more
happy than before, and had still to pass long evenings alone with her daughters,
knowing that her General was gone off, scented and curled, to stand behind Mrs.
Brent's chair at the play. Becky had a dozen admirers in his place, to be sure,
and could cut her rival to pieces with her wit. But, as we have said, she was
growing tired of this idle social life: opera-boxes and restaurateur-dinners
palled upon her; nosegays could not be laid by as a provision for future years;
and she could not live upon nicknacks, laced handkerchiefs, and kid gloves. She
felt the frivolity of pleasure, and longed for more substantial benefits.
    At this juncture news arrived which was spread among the many creditors of
the Colonel at Paris, and which caused them great satisfaction. Miss Crawley,
the rich aunt from whom he expected his immense inheritance, was dying; the
Colonel must haste to her bedside. Mrs. Crawley and her child would remain
behind until he came to reclaim them. He departed for Calais, and having reached
that place in safety, it might have been supposed that he went to Dover; but
instead he took the diligence to Dunkirk, and thence travelled to Brussels, for
which place he had a former predilection. The fact is, he owed more money at
London than at Paris, and he preferred the quiet little Belgian city to either
of the more noisy capitals.
    Her aunt was dead. Mrs. Crawley ordered the most intense mourning for
herself and little Rawdon. The Colonel was busy arranging the affairs of the
inheritance. They could take the premier now instead of the little entresol of
the hotel which they occupied. Mrs. Crawley and the landlord had a consultation
about the new hangings, an amicable wrangle about the carpets, and a final
adjustment of everything except the bill. She went off in one of his carriages,
her French bonne with her, the child by her side, the admirable landlord and
landlady smiling farewell to her from the gate. General Tufto was furious when
he heard she was gone, and Mrs. Brent furious with him for being furious;
Lieutenant Spooney was cut to the heart; and the landlord got ready his best
apartments previous to the return of the fascinating little woman and her
husband. He serréd the trunks which she left in his charge with the greatest
care. They had been especially recommended to him by Madame Crawley. They were
not, however, found to be particularly valuable when opened some time after.
    But before she went to join her husband in the Belgic capital, Mrs. Crawley
made an expedition into England, leaving behind her her little son upon the
Continent, under the care of her French maid.
    The parting between Rebecca and the little Rawdon did not cause either party
much pain. She had not, to say truth, seen much of the young gentleman since his
birth. After the amiable fashion of French mothers, she had placed him out at
nurse in a village in the neighbourhood of Paris, where little Rawdon passed the
first months of his life, not unhappily, with a numerous family of foster -
brothers in wooden shoes. His father would ride over many a time to see him
here, and the elder Rawdon's paternal heart glowed to see him rosy and dirty,
shouting lustily, and happy in the making of mud-pies under the superintendence
of the gardener's wife, his nurse.
    Rebecca did not care much to go and see the son and heir. Once he spoiled a
new dove-coloured pelisse of hers. He preferred his nurse's caresses to his
mamma's, and when finally he quitted that jolly nurse and almost parent, he
cried loudly for hours. He was only consoled by his mother's promise that he
should return to his nurse the next day; indeed the nurse herself, who probably
would have been pained at the parting too, was told that the child would
immediately be restored to her, and for some time awaited quite anxiously his
return.
    In fact, our friends may be said to have been among the first of that brood
of hardy English adventurers who have subsequently invaded the Continent and
swindled in all the capitals of Europe. The respect in those happy days of
1817-18 was very great for the wealth and honour of Britons. They had not then
learned, as I am told, to haggle for bargains with the pertinacity which now
distinguishes them. The great cities of Europe had not been as yet open to the
enterprise of our rascals. And whereas there is now hardly a town of France or
Italy in which you shall not see some noble countryman of our own, with that
happy swagger and insolence of demeanour which we carry everywhere, swindling
inn-landlords, passing fictitious cheques upon credulous bankers, robbing
coach-makers of their carriages, goldsmiths of their trinkets, easy travellers
of their money at cards - even public libraries of their books: - thirty years
ago you needed but to be a Milor Anglais, travelling in a private carriage, and
credit was at your hand wherever you chose to seek it, and gentlemen, instead of
cheating, were cheated. It was not for some weeks after the Crawleys' departure
that the landlord of the hotel which they occupied during their residence at
Paris found out the losses which he had sustained - not until Madame Marabou,
the milliner, made repeated visits with her little bill for articles supplied to
Madame Crawley; not until Monsieur Didelot, from Boule d'Or in the Palais Royal,
had asked half a dozen times whether cette charmante Miladi who had bought
watches and bracelets of him was de retour. It is a fact that even the poor
gardener's wife, who had nursed Madame's child, was never paid after the first
six months for that supply of the milk of human kindness with which she had
furnished the lusty and healthy little Rawdon. No, not even the nurse was paid;
the Crawleys were in too great a hurry to remember their trifling debt to her.
As for the landlord of the hotel, his curses against the English nation were
violent for the rest of his natural life. He asked all travellers whether they
knew a certain Colonel Lor Crawley - avec sa femme, une petite dame, très
spirituelle. »Ah, Monsieur!« he would add, »ils m'ont affreusement vole.« It was
melancholy to hear his accents as he spoke of that catastrophe.
    Rebecca's object in her journey to London was to effect a kind of compromise
with her husband's numerous creditors, and by offering them a dividend of
ninepence or a shilling in the pound to secure a return for him into his own
country. It does not become us to trace the steps which she took in the conduct
of this most difficult negotiation; but having shown them to their satisfaction
that the sum which she was empowered to offer was all her husband's available
capital, and having convinced them that Colonel Crawley would prefer a perpetual
retirement on the Continent to a residence in this country with his debts
unsettled; having proved to them that there was no possibility of money accruing
to him from other quarters, and no earthly chance of their getting a larger
dividend than that which she was empowered to offer, she brought the Colonel's
creditors unanimously to accept her proposals, and purchased, with fifteen
hundred pounds of ready money, more than ten times that amount of debts.
    Mrs. Crawley employed no lawyer in the transaction. The matter was so
simple, to have or to leave, as she justly observed, that she made the lawyers
of the creditors themselves do the business. And Mr. Lewis, representing Mr.
Davids of Red Lion Square, and Mr. Moss, acting for Mr. Manasseh of Cursitor
Street (chief creditors of the Colonel's), complimented his lady upon the
brilliant way in which she did business, and declared that there was no
professional man who could beat her.
    Rebecca received their congratulations with perfect modesty; ordered a
bottle of sherry and a bread cake to the little dingy lodgings where she dwelt,
while conducting the business, to treat the enemy's lawyers; shook hands with
them at parting, in excellent good humour, and returned straightway to the
Continent, to rejoin her husband and son, and acquaint the former with the glad
news of his entire liberation. As for the latter, he had been considerably
neglected during his mother's absence by Mademoiselle Geneviève, her French
maid; for that young woman, contracting an attachment for a soldier in the
garrison of Calais, forgot her charge in the society of this militaire, and
little Rawdon very narrowly escaped drowning on Calais sands at this period,
where the absent Geneviève had left and lost him.
    And so Colonel and Mrs. Crawley came to London, and it is at their house in
Curzon Street, Mayfair, that they really showed the skill which must be
possessed by those who would live on the resources above named.
 

                                 Chapter XXXVII

                             The Subject Continued.

In the first place, and as a matter of the greatest necessity, we are bound to
describe how a house may be got for nothing a year. These mansions are to be had
either unfurnished, where, if you have credit with Messrs. Gillows or Bantings,
you can get them splendidly montées and decorated entirely according to your own
fancy; or they are to be let furnished - a less troublesome and complicated
arrangement to most parties. It was so that Crawley and his wife preferred to
hire their house.
    Before Mr. Bowls came to preside over Miss Crawley's house and cellar in
Park Lane, that lady had had for a butler a Mr. Raggles, who was born on the
family estate of Queen's Crawley, and indeed was a younger son of a gardener
there. By good conduct, a handsome person and calves, and a grave demeanour,
Raggles rose from the knife-board to the footboard of the carriage, from the
footboard to the butler's pantry. When he had been a certain number of years at
the head of Miss Crawley's establishment, where he had had good wages, fat
perquisites, and plenty of opportunities of saving, he announced that he was
about to contract a matrimonial alliance with a late cook of Miss Crawley's, who
had subsisted in an honourable manner by the exercise of a mangle, and the
keeping of a small green-grocer's shop in the neighbourhood. The truth is, that
the ceremony had been clandestinely performed some years back, although the news
of Mr. Raggles' marriage was first brought to Miss Crawley by a little boy and
girl of seven and eight years of age, whose continual presence in the kitchen
had attracted the attention of Miss Briggs.
    Mr. Raggles then retired, and personally undertook the superintendence of
the small shop and the greens. He added milk and cream, eggs and country-fed
pork to his stores, contenting himself, whilst other retired butlers were
vending spirits in public-houses, by dealing in the simplest country produce.
And having a good connection amongst the butlers in the neighbourhood, and a
snug back parlour where he and Mrs. Raggles received them, his milk, cream, and
eggs got to be adopted by many of the fraternity, and his profits increased
every year. Year after year he quietly and modestly amassed money, and when at
length that snug and complete bachelor's residence at No. 201 Curzon Street,
Mayfair, lately the residence of the Honourable Frederick Deuceace, gone abroad,
with its rich and appropriate furniture by the first makers, was brought to the
hammer, who should go in and purchase the lease and furniture of the house but
Charles Raggles? A part of the money he borrowed, it is true, and at rather a
high interest, from a brother butler, but the chief part he paid down; and it
was with no small pride that Mrs. Raggles found herself sleeping in a bed of
carved mahogany, with silk curtains, with a prodigious cheval-glass opposite to
her, and a wardrobe which would contain her, and Raggles, and all the family.
    Of course, they did not intend to occupy permanently an apartment so
splendid. It was in order to let the house again that Raggles purchased it. As
soon as a tenant was found, he subsided into the greengrocer's shop once more;
but a happy thing it was for him to walk out of that tenement and into Curzon
Street, and there survey his house - his own house - with geraniums in the
window and a carved bronze knocker. The footman, occasionally lounging at the
area railings, treated him with respect; the cook took her green stuff at his
house, and called him Mr. Landlord; and there was not one thing the tenants did,
or one dish which they had for dinner, that Raggles might not know of, if he
liked.
    He was a good man, good and happy. The house brought him in so handsome a
yearly income that he was determined to send his children to good schools, and
accordingly, regardless of expense, Charles was sent to boarding at Dr.
Swishtail's, Sugarcane Lodge, and little Matilda to Miss Peckover's, Laurentinum
House, Clapham.
    Raggles loved and adored the Crawley family as the author of all his
prosperity in life. He had a silhouette of his mistress in his back shop, and a
drawing of the Porter's Lodge at Queen's Crawley, done by that spinster herself
in India ink; and the only addition he made to the decorations of the Curzon
Street house was a print of Queen's Crawley in Hampshire, the seat of Sir
Walpole Crawley, Baronet, who was represented in a gilded car drawn by six white
horses, and passing by a lake covered with swans, and barges containing ladies
in hoops, and musicians with flags and periwigs. Indeed, Raggles thought there
was no such palace in all the world, and no such august family.
    As luck would have it, Raggles' house in Curzon Street was to let when
Rawdon and his wife returned to London. The Colonel knew it and its owner quite
well; the latter's connection with the Crawley family had been kept up
constantly, for Raggles helped Mr. Bowls whenever Miss Crawley received friends.
And the old man not only let his house to the Colonel, but officiated as his
butler whenever he had company; Mrs. Raggles operating in the kitchen below, and
sending up dinners of which old Miss Crawley herself might have approved. This
was the way, then, Crawley got his house for nothing: for though Raggles had to
pay taxes and rates, and the interest of the mortgage to the brother butler, and
the insurance of his life, and the charges for his children at school, and the
value of the meat and drink which his own family - and for a time that of
Colonel Crawley too - consumed; and though the poor wretch was utterly ruined by
the transaction, his children being flung on the streets, and himself driven
into the Fleet Prison, yet somebody must pay even for gentlemen who live for
nothing a year; and so it was this unlucky Raggles was made the representative
of Colonel Crawley's defective capital.
    I wonder how many families are driven to roguery and to ruin by great
practitioners in Crawley's way? how many great noblemen rob their petty
tradesmen, condescend to swindle their poor retainers out of wretched little
sums, and cheat for a few shillings? When we read that a noble nobleman has left
for the Continent, or that another noble nobleman has an execution in his house,
and that one or other owes six or seven millions, the defeat seems glorious
even, and we respect the victim in the vastness of his ruin. But who pities a
poor barber who can't get his money for powdering the footmen's heads; or a poor
carpenter who has ruined himself by fixing up ornaments and pavilions for my
lady's déjeuner; or the poor devil of a tailor whom the steward patronizes, and
who has pledged all he is worth, and more, to get the liveries ready which my
lord has done him the honour to bespeak? When the great house tumbles down,
these miserable wretches fall under it unnoticed; as they say in the old
legends, before a man goes to the devil himself, he sends plenty of other souls
thither.
    Rawdon and his wife generously gave their patronage to all such of Miss
Crawley's tradesmen and purveyors as chose to serve them. Some were willing
enough, especially the poor ones. It was wonderful to see the pertinacity with
which the washerwoman from Tooting brought the cart every Saturday, and her
bills week after week. Mr. Raggles himself had to supply the greengroceries. The
bill for servants' porter at the Fortune of War public-house is a curiosity in
the chronicles of beer. Every servant also was owed the greater part of his
wages, and thus kept up perforce an interest in the house. Nobody, in fact, was
paid - not the blacksmith who opened the lock, nor the glazier that mended the
pane, nor the jobber who let the carriage, nor the groom who drove it, nor the
butcher who provided the leg of mutton, nor the coals which roasted it, nor the
cook who basted it, nor the servants who ate it; and this, I am given to
understand, is not unfrequently the way in which people live elegantly on
nothing a year.
    In a little town such things cannot be done without remark. We know there
the quantity of milk our neighbour takes, and espy the joint or the fowls which
are going in for his dinner. So, probably, 200 and 202 in Curzon Street might
know what was going on in the house between them, the servants communicating
through the area-railings; but Crawley and his wife and his friends did not know
200 and 202. When you came to 201, there was a hearty welcome, a kind smile, a
good dinner, and a jolly shake of the hand from the host and hostess there, just
for all the world as if they had been undisputed masters of three or four
thousand a year; and so they were, not in money, but in produce and labour: if
they did not pay for the mutton, they had it; if they did not give bullion in
exchange for their wine, how should we know? Never was better claret at any
man's table than at honest Rawdon's, dinners more gay and neatly served. His
drawing-rooms were the prettiest little modest salons conceivable: they were
decorated with the greatest taste, and a thousand nicknacks from Paris, by
Rebecca; and when she sate at her piano trilling songs with a light-some heart,
the stranger voted himself in a little paradise of domestic comfort, and agreed
that, if the husband was rather stupid, the wife was charming, and the dinners
the pleasantest in the world.
    Rebecca's wit, cleverness, and flippancy made her speedily the vogue in
London among a certain class. You saw demure chariots at her door, out of which
stepped very great people. You beheld her carriage in the Park, surrounded by
dandies of note. The little box in the third tier of the Opera was crowded with
heads constantly changing; but it must be confessed that the ladies held aloof
from her, and that their doors were shut to our little adventurer.
    With regard to the world of female fashion and its customs, the present
writer, of course, can only speak at second-hand. A man can no more penetrate or
understand those mysteries than he can know what the ladies talk about when they
go upstairs after dinner. It is only by inquiry and perseverance that one
sometimes gets hints of those secrets; and by a similar diligence every person
who treads the Pall Mall pavement, and frequents the clubs of this metropolis,
knows, either through his own experience or through some acquaintance with whom
he plays at billiards or shares the joint, something about the genteel world of
London, and how, as there are men (such as Rawdon Crawley, whose position we
mentioned before) who cut a good figure to the eyes of the ignorant world and to
the apprentices in the Park, who behold them consorting with the most notorious
dandies there, so there are ladies, who may be called men's women, being
welcomed entirely by all the gentlemen, and cut or slighted by all their wives.
Mrs. Firebrace is of this sort - the lady with the beautiful fair ringlets whom
you see every day in Hyde Park, surrounded by the greatest and most famous
dandies of this empire. Mrs. Rockwood is another, whose parties are announced
laboriously in the fashionable newspapers, and with whom you see that all sorts
of ambassadors and great noblemen dine; and many more might be mentioned had
they to do with the history at present in hand. But while simple folks who are
out of the world, or country people with a taste for the genteel, behold these
ladies in their seeming glory in public places, or envy them from afar off,
persons who are better instructed could inform them that these envied ladies
have no more chance of establishing themselves in »Society« than the benighted
squire's wife in Somersetshire who reads of their doings in The Morning Post.
Men living about London are aware of these awful truths. You hear how pitilessly
many ladies of seeming rank and wealth are excluded from this »Society.« The
frantic efforts which they make to enter this circle, the meannesses to which
they submit, the insults which they undergo, are matters of wonder to those who
take human or woman kind for a study; and the pursuit of fashion under
difficulties would be a fine theme for any very great person who had the wit,
the leisure, and the knowledge of the English language necessary for the
compiling of such a history.
    Now the few female acquaintances whom Mrs. Crawley had known abroad not only
declined to visit her when she came to this side of the Channel, but cut her
severely when they met in public places. It was curious to see how the great
ladies forgot her, and no doubt not altogether a pleasant study to Rebecca. When
Lady Bareacres met her in the waiting-room at the Opera, she gathered her
daughters about her as if they would be contaminated by a touch of Becky, and
retreating a step or two, placed herself in front of them, and stared at her
little enemy. To stare Becky out of countenance required a severer glance than
even the frigid old Bareacres could shoot out of her dismal eyes. When Lady de
la Mole, who had ridden a score of times by Becky's side at Brussels, met Mrs.
Crawley's open carriage in Hyde Park, her Ladyship was quite blind, and could
not in the least recognize her former friend. Even Mrs. Blenkinsop, the banker's
wife, cut her at church. Becky went regularly to church now; it was edifying to
see her enter there with Rawdon by her side, carrying a couple of large gilt
prayer-books, and afterwards going through the ceremony with the gravest
resignation.
    Rawdon at first felt very acutely the slights which were passed upon his
wife, and was inclined, to be gloomy and savage. He talked of calling out the
husbands or brothers of every one of the insolent women who did not pay a proper
respect to his wife, and it was only by the strongest commands and entreaties on
her part that he was brought into keeping a decent behaviour. »You can't shoot
me into society,« she said good-naturedly. »Remember, my dear, that I was but a
governess, and you, you poor silly old man, have the worst reputation for debt,
and dice, and all sorts of wickedness. We shall get quite as many friends as we
want by-and-by, and in the meanwhile you must be a good boy, and obey your
schoolmistress in everything she tells you to do. When we heard that your aunt
had left almost everything to Pitt and his wife, do you remember what a rage you
were in? You would have told all Paris if I had not made you keep your temper;
and where would you have been now? in prison at Ste. Pélagie for debt, and not
established in London in a handsome house, with every comfort about you. You
were in such a fury you were ready to murder your brother, you wicked Cain you;
and what good would have come of remaining angry? All the rage in the world
won't get us your aunt's money, and it is much better that we should be friends
with your brother's family than enemies, as those foolish Butes are. When your
father dies, Queen's Crawley will be a pleasant house for you and me to pass the
winter in. If we are ruined, you can carve and take charge of the stable, and I
can be a governess to Lady Jane's children. Ruined! fiddlededee! I will get you
a good place before that; or Pitt and his little boy will die, and we will be
Sir Rawdon and my lady. While there is life there is hope, my dear, and I intend
to make a man of you yet. Who sold your horses for you? Who paid your debts for
you?« Rawdon was obliged to confess that he owed all these benefits to his wife,
and to trust himself to her guidance for the future.
    Indeed, when Miss Crawley quitted the world, and that money for which all
her relatives had been fighting so eagerly was finally left to Pitt, Bute
Crawley, who found that only five thousand pounds had been left to him instead
of the twenty upon which he calculated, was in such a fury at his disappointment
that he vented it in savage abuse upon his nephew, and the quarrel always
rankling between them ended in an utter breach of intercourse. Rawdon Crawley's
conduct, on the other hand, who got but a hundred pounds, was such as to
astonish his brother and delight his sister-in-law, who was disposed to look
kindly upon all the members of her husband's family. He wrote to his brother a
very frank, manly, good-humoured letter from Paris. He was aware, he said, that
by his own marriage he had forfeited his aunt's favour; and though he did not
disguise his disappointment that she should have been so entirely relentless
towards him, he was glad that the money was still kept in their branch of the
family, and heartily congratulated his brother on his good fortune. He sent his
affectionate remembrances to his sister, and hoped to have her good-will for
Mrs. Rawdon; and the letter concluded with a postscript to Pitt in the latter
lady's own handwriting. She, too, begged to join in her husband's
congratulations. She should ever remember Mr. Crawley's kindness to her in early
days when she was a friendless orphan, the instructress of his little sisters,
in whose welfare she still took the tenderest interest. She wished him every
happiness in his married life, and, asking his permission to offer her
remembrances to Lady Jane (of whose goodness all the world informed her), she
hoped that one day she might be allowed to present her little boy to his uncle
and aunt, and begged to bespeak for him their good-will and protection.
    Pitt Crawley received this communication very graciously - more graciously
than Miss Crawley had received some of Rebecca's previous compositions in
Rawdon's handwriting; and as for Lady Jane, she was so charmed with the letter,
that she expected her husband would instantly divide his aunt's legacy into two
equal portions, and send off one-half to his brother at Paris.
    To her Ladyship's surprise, however, Pitt declined to accommodate his
brother with a cheque for thirty thousand pounds. But he made Rawdon a handsome
offer of his hand whenever the latter should come to England and choose to take
it; and thanking Mrs. Crawley for her good opinion of himself and Lady Jane, he
graciously pronounced his willingness to take any opportunity to serve her
little boy.
    Thus an almost reconciliation was brought about between the brothers. When
Rebecca came to town, Pitt and his wife were not in London. Many a time she
drove by the old door in Park Lane, to see whether they had taken possession of
Miss Crawley's house there. But the new family did not make its appearance; it
was only through Raggles that she heard of their movements - how Miss Crawley's
domestics had been dismissed with decent gratuities, and how Mr. Pitt had only
once made his appearance in London, when he stopped for a few days at the house,
did business with his lawyers there, and sold off all Miss Crawley's French
novels to a bookseller out of Bond Street. Becky had reasons of her own which
caused her to long for the arrival of her new relation. »When Lady Jane comes,«
thought she, »she shall be my sponsor in London society; and as for the women -
bah! the women will ask me when they find the men want to see me.«
 
An article as necessary to a lady in this position as her brougham or her
bouquet is her companion. I have always admired the way in which the tender
creatures, who cannot exist without sympathy, hire an exceedingly plain friend
of their own sex from whom they are almost inseparable. The sight of that
inevitable woman in her faded gown, seated behind her dear friend in the
opera-box or occupying the back seat of the barouche, is always a wholesome and
moral one to me, as jolly a reminder as that of the Death's head which figured
in the repasts of Egyptian bons vivants - a strange sardonic memorial of Vanity
Fair. What? even battered, brazen, beautiful, conscienceless, heartless Mrs.
Firebrace, whose father died of her shame; even lovely, daring Mrs. Mantrap, who
will ride at any fence which any man in England will take, and who drives her
greys in the Park, while her mother keeps a huckster's stall in Bath still -
even those who are so bold one might fancy they could face anything dare not
face the world without a female friend. They must have somebody to cling to, the
affectionate creatures! And you will hardly see them in any public place without
a shabby companion in a dyed silk, sitting somewhere in the shade close behind
them.
    »Rawdon,« said Becky, very late one night, as a party of gentlemen were
seated round her crackling drawing-room fire (for the men came to her house to
finish the night, and she had ice and coffee for them, the best in London), »I
must have a sheep-dog.«
    »A what?« said Rawdon, looking up from an écarté table.
    »A sheep-dog!« said young Lord Southdown. »My dear Mrs. Crawley, what a
fancy! Why not have a Danish dog? I know of one as big as a camel-leopard, by
Jove. It would almost pull your brougham. Or a Persian greyhound, eh (I propose,
if you please); or a little pug that would go into one of Lord Steyne's
snuff-boxes? There's a man at Bayswater got one with such a nose that you might
- I mark the king and play - that you might hang your hat on it.«
    »I mark the trick,« Rawdon gravely said. He attended to his game commonly,
and didn't much meddle with the conversation except when it was about horses and
betting.
    »What can you want with a shepherd's dog?« the lively little Southdown
continued.
    »I mean a moral shepherd's dog,« said Becky, laughing, and looking up at
Lord Steyne.
    »What the devil's that?« said his Lordship.
    »A dog to keep the wolves off me,« Rebecca continued - »a companion.«
    »Dear little innocent lamb, you want one,« said the Marquis; and his jaw
thrust out, and he began to grin hideously, his little eyes leering towards
Rebecca.
    The great Lord of Steyne was standing by the fire sipping coffee. The fire
crackled and blazed pleasantly. There was a score of candles sparkling round the
mantelpiece, in all sorts of quaint sconces, of gilt and bronze and porcelain.
They lighted up Rebecca's figure to admiration, as she sate on a sofa covered
with a pattern of gaudy flowers. She was in a pink dress that looked as fresh as
a rose; her dazzling white arms and shoulders were half covered with a thin hazy
scarf through which they sparkled; her hair hung in curls round her neck; one of
her little feet peeped out from the fresh crisp folds of the silk - the
prettiest little foot in the prettiest little sandal in the finest silk stocking
in the world.
    The candles lighted up Lord Steyne's shining bald head, which was fringed
with red hair. He had thick, bushy eye-brows, with little twinkling bloodshot
eyes, surrounded by a thousand wrinkles. His jaw was underhung, and when he
laughed, two white buck-teeth protruded themselves and glistened savagely in the
midst of the grin. He had been dining with royal personages, and wore his garter
and ribbon. A short man was his Lordship, broad-chested, and bow-legged, but
proud of the fineness of his foot and ankle, and always caressing his
garter-knee.
    »And so the Shepherd is not enough,« said he, »to defend his lambkin?«
    »The Shepherd is too fond of playing at cards and going to his clubs,«
answered Becky, laughing.
    »Gad, what a debauched Corydon!« said my Lord - »what a mouth for a pipe!«
    »I take your three to two,« here said Rawdon, at the card-table.
    »Hark at Meliboeus,« snarled the noble Marquis; »he's pastorally occupied
too - he's shearing a Southdown. What an innocent mutton, hey? Damme, what a
snowy fleece!«
    Rebecca's eyes shot out gleams of scornful humour. »My Lord,« she said, »you
are a knight of the Order.« He had the collar round his neck, indeed - a gift of
the restored Princes of Spain.
    Lord Steyne in early life had been notorious for his daring and his success
at play. He had sat up two days and two nights with Mr. Fox at hazard. He had
won money of the most august personages of the realm - he had won his
marquisate, it was said, at the gaming-table - but he did not like an allusion
to those bygone fredaines. Rebecca saw the scowl gathering over his heavy brow.
    She rose up from her sofa, and went and took his coffee-cup out of his hand
with a little curtsy. »Yes,« she said, »I must get a watch-dog. But he won't
bark at you.« And going into the other drawing-room, she sate down to the piano,
and began to sing little French songs in such a charming, thrilling voice, that
the mollified nobleman speedily followed her into that chamber, and might be
seen nodding his head and bowing time over her.
    Rawdon and his friend meanwhile played écarté until they had enough. The
Colonel won; but say that he won ever so much and often, nights like these,
which occurred many times in the week - his wife having all the talk and all the
admiration, and he sitting silent without the circle, not comprehending a word
of the jokes, the allusions, the mystical language within - must have been
rather wearisome to the ex-dragoon.
    »How is Mrs. Crawley's husband?« Lord Steyne used to say to him by way of a
good-day when they met; and indeed that was now his avocation in life. He was
Colonel Crawley no more; he was Mrs. Crawley's husband.
 
About the little Rawdon, if nothing has been said all this while, it is because
he is hidden upstairs in a garret somewhere, or has crawled below into the
kitchen for companion-ship. His mother scarcely ever took notice of him. He
passed the days with his French bonne as long as that domestic remained in Mr.
Crawley's family, and when the Frenchwoman went away, the little fellow, howling
in the loneliness of the night, had compassion taken on him by a housemaid, who
took him out of his solitary nursery into her bed in the garret hard by, and
comforted him.
    Rebecca, my Lord Steyne, and one or two more were in the drawing-room taking
tea after the Opera when this shouting was heard overhead. »It's my cherub
crying for his nurse,« she said. She did not offer to move to go and see the
child. »Don't agitate your feelings by going to look for him,« said Lord Steyne
sardonically. »Bah!« replied the other, with a sort of blush, »he'll cry himself
to sleep;« and they fell to talking about the Opera.
    Rawdon had stolen off though, to look after his son and heir, and came back
to the company when he found that honest Dolly was consoling the child. The
Colonel's dressing-room was in those upper regions. He used to see the boy there
in private. They had interviews together every morning when he shaved; Rawdon
minor sitting on a box by his father's side, and watching the operation with
never-ceasing pleasure. He and the sire were great friends. The father would
bring him sweetmeats from the dessert, and hide them in a certain old epaulet
box, where the child went to seek them, and laughed with joy on discovering the
treasure - laughed, but not too loud; for mamma was below asleep, and must not
be disturbed. She did not go to rest till very late, and seldom rose till after
noon.
    Rawdon bought the boy plenty of picture-books, and crammed his nursery with
toys. Its walls were covered with pictures pasted up by the father's own hand,
and purchased by him for ready money. When he was off duty with Mrs. Rawdon in
the Park, he would sit up here, passing hours with the boy, who rode on his
chest, who pulled his great mustachios as if they were driving-reins, and spent
days with him in indefatigable gambols. The room was a low room, and once, when
the child was not five years old, his father, who was tossing him wildly up in
his arms, hit the poor little chap's skull so violently against the ceiling that
he almost dropped the child, so terrified was he at the disaster.
    Rawdon minor had made up his face for a tremendous howl - the severity of
the blow indeed authorized that indulgence; but just as he was going to begin,
the father interposed.
    »For God's sake, Rawdy, don't wake mamma!« he cried. And the child, looking
in a very hard and piteous way at his father, bit his lips, clenched his hands,
and didn't cry a bit. Rawdon told that story at the clubs, at the mess, to
everybody in town. »By Gad, sir,« he explained to the public in general, »what a
good plucked one that boy of mine is - what a trump he is! I half sent his head
through the ceiling, by Gad, and he wouldn't cry for fear of disturbing his
mother.«
    Sometimes - once or twice in a week - that lady visited the upper regions in
which the child lived. She came like a vivified figure out of the Magasin des
Modes - blandly smiling in the most beautiful new clothes and little gloves and
boots. Wonderful scarfs, laces, and jewels glittered about her. She had always a
new bonnet on, and flowers bloomed perpetually in it; or else magnificent
curling ostrich feathers, soft and snowy as camellias. She nodded twice or
thrice patronizingly to the little boy, who looked up from his dinner or from
the pictures of soldiers he was painting. When she left the room, an odour of
rose, or some other magical fragrance, lingered about the nursery. She was an
unearthly being in his eyes, superior to his father - to all the world; to be
worshipped and admired at a distance. To drive with that lady in the carriage
was an awful rite: he sate up in the back seat, and did not dare to speak; he
gazed with all his eyes at the beautifully dressed princess opposite to him.
Gentlemen on splendid prancing horses came up, and smiled and talked with her.
How her eyes beamed upon all of them! Her hand used to quiver and wave
gracefully as they passed. When he went out with her, he had his new red dress
on. His old brown holland was good enough when he stayed at home. Sometimes,
when she was away and Dolly his maid was making his bed, he came into his
mother's room. It was as the abode of a fairy to him - a mystic chamber of
splendour and delights. There in the wardrobe hung those wonderful robes - pink
and blue and many-tinted. There was the jewel-case, silver-clasped; and the
wondrous bronze hand on the dressing-table, glistening all over with a hundred
rings. There was the cheval-glass, that miracle of art, in which he could just
see his own wondering head, and the reflection of Dolly (queerly distorted, and
as if up in the ceiling), plumping and patting the pillows of the bed. O thou
poor lonely little benighted boy! Mother is the name for God in the lips and
hearts of little children, and here was one who was worshipping a stone!
    Now Rawdon Crawley, rascal as the Colonel was, had certain manly tendencies
of affection in his heart, and could love a child and a woman still. For Rawdon
minor he had a great secret tenderness then, which did not escape Rebecca,
though she did not talk about it to her husband. It did not annoy her - she was
too good-natured - it only increased her scorn for him. He felt somehow ashamed
of his paternal softness, and hid it from his wife, only indulging in it when
alone with the boy.
    He used to take him out of mornings, when they would go to the stables
together and to the Park. Little Lord Southdown, the best-natured of men, who
would make you a present of the hat from his head, and whose main occupation in
life was to buy nicknacks that he might give them away afterwards, bought the
little chap a pony not much bigger than a large rat, the donor said, and on this
little black Shetland pigmy young Rawdon's great father was pleased to mount the
boy, and to walk by his side in the Park. It pleased him to see his old
quarters, and his old fellow-Guardsmen at Knightsbridge: he had begun to think
of his bachelorhood with something like regret. The old troopers were glad to
recognize their ancient officer and dandle the little Colonel. Colonel Crawley
found dining at mess and with his brother-officers very pleasant. »Hang it! I
ain't clever enough for her - I know it. She won't miss me,« he used to say; and
he was right - his wife did not miss him.
    Rebecca was fond of her husband. She was always perfectly good-humoured and
kind to him. She did not even show her scorn much for him; perhaps she liked him
the better for being a fool. He was her upper servant and maître d'hôtel. He
went on her errands, obeyed her orders without question, drove in the carriage
in the ring with her without repining, took her to the opera-box, solaced
himself at his club during the performance, and came punctually back to fetch
her when due. He would have liked her to be a little fonder of the boy, but even
to that he reconciled himself. »Hang it, you know, she's so clever,« he said,
»and I'm not literary and that, you know.« For, as we have said before, it
requires no great wisdom to be able to win at cards and billiards, and Rawdon
made no pretensions to any other sort of skill.
    When the companion came, his domestic duties became very light. His wife
encouraged him to dine abroad; she would let him off duty at the Opera. »Don't
stay and stupefy yourself at home to-night, my dear,« she would say. »Some men
are coming who will only bore you. I would not ask them, but you know it's for
your good; and now I have a sheep-dog, I need not be afraid to be alone.«
    »A sheep-dog - a companion! Becky Sharp with a companion! Isn't it good
fun?« thought Mrs. Crawley to herself. The notion tickled hugely her sense of
humour.
 
One Sunday morning, as Rawdon Crawley, his little son, and the pony were taking
their accustomed walk in the Park, they passed by an old acquaintance of the
Colonel's, Corporal Clink of the regiment, who was in conversation with a
friend, an old gentleman, who held a boy in his arms about the age of little
Rawdon. This other youngster had seized hold of the Waterloo medal which the
Corporal wore, and was examining it with delight.
    »Good-morning, your honour,« said Clink, in reply to the »How do, Clink?« of
the Colonel. »This 'ere young gentleman is about the young Colonel's age, sir,«
continued the Corporal.
    »His father was a Waterloo man, too,« said the old gentleman, who carried
the boy. - »Wasn't he, Georgy?«
    »Yes,« said Georgy. He and the little chap on the pony were looking at each
other with all their might, solemnly scanning each other as children do.
    »In a line regiment,« Clink said, with a patronizing air.
    »He was a Captain in the -th regiment,« said the old gentleman, rather
pompously - »Captain George Osborne, sir; perhaps you knew him. He died the
death of a hero, sir, fighting against the Corsican tyrant.«
    Colonel Crawley blushed quite red. »I knew him very well, sir,« he said;
»and his wife, his dear little wife, sir, how is she?«
    »She is my daughter, sir,« said the old gentleman, putting down the boy, and
taking out a card with great solemnity, which he handed to the Colonel. On it
was written: -
    »Mr. Sedley, Sole Agent for the Black Diamond and Anti-Cinder Coal
Association, Bunker's Wharf, Thames Street, and Anna-Maria Cottages, Fulham Road
West.«
    Little Georgy went up and looked at the Shetland pony.
    »Should you like to have a ride?« said Rawdon minor from the saddle.
    »Yes,« said Georgy. The Colonel, who had been looking at him with some
interest, took up the child and put him on the pony behind Rawdon minor.
    »Take hold of him, Georgy,« he said - »take my little boy round the waist;
his name is Rawdon.« And both the children began to laugh.
    »You won't see a prettier pair, I think, this summer's day, sir,« said the
good-natured Corporal; and the Colonel, the Corporal, and old Mr. Sedley with
his umbrella, walked by the side of the children.
 

                                Chapter XXXVIII

                            A Family in a Small Way.

We must suppose little George Osborne has ridden from Knightsbridge towards
Fulham, and will stop and make inquiries at that village regarding some friends
whom we have left there. How is Mrs. Amelia after the storm of Waterloo? Is she
living and thriving? What has become of Major Dobbin, whose cab was always
hankering about her premises? and is there any news of the Collector of Boggley
Wollah? The facts concerning the latter are briefly these.
    Our worthy fat friend Joseph Sedley returned to India not long after his
escape from Brussels. Either his furlough was up, or he dreaded to meet any
witnesses of his Waterloo flight. However it might be, he went back to his
duties in Bengal very soon after Napoleon had taken up his residence at St.
Helena, where Jos saw the ex-Emperor. To hear Mr. Sedley talk on board ship you
would have supposed that it was not the first time he and the Corsican had met,
and that the civilian had bearded the French General at Mount St. John. He had a
thousand anecdotes about the famous battles; he knew the position of every
regiment, and the loss which each had incurred. He did not deny that he had been
concerned in those victories - that he had been with the army, and carried
dispatches for the Duke of Wellington. And he described what the Duke did and
said on every conceivable moment of the day of Waterloo, with such an accurate
knowledge of his Grace's sentiments and proceedings, that it was clear he must
have been by the conqueror's side throughout the day; though, as a
non-combatant, his name was not mentioned in the public documents relative to
the battle. Perhaps he actually worked himself up to believe that he had been
engaged with the army; certain it is that he made a prodigious sensation for
some time at Calcutta, and was called Waterloo Sedley during the whole of his
subsequent stay in Bengal.
    The bills which Jos had given for the purchase of those unlucky horses were
paid without question by him and his agents. He never was heard to allude to the
bargain, and nobody knows for a certainty what became of the horses, or how he
got rid of them, or of Isidor, his Belgian servant, who sold a grey horse, very
like the one which Jos rode, at Valenciennes some time during the autumn of
1815.
    Jos's London agents had orders to pay one hundred and twenty pounds yearly
to his parents at Fulham. It was the chief support of the old couple, for Mr.
Sedley's speculations in life subsequent to his bankruptcy did not by any means
retrieve the broken old gentleman's fortune. He tried to be a wine-merchant, a
coal-merchant, a commission lottery agent, etc., etc. He sent round prospectuses
to his friends whenever he took a new trade, and ordered a new brass plate for
the door, and talked pompously about making his fortune still. But Fortune never
came back to the feeble and stricken old man. One by one his friends dropped
off, and were weary of buying dear coals and bad wine from him; and there was
only his wife in all the world who fancied, when he tottered off to the City of
a morning, that he was still doing any business there. At evening he crawled
slowly back; and he used to go of nights to a little club at a tavern, where he
disposed of the finances of the nation. It was wonderful to hear him talk about
millions, and agios, and discounts, and what Rothschild was doing, and Baring
Brothers. He talked of such vast sums that the gentlemen of the club (the
apothecary, the undertaker, the great carpenter and builder, the parish clerk,
who was allowed to come stealthily, and Mr. Clapp, our old acquaintance),
respected the old gentleman. »I was better off once, sir,« he did not fail to
tell everybody who »used the room.« »My son, sir, is at this minute chief
magistrate of Ramgunge in the Presidency of Bengal, and touching his four
thousand rupees per mensem. My daughter might be a Colonel's lady if she liked.
I might draw upon my son, the first magistrate, sir, for two thousand pounds
to-morrow, and Alexander would cash my bill, down, sir, down on the counter,
sir. But the Sedleys were always a proud family.« You and I, my dear reader, may
drop into this condition one day; for have not many of our friends attained it?
Our luck may fail; our powers forsake us; our place on the boards be taken by
better and younger mimes - the chance of life roll away and leave us shattered
and stranded. Then men will walk across the road when they meet you - or, worse
still, hold you out a couple of fingers and patronize you in a pitying way -
then you will know, as soon as your back is turned, that your friend begins with
a »Poor devil, what imprudence he has committed, what chances that chap has
thrown away!« Well, well - a carriage and three thousand a year is not the
summit of the reward nor the end of God's judgment of men. If quacks prosper as
often as they go to the wall - if zanies succeed and knaves arrive at fortune,
and, vice versâ, sharing ill-luck and prosperity for all the world like the
ablest and most honest amongst us - I say, brother, the gifts and pleasures of
Vanity Fair cannot be held of any great account, and that it is probable ....
But we are wandering out of the domain of the story.
    Had Mrs. Sedley been a woman of energy, she would have exerted it after her
husband's ruin, and, occupying a large house, would have taken in boarders. The
broken Sedley would have acted well as the boarding-house landlady's husband;
the Munoz of private life; the titular lord and master; the carver,
house-steward, and humble husband of the occupier of the dingy throne. I have
seen men of good brains and breeding, and of good hopes and vigour once, who
feasted squires and kept hunters in their youth, meekly cutting up legs of
mutton for rancorous old harridans, and pretending to preside over their dreary
tables. But Mrs. Sedley, we say, had not spirit enough to bustle about for »a
few select inmates to join a cheerful musical family,« such as one reads of in
The Times. She was content to lie on the shore where Fortune had stranded her;
and you could see that the career of this old couple was over.
    I don't think they were unhappy. Perhaps they were a little prouder in their
downfall than in their prosperity. Mrs. Sedley was always a great person for her
landlady, Mrs. Clapp, when she descended and passed many hours with her in the
basement or ornamental kitchen. The Irish maid Betty Flanagan's bonnets and
ribbons, her sauciness, her idleness, her reckless prodigality of kitchen
candles, her consumption of tea and sugar, and so forth, occupied and amused the
old lady almost as much as the doings of her former household, when she had
Sambo and the coachman, and a groom, and a footboy, and a housekeeper, with a
regiment of female domestics - her former household, about which the good lady
talked a hundred times a day. And besides Betty Flanagan, Mrs. Sedley had all
the maids-of-all-work in the street to superintend. She knew how each tenant of
the cottages paid or owed his little rent. She stepped aside when Mrs. Rougemont
the actress passed with her dubious family. She flung up her head when Mrs.
Pestler, the apothecary's lady, drove by in her husband's professional one-horse
chaise. She had colloquies with the greengrocer about the penn'orth of turnips
which Mr. Sedley loved; she kept an eye upon the milkman and the baker's boy,
and made visitations to the butcher, who sold hundreds of oxen very likely with
less ado than was made about Mrs. Sedley's loin of mutton; and she counted the
potatoes under the joint on Sundays, on which days, dressed in her best, she
went to church twice, and read Blair's Sermons in the evening.
    On that day, for »business« prevented him on week-days from taking such a
pleasure, it was old Sedley's delight to take out his little grandson Georgy to
the neighbouring parks or Kensington Gardens, to see the soldiers or to feed the
ducks. Georgy loved the redcoats, and his grandpapa told him how his father had
been a famous soldier, and introduced him to many sergeants and others with
Waterloo medals on their breasts, to whom the old grandfather pompously
presented the child as the son of Captain Osborne of the - th, who died
gloriously on the glorious eighteenth. He has been known to treat some of these
non-commissioned gentlemen to a glass of porter; and, indeed, in their first
Sunday walks was disposed to spoil little Georgy, sadly gorging the boy with
apples and parliament, to the detriment of his health - until Amelia declared
that George should never go out with his grandpapa, unless the latter promised
solemnly, and on his honour, not to give the child any cakes, lollipops, or
stall-produce whatever.
    Between Mrs. Sedley and her daughter there was a sort of coolness about this
boy, and a secret jealousy; for one evening in George's very early days, Amelia,
who had been seated at work in their little parlour, scarcely remarking that the
old lady had quitted the room, ran upstairs instinctively to the nursery at the
cries of the child, who had been asleep until that moment, and there found Mrs.
Sedley in the act of surreptitiously administering Daffy's Elixir to the infant.
Amelia, the gentlest and sweetest of everyday mortals, when she found this
meddling with her maternal authority, thrilled and trembled all over with anger.
Her cheeks, ordinarily pale, now flushed up, until they were as red as they used
to be when she was a child of twelve years old. She seized the baby out of her
mother's arms, and then grasped at the bottle, leaving the old lady gaping at
her, furious, and holding the guilty teaspoon.
    Amelia flung the bottle crashing into the fireplace. »I will not have baby
poisoned, mamma!« cried Emmy, rocking the infant about violently with both her
arms round him, and turning with flashing eyes at her mother.
    »Poisoned, Amelia!« said the old lady; »this language to me?«
    »He shall not have any medicine but that which Mr. Pestler sends for him. He
told me that Daffy's Elixir was poison.«
    »Very good; you think I'm a murderess then,« replied Mrs. Sedley. »This is
the language you use to your mother. I have met with misfortunes; I have sunk
low in life; I have kept my carriage, and now walk on foot; but I did not know I
was a murderess before, and thank you for the news.«
    »Mamma,« said the poor girl, who was always ready for tears, »you shouldn't
be hard upon me. I - I didn't mean - I mean, I did not wish to say you would do
any wrong to this dear child; only -«
    »Oh, no, my love, - only that I was a murderess; in which case, I had better
go to the Old Bailey. Though I didn't poison you when you were a child, but gave
you the best of education and the most expensive masters money could procure.
Yes; I've nursed five children, and buried three; and the one I loved the best
of all, and tended through croup, and teething, and measles, and whooping-cough,
and brought up with foreign masters, regardless of expense, and with
accomplishments at Minerva House - which I never had when I was a girl, when I
was too glad to honour my father and mother, that I might live long in the land,
and to be useful, and not to mope all day in my room and act the fine lady -
says I'm a murderess. Ah, Mrs. Osborne! may you never nourish a viper in your
bosom, that's my prayer.«
    »Mamma, mamma!« cried the bewildered girl; and the child in her arms set up
a frantic chorus of shouts.
    »A murderess, indeed! Go down on your knees and pray to God to cleanse your
wicked, ungrateful heart, Amelia; and may He forgive you as I do!« and Mrs.
Sedley tossed out of the room, hissing out the word poison once more, and so
ending her charitable benediction.
    Till the termination of her natural life, this breach between Mrs. Sedley
and her daughter was never thoroughly mended. The quarrel gave the elder lady
numberless advantages, which she did not fail to turn to account with female
ingenuity and perseverance. For instance, she scarcely spoke to Amelia for many
weeks afterwards. She warned the domestics not to touch the child, as Mrs.
Osborne might be offended. She asked her daughter to see and satisfy herself
that there was no poison prepared in the little daily messes that were concocted
for Georgy. When neighbours asked after the boy's health, she referred them
pointedly to Mrs. Osborne. She never ventured to ask whether the baby was well
or not. She would not touch the child although he was her grandson, and own
precious darling, for she was not used to children, and might kill it. And
whenever Mr. Pestler came upon his healing inquisition, she received the doctor
with such a sarcastic and scornful demeanour, as made the surgeon declare that
not Lady Thistlewood herself, whom he had the honour of attending
professionally, could give herself greater airs than old Mrs. Sedley, from whom
he never took a fee. And very likely Emmy was jealous too, upon her own part, as
what mother is not, of those who would manage her children for her, or become
candidates for the first place in their affections? It is certain that when
anybody nursed the child she was uneasy, and that she would no more allow Mrs.
Clapp or the domestic to dress or tend him than she would have let them wash her
husband's miniature which hung up over her little bed - the same little bed from
which the poor girl had gone to his; and to which she retired now for many long,
silent, tearful, but happy years.
    In this room was all Amelia's heart and treasure. Here it was that she
tended her boy, and watched him through the many ills of childhood, with a
constant passion of love. The elder George returned in him somehow, only
improved, and as if come back from heaven. In a hundred little tones, looks, and
movements, the child was so like his father, that the widow's heart thrilled as
she held him to it; and he would often ask the cause of her tears. It was
because of his likeness to his father, she did not scruple to tell him. She
talked constantly to him about this dead father, and spoke of her love for
George to the innocent and wondering child; much more than she ever had done to
George himself, or to any confidante of her youth. To her parents she never
talked about this matter, shrinking from baring her heart to them. Little George
very likely could understand no better than they; but into his ears she poured
her sentimental secrets unreservedly, and into his only. The very joy of this
woman was a sort of grief, or so tender, at least, that its expression was
tears. Her sensibilities were so weak and tremulous that perhaps they ought not
to be talked about in a book. I was told by Dr. Pestler (now a most flourishing
lady's physician, with a sumptuous dark-green carriage, a prospect of speedy
knighthood, and a house in Manchester Square), that her grief at weaning the
child was a sight that would have unmanned a Herod. He was very soft-hearted
many years ago, and his wife was mortally jealous of Mrs. Amelia, then and long
afterwards.
    Perhaps the doctor's lady had good reason for her jealousy: most women
shared it, of those who formed the small circle of Amelia's acquaintance, and
were quite angry at the enthusiasm with which the other sex regarded her. For
almost all men who came near her loved her; though no doubt they would be at a
loss to tell you why. She was not brilliant, nor witty, nor wise overmuch, nor
extraordinarily handsome. But wherever she went she touched and charmed every
one of the male sex, as invariably as she awakened the scorn and incredulity of
her own sisterhood. I think it was her weakness which was her principal charm -
a kind of sweet submission and softness, which seemed to appeal to each man she
met for his sympathy and protection. We have seen how, in the regiment, though
she spoke but to few of George's comrades there, all the swords of the young
fellows at the mess-table would have leapt from their scab- bards to fight round
her. And so it was in the little narrow lodging-house and circle at Fulham - she
interested and pleased everybody. If she had been Mrs. Mango herself, of the
great house of Mango, Plantain &amp; Co., Crutched Friars, and the magnificent
proprietress of the Pineries, Fulham, who gave summer déjeuners frequented by
dukes and earls, and drove about the parish with magnificent yellow liveries and
bay horses such as the royal stables at Kensington themselves could not turn out
- I say, had she been Mrs. Mango herself, or her son's wife, Lady Mary Mango
(daughter of the Earl of Castlemouldy, who condescended to marry the head of the
firm), the tradesmen of the neighbourhood could not pay her more honour than
they invariably showed to the gentle young widow when she passed by their doors,
or made her humble purchases at their shops.
    Thus it was not only Mr. Pestler, the medical man, but Mr. Linton, the young
assistant who doctored the servant-maids and small tradesmen, and might be seen
any day reading The Times in the surgery, who openly declared himself the slave
of Mrs. Osborne. He was a personable young gentleman, more welcome at Mrs.
Sedley's lodgings than his principal; and if anything went wrong with Georgy, he
would drop in twice or thrice in a day to see the little chap, and without so
much as the thought of a fee. He would abstract lozenges, tamarinds, and other
produce from the surgery drawers for little Georgy's benefit, and compounded
draughts and mixtures for him of miraculous sweetness, so that it was quite a
pleasure to the child to be ailing. He and Pestler, his chief, sate up two whole
nights by the boy in that momentous and awful week when Georgy had the measles;
and when you would have thought, from the mother's terror, that there had never
been measles in the world before. Would they have done as much for other people?
Did they sit up for the folks at the Pineries, when Ralph Plantagenet, and
Gwendoline, and Guinever Mango had the same juvenile complaint? Did they sit up
for little Mary Clapp, the landlord's daughter, who actually caught the disease
off little Georgy? Truth compels one to say, no. They slept quite undisturbed,
at least as far as she was concerned - pronounced hers to be a slight case,
which would almost cure itself, sent her in a draught or two, and threw in bark
when the child rallied, with perfect indifference, and just for form's sake.
    Again, there was the little French chevalier opposite, who gave lessons in
his native tongue at various schools in the neighbourhood, and who might be
heard in his apartments of nights playing tremulous old gavottes and minuets on
a wheezy old fiddle. Whenever this powdered and courteous old man, who never
missed a Sunday at the convent chapel at Hammersmith, and who was in all
respects, thoughts, conduct, and bearing, utterly unlike the bearded savages of
his nation, who curse perfidious Albion, and scowl at you from over their
cigars, in the Quadrant arcades at the present day - whenever the old Chevalier
de Talonrouge spoke of Mistress Osborne, he would first finish his pinch of
snuff, flick away the remaining particles of dust with a graceful wave of his
hand, gather up his fingers again into a bunch, and, bringing them up to his
mouth, blow them open with a kiss, exclaiming, Ah! la divine créature! He vowed
and protested that when Amelia walked in the Brompton lanes flowers grew in
profusion under her feet. He called little Georgy Cupid, and asked him news of
Venus, his mamma; and told the astonished Betty Flanagan that she was one of the
Graces, and the favourite attendant of the Reine des Amours.
    Instances might be multiplied of this easily-gained and unconscious
popularity. Did not Mr. Binny, the mild and genteel curate of the district
chapel, which the family attended, call assiduously upon the widow, dandle the
little boy on his knee, and offer to teach him Latin, to the anger of the
elderly virgin, his sister, who kept house for him? »There is nothing in her,
Beilby,« the latter lady would say. »When she comes to tea here, she does not
speak a word during the whole evening. She is but a poor, lackadaisical
creature, and it is my belief has no heart at all. It is only her pretty face
which all you gentlemen admire so. Miss Grits, who has five thousand pounds, and
expectations besides, has twice as much character, and is a thousand times more
agreeable to my taste; and if she were good-looking, I know that you would think
her perfection.«
    Very likely Miss Binny was right to a great extent. It is the pretty face
which creates sympathy in the hearts of men, those wicked rogues. A woman may
possess the wisdom and chastity of Minerva, and we give no heed to her if she
has a plain face. What folly will not a pair of bright eyes make pardonable?
What dullness may not red lips and sweet accents render pleasant? And so, with
their usual sense of justice, ladies argue that because a woman is handsome,
therefore she is a fool. O ladies, ladies! there are some of you who are neither
handsome nor wise.
    These are but trivial incidents to recount in the life of our heroine. Her
tale does not deal in wonders, as the gentle reader has already no doubt
perceived; and if a journal had been kept of her proceedings during the seven
years after the birth of her son, there would have been found few incidents more
remarkable in it than that of the measles, recorded in the foregoing page. Yes,
one day, and greatly to her wonder, the Reverend Mr. Binny, just mentioned,
asked her to change her name of Osborne for his own; when with deep blushes, and
tears in her eyes and voice, she thanked him for his regard for her, expressed
gratitude for his attentions to her and to her poor little boy, but said that
she never, never could think of any but - but the husband whom she had lost.
    On the twenty-fifth of April, and the eighteenth of June, the days of
marriage and widowhood, she kept her room entirely, consecrating them (and we do
not know how many hours of solitary night-thought, her little boy sleeping in
his crib by her bedside) to the memory of that departed friend. During the day
she was more active. She had to teach George to read and to write, and a little
to draw. She read books, in order that she might tell him stories from them. As
his eyes opened, and his mind expanded, under the influence of the outward
nature round about him, she taught the child, to the best of her humble power,
to acknowledge the Maker of all; and every night and every morning he and she -
(in that awful and touching communion which I think must bring a thrill to the
heart of every man who witnesses or who remembers it) - the mother and the
little boy - prayed to Our Father together, the mother pleading with all her
gentle heart, the child lisping after her as she spoke. And each time they
prayed to God to bless dear papa, as if he were alive and in the room with them.
    To wash and dress this young gentleman - to take him for a run of the
mornings, before breakfast, and the retreat of grandpapa for »business« - to
make for him the most wonderful and ingenious dresses, for which end the thrifty
widow cut up and altered every available little bit of finery which she
possessed out of her wardrobe during her marriage - for Mrs. Osborne herself
(greatly to her mother's vexation, who preferred fine clothes, especially since
her misfortunes) always wore a black gown, and a straw bonnet with a black
ribbon - occupied her many hours of the day. Others she had to spare, at the
service of her mother and her old father. She had taken the pains to learn, and
used to play cribbage with this gentleman on the nights when he did not go to
his club. She sang for him when he was so minded; and it was a good sign, for he
invariably fell into a comfortable sleep during the music. She wrote out his
numerous memorials, letters, prospectuses, and projects. It was in her
handwriting that most of the old gentleman's former acquaintances were informed
that he had become an agent for the Black Diamond and Anti-Cinder Coal Company,
and could supply his friends and the public with the best coals at - s. per
chaldron. All he did was to sign the circulars with his flourish and signature,
and direct them in a shaky, clerk-like hand. One of these papers was sent to
Major Dobbin, - Regt., care of Messrs. Cox &amp; Greenwood; but the Major, being
in Madras at the time, had no particular call for coals. He knew though the hand
which had written the prospectus. Good God! what would he not have given to hold
it in his own! A second prospectus came out, informing the Major that J. Sedley
&amp; Company, having established agencies at Oporto, Bordeaux, and St. Mary's,
were enabled to offer to their friends and the public generally the finest and
most celebrated growths of ports, sherries, and claret wines, at reasonable
prices, and under extraordinary advantages. Acting upon this hint, Dobbin
furiously canvassed the governor, the commander-in-chief, the judges, the
regiments, and everybody whom he knew in the Presidency, and sent home to Sedley
&amp; Co. orders for wine which perfectly astonished Mr. Sedley and Mr. Clapp,
who was the Co. in the business. But no more orders came after that first burst
of good fortune, on which poor old Sedley was about to build a house in the
City, a regiment of clerks, a dock to himself, and correspondents all over the
world. The old gentleman's former taste in wine had gone: the curses of the
mess-room assailed Major Dobbin for the vile drinks he had been the means of
introducing there; and he bought back a great quantity of the wine, and sold it
at public outcry, at an enormous loss to himself. As for Jos, who was by this
time promoted to a seat at the Revenue Board at Culcutta, he was wild with rage
when the post brought him out a bundle of these Bacchanalian prospectuses, with
a private note from his father, telling Jos that his senior counted upon him in
this enterprise, and had consigned a quantity of select wines to him, as per
invoice, drawing bills upon him for the amount of the same. Jos, who would no
more have it supposed that his father, Jos Sedley's father, of the Board of
Revenue, was a wine-merchant asking for orders, than that he was Jack Ketch,
refused the bills with scorn, wrote back contumeliously to the old gentleman,
bidding him to mind his own affairs; and the protested paper coming back, Sedley
&amp; Co. had to take it up, with the profits which they had made out of the
Madras venture, and with a little portion of Emmy's savings.
    Besides her pension of fifty pounds a year, there had been five hundred
pounds, as her husband's executor stated, left in the agents' hands at the time
of Osborne's demise, which sum, as George's guardian, Dobbin proposed to put out
at 8 per cent. in an Indian house of agency. Mr. Sedley, who thought the Major
had some roguish intentions of his own about the money, was strongly against
this plan; and he went to the agents to protest personally against the
employment of the money in question, when he learned, to his surprise, that
there had been no such sum in their hands, that all the late Captain's assets
did not amount to a hundred pounds, and that the five hundred pounds in question
must be a separate sum, of which Major Dobbin knew the particulars. More than
ever convinced that there was some roguery, old Sedley pursued the Major. As his
daughter's nearest friend, he demanded, with a high hand, a statement of the
late Captain's accounts. Dobbin's stammering, blushing, and awkwardness added to
the other's convictions that he had a rogue to deal with; and in a majestic tone
he told that officer a piece of his mind, as he called it, simply stating his
belief that the Major was unlawfully detaining his late son-in-law's money.
    Dobbin at this lost all patience, and if his accuser had not been so old and
so broken, a quarrel might have ensued between them at the Slaughters'
Coffee-House, in a box of which place of entertainment the gentlemen had their
colloquy. »Come upstairs, sir,« lisped out the Major. »I insist on your coming
up the stairs, and I will show which is the injured party, poor George or I;«
and, dragging the old gentleman up to his bedroom, he produced from his desk
Osborne's accounts, and a bundle of I O U's which the latter had given, who, to
do him justice, was always ready to give an I O U. »He paid his bills in
England,« Dobbin added; »but he had not a hundred pounds in the world when he
fell. I and one or two of his brother officers made up the little sum, which was
all that we could spare; and you dare tell us that we are trying to cheat the
widow and the orphan!« Sedley was very contrite and humbled; though the fact is,
that William Dobbin had told a great falsehood to the old gentleman, having
himself given every shilling of the money, having buried his friend, and paid
all the fees and charges incident upon the calamity and removal of poor Amelia.
    About these expenses old Osborne had never given himself any trouble to
think, nor any other relative of Amelia, nor Amelia herself, indeed. She trusted
to Major Dobbin as an accountant; took his somewhat confused calculations for
granted; and never once suspected how much she was in his debt.
    Twice or thrice in the year, according to her promise, she wrote him letters
to Madras, letters all about little Georgy. How he treasured these papers!
Whenever Amelia wrote he answered, and not until then. But he sent over endless
remembrances of himself to his godson and to her. He ordered and sent a box of
scarfs, and a grand ivory set of chessmen from China. The pawns were little
green and white men, with real swords and shields; the knights were on
horseback; the castles were on the backs of elephants. »Mrs. Mango's own set at
the Pineries was not so fine,« Mr. Pestler remarked. These chessmen were the
delight of Georgy's life, who printed his first letter in acknowledgement of this
gift of his godpapa. He sent over preserves and pickles, which latter the young
gentleman tried surreptitiously in the sideboard, and half killed himself with
eating. He thought it was a judgment upon him for stealing, they were so hot.
Emmy wrote a comical little account of this mishap to the Major: it pleased him
to think that her spirits were rallying, and that she could be merry sometimes
now. He sent over a pair of shawls, a white one for her, and a black one with
palm-leaves for her mother, and a pair of red scarfs, as winter wrappers, for
old Mr. Sedley and George. The shawls were worth fifty guineas apiece at the
very least, as Mrs. Sedley knew. She wore hers in state at church at Brompton,
and was congratulated by her female friends upon the splendid acquisition.
Emmy's, too, became prettily her modest black gown. »What a pity it is she won't
think of him!« Mrs. Sedley remarked to Mrs. Clapp, and to all her friends at
Brompton. »Jos never sent us such presents, I am sure, and grudges us
everything. It is evident that the Major is over head and ears in love with her;
and yet, whenever I so much as hint it, she turns red and begins to cry, and
goes and sits upstairs with her miniature. I am sick of that miniature. I wish
we had never seen those odious purse-proud Osbornes.«
    Amidst such humble scenes and associates George's early youth was passed,
and the boy grew up delicate, sensitive, imperious, woman-bred - domineering the
gentle mother whom he loved with passionate affection. He ruled all the rest of
the little world round about him. As he grew, the elders were amazed at his
haughty manner and his constant likeness to his father. He asked questions about
everything, as inquiring youth will do. The profundity of his remarks and
interrogatories astonished his old grandfather, who perfectly bored the club at
the tavern with stories about the little lad's learning and genius. He suffered
his grandmother with a good-humoured indifference. The small circle round about
him believed that the equal of the boy did not exist upon the earth. Georgy
inherited his father's pride, and perhaps thought they were not wrong.
    When he grew to be about six years old, Dobbin began to write to him very
much. The Major wanted to hear that Georgy was going to a school, and hoped he
would acquit himself with credit there; or would he have a good tutor at home?
it was time that he should begin to learn, and his godfather and guardian hinted
that he hoped to be allowed to defray the charges of the boy's education, which
would fall heavily upon his mother's straitened income. The Major, in a word,
was always thinking about Amelia and her little boy, and by orders to his agents
kept the latter provided with picture-books, paint-boxes, desks, and all
conceivable implements of amusement and instruction. Three days before George's
sixth birthday a gentleman in a gig, accompanied by a servant, drove up to Mr.
Sedley's house, and asked to see Master George Osborne. It was Mr. Woolsey,
military tailor, of Conduit Street, who came at the Major's order to measure the
young gentleman for a suit of clothes. He had had the honour of making for the
Captain, the young gentleman's father. Sometimes, too, and by the Major's desire
no doubt, his sisters, the Misses Dobbin, would call in the family carriage to
take Amelia and the little boy a drive if they were so inclined. The patronage
and kindness of these ladies was very uncomfortable to Amelia; but she bore it
meekly enough, for her nature was to yield, and, besides, the carriage and its
splendours gave little Georgy immense pleasure. The ladies begged occasionally
that the child might pass a day with them; and he was always glad to go to that
fine garden-house at Denmark Hill, where they lived, and where there were such
fine grapes in the hot-houses and peaches on the walls.
    One day they kindly came over to Amelia with news which they were sure would
delight her - something very interesting about their dear William.
    »What was it? was he coming home?« she asked, with pleasure beaming in her
eyes.
    »Oh, no - not the least - but they had very good reason to believe that dear
William was about to be married - and to a relation of a very dear friend of
Amelia's - to Miss Glorvina O'Dowd, Sir Michael O'Dowd's sister, who had gone
out to join Lady O'Dowd at Madras - a very beautiful and accomplished girl,
everybody said.«
    Amelia said, »Oh!« Amelia was very, very happy indeed. But she supposed
Glorvina could not be like her old acquaintance, who was most kind - but - but
she was very happy indeed. And by some impulse of which I cannot explain the
meaning, she took George in her arms and kissed him with an extraordinary
tenderness. Her eyes were quite moist when she put the child down, and she
scarcely spoke a word during the whole of the drive - though she was so very
happy indeed.
 

                                 Chapter XXXIX

                               A Cynical Chapter.

Our duty now takes us back for a brief space to some old Hampshire acquaintances
of ours, whose hopes respecting the disposal of their rich kinswoman's property
were so woefully disappointed. After counting upon thirty thousand pounds from
his sister, it was a heavy blow to Bute Crawley to receive but five; out of
which sum, when he had paid his own debts and those of Jim, his son at college,
a very small fragment remained to portion off his four plain daughters. Mrs.
Bute never knew, or at least never acknowledged, how far her own tyrannous
behaviour had tended to ruin her husband. All that woman could do she vowed and
protested she had done. Was it her fault if she did not possess those
sycophantic arts which her hypocritical nephew, Pitt Crawley, practised? She
wished him all the happiness which he merited out of his ill-gotten gains. »At
least the money will remain in the family,« she said charitably. »Pitt will
never spend it, my dear, that is quite certain, for a greater miser does not
exist in England; and he is as odious, though in a different way, as his
spendthrift brother, the abandoned Rawdon.«
    So Mrs. Bute, after the first shock of rage and disappointment, began to
accommodate herself as best she could to her altered fortunes, and to save and
retrench with all her might. She instructed her daughters how to bear poverty
cheerfully, and invented a thousand notable methods to conceal or evade it. She
took them about to balls and public places in the neighbourhood, with
praiseworthy energy; nay, she entertained her friends in a hospitable,
comfortable manner at the Rectory, and much more frequently than before dear
Miss Crawley's legacy had fallen in. From her outward bearing nobody would have
supposed that the family had been disappointed in their expectations, or have
guessed from her frequent appearance in public how she pinched and starved at
home. Her girls had more milliners' furniture than they had ever enjoyed before.
They appeared perseveringly at the Winchester and Southampton assemblies; they
penetrated to Cowes for the race balls and regatta gaieties there; and their
carriage, with the horses taken from the plough, was at work perpetually, until
it began almost to be believed that the four sisters had had fortunes left them
by their aunt, whose name the family never mentioned in public but with the most
tender gratitude and regard. I know no sort of lying which is more frequent in
Vanity Fair than this; and it may be remarked how people who practise it take
credit to themselves for their hypocrisy, and fancy that they are exceedingly
virtuous and praiseworthy, because they are able to deceive the world with
regard to the extent of their means.
    Mrs. Bute certainly thought herself one of the most virtuous women in
England, and the sight of her happy family was an edifying one to strangers.
They were so cheerful, so loving, so well-educated, so simple! Martha painted
flowers exquisitely, and furnished half the charity bazaars in the county. Emma
was a regular County Bulbul, and her verses in The Hampshire Telegraph were the
glory of its Poet's Corner. Fanny and Matilda sang duets together, mamma playing
the piano, and the other two sisters sitting with their arms round each other's
waists, and listening affectionately. Nobody saw the poor girls drumming at the
duets in private. No one saw mamma drilling them rigidly hour after hour. In a
word, Mrs. Bute put a good face against fortune, and kept up appearances in the
most virtuous manner.
    Everything that a good and respectable mother could do Mrs. Bute did. She
got over yachting men from Southampton, parsons from the Cathedral Close at
Winchester, and officers from the barracks there. She tried to inveigle the
young barristers at assizes, and encouraged Jim to bring home friends with whom
he went out hunting with the H.H. What will not a mother do for the benefit of
her beloved ones?
    Between such a woman and her brother-in-law, the odious Baronet at the Hall,
it is manifest that there could be very little in common. The rupture between
Bute and his brother Sir Pitt was complete; indeed, between Sir Pitt and the
whole county, to which the old man was a scandal. His dislike for respectable
society increased with age, and the lodge-gates had not opened to a gentleman's
carriage-wheels since Pitt and Lady Jane came to pay their visit of duty after
their marriage.
    That was an awful and unfortunate visit, never to be thought of by the
family without horror. Pitt begged his wife, with a ghastly countenance, never
to speak of it; and it was only through Mrs. Bute herself, who still knew
everything which took place at the Hall, that the circumstances of Sir Pitt's
reception of his son and daughter-in-law were ever known at all.
    As they drove up the avenue of the park in their neat and well-appointed
carriage, Pitt remarked with dismay and wrath great gaps among the trees - his
trees - which the old Baronet was felling entirely without licence. The park
wore an aspect of utter dreariness and ruin. The drives were ill-kept, and the
neat carriage splashed and floundered in muddy pools along the road. The great
sweep in front of the terrace and entrance stair was black and covered with
mosses, the once trim flower-beds rank and weedy. Shutters were up along almost
the whole line of the house; the great hall door was unbarred after much ringing
of the bell; an individual in ribbons was seen flitting up the black oak stair,
as Horrocks at length admitted the heir of Queen's Crawley and his bride into
the halls of their fathers. He led the way into Sir Pitt's »Library,« as it was
called, the fumes of tobacco growing stronger as Pitt and Lady Jane approached
that apartment. »Sir Pitt ain't very well,« Horrocks remarked apologetically,
and hinted that his master was afflicted with lumbago.
    The library looked out on the front walk and park. Sir Pitt had opened one
of the windows, and was bawling out thence to the postilion and Pitt's servant,
who seemed to be about to take the baggage down.
    »Don't move none of them trunks!« he cried, pointing with a pipe which he
held in his hand. »It's only a morning visit, Tucker, you fool. Lor, what cracks
that off hoss has in his heels! Ain't there no one at the King's Head to rub'em
a little? - How do, Pitt? How do, my dear? Come to see the old man, hey? 'Gad,
you've a pretty face, too. You ain't like that old horse-godmother, your mother.
Come and give old Pitt a kiss, like a good little gal.«
    The embrace disconcerted the daughter-in-law somewhat, as the caresses of
the old gentleman, unshorn and perfumed with tobacco, might well do. But she
remembered that her brother Southdown had mustachios, and smoked cigars, and
submitted to the Baronet with a tolerable grace.
    »Pitt has got vat,« said the Baronet, after this mark of affection. »Does he
read ee very long zermons, my dear? Hundredth Psalm, Evening Hymn, hey, Pitt? Go
and get a glass of Malmsey and a cake for my Lady Jane, Horrocks, you great big
booby, and don't stand stearing there like a fat pig. I won't ask you to stop,
my dear; you'll find it too stoopid, and so should I too along a Pitt. I'm an
old man now, and like my own ways, and my pipe and backgammon of a night.«
    »I can play at backgammon, sir,« said Lady Jane, laughing. »I used to play
with Papa and Miss Crawley, didn't I, Mr. Crawley?«
    »Lady Jane can play, sir, at the game to which you state that you are so
partial,« Pitt said haughtily.
    »But she wawn't stop for all that. Naw, naw; goo back to Mudbury, and give
Mrs. Rincer a benefit; or drive down to the Rectory, and ask Buty for a dinner.
He'll be charmed to see you, you know; he's so much obliged to you for getting'
the old woman's money. Ha, ha! Some of it will do to patch up the Hall when I'm
gone!«
    »I perceive, sir,« said Pitt, with a heightened voice, »that your people
will cut down the timber.«
    »Yees, yees; very fine weather and seasonable for the time of year,« Sir
Pitt answered, who had suddenly grown deaf. »But I'm gittin' old, Pitt, now. Law
bless you, you ain't far from fifty yourself. But he wears well, my pretty Lady
Jane, don't he? It's all godliness, sobriety, and a moral life. Look at me, I'm
not very fur from fowr-score - he, he!« and he laughed, and took snuff, and
leered at her and pinched her hand.
    Pitt once more brought the conversation back to the timber; but the Baronet
was deaf again in an instant.
    »I'm gittin' very old, and have been cruel bad this year with the lumbago. I
shan't be here now for long; but I'm glad ee've come, daughter-in-law. I like
your face, Lady Jane: it's got none of the damned high-boned Binkie look in it;
and I'll give ee something pretty, my dear, to go to Court in.« And he shuffled
across the room to a cupboard, from which he took a little old case containing
jewels of some value. »Take that,« said he, »my dear; it belonged to my mother,
and afterwards to the first Lady Crawley. Pretty pearls - never gave 'em the
ironmonger's daughter. No, no. Take 'em, and put 'em up quick,« said he,
thrusting the case into his daughter's hand, and clapping the door of the
cabinet to, as Horrocks entered with a salver and refreshments.
    »What have you a been and given Pitt's wife?« said the individual in
ribbons, when Pitt and Lady Jane had taken leave of the old gentleman. It was
Miss Horrocks, the butler's daughter - the cause of the scandal throughout the
county - the lady who reigned now almost supreme at Queen's Crawley.
    The rise and progress of those Ribbons had been marked with dismay by the
county and family. The Ribbons opened an account at the Mudbury Branch Savings
Bank; the Ribbons drove to church, monopolizing the pony-chaise, which was for
the use of the servants at the Hall. The domestics were dismissed at her
pleasure. The Scotch gardener, who still lingered on the premises, taking a
pride in his walls and hot-houses, and indeed making a pretty good livelihood by
the garden, which he farmed, and of which he sold the produce at Southampton,
found the Ribbons eating peaches on a sunshiny morning at the south wall, and
had his ears boxed when he remonstrated about this attack on his property. He
and his Scotch wife and his Scotch children, the only respectable inhabitants of
Queen's Crawley, were forced to migrate, with their goods and their chattels,
and left the stately, comfortable gardens to go to waste, and the flower-beds to
run to seed. Poor Lady Crawley's rose-garden became the dreariest wilderness.
Only two or three domestics shuddered in the bleak old servants' hall. The
stables and offices were vacant, and shut up, and half-ruined. Sir Pitt lived in
private, and boozed nightly with Horrocks, his butler or house-steward (as he
now began to be called), and the abandoned Ribbons. The times were very much
changed since the period when she drove to Mudbury in the spring-cart, and
called the small tradesmen »Sir.« It may have been shame, or it may have been
dislike of his neighbours, but the old Cynic of Queen's Crawley hardly issued
from his park-gates at all now. He quarrelled with his agents, and screwed his
tenants by letter. His days were passed in conducting his own correspondence;
the lawyers and farm-bailiffs who had to do business with him could not reach
him but through the Ribbons, who received them at the door of the housekeeper's
room, which commanded the back entrance by which they were admitted; and so the
Baronet's daily perplexities increased, and his embarrassments multiplied round
him.
    The horror of Pitt Crawley may be imagined, as these reports of his father's
dotage reached the most exemplary and correct of gentlemen. He trembled daily
lest he should hear that the Ribbons was proclaimed his second legal
mother-in-law. After that first and last visit, his father's name was never
mentioned in Pitt's polite and genteel establishment. It was the skeleton in his
house, and all the family walked by it in terror and silence. The Countess
Southdown kept on dropping per coach at the lodge-gate the most exciting tracts
- tracts which ought to frighten the hair off your head. Mrs. Bute at the
Parsonage nightly looked out to see if the sky was red over the elms behind
which the Hall stood, and the mansion was on fire. Sir G. Wapshot and Sir H.
Fuddleston, old friends of the house, wouldn't sit on the bench with Sir Pitt at
Quarter Sessions, and cut him dead in the High Street of Southampton, where the
reprobate stood offering his dirty old hands to them. Nothing had any effect
upon him: he put his hands into his pockets, and burst out laughing, as he
scrambled into his carriage-and-four; he used to burst out laughing at Lady
Southdown's tracts; and he laughed at his sons, and at the world, and at the
Ribbons when she was angry, which was not seldom.
    Miss Horrocks was installed as housekeeper at Queen's Crawley, and ruled all
the domestics there with great majesty and rigour. All the servants were
instructed to address her as »Mum,« or »Madam;« and there was one little maid,
on her promotion, who persisted in calling her »My Lady,« without any rebuke on
the part of the housekeeper. »There has been better ladies, and there has been
worser, Hester,« was Miss Horrocks' reply to this compliment of her inferior. So
she ruled, having supreme power over all except her father, whom, however, she
treated with considerable haughtiness, warning him not to be too familiar in his
behaviour to one »as was to be a Baronet's lady.« Indeed, she rehearsed that
exalted part in life with great satisfaction to herself, and to the amusement of
old Sir Pitt, who chuckled at her airs and graces, and would laugh by the hour
together at her assumptions of dignity and imitations of genteel life. He swore
it was as good as a play to see her in the character of a fine dame; and he made
her put on one of the first Lady Crawley's Court dresses, swearing (entirely to
Miss Horrocks' own concurrence) that the dress became her prodigiously, and
threatening to drive her off that very instant to Court in a coach-and-four. She
had the ransacking of the wardrobes of the two defunct ladies, and cut and
hacked their posthumous finery so as to suit her own tastes and figure. And she
would have liked to take possession of their jewels and trinkets too; but the
old Baronet had locked them away in his private cabinet, nor could she coax or
wheedle him out of the keys. And it is a fact, that some time after she left
Queen's Crawley a copy-book belonging to this lady was discovered, which showed
that she had taken great pains in private to learn the art of writing in
general, and especially of writing her own name as Lady Crawley, Lady Betsy
Horrocks, Lady Elizabeth Crawley, etc.
    Though the good people of the Parsonage never went to the Hall, and shunned
the horrid old dotard its owner, yet they kept a strict knowledge of all that
happened there, and were looking out every day for the catastrophe for which
Miss Horrocks was also eager. But Fate intervened enviously, and prevented her
from receiving the reward due to such immaculate love and virtue.
    One day the Baronet surprised »her Ladyship,« as he jocularly called her,
seated at that old and tuneless piano in the drawing-room, which had scarcely
been touched since Becky Sharp played quadrilles upon it - seated at the piano
with the utmost gravity, and squalling to the best of her power in imitation of
the music which she had sometimes heard. The little kitchen-maid on her
promotion was standing at her mistress's side, quite delighted during the
operation, and wagging her head up and down, and crying, »Lor, Mum, 'tis
bittiful,« - just like a genteel sycophant in a real drawing-room.
    This incident made the old Baronet roar with laughter, as usual. He narrated
the circumstance a dozen times to Horrocks in the course of the evening, and
greatly to the discomfiture of Miss Horrocks. He thrummed on the table as if it
had been a musical instrument, and squalled in imitation of her manner of
singing. He vowed that such a beautiful voice ought to be cultivated, and
declared she ought to have singing-masters, in which proposals she saw nothing
ridiculous. He was in great spirits that night, and drank with his friend and
butler an extraordinary quantity of rum-and-water. At a very late hour the
faithful friend and domestic conducted his master to his bedroom.
 
Half an hour afterwards there was a great hurry and bustle in the house. Lights
went about from window to window in the lonely desolate old Hall, whereof but
two or three rooms were ordinarily occupied by its owner. Presently, a boy on a
pony went galloping off to Mudbury, to the doctor's house there. And in another
hour (by which fact we ascertain how carefully the excellent Mrs. Bute Crawley
had always kept up an understanding with the great house), that lady in her
clogs and calash, the Reverend Bute Crawley, and James Crawley her son, had
walked over from the Rectory through the park, and had entered the mansion by
the open hall door.
    They passed through the hall and the small oak parlour, on the table of
which stood the three tumblers and the empty rum-bottle which had served for Sir
Pitt's carouse, and through that apartment into Sir Pitt's study, where they
found Miss Horrocks, of the guilty ribbons, with a wild air, trying at the
presses and escritoires with a bunch of keys. She dropped them with a scream of
terror, as little Mrs. Bute's eyes flashed out at her from under her black
calash.
    »Look at that, James and Mr. Crawley,« cried Mrs. Bute, pointing at the
scared figure of the black-eyed, guilty wench.
    »He gave 'em me; he gave 'em me!« she cried.
    »Gave them you, you abandoned creature!« screamed Mrs. Bute. »Bear witness,
Mr. Crawley, we found this good-for-nothing woman in the act of stealing your
brother's property; and she will be hanged, as I always said she would.«
    Betsy Horrocks, quite daunted, flung herself down on her knees, bursting
into tears. But those who know a really good woman are aware that she is not in
a hurry to forgive, and that the humiliation of an enemy is a triumph to her
soul.
    »Ring the bell, James,« Mrs. Bute said. »Go on ringing it till the people
come.« The three or four domestics resident in the deserted old house came
presently at that jangling and continued summons.
    »Put that woman in the strong-room,« she said. »We caught her in the act of
robbing Sir Pitt. Mr. Crawley, you'll make out her committal - and, Beddoes,
you'll drive her over in the spring-cart, in the morning, to Southampton Jail.«
    »My dear,« interposed the Magistrate and Rector - »she's only -«
    »Are there no handcuffs?« Mrs. Bute continued, stamping in her clogs. »There
used to be handcuffs. Where's the creature's abominable father?«
    »He did give 'em me,« still cried poor Betsy; »didn't he, Hester? You saw
Sir Pitt - you know you did - give 'em me, ever so long ago - the day after
Mudbury fair. Not that I want 'em. Take 'em if you think they ain't mine.« And
here the unhappy wretch pulled out from her pocket a large pair of paste
shoe-buckles which had excited her admiration, and which she had just
appropriated out of one of the book-cases in the study, where they had lain.
    »Law, Betsy, how could you go for to tell such a wicked story!« said Hester,
the little kitchenmaid late on her promotion - »and to Madame Crawley, so good
and kind, and his Rev'rince (with a curtsy); and you may search all my boxes,
Mum, I'm sure, and here's my keys, as I'm an honest girl though of pore parents
and workhouse bred - and if you find so much as a beggarly bit of lace or a silk
stocking out of all the gownds as you've had the picking of, may I never go to
church again.«
    »Give up your keys, you hardened hussy!« hissed out the virtuous little lady
in the calash.
    »And here's a candle, Mum; and if you please, Mum, I can show you her room,
Mum, and the press in the house-keeper's room, Mum, where she keeps heaps and
heaps of things, Mum,« cried out the eager little Hester with a profusion of
curtsies.
    »Hold your tongue, if you please. I know the room which the creature
occupies perfectly well. Mrs. Brown, have the goodness to come with me - and,
Beddoes, don't you lose sight of that woman,« said Mrs. Bute, seizing the
candle. »Mr. Crawley, you had better go upstairs and see that they are not
murdering your unfortunate brother« - and the calash, escorted by Mrs. Brown,
walked away to the apartment which, as she said truly, she knew perfectly well.
    Bute went upstairs, and found the doctor from Mudbury, with the frightened
Horrocks over his master in a chair. They were trying to bleed Sir Pitt Crawley.
 
With the early morning an express was sent off to Mr. Pitt Crawley by the
Rector's lady, who assumed the command of everything, and had watched the old
Baronet through the night. He had been brought back to a sort of life; he could
not speak, but seemed to recognize people. Mrs. Bute kept resolutely by his
bedside. She never seemed to want to sleep, that little woman, and did not close
her fiery black eyes once, though the doctor snored in the arm-chair. Horrocks
made some wild efforts to assert his authority and assist his master; but Mrs.
Bute called him a tipsy old wretch, and bade him never show his face again in
that house, or he should be transported, like his abominable daughter.
    Terrified by her manner, he slunk down to the oak parlour where Mr. James
was, who, having tried the bottle standing there and found no liquor in it,
ordered Mr. Horrocks to get another bottle of rum, which he fetched, with clean
glasses, and to which the Rector and his son sat down - ordering Horrocks to put
down the keys at that instant, and never to show his face again. Cowed by this
behaviour, Horrocks gave up the keys; and he and his daughter slunk off silently
through the night, and gave up possession of the house of Queen's Crawley.
 

                                   Chapter XL

                  In which Becky Is Recognized by the Family.

The heir of Crawley arrived at home, in due time, after this catastrophe, and
henceforth may be said to have reigned in Queen's Crawley. For though the old
Baronet survived many months, he never recovered the use of his intellect or his
speech completely, and the government of the estate devolved upon his elder son.
In a strange condition Pitt found it. Sir Pitt was always buying and mortgaging;
he had twenty men of business, and quarrels with each; quarrels with all his
tenants, and lawsuits with them; lawsuits with the lawyers; lawsuits with the
Mining and Dock Companies in which he was proprietor; and with every person with
whom he had business. To unravel these difficulties, and to set the estate
clear, was a task worthy of the orderly and persevering diplomatist of
Pumpernickel; and he set himself to work with prodigious assiduity. His whole
family, of course, was transported to Queen's Crawley, whither Lady Southdown,
of course, came too; and she set about converting the parish under the Rector's
nose, and brought down her irregular clergy, to the dismay of the angry Mrs.
Bute. Sir Pitt had concluded no bargain for the sale of the living of Queen's
Crawley; when it should drop, her Ladyship proposed to take the patronage into
her own hands, and present a young protégé to the Rectory; on which subject the
diplomatic Pitt said nothing.
    Mrs. Bute's intentions with regard to Miss Betsy Horrocks were not carried
into effect, and she paid no visit to Southampton Jail. She and her father left
the Hall, when the latter took possession of the Crawley Arms in the village, of
which he had got a lease from Sir Pitt. The ex-butler had obtained a small
freehold there likewise, which gave him a vote for the borough. The Rector had
another of these votes, and these and four others formed the representative body
which returned the two members for Queen's Crawley.
    There was a show of courtesy kept up between the Rectory and the Hall ladies
- between the younger ones at least, for Mrs. Bute and Lady Southdown never
could meet without battles, and gradually ceased seeing each other. Her Ladyship
kept her room when the ladies from the Rectory visited their cousins at the
Hall. Perhaps Mr. Pitt was not very much displeased at these occasional absences
of his mamma-in-law. He believed the Binkie family to be the greatest and wisest
and most interesting in the world, and her Ladyship and his aunt had long held
ascendency over him; but sometimes he felt that she commanded him too much. To
be considered young was complimentary doubtless; but at six-and-forty to be
treated as a boy was sometimes mortifying. Lady Jane yielded up everything,
however, to her mother. She was only fond of her children in private; and it was
lucky for her that Lady Southdown's multifarious business, her conferences with
ministers, and her correspondence with all the missionaries of Africa, Asia,
Australasia, etc., occupied the venerable Countess a great deal, so that she had
but little time to devote to her granddaughter, the little Matilda, and her
grandson, Master Pitt Crawley. The latter was a feeble child, and it was only by
prodigious quantities of calomel that Lady Southdown was able to keep him in
life at all.
    As for Sir Pitt, he retired into those very apartments where Lady Crawley
had been previously extinguished, and here was tended by Miss Hester, the girl
upon her promotion, with constant care and assiduity. What love, what fidelity,
what constancy is there equal to that of a nurse with good wages? They smooth
pillows, and make arrowroot; they get up at nights; they bear complaints and
querulousness; they see the sun shining out of doors, and don't want to go
abroad; they sleep on arm-chairs, and eat their meals in solitude; they pass
long, long evenings doing nothing, watching the embers, and the patient's drink
simmering in the jug; they read the weekly paper the whole week through, and
Law's Serious Call or the Whole Duty of Man suffices them for literature for the
year; - and we quarrel with them because, when their relations come to see them
once a week, a little gin is smuggled in in their linen basket. Ladies, what
man's love is there that would stand a year's nursing of the object of his
affection? Whereas a nurse will stand by you for ten pounds a quarter; and we
think her too highly paid. At least Mr. Crawley grumbled a good deal about
paying half as much to Miss Hester for her constant attendance upon the Baronet
his father.
    Of sunshiny days this old gentleman was taken out in a chair on the terrace
- the very chair which Miss Crawley had had at Brighton, and which had been
transported thence with a number of Lady Southdown's effects to Queen's Crawley.
Lady Jane always walked by the old man, and was an evident favourite with him.
He used to nod many times to her and smile when she came in, and utter
inarticulate deprecatory moans when she was going away. When the door shut upon
her he would cry and sob - whereupon Hester's face and manner, which was always
exceedingly bland and gentle while her lady was present, would change at once,
and she would make faces at him and clench her fist, and scream out, »Hold your
tongue, you stoopid old fool,« and twirl away his chair from the fire which he
loved to look at - at which he would cry more. For this was all that was left
after more than seventy years of cunning and struggling, and drinking and
scheming, and sin and selfishness - a whimpering old idiot put in and out of bed
and cleaned and fed like a baby.
    At last a day came when the nurse's occupation was over. Early one morning,
as Pitt Crawley was at his steward's and bailiff's books in the study, a knock
came to the door, and Hester presented herself, dropping a curtsy, and said, -
    »If you please, Sir Pitt, Sir Pitt died this morning, Sir Pitt. I was
a-making of his toast, Sir Pitt, for his gruel, Sir Pitt, which he took every
morning regular at six, Sir Pitt, and - I thought I heard a moan-like, Sir Pitt
- and - and - and -« She dropped another curtsy.
    What was it that made Pitt's pale face flush quite red? Was it because he
was Sir Pitt at last, with a seat in Parliament, and perhaps future honours in
prospect? »I'll clear the estate now with the ready money,« he thought, and
rapidly calculated its encumbrances, and the improvements which he would make.
He would not use his aunt's money previously lest Sir Pitt should recover, and
his outlay be in vain.
    All the blinds were pulled down at the Hall and Rectory; the church bell was
tolled, and the chancel hung in black; and Bute Crawley didn't go to a coursing
meeting, but went and dined quietly at Fuddleston, where they talked about his
deceased brother and young Sir Pitt over their port. Miss Betsy, who was by this
time married to a saddler at Mudbury, cried a good deal. The family surgeon rode
over and paid his respectful compliments, and inquiries for the health of their
ladyships. The death was talked about at Mudbury and at the Crawley Arms; the
landlord whereof had become reconciled with the Rector of late, who was
occasionally known to step into the parlour and taste Mr. Horrocks's mild beer.
    »Shall I write to your brother - or will you?« asked Lady Jane of her
husband, Sir Pitt.
    »I will write, of course,« Sir Pitt said, »and invite him to the funeral; it
will be but becoming.«
    »And - and - Mrs. Rawdon,« said Lady Jane timidly.
    »Jane!« said Lady Southdown, »how can you think of such a thing?«
    »Mrs. Rawdon must of course be asked,« said Sir Pitt resolutely.
    »Not whilst I am in the house!« said Lady Southdown.
    »Your Ladyship will be pleased to recollect that I am the head of this
family,« Sir Pitt replied. »If you please, Lady Jane, you will write a letter to
Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, requesting her presence upon this melancholy occasion.«
    »Jane, I forbid you to put pen to paper!« cried the Countess.
    »I believe I am the head of this family,« Sir Pitt repeated, »and however
much I may regret any circumstance which may lead to your Ladyship quitting this
house, must, if you please, continue to govern it as I see fit.«
    Lady Southdown rose up as magnificent as Mrs. Siddons in Lady Macbeth, and
ordered that horses might be put to her carriage. If her son and daughter turned
her out of their house, she would hide her sorrows somewhere in loneliness, and
pray for their conversion to better thoughts.
    »We don't turn you out of our house, mamma,« said the timid Lady Jane
imploringly.
    »You invite such company to it as no Christian lady should meet, and I will
have my horses to-morrow morning.«
    »Have the goodness to write, Jane, under my dictation,« said Sir Pitt,
rising, and throwing himself into an attitude of command, like the portrait of a
Gentleman in the Exhibition, »and begin: Queen's Crawley, September 14, 1822. My
dear brother -«
    Hearing these decisive and terrible words, Lady Macbeth, who had been
waiting for a sign of weakness or vacillation on the part of her son-in-law,
rose and, with a scared look, left the library. Lady Jane looked up to her
husband as if she would fain follow and soothe her mamma; but Pitt forbade his
wife to move.
    »She won't go away,« he said. »She has let her house at Brighton, and has
spent her last half-year's dividends. A Countess living at an inn is a ruined
woman. I have been waiting long for an opportunity to take this - this decisive
step, my love; for, as you must perceive, it is impossible that there should be
two chiefs in a family. And now, if you please, we will resume the dictation: My
dear brother, the melancholy intelligence which it is my duty to convey to my
family must have been long anticipated by,« etc.
    In a word, Pitt having come to his kingdom, and having by good luck, or
desert rather, as he considered, assumed almost all the fortune which his other
relatives had expected, was determined to treat his family kindly and
respectably, and make a house of Queen's Crawley once more. It pleased him to
think that he should be its chief. He proposed to use the vast influence that
his commanding talents and position must speedily acquire for him in the country
to get his brother placed and his cousins decently provided for; and perhaps had
a little sting of repentance as he thought that he was the proprietor of all
that they had hoped for. In the course of three or four days' reign his bearing
was changed, and his plans quite fixed: he determined to rule justly and
honestly, to depose Lady Southdown, and to be on the friendliest possible terms
with all the relations of his blood.
    So he dictated a letter to his brother Rawdon - a solemn and elaborate
letter, containing the profoundest observations, couched in the longest words,
and filling with wonder the simple little secretary who wrote under her
husband's order. »What an orator this will be,« thought she, »when he enters the
House of Commons« (on which point, and on the tyranny of Lady Southdown, Pitt
had sometimes dropped hints to his wife in bed); »how wise and good, and what a
genius my husband is! I fancied him a little cold; but how good, and what a
genius!«
    The fact is, Pitt Crawley had got every word of the letter by heart, and had
studied it, with diplomatic secrecy, deeply and perfectly, long before he
thought fit to communicate it to his astonished wife.
    This letter, with a huge black border and seal, was accordingly dispatched
by Sir Pitt Crawley to his brother, the Colonel, in London. Rawdon Crawley was
but half-pleased at the receipt of it. »What's the use of going down to that
stupid place?« thought he. »I can't stand being alone with Pitt after dinner,
and horses there and back will cost us twenty pound.«
    He carried the letter, as he did all difficulties, to Becky, upstairs in her
bedroom - with her chocolate, which he always made and took to her of a morning.
    He put the tray with the breakfast and the letter on the dressing-table,
before which Becky sate combing her yellow hair. She took up the black-edged
missive, and having read it, she jumped up from the chair, crying »Hurray!« and
waving the note round her head.
    »Hurray?« said Rawdon, wondering at the little figure capering about in a
streaming flannel dressing-gown, with tawny locks dishevelled. »He's not left us
anything, Becky. I had my share when I came of age.«
    »You'll never be of age, you silly old man,« Becky replied. »Run out now to
Madame Brunoy's, for I must have some mourning; and get a crape on your hat and
a black waistcoat - I don't think you've got one. Order it to be brought home
to-morrow, so that we may be able to start on Thursday.«
    »You don't mean to go?« Rawdon interposed.
    »Of course I mean to go. I mean that Lady Jane shall present me at Court
next year. I mean that your brother shall give you a seat in Parliament, you
stupid old creature. I mean that Lord Steyne shall have your vote and his, my
dear old silly man; and that you shall be an Irish Secretary, or a West Indian
Governor; or a Treasurer, or a Consul, or some such thing.«
    »Posting will cost a dooce of a lot of money,« grumbled Rawdon.
    »We might take Southdown's carriage, which ought to be present at the
funeral, as he is a relation of the family; but, no - I intend that we shall go
by the coach. They'll like it better. It seems more humble -«
    »Rawdy goes, of course?« the Colonel asked.
    »No such thing; why pay an extra place? He's too big to travel bodkin
between you and me. Let him stay here in the nursery, and Briggs can make him a
black frock. Go you and do as I bid you. And you had best tell Sparks, your man,
that old Sir Pitt is dead, and that you will come in for something considerable
when the affairs are arranged. He'll tell this to Raggles, who has been pressing
for money, and it will console poor Raggles.« And so Becky began sipping her
chocolate.
    When the faithful Lord Steyne arrived in the evening, he found Becky and her
companion, who was no other than our friend Briggs, busy cutting, ripping,
snipping, and tearing all sorts of black stuffs available for the melancholy
occasion.
    »Miss Briggs and I are plunged in grief and despondency for the death of our
papa,« Rebecca said. »Sir Pitt Crawley is dead, my Lord. We have been tearing
our hair all the morning, and now we are tearing up our old clothes.«
    »O Rebecca, how can you!« was all that Briggs could say, as she turned up
her eyes.
    »O Rebecca, how can you!« echoed my Lord. »So that old scoundrel's dead, is
he? He might have been a Peer if he had played his cards better. Mr. Pitt had
very nearly made him; but he ratted always at the wrong time. What an old
Silenus it was!«
    »I might have been Silenus's widow,« said Rebecca. »Don't you remember, Miss
Briggs, how you peeped in at the door, and saw old Sir Pitt on his knees to me?«
Miss Briggs, our old friend, blushed very much at this reminiscence, and was
glad when Lord Steyne ordered her to go downstairs and make him a cup of tea.
 
Briggs was the house-dog whom Rebecca had provided as guardian of her innocence
and reputation. Miss Crawley had left her a little annuity. She would have been
content to remain in the Crawley family with Lady Jane, who was good to her and
to everybody; but Lady Southdown dismissed poor Briggs as quickly as decency
permitted, and Mr. Pitt (who thought himself much injured by the uncalled-for
generosity of his deceased relative towards a lady who had only been Miss
Crawley's faithful retainer a score of years) made no objection to that exercise
of the Dowager's authority. Bowls and Firkin likewise received their legacies,
and their dismissals; and married and set up a lodging-house, according to the
custom of their kind.
    Briggs tried to live with her relations in the country, but found that
attempt was vain after the better society to which she had been accustomed.
Briggs's friends, small tradesmen in a country town, quarrelled over Miss
Briggs's forty pound a year as eagerly and more openly than Miss Crawley's
kinsfolk had for that lady's inheritance. Briggs's brother, a radical hatter and
grocer, called his sister a purse-proud aristocrat, because she would not
advance a part of her capital to stock his shop; and she would have done so most
likely, but that their sister, a dissenting shoemaker's lady, at variance with
the hatter and grocer, who went to another chapel, showed how their brother was
on the verge of bankruptcy, and took possession of Briggs for a while. The
dissenting shoemaker wanted Miss Briggs to send his son to college, and make a
gentleman of him. Between them the two families got a great portion of her
private savings out of her; and finally she fled to London, followed by the
anathemas of both, and determined to seek for servitude again, as infinitely
less onerous than liberty. And advertising in the papers that a »Gentlewoman of
agreeable manners, and accustomed to the best society, was anxious to,« etc.,
she took up her residence with Mr. Bowls in Half Moon Street, and waited the
result of the advertisement.
    So it was that she fell in with Rebecca. Mrs. Rawdon's dashing little
carriage and ponies was whirling down the street one day, just as Miss Briggs,
fatigued, had reached Mr. Bowls's door, after a weary walk to The Times office
in the City, to insert her advertisement for the sixth time. Rebecca was
driving, and at once recognized the gentlewoman with agreeable manners; and
being a perfectly good-humoured woman, as we have seen, and having a regard for
Briggs, she pulled up the ponies at the door-steps, gave the reins to the groom,
and jumping out, had hold of both Briggs's hands, before she of the agreeable
manners had recovered from the shock of seeing an old friend.
    Briggs cried, and Becky laughed a great deal, and kissed the gentlewoman as
soon as they got into the passage; and thence into Mrs. Bowls's front parlour,
with the red moreen curtains, and the round looking-glass, with the chained
eagle above gazing upon the back of the ticket in the window which announced
»Apartments to Let.«
    Briggs told all her history amidst those perfectly uncalled-for sobs and
ejaculations of wonder with which women of her soft nature salute an old
acquaintance, or regard a reconnoitre in the street; for though people meet other
people every day, yet some there are who insist upon discovering miracles; and
women, even though they have disliked each other, begin to cry when they meet,
deploring and remembering the time when they last quarrelled. So, in a word,
Briggs told all her history; and Becky gave a narrative of her own life, with
her usual artlessness and candour.
    Mrs. Bowls, late Firkin, came and listened grimly in the passage to the
hysterical sniffling and giggling which went on in the front parlour. Becky had
never been a favourite of hers. Since the establishment of the married couple in
London, they had frequented their former friends of the house of Raggles, and
did not like the latter's account of the Colonel's ménage. »I wouldn't trust
him, Ragg, my boy,« Bowls remarked; and his wife, when Mrs. Rawdon issued from
the parlour, only saluted the lady with a very sour curtsy, and her fingers were
like so many sausages, cold and lifeless, when she held them out in deference to
Mrs. Rawdon who persisted in shaking hands with the retired lady's-maid. She
whirled away into Piccadilly, nodding with the sweetest of smiles towards Miss
Briggs, who hung nodding at the window close under the advertisement card, and
at the next moment was in the Park with a half-dozen of dandies cantering after
her carriage.
    When she found how her friend was situated, and how, having a snug legacy
from Miss Crawley, salary was no object to our gentlewoman, Becky instantly
formed some benevolent little domestic plans concerning her. This was just such
a companion as would suit her establishment, and she invited Briggs to come to
dinner with her that very evening, when she should see Becky's dear little
darling Rawdon.
    Mrs. Bowls cautioned her lodger against venturing into the lion's den,
»wherein you will rue it, Miss B., mark my words, and as sure as my name is
Bowls.« And Briggs promised to be very cautious. The upshot of which caution was
that she went to live with Mrs. Rawdon the next week, and had lent Rawdon
Crawley six hundred pounds upon annuity before six months were over.
 

                                  Chapter XLI

              In which Becky Revisits the Halls of Her Ancestors.

So the mourning being ready, and Sir Pitt Crawley warned of their arrival,
Colonel Crawley and his wife took a couple of places in the same old Highflyer
coach by which Rebecca had travelled in the defunct Baronet's company, on her
first journey into the world some nine years before. How well she remembered the
inn-yard, and the ostler to whom she refused money, and the insinuating
Cambridge lad who wrapped her in his coat on the journey! Rawdon took his place
outside, and would have liked to drive, but his grief forbade him. He sat by the
coachman, and talked about horses and the road the whole way; and who kept the
inns, and who horsed the coach, by which he had travelled so many a time when he
and Pitt were boys going to Eton. At Mudbury a carriage and a pair of horses
received them, with a coachman in black. »It's the old drag, Rawdon,« Rebecca
said, as they got in. »The worms have eaten the cloth a good deal - there's the
stain which Sir Pitt - ha! I see Dawson the ironmonger has his shutters up -
which Sir Pitt made such a noise about. It was a bottle of cherry brandy he
broke which we went to fetch for your aunt from Southampton. How time flies, to
be sure! That can't be Polly Talboys, that bouncing girl standing by her mother
at the cottage there? I remember her a mangy little urchin picking weeds in the
garden.«
    »Fine gal,« said Rawdon, returning the salute which the cottage gave him, by
two fingers applied to his crape hat-band. Becky bowed and saluted, and
recognized people here and there graciously. These recognitions were
inexpressibly pleasant to her. It seemed as if she was not an impostor any more,
and was coming to the home of her ancestors. Rawdon was rather abashed and cast
down, on the other hand. What recollections of boyhood and innocence might have
been flitting across his brain? What pangs of dim remorse and doubt and shame?
    »Your sisters must be young women now,« Rebecca said, thinking of those
girls for the first time perhaps since she had left them.
    »Don't know, I'm shaw,« replied the Colonel. »Hallo! here's old Mother Lock.
How-dy-do, Mrs. Lock? Remember me, don't you? Master Rawdon, hey? Dammy, how
those old women last; she was a hundred when I was a boy.«
    They were going through the lodge-gates kept by old Mrs. Lock, whose hand
Rebecca insisted upon shaking, as she flung open the creaking old iron gate, and
the carriage passed between the two moss-grown pillars surmounted by the dove
and serpent.
    »The governor has cut into the timber,« Rawdon said, looking about, and then
was silent; so was Becky. Both of them were rather agitated, and thinking of old
times. He about Eton, and his mother, whom he remembered, a frigid demure woman,
and a sister who died, of whom he had been passionately fond; and how he used to
thrash Pitt; and about little Rawdy at home. And Rebecca thought about her own
youth, and the dark secrets of those early tainted days; and of her entrance
into life by yonder gates; and of Miss Pinkerton, and Jos, and Amelia.
    The gravel walk and terrace had been scraped quite clean. A grand painted
hatchment was already over the great entrance, and two very solemn and tall
personages in black flung open each a leaf of the door as the carriage pulled up
at the familiar steps. Rawdon turned red, and Becky somewhat pale, as they
passed through the old hall arm-in-arm. She pinched her husband's arm as they
entered the oak parlour, where Sir Pitt and his wife were ready to receive them
- Sir Pitt in black, Lady Jane in black, and my Lady Southdown with a large
black headpiece of bugles and feathers, which waved on her Ladyship's head like
an undertaker's tray.
    Sir Pitt had judged correctly, that she would not quit the premises. She
contented herself by preserving a solemn and stony silence when in company of
Pitt and his rebellious wife, and by frightening the children in the nursery by
the ghastly gloom of her demeanour. Only a very faint bending of the head-dress
and plumes welcomed Rawdon and his wife, as those prodigals returned to their
family.
    To say the truth, they were not affected very much one way or other by this
coolness. Her Ladyship was a person only of secondary consideration in their
minds just then: they were intent upon the reception which the reigning brother
and sister would afford them.
    Pitt, with rather a heightened colour, went up and shook his brother by the
hand, and saluted Rebecca with a handshake and a very low bow. But Lady Jane
took both the hands of her sister-in-law, and kissed her affectionately. The
embrace somehow brought tears into the eyes of the little adventuress - which
ornaments, as we know, she wore very seldom. The artless mark of kindness and
confidence touched and pleased her; and Rawdon, encouraged by this demonstration
on his sister's part, twirled up his mustachios, and took leave to salute Lady
Jane with a kiss, which caused her Ladyship to blush exceedingly.
    »Dev'lish nice little woman, Lady Jane,« was his verdict, when he and his
wife were together again. »Pitt's got fat, too, and is doing the thing
handsomely.« »He can afford it,« said Rebecca; and agreed in her husband's
further opinion, »that the mother-in-law was a tremendous old guy, and that the
sisters were rather well-looking young women.«
    They, too, had been summoned from school to attend the funeral ceremonies.
It seemed Sir Pitt Crawley, for the dignity of the house and family, had thought
right to have about the place as many persons in black as could possibly be
assembled. All the men and maids of the house, the old women of the Almshouse,
whom the elder Sir Pitt had cheated out of a great portion of their due, the
parish clerk's family, and the special retainers of both Hall and Rectory, were
habited in sable; added to these, the undertaker's men, at least a score, with
crapes and hat-bands, and who made a goodly show when the great burying show
took place - but these are mute parsonages in our drama, and having nothing to
do or say, need occupy a very little space here.
    With regard to her sisters-in-law Rebecca did not attempt to forget her
former position of governess towards them, but recalled it frankly and kindly,
and asked them about their studies with great gravity, and told them that she
had thought of them many and many a day, and longed to know of their welfare. In
fact, you would have supposed that ever since she had left them she had not
ceased to keep them uppermost in her thoughts, and to take the tenderest
interest in their welfare. So supposed Lady Crawley herself and her young
sisters.
    »She's hardly changed since eight years,« said Miss Rosalind to Miss Violet,
as they were preparing for dinner.
    »Those red-haired women look wonderfully well,« replied the other.
    »Hers is much darker than it was; I think she must dye it,« Miss Rosalind
added. »She is stouter too, and altogether improved,« continued Miss Rosalind,
who was disposed to be very fat.
    »At least she gives herself no airs, and remembers that she was our
governess once,« Miss Violet said, intimating that it befitted all governesses
to keep their proper place, and forgetting altogether that she was
granddaughter, not only of Sir Walpole Crawley, but of Mr. Dawson of Mudbury,
and so had a coal-scuttle in her scutcheon. There are other very well-meaning
people whom one meets every day in Vanity Fair who are surely equally oblivious.
    »It can't be true what the girls at the Rectory said, that her mother was an
opera-dancer -«
    »A person can't help their birth,« Rosalind replied with great liberality.
»And I agree with our brother, that as she is in the family, of course we are
bound to notice her. I am sure Aunt Bute need not talk: she wants to marry Kate
to young Hooper, the wine-merchant, and absolutely asked him to come to the
Rectory for orders.«
    »I wonder whether Lady Southdown will go away; she looked very glum upon
Mrs. Rawdon,« the other said.
    »I wish she would. I won't read the Washerwoman of Finchley Common,« vowed
Violet; and so saying, and avoiding a passage at the end of which a certain
coffin was placed with a couple of watchers, and lights perpetually burning in
the closed room, these young women came down to the family dinner, for which the
bell rang as usual.
    But before this, Lady Jane conducted Rebecca to the apartments prepared for
her - which, with the rest of the house, had assumed a very much improved
appearance of order and comfort during Pitt's regency - and here, beholding that
Mrs. Rawdon's modest little trunks had arrived, and were placed in the bedroom
and dressing-room adjoining, helped her to take off her neat black bonnet and
cloak, and asked her sister-in-law in what more she could be useful.
    »What I should like best,« said Rebecca, »would be to go to the nursery, and
see your dear little children.« On which the two ladies looked very kindly at
each other, and went to that apartment hand-in-hand.
    Becky admired little Matilda, who was not quite four years old, as the most
charming little love in the world; and the boy, a little fellow of two years -
pale, heavy-eyed, and large-headed - she pronounced to be a perfect prodigy in
point of size, intelligence, and beauty.
    »I wish mamma would not insist on giving him so much medicine,« Lady Jane
said, with a sigh. »I often think we should all be better without it.« And then
Lady Jane and her new-found friend had one of those confidential medical
conversations about the children which all mothers, and most women, as I am
given to understand, delight in. Fifty years ago, and when the present writer,
being an interesting little boy, was ordered out of the room with the ladies
after dinner, I remember quite well that their talk was chiefly about their
ailments; and putting this question directly to two or three since, I have
always got from them the acknowledgement that times are not changed. Let my fair
readers remark for themselves this very evening when they quit the
dessert-table, and assemble to celebrate the drawing-room mysteries. Well - in
half-an-hour Becky and Lady Jane were close and intimate friends; and in the
course of the evening her Ladyship informed Sir Pitt that she thought her new
sister-in-law was a kind, frank, unaffected, and affectionate young woman.
    And so having easily won the daughter's good-will, the indefatigable little
woman bent herself to conciliate the august Lady Southdown. As soon as she found
her Ladyship alone, Rebecca attacked her on the nursery question at once, and
said that her own little boy was saved, actually saved, by calomel, freely
administered, when all the physicians in Paris had given the dear child up. And
then she mentioned how often she had heard of Lady Southdown from that excellent
man, the Reverend Lawrence Grills, minister of the chapel in Mayfair, which she
frequented; and how her views were very much changed by circumstances and
misfortunes; and how she hoped that a past life spent in worldliness and error
might not incapacitate her from more serious thought for the future. She
described how, in former days, she had been indebted to Mr. Crawley for
religious instruction; touched upon the »Washerwoman of Finchley Common,« which
she had read with the greatest profit; and asked about Lady Emily, its gifted
author, now Lady Emily Hornblower, at Cape Town, where her husband had strong
hopes of becoming Bishop of Caffraria.
    But she crowned all, and confirmed herself in Lady Southdown's favour, by
feeling very much agitated and unwell after the funeral, and requesting her
Ladyship's medical advice, which the Dowager not only gave, but, wrapped up in a
bed-gown, and looking more like Lady Macbeth than ever, came privately in the
night to Becky's room, with a parcel of favourite tracts, and a medicine of her
own composition, which she insisted that Mrs. Rawdon should take.
    Becky first accepted the tracts, and began to examine them with great
interest, engaging the Dowager in a conversation concerning them and welfare of
her soul, by which means she hoped that her body might escape medication. But
after the religious topics were exhausted, Lady Macbeth would not, quit Becky's
chamber until her cup of night-drink was emptied too; and poor Mrs. Rawdon was
compelled actually to assume a look of gratitude, and to swallow the medicine
under the unyielding old Dowager's nose, who left her victim finally with a
benediction.
    It did not much comfort Mrs. Rawdon. Her countenance was very queer when
Rawdon came in and heard what had happened; and his explosions of laughter were
as loud as usual, when Becky, with a fun which she could not disguise, even
though it was at her own expense, described the occurrence, and how she had been
victimized by Lady Southdown. Lord Steyne, and her son in London, had many a
laugh over the story, when Rawdon and his wife returned to their quarters in
Mayfair. Becky acted the whole scene for them. She put on a nightcap and gown.
She preached a great sermon in the true serious manner; she lectured on the
virtue of the medicine which she pretended to administer with a gravity of
imitation so perfect, that you would have thought it was the Countess's own
Roman nose through which she snuffled. »Give us Lady Southdown and the black
dose,« was a constant cry amongst the folks in Becky's little drawing-room in
Mayfair. And for the first time in her life the Dowager Countess of Southdown
was made amusing.
    Sir Pitt remembered the testimonies of respect and veneration which Rebecca
had paid personally to himself in early days, and was tolerably well disposed
towards her. The marriage, ill-advised as it was, had improved Rawdon very much
- that was clear from the Colonel's altered habits and demeanour - and had it
not been a lucky union as regarded Pitt himself? The cunning diplomatist smiled
inwardly as he owned that he owed his fortune to it, and acknowledged that he at
least ought not to cry out against it. His satisfaction was not removed by
Rebecca's own statements, behaviour, and conversation.
    She doubled the deference which before had charmed him, calling out his
conversational powers in such a manner as quite to surprise Pitt himself, who,
always inclined to respect his own talents, admired them the more when Rebecca
pointed them out to him. With her sister-in-law, Rebecca was satisfactorily able
to prove that it was Mrs. Bute Crawley who brought about the marriage which she
afterwards so calumniated; that it was Mrs. Bute's avarice - who hoped to gain
all Miss Crawley's fortune, and deprive Rawdon of his aunt's favour - which
caused and invented all the wicked reports against Rebecca. »She succeeded in
making us poor,« Rebecca said, with an air of angelical patience; »but how can I
be angry with a woman who has given me one of the best husbands in the world?
And has not her own avarice been sufficiently punished by the ruin of her own
hopes, and the loss of the property by which she set so much store? Poor!« she
cried. »Dear Lady Jane, what care we for poverty? I am used to it from
childhood; and I am often thankful that Miss Crawley's money has gone to restore
the splendour of the noble old family of which I am so proud to be a member. I
am sure Sir Pitt will make a much better use of it than Rawdon would.«
    All these speeches were reported to Sir Pitt by the most faithful of wives,
and increased the favourable impression which Rebecca made; so much so, that
when, on the third day after the funeral, the family party were at dinner, Sir
Pitt Crawley, carving fowls at the head of the table, actually said to Mrs.
Rawdon, »Ahem! Rebecca, may I give you a wing?« - a speech which made little
woman's eyes sparkle with pleasure.
    While Rebecca was prosecuting the above schemes and hopes, and Pitt Crawley
arranging the funeral ceremonial and other matters connected with his future
progress and dignity, and Lady Jane busy with her nursery, as far as her mother
would let her, and the sun rising and setting, and the clock-tower bell of the
Hall ringing to dinner and to prayers as usual, the body of the late owner of
Queen's Crawley lay in the apartment which he had occupied, watched unceasingly
by the professional attendants who were engaged for that rite. A woman or two,
and three or four undertaker's men, the best whom Southampton could furnish,
dressed in black, and of a proper stealthy and tragical demeanour, had charge of
the remains, which they watched turn about, having the housekeeper's room for
their place of rendezvous when off duty, where they played at cards in privacy
and drank their beer.
    The members of the family and servants of the house kept away from the
gloomy spot, where the bones of the descendant of an ancient line of knights and
gentlemen lay, awaiting their final consignment to the family crypt. No regrets
attended them, save those of the poor woman who had hoped to be Sir Pitt's wife
and widow, and who had fled in disgrace from the Hall over which she had so
nearly been a ruler. Beyond her, and a favourite old pointer he had, and between
whom and himself an attachment subsisted during the period of his imbecility,
the old man had not a single friend to mourn him, having indeed, during the
whole course of his life, never taken the least pains to secure one. Could the
best and kindest of us who depart from the earth have an opportunity of
revisiting it, I suppose he or she (assuming that any Vanity Fair feelings,
subsist in the sphere whither we are bound) would have a pang of mortification
at finding how soon our survivors were consoled. And so Sir Pitt was forgotten,
like the kindest and best of us - only a few weeks sooner.
    Those who will may follow his remains to the grave, whither they were borne
on the appointed day, in the most becoming manner, the family in black coaches,
with their handkerchiefs up to their noses, ready for the tears which did not
come; the undertaker and his gentlemen in deep tribulation; the select tenantry
mourning out of compliment to the new landlord; the neighbouring gentry's
carriages at three miles an hour, empty, and in profound affliction; the parson
speaking out the formula about »our dear brother departed.« As long as we have a
man's body, we play our Vanities upon it, surrounding it with humbug and
ceremonies, laying it in state, and packing it up in gilt nails and velvet; and
we finish our duty by placing over it a stone, written all over with lies.
Bute's curate, a smart young fellow from Oxford, and Sir Pitt Crawley, composed
between them an appropriate Latin epitaph for the late lamented Baronet; and the
former preached a classical sermon, exhorting the survivors not to give way to
grief, and informing them in the most respectful terms that they also would be
one day called upon to pass that gloomy and mysterious portal which had just
closed upon the remains of their lamented brother. Then the tenantry mounted on
horseback again, or stayed and refreshed themselves at the Crawley Arms. Then,
after a lunch in the servants' hall at Queen's Crawley, the gentry's carriages
wheeled off to their different destinations; then the undertaker's men, taking
the ropes, palls, velvets, ostrich feathers, and other mortuary properties,
clambered up on the roof of the hearse, and rode off to Southampton. Their faces
relapsed into a natural expression as the horses, clearing the lodge-gates, got
into a brisker trot on the open road; and squads of them might have been seen
speckling with black the public-house entrances, with pewter-pots flashing in
the sunshine. Sir Pitt's invalid-chair was wheeled away into a tool-house in the
garden. The old pointer used to howl sometimes at first; but these were the only
accents of grief which were heard in the Hall of which Sir Pitt Crawley,
Baronet, had been master for some threescore years.
 
As the birds were pretty plentiful, and partridge-shooting is as it were the
duty of an English gentleman of statesmanlike propensities, Sir Pitt Crawely,
the first shock of grief over, went out a little and partook of that diversion
in a white hat with crape round it. The sight of those fields of stubble and
turnips, now his own, gave him many secret joys. Sometimes, and with an
exquisite humility, he took no gun, but went out with a peaceful bamboo cane;
Rawdon, his big brother, and the keepers blazing away at his side. Pitt's money
and acres had a great effect upon his brother. The penniless Colonel became
quite obsequious and respectful to the head of his house, and despised the
milksop Pitt no longer. Rawdon listened with sympathy to his senior's prospects
of planting and draining; gave his advice about the stables and cattle; rode
over to Mudbury to look at a mare which he thought would carry Lady Jane, and
offered to break her, etc.: the rebellious dragoon was quite humbled and
subdued, and became a most creditable younger brother. He had constant bulletins
from Miss Briggs in London respecting little Rawdon, who was left behind there;
who sent messages of his own. »I am very well,« he wrote. »I hope you are very
well. I hope Mamma is very well. The pony is very well. Grey takes me to ride in
the Park. I can canter. I met the little boy who rode before. He cried when he
cantered. I do not cry.« Rawdon read these letters to his brother, and Lady
Jane, who was delighted with them. The Baronet promised to take charge of the
lad at school; and his kind-hearted wife gave Rebecca a bank-note, begging her
to buy a present with it for her little nephew.
    One day followed another, and the ladies of the house passed their life in
those calm pursuits and amusements which satisfy country ladies. Bells rang to
meals, and to prayers. The young ladies took exercise on the pianoforte every
morning after breakfast, Rebecca giving them the benefit of her instruction.
Then they put on thick shoes and walked in the park or shrubberies, or beyond
the palings into the village, descending upon the cottages, with Lady
Southdown's medicine and tracts for the sick people there. Lady Southdown drove
out in a pony-chaise, when Rebecca would take her place by the Dowager's side,
and listen to her solemn talk with the utmost interest. She sang Handel and
Haydn to the family of evenings, and engaged in a large piece of worsted work,
as if she had been born to the business, and as if this kind of life was to
continue with her until she should sink to the grave in a polite old age,
leaving regrets and a great quantity of Consols behind her - as if there were
not cares and duns, schemes, shifts, and poverty, waiting outside the park
gates, to pounce upon her when she issued into the world again.
    »It isn't difficult to be a country gentleman's wife,« Rebecca thought. »I
think I could be a good woman if I had five thousand a year. I could dawdle
about in the nursery, and count the apricots on the wall. I could water plants
in a greenhouse, and pick off dead leaves from the geraniums. I could ask old
women about their rheumatisms, and order half a crown's worth of soup for the
poor. I shouldn't miss it much out of five thousand a year. I could even drive
oat ten miles to dine at a neighbour's, and dress in the fashions of the year
before last. I could go to church and keep awake in the family pew; or go to
sleep behind the curtains, with my veil down, if I only had practice. I could
pay everybody, if I had bat the money. This is what the conjurors here pride
themselves upon doing. They look down with pity upon us miserable sinners who
have none. They think themselves generous if they give our children a five-pound
note, and us contemptible if we are without one.« And who knows but Rebecca was
right in her speculations, and that it was only a question of money and fortune
which made the difference between her and an honest woman? If you take
temptations into account, who is to say that he is better than his neighbour? A
comfortable career of prosperity, if it does not make people honest, at least
keeps them so. An alderman coming from a turtle feast will not step out of his
carriage to steal a leg of mutton; but put him to starve, and see if he will not
purloin a loaf. Becky consoled herself by so balancing the chances and
equalizing the distribution of good and evil in the world.
    The old haunts, the old fields and woods, the copses, ponds, and gardens,
the rooms of the old house where she had spent a couple of years seven years
ago, all carefully revisited by her. She had been young there, or comparately so
- for she forgot the time when she ever was young - but she remembered her
thoughts and feelings seven years back, and contrasted them with those which she
had at present, now that she had seen the world and lived with great people, and
raised herself far beyond her original humble station.
    »I have passed beyond it, because I have brains,« Becky thought, »and almost
all the rest of the world are fools. I could not go back, and consort with those
people now whom I used to meet in my father's studio. Lords come up to my door
with stars and garters, instead of poor artists with screws of tobacco in their
pockets. I have a gentleman for my sister, in the very house where I was little
better than a servant a few years ago. But am I much better to do now in the
world than I was when I was the poor painter's daughter, and wheedled the grocer
round the corner for sugar and tea? Suppose I had married Francis, who was so
found of me - I couldn't have been much poorer than I am now. Heigho! I wish I
could exchange my position in society, and all my relations, for a sung sum in
the Three per Cent. Consols;« for so it was that Becky felt the Vanity of human
affairs, and it was in those securities that she would have liked to cast
anchor.
    It may, perhaps, have struck her that to have been honest and humble, to
have done her duty, and to have marched straightforward on her way, would have
brought her as near happiness as that path by which she was striving to attain
it. But just as the children at Queen's Crawley went round the room where the
body of their father lay, if ever Becky had these thoughts, she was accustomed
to walk round them and not look in. She eluded them, despised them; or at least
she was committed to the other path, from which retreat was now impossible. And
for my part I believe that remorse is the least active of all a man's moral
senses - the very easiest to be deadened when wakened; and in some never,
wakened at all. We grieve at being found out, and at the idea of shame or
punishment; but the mere sense of wrong makes very few people unhappy in Vanity
Fair.
    So Rebecca, during her stay at Queen's Crawley, made as many friends of the
Mammon of Unrighteousness as she could possibly bring under control. Lady Jane
and her husband bade her farewell with the warmest demonstrations of goodwill.
They looked forward with pleasure to the time when, the family house in Gaunt
Street being repaired and beautified, they were to meet again in London. Lady
Southdown made her up a packet of medicine, and sent a letter by her to the Rev.
Lawrence Grills, exhorting that gentleman to save the brand who »honoured« the
letter from the burning. Pitt accompanied them with four horses in the carriage
to Mudbury, having sent on their baggage in a cart previously, accompanied with
loads of game.
    »How happy you will be to see your darling little boy again!« Lady Crawley
said, taking leave of her kinswoman.
    »Oh, so happy!« said Rebecca, throwing up the green eyes. She was immensely
happy to be free of the place, and yet loth to go. Queen's Crawley was
abominably stupid; and yet the air there was somehow purer than that which she
had been accustomed to breathe. Everybody had been dull, but had been kind in
their way. »It is all the influence of a long course of Three per Cents.,« Becky
said to herself, and was right very likely.
    However, the London lamps flashed joyfully as the stage rolled into
Piccadilly, and Briggs had made a beautiful fire in Curzon Street, and little
Rawdon was up to welcome back his papa and mamma.
 

                                  Chapter XLII

                      Which Treats of the Osborne Family.

Considerable time has elapsed since we have seen our respectable friend, old Mr.
Osborne of Russell Square. He has not been the happiest of mortals since last we
met him. Events have occurred which have not improved his temper, and in more
instances than one he has not been allowed to have his own way. To be thwarted
in this reasonable desire was always very injurious to the old gentleman; and
resistance became doubly exasperating when gout, age, loneliness, and the force
of many disappointments, combined to weigh him down. His stiff black hair began
to grow quite white soon after his son's death; his face grew redder; his hands
trembled more and more as he poured out his glass of port wine. He led his
clerks a dire life in the City; his family at home were not much happier. I
doubt if Rebecca, whom we have seen piously for Consols, would have exchanged
her poverty and the dare-devil excitement and chances of her life, for Osborne's
money and the humdrum gloom which enveloped him. He had proposed for Miss
Swartz, but had been rejected scornfully by the partisans of that lady, who
married her to a young sprig of Scotch nobility. He was a man to have married a
woman out of low life, and bullied her dreadfully afterwards. But no person
presented herself suitable to his taste; and instead, he tyrannized over his
unmarried daughter at home. She had a fine carriage and fine horses, and sate at
the head of a table loaded with the grandest plate. She had a chequebook, a
prize footman to follow her when she walked unlimited credit, and bows and
compliments from all the tradesmen, and all the appurtenances of an heiress; but
she spent a woeful time. The little charity-girls at the Foundling, the sweepers
at the crossing, the poorest under-kitchenmaid in the servants' hall, was happy
compared to that unfortunate and now middle-aged young lady.
    Frederick Bullock, Esq., of the house of Bullock, Hulker &amp; Bullock, had
married Maria Osborne, not without a great deal of difficulty and grumbling on
Mr. Bullock's part. George being dead and cut out of his father's will,
Frederick insisted that the half of the old gentleman's property should be
settled upon his Maria; and indeed, for a long time, refused »to come to
scratch« (it was Mr. Frederick's own expression) on any other terms. Osborne
said Fred had agreed to take his daughter with twenty thousand, and he should
bind himself to no more. »Fred might take it, and welcome; or leave it, and go
and he hanged.« Fred, whose hopes had been raised when George had been dis-
inherited, thought himself infamously swindled by the old merchant, and for some
time made as if he would break off the match altogether. Osborne withdrew his
account from Bullock &amp; Hulker's; went on 'Change a horsewhip, which he swore
he would lay across the back of a certain scoundrel that should be nameless; and
demeaned himself in his usual violent manner. Jane Osborne condoled with her
sister Maria during this family feud. »I always told you, Maria, that it was
your, money he loved, and not you,« she said, soothingly.
    »He selected me and my money, at any rate; he didn't choose you and yours,«
replied Maria, tossing up her head.
    The rupture was, however, only temporary. Fred's father and senior partners
counselled him to take Maria, even with the twenty thousand settled, half down,
and half at the death of Mr. Osborne, with the chances of the further division
of the property. So he »knuckled down« - again to use his own phrase - and sent
old Hulker with peaceable overtures to Osborne. It was his father, he said, who
would not hear of the match, and had made the difficulties; he was most anxious
to keep the engagement. The excuse was sulkily accepted by Mr. Osborne. Hulker
&amp; Bullock were a high family of the City aristocracy, and connected with the
»nobs« at the West End. It was something for the old man to be able to say, »My
son, sir, of the house of Hulker, Bullock &amp; Co., sir; my daughter's cousin,
Lady Mary Mango, sir, daughter of the Right Hon the Earl of Castlemouldy.« In
his imagination he saw his house peopled by the »nobs.« So he forgave young
Bullock, and consented that the marriage should take place.
    It was a grand affair - the bridegroom's relatives giving the breakfast,
their habitations being near St. George's, Hanover Square, where the business
took place. The »nobs of the West End« were invited, and many of them signed the
book. Mr. Mango and Lady Mary Mango were there, with the dear young Gwendoline
and Guinever Mango as bridesmaids; Colonel Bludyer of the, Dragoon Guards
(eldest son of the house of Bludyer Brothers, Mincing Lane), another cousin of
the bridegroom, and the Honourable Mrs. Bludyer; the Honourable George Boulter,
Lord Levant's son, and his lady, Miss Mango that was; Lord Viscount Castletoddy;
Honourable James M'Mull and Mrs. M'Mull (formerly Miss Swartz); and a host of
fashionables, who have all married into Lombard Street, and done great deal to
ennoble Cornhill.
    The young couple had a house near Berkeley Square, and a small villa at
Roehampton, among the banking colony there. Fred was considered to have made
rather a mésalliance by the ladies of his family, whose grandfather had been in
a Charity School, and who were allied through the husbands with some of the best
blood in England. And Maria was bound, by superior pride and great care in the
composition of her visiting-book, to make up for the defects of birth, and felt
it her duty to see her father and sister as little as possible.
    That she should utterly break with the old man, who had still so many scores
of thousand pounds to give away, is absurd to suppose. Fred Bullock would never
allow her do that. But she was still young, and incapable of hiding her
feelings; and by inviting to her third-rate parties, and behaving very coldly to
them when they came, and by avoiding Russell Square, and indiscreetly begging
her father to quit that odious, vulgar place, she did more harm than all
Frederick's diplomacy could repair, and perilled her chance of her inheritance
like a giddy heedless creature as she was.
    »So Russell Square is not good enough for Mrs. Maria, hey?« said the old
gentleman, rattling up the carriage-windows as he and his daughter drove away
one night from Mrs. Frederick Bullock's after dinner. »So she invites her father
and sister to a second day's dinner (if those sides, or ontrys, as she calls
'em, weren't served yesterday, I'm d--d), and to meet City folks and littery
men, keeps the Earls and the Ladies and the Honourable? Damn Honourables! I am a
plain British merchant, I am, could buy the beggarly hounds over and over.
Lords, indeed! - why at once of her swarreys I saw one of 'em speak to a dam
fiddler - a fellar I despise. And they won't come to Russell Square they? Why,
I'll lay my life I've got a better glass of wine, and pay a better figure for
it, and can show a handsomer service of silver, and can lay a better dinner on
my mahogany, than ever they see on theirs - the cringing, sneaking, stuck-up
fools! Drive on quick, James; I want to get back to Russell Square - ha, ha!«
and he sank back into the corner with a furious laugh. With such reflections on
his own superior merit, it was the custom of the old gentleman not unfrequently
to console himself.
    Jane Osborne could not but concur in these opinions respecting her sister's
conduct; and when Mrs. Frederick's first-born, Frederick Augustus Howard Stanley
Devereux Bullock, was born, old Osborne, who was invited to the christening, and
to be godfather, contented himself with sending the child a gold cup, with
twenty guineas inside it for the nurse. »That's more than any of your Lords will
give, I'll warrant,« he said, and refused to attend at the ceremony.
    The splendour of the gift, however, caused great satisfaction to the house
of Bullock. Maria thought that her father was very much pleased with her, and
Frederick augured the best for his little son and heir.
    One can fancy the pangs with which Miss Osborne in her solitude in Russell
Square read The Morning Post, where her sister's name occurred every now and
then, in the articles headed »Fashionable Réunions,« and where she had an
opportunity of reading a description of Mrs. F. Bullock's costume, when
presented at the Drawing-room by Lady Frederica Bullock. Jane's own life, as we
have said, admitted of no such grandeur. It was an awful existence. She had to
get up of black winter's mornings to make breakfast for her scowling old father,
who would have turned the whole house out of doors if his tea had not been ready
at half-past eight. She remained silent opposite to him, listening to the urn
hissing, and sitting in tremor while the parent read his paper, and consumed his
accustomed portion of muffins and tea. At half-past nine he rose and went to the
City, and she was almost free till dinner-time, to make visitations in the
kitchen, and to scold the servants; to drive abroad and descend upon the
tradesmen, who were prodigiously respectful; to leave her cards and her papa's
at the great, glum, respectable houses of their City friends; or to sit alone in
the large drawing-room, expecting visitors, and working at a huge piece of
worsted by the fire, on the sofa hard by the great Iphigenia clock, which ticked
and tolled with mournful loudness in the dreary room. The great glass over the
mantelpiece, faced by the other great console glass at the opposite end of the
room, increased and multiplied between them the brown holland bag in which the
chandelier hung; until you saw these brown holland bags fading away in endless
perspectives, and this apartment of Miss Osborne's seemed the centre of a system
of drawing-rooms. When she removed the cordovan leather from the grand piano,
and ventured to play a few notes on it, it sounded with a mournful sadness,
startling the dismal echoes of the house. George's picture was gone, and laid
upstairs in a lumber-room in the garret; and though there was a consciousness of
him, and father and daughter often instinctively knew that they were thinking of
him, no mention was ever made of the brave and once darling son.
    At five o'clock Mr. Osborne came back to his dinner, which he and his
daughter took in silence (seldom broken, except when he swore and was savage, if
the cooking was not to his liking), or which they shared twice in a month with a
party of dismal friends of Osborne's rank and age. Old Dr. Gulp and his lady
from Bloomsbury Square; old Mr. Frowser, the attorney, from Bedford Row, a very
great man, and, from his business, hand-in-glove with the »nobs at the West
End;« old Colonel Livermore, of the Bombay Army, and Mrs. Livermore, from Upper
Bedford Place; old Serjeant Toffy and Mrs. Toffy; and sometimes old Sir Thomas
Coffin and Lady Coffin, from Bedford Square. Sir Thomas was celebrated as a
hanging judge, and the particular tawny port was produced when he dined with Mr.
Osborne.
    These people and their like gave the pompous Russell Square merchant pompous
dinners back again. They had solemn rubbers of whist, when they went upstairs
after drinking, and their carriages were called at half-past ten. Many rich
people, whom we poor devils are in the habit of envying, lead contentedly an
existence like that above described. Jane Osborne scarcely ever met a man under
sixty, and almost the only bachelor who appeared in their society was Mr. Smirk,
the celebrated ladies' doctor.
    I can't say that nothing had occurred to disturb the monotony of this awful
existence: the fact is, there had been a secret in poor Jane's life which had
made her father more savage and morose than even nature, pride, and overfeeding
had made him. This secret was connected with Miss Wirt, who had a cousin an
artist, Mr. Smee, very celebrated since as a portrait-painter and R.A., but who
once was glad enough to give drawing lessons to ladies of fashion. Mr. Smee has
forgotten where Russell Square is now, but he was glad enough to visit it in the
year 1818, when Miss Osborne had instruction from him.
    Smee (formerly a pupil of Sharpe of Frith Street, a dissolute, irregular,
and unsuccessful man, but a man with great knowledge of his art) being the
cousin of Miss Wirt, we say, and introduced by her to Miss Osborne, whose hand
and heart were still free after various incomplete love affairs, felt a great
attachment for this lady, and it is believed inspired one in her bosom. Miss
Wirt was the confidante of this intrigue. I know not whether she used to leave
the room where the master and his pupil were painting, in order to give them an
opportunity for exchanging those vows and sentiments which cannot be uttered
advantageously in the presence of a third party; I know not whether she hoped
that, should her cousin succeed in carrying off the rich merchant's daughter, he
would give Miss Wirt a portion of the wealth which she had enabled him to win -
all that is certain is, that Mr. Osborne got some hint of the transaction, came
back from the City abruptly, and entered the drawing-room with his bamboo cane;
found the painter, the pupil, and the companion all looking exceedingly pale
there; turned the former out of doors with menaces that he would break every
bone in his skin, and half an hour afterwards dismissed Miss Wirt likewise,
kicking her trunks down the stairs, trampling on her bandboxes, and shaking his
fist at her hackney-coach as it bore her away.
    Jane Osborne kept her bedroom for many days. She was not allowed to have a
companion afterwards. Her father swore to her that she should not have a
shilling of his money if she made any match without his concurrence; and as he
wanted a woman to keep his house, he did not choose that she should marry, so
that she was obliged to give up all projects with which Cupid had any share.
During her papa's life, then, she resigned herself to the manner of existence
here described, and was content to be an old maid. Her sister, meanwhile, was
having children with finer names every year; and the intercourse between the two
grew fainter continually. »Jane and I do not move in the same sphere of life,«
Mrs. Bullock said. »I regard her as a sister, of course;« which means - what
does it mean when a lady says that she regards Jane as a sister?
 
It has been described how the Misses Dobbin lived with their father at a fine
villa at Denmark Hill, where there were beautiful graperies and peach-trees
which delighted little Georgy Osborne. The Misses Dobbin, who drove often to
Brompton to see our dear Amelia, came sometimes to Russell Square too, to pay a
visit to their old acquaintance Miss Osborne. I believe it was in consequence of
the commands of their brother the Major in India (for whom their papa had a
prodigious respect), that they paid attention to Mrs. George; for the Major, the
godfather and guardian of Amelia's little boy, still hoped that the child's
grandfather might be induced to relent towards him, and acknowledge him for the
sake of his son. The Misses Dobbin kept Miss Osborne acquainted with the state
of Amelia's affairs: how she was living with her father and mother; how poor
they were; how they wondered what men, and such men as their brother and dear
Captain Osborne, could find in such an insignificant little chit; how she was
still, as heretofore, a namby-pamby, milk-and-water, affected creature; but how
the boy was really the noblest little boy ever seen - for the hearts of all
women towards young children, and the sourest spinster is kind to them.
    One day, after great entreaties on the part of the Misses Dobbin, Amelia
allowed little George to go and pass a day with them at Denmark Hill - a part of
which day she spent herself in writing to the Major in India. She congratulated
him on the happy news which his sisters had just conveyed to her. She prayed for
his prosperity and that of the bride he had chosen. She thanked him for a
thousand thousand kind offices and proofs of steadfast friendship to her in her
affliction. She told him the last news about little Georgy, and how he was gone
to spend that very day with his sisters in the country. She underlined the
letter a great deal, and she signed herself affectionately his friend, Amelia
Osborne. She forgot to send any message of kindness to Lady O'Dowd, as her wont
was; and did not mention Glorvina by name, and only in italics, as the Major's
bride, for whom she begged blessings. But the news of the marriage removed the
reserve which she had kept up towards him. She was glad to be able to own and
feel how warmly and gratefully she regarded him; and as for the idea of being
jealous of Glorvina (Glorvina, indeed!), Amelia would have scouted it, if an
angel from heaven had hinted it to her.
    That night, when Georgy came back in the pony-carriage in which he rejoiced,
and in which he was driven by Sir William Dobbin's old coachman, he had round
his neck a fine gold chain and watch. He said an old lady, not pretty, had given
it to him, who cried and kissed him a great deal. But he didn't like her. He
liked grapes very much. And he only liked his mamma. Amelia shrank and started:
the timid soul felt a presentiment of terror when she heard that the relations
of the child's father had seen him.
    Miss Osborne came back to give her father his dinner. He had made a good
speculation in the City, and was rather in a good-humour that day, and chanced
to remark the agitation under which she laboured. »What's the matter, Miss
Osborne?« he deigned to say.
    The woman burst into tears. »O sir,« she said, »I've seen little George. He
is as beautiful as an angel - and so like him!« The old man opposite to her did
not say a word, but flushed up, and began to tremble in every limb.
 

                                 Chapter XLIII

                  In which the Reader Has to Double the Cape.

The astonished reader must be called upon to transport himself ten thousand
miles to the military station of Bundlegunge, in the Madras division of our
Indian Empire, where our gallant old friends of the -th regiment are quartered,
under the command of the brave Colonel, Sir Michael O'Dowd. Time has dealt
kindly with that stout officer, as it does ordinarily with men who have good
stomachs and good tempers, and are not perplexed overmuch by fatigue of the
brain. The Colonel plays a good knife and fork at tiffin, and resumes those
weapons with great success at dinner. He smokes his hookah after both meals, and
puffs as quietly while his wife scolds him as he did under the fire of the
French at Waterloo. Age and heat have not diminished the activity or the
eloquence of the descendant of the Malonys and the Molloys. Her Ladyship, our
old acquaintance, is as much at home at Madras as at Brussels - in the
cantonment as under the tents. On the march you saw her at the head of the
regiment seated on a royal elephant - a noble sight. Mounted on that beast she
has been into action with tigers in the jungle; she has been received by native
princes, who have welcomed her and Glorvina into the recesses of their zenanas,
and offered her shawls and jewels which it went, to her heart to refuse. The
sentries of all arms salute her wherever she makes her appearance; and she
touches her hat gravely to their salutation. Lady O'Dowd is one of the greatest
ladies in the Presidency of Madras: her quarrel with Lady Smith, wife of Sir
Minos Smith the puisne judge, is still remembered by some at Madras, when the
Colonel's lady snapped her fingers in the Judge's lady's face, and said she'd
never walk behind ever a beggarly civilian. Even now, though it is
five-and-twenty years ago, people remember Lady O'Dowd performing a jig at
Government House, where she danced down two aides-de-camp, a major of Madras
Cavalry, and two gentlemen of the Civil Service; and, persuaded by Major Dobbin,
C.B., second in command of the - th, to retire to the supper-room, lassata
nondum satiata recessit.
    Peggy O'Dowd is indeed the same as ever - kind in act and thought, impetuous
in temper, eager to command; a tyrant over her Michael, a dragon amongst all the
ladies of the regiment, a mother to all the young men, whom she tends in their
sickness, defends in all their scrapes, and with whom Lady Peggy is immensely
popular. But the subalterns' and captains' ladies (the Major is unmarried) cabal
against her a good deal. They say that Glorvina gives herself airs, and that
Peggy herself is intolerably domineering. She interfered with a little
congregation which Mrs. Kirk had got up, and laughed the young men away from her
sermons, stating that a soldier's wife had no business to be a parson; that Mrs.
Kirk would be much better mending her husband's clothes; and, if the regiment
wanted sermons, that she had the finest in the world - those of her uncle, the
Dean. She abruptly put a termination to a flirtation which Lieutenant Stubble of
the regiment had commenced with the surgeon's wife, threatening to come down
upon Stubble for the money which he had borrowed from her (for the young fellow
was still of an extravagant turn) unless he broke off at once and went to the
Cape on sick leave. On the other hand, she housed and sheltered Mrs. Posky, who
fled from her bungalow one night, pursued by her infuriate husband, wielding his
second brandy bottle, and actually carried Posky through the delirium tremens,
and broke him of the habit of drinking, which had grown upon that officer, as
all evil habits will grow upon men. In a word, in adversity she was the best of
comforters, in good fortune the most troublesome of friends - having a perfectly
good opinion of herself always, and an indomitable resolution to have her own
way.
    Among other points, she had made up her mind that Glorvina should marry our
old friend Dobbin. Mrs. O'Dowd knew the Major's expectations, and appreciated
his good qualities and the high character which he enjoyed in his profession.
Glorvina, a very handsome, fresh-coloured, black-haired, blue-eyed young lady,
who could ride a horse or play a sonata with any girl out of the County Cork,
seemed to be the very person destined to ensure Dobbin's happiness - much more
than that poor good little weak-spur'ted Amelia, about whom he used to take on
so. »Look at Glorvina enter a room,« Mrs. O'Dowd would say, »and compare her
with that poor Mrs. Osborne, who couldn't say bo to a goose. She'd be worthy of
you, Major; you're a quiet man yourself, and want some one to talk for ye. And
though she does not come of such good blood as the Malonys or Molloys, let me
tell ye, she's of an ancient family that any nobleman might be proud to marry
into.«
    But before she had come to such a resolution, and determined to subjugate
Major Dobbin by her endearments, it must be owned that Glorvina had practised
them a good deal elsewhere. She had had a season in Dublin, and who knows how
many in Cork, Killarney, and Mallow? She had flirted with all the marriageable
officers whom the depôts of her country afforded, and all the bachelor squires
who seemed eligible. She had been engaged to be married a half-score times in
Ireland, besides the clergyman at Bath who used her so ill. She had flirted all
the way to Madras with the captain and chief mate of the Ramchunder East
Indiaman, and had a season at the Presidency with her brother and Mrs. O'Dowd,
who was staying there while the Major of the regiment was in command at the
station. Everybody admired her there, everybody danced with her, but no one
proposed who was worth the marrying. One or two exceedingly young subalterns
sighed after her, and a beardless civilian or two; but she rejected these as
beneath her pretensions, and other and younger virgins than Glorvina were
married before her. There are women, and handsome women too, who have this
fortune in life. They fall in love with the utmost generosity, they ride and
walk with half the Army list, though they draw near to forty, and yet the Misses
O'Grady are the Misses O'Grady still. Glorvina persisted that but for Lady
O'Dowd's unlucky quarrel with the Judge's lady, she would have made a good match
at Madras, where old Mr. Chutney, who was at the head of the Civil Service (and
who afterwards married Miss Dolby, a young lady only thirteen years of age, who
had just arrived from school in Europe), was just at the point of proposing to
her.
    Well, although Lady O'Dowd and Glorvina quarrelled a great number of times
every day, and upon almost every conceivable subject - indeed, if Mick O'Dowd
had not possessed the temper of an angel, two such women constantly about his
ears would have driven him out of his senses - yet they agreed between
themselves on this point, that Glorvina should marry Major Dobbin, and were
determined that the Major should have no rest until the arrangement was brought
about. Undismayed by forty or fifty previous defeats, Glorvina laid siege to
him. She sang Irish melodies at him unceasingly. She asked him so frequently and
pathetically, Will ye come to the bower? that it is a wonder how any man of
feeling could have resisted the invitation. She was never tired of inquiring if
Sorrow had his young days faded, and was ready to listen and weep like Desdemona
at the stories of his dangers and his campaigns. It has been said that our
honest and dear old friend used to perform on the flute in private: Glorvina
insisted upon having duets with him, and Lady O'Dowd would rise and artlessly
quit the room when the young couple were so engaged. Glorvina forced the Major
to ride with her of mornings. The whole cantonment saw them set out and return.
She was constantly writing notes over to him at his house, borrowing his books,
and scoring with her great pencil-marks such passages of sentiment or humour as
awakened her sympathy. She borrowed his horses, his servants, his spoons, and
palankin. No wonder that public rumour assigned her to him, and that the Major's
sisters in England should fancy they were about to have a sister-in-law.
    Dobbin, who was thus vigorously besieged, was in the meanwhile in a state of
the most odious tranquillity. He used to laugh when the young fellows of the
regiment joked him about Glorvina's manifest attentions to him. »Bah!« said he,
»she is only keeping her hand in: she practises upon me as she does upon Mrs.
Tozer's piano, because it's the most handy instrument in the station. I am much
too battered and old for such a fine young lady as Glorvina.« And so he went on
riding with her, and copying music and verses into her albums, and playing at
chess with her very submissively; for it is with these simple amusements that
some officers in India are accustomed to while away their leisure moments, while
others of a less domestic turn hunt hogs and shoot snipes, or gamble and smoke
cheroots, and betake themselves to brandy-and-water. As for Sir Michael O'Dowd,
though his lady and her sister both urged him to call upon the Major to explain
himself, and not keep on torturing a poor innocent girl in that shameful way,
the old soldier refused point-blank to have anything to do with the conspiracy.
»Faith, the Major's big enough to choose for himself,« Sir Michael said - »he'll
ask ye when he wants ye;« or else he would turn matter off jocularly, declaring
that »Dobbin was too young to keep house, and had written home to ask lave of
his mamma.« Nay, he went further, and in private communications with his Major
would caution and rally him, crying, »Mind your oi, Dob, my boy; them girls is
bent on mischief. Me Lady has just got a box of gowns from Europe, and there's a
pink satin for Glorvina, which will finish ye, Dob, if it's in the power, of
woman satin to move ye.«
    But the truth is, neither beauty nor fashion could conquer him. Our honest
friend had but one idea of a woman in his head, and that one did not in the
least resemble Miss Glorvina O'Dowd in pink satin. A gentle little woman in
black, with large eyes and brown hair, seldom speaking save when spoken to, and
then in a voice not the least resembling Miss Glorvina's; a soft young mother
tending an infant and beckoning the Major up with a smile to look at him; a
rosy-cheeked lass coming singing into the room in Russell Square, or hanging on
George Osborne's arm, happy and loving - there was but this image that filled
our honest Major's mind by day and by night, and reigned over it always. Very
likely Amelia was not like the portrait the Major had formed of her. There was a
figure in a book of fashions which his sisters had in England, and with which
William had made away privately, pasting it into the lid of his desk, and
fancying he saw some resemblance to Mrs. Osborne in the print; whereas I have
seen it, and can vouch that it is but the picture of a high-waisted gown with an
impossible doll's face simpering over it; I and perhaps Mr. Dobbin's sentimental
Amelia was no more like the real one than this absurd little print which he
cherished. But what man in love, of us, is better informed? or is he much
happier when he sees and owns his delusion? Dobbin was under this spell. He did
not bother his friends and the public much about his feelings, or indeed lose
his natural rest or appetite on account of them. His head has grizzled since we
saw him last, and a line or two of silver may be seen in the soft brown hair
like- wise. But his feelings are not in the least changed or oldened, and his
love remains as fresh as a man's recollections of boyhood are.
    We have said how the two Misses Dobbin and Amelia, the Major's
correspondents in Europe, wrote him letters from England - Mrs. Osborne
congratulating him with great candour and cordiality upon his approaching
nuptials with Miss O'Dowd.
    »Your sister has just kindly visited me,« Amelia wrote in her letter, »and
informed me of an interesting event, upon which I beg to offer my most sincere
congratulations. I hope the young lady to whom I hear you are to be united will
in every respect prove worthy of one who is himself all kindness and goodness.
The poor widow has only her prayers to offer, and her cordial, cordial wishes
for your prosperity! Georgy sends his love to his dear godpapa, and hopes that
you will not forget him. I tell him that you are about to form other ties, with
one who I am sure merits all your affection, but that, although such ties must
of course be the strongest and most sacred, and supersede all others, yet that I
am sure the widow and the child whom you have ever protected and loved will
always have a corner in your heart.« The letter, which has been before alluded
to, went on in this strain, protesting throughout as to the extreme satisfaction
of the writer.
    This letter, which arrived by the very same ship which brought out Lady
O'Dowd's box of millinery from London (and which you may be sure Dobbin opened
before any one of the other packets which the mail brought him), put the
receiver into such a state of mind that Glorvina and her pink satin, and
everything belonging to her, became perfectly odious to him. The Major cursed
the talk of women, and the sex in general. Everything annoyed him that day - the
parade was insufferably hot and wearisome. Good heavens! was a man of intellect
to waste his life, day after day, inspecting cross-belts and putting fools
through their manoeuvres? The senseless chatter of the young men at mess was
more than ever jarring. What cared he, a man on the highroad to forty, to know
how many snipes Lieutenant Smith had shot, or what were the performances of
Ensign Brown's mare? The jokes about the table filled him with shame. He was too
old to listen to the banter of the assistant-surgeon and the slang of the
youngsters, at which old O'Dowd, with his bald head and red face, laughed quite
easily. The old man had listened to those jokes any time these thirty years;
Dobbin himself had been fifteen years hearing them. And after the boisterous
dullness of the mess-table the quarrels and scandal of the ladies of the
regiment! It was unbearable, shameful. »O Amelia, Amelia« he thought, »you to
whom I have been so faithful - you reproach me! It is because you cannot feel
for me that I drag on this wearisome life. And you reward me after years of
devotion by giving me your blessing upon my marriage, forsooth, with this
flaunting Irish girl!« Sick and sorry felt poor William, more than ever wretched
and lonely. He would like to have done with life and its vanity altogether, so
bootless and unsatisfactory the struggle, so cheerless and dreary the prospect
seemed to him. He lay all that night sleepless, and yearning to go home.
Amelia's letter had fallen as a blank upon him. No fidelity, no constant truth
and passion, could move her into warmth. She would not see that he loved her.
Tossing in his bed, he spoke out to her. »Good God, Amelia!« he said, »don't you
know that I only love you in the world - you who are a stone to me, you whom I
tended through months and months of illness and grief, and who bade me farewell
with a smile on your face, and forgot me before the door shut between us!« The
native servants lying outside his verandahs beheld with wonder the Major, so
cold and quiet ordinarily, at present so passionately moved and cast down. Would
she have pitied him had she seen him? He read over all the letters which he ever
had from her - letters of business relative to the little property which he had
made her believe her husband had left to her, brief notes of invitation - every
scrap of writing that she had ever sent to him. How cold, how kind, how
hopeless, how selfish they were!
    Had there been some kind, gentle soul near at hand who could read and
appreciate this silent, generous heart, who knows but that the reign of Amelia
might have been over, and that friend William's love might have flowed into a
kinder channel? But there was only Glorvina of the jetty ringlets with whom his
intercourse was familiar, and this dashing young woman was not bent upon loving
the Major, but rather on making the Major admire her - a most vain and hopeless
task, too, at least considering the means that the poor girl possessed to carry
it out. She curled her hair and showed her shoulders at him, as much as to say,
Did ye ever see such jet ringlets and such a complexion? She grinned at him so
that he might see that every tooth in her head was sound - and he never heeded
all these charms. Very soon after the arrival of the box of millinery, and
perhaps indeed in honour of it, Lady O'Dowd and the ladies of the King's
Regiment gave a ball to the Company's Regiments and the civilians at the
station. Glorvina sported the killing pink frock, and the Major, who attended
the party and walked very ruefully up and down the rooms, never so much as
perceived the pink garment. Glorvina danced past him in a fury with all the
young subalterns of the station, and the Major was not in the least jealous of
her performance, or angry because Captain Bangles of the Cavalry handed her to
supper. It was not jealousy, or frocks or shoulders, that could move him, and
Glorvina had nothing more.
    So these two were each exemplifying the Vanity of this life, and each
longing for what he or she could not get Glorvina cried with rage at the
failure. She had set her mind on the Major »more than on any of the others,« she
owned, sobbing. »He'll break my heart, he will, Peggy,« she would whimper to her
sister-in-law when they were good friends; »sure every one of me frocks must be
taken in - it's such a skeleton I'm growing.« Fat or thin, laughing or
melancholy, on horseback or the music-stool, it was all the same to the Major.
And the Colonel, puffing his pipe and listening to these complaints, would
suggest that Glory should have some black frocks out in the next box from
London, and told a mysterious story of a lady in Ireland who died of grief for
the loss of her husband before she got e'er a one.
    While the Major was going on in this tantalizing way, not proposing, and
declining to fall in love, there came another ship from Europe bringing letters
on board, and amongst them some more for the heartless man. These were home
letters bearing an earlier post-mark than that of the former packets, and as
Major Dobbin recognized among his the handwriting of his sister - who always
crossed and recrossed her letters to her brother, gathered together all the
possible bad news which she could collect, abused him and read him lectures with
sisterly frankness, and always left him miserable for the day after »Dearest
William« had achieved the perusal of one of her epistles - the truth must be
told that dearest William did not hurry himself to break the seal of Miss
Dobbin's letter, but waited for a particularly favourable day and mood for doing
so. A fortnight before, moreover, he had written to scold her for telling those
absurd stories to Mrs. Osborne, and had dispatched a letter in reply to that
lady, undeceiving her with respect to the reports concerning him, and assuring
her that »he had no sort of present intention of altering his condition.«
    Two or three nights after the arrival of the second package of letters, the
Major had passed the evening pretty cheerfully at Lady O'Dowd's house, where
Glorvina thought that he listened with rather more attention than usual to the
Meeting of the Wathers, the Minsthrel Boy, and one or two other specimens of
song with which she favoured him (the truth is, he was no more listening to
Glorvina than to the howling of the jackals in the moonlight outside, and the
delusion was hers as usual); and having played his game at chess with her
(cribbage with the Surgeon was Lady O'Dowd's favourite evening pastime), Major
Dobbin took leave of the Colonel's family at his usual hour, and retired to his
own house.
    There, on his table, his sister's letter lay reproaching him. He took it up,
ashamed rather of his negligence regarding it, and prepared himself for a
disagreeable hour's communings with that crabbed-handed absent relative .... It
may have been an hour after the Major's departure from the Colonel's house. Sir
Michael was sleeping the sleep of the just; Glorvina had arranged her black
ringlets in the innumerable little bits of paper in which it was her habit to
confine them; Lady O'Dowd, too, had gone to her bed in the nuptial chamber, on
the ground floor, and had tucked her musquito curtains round her fair form; when
the guard at the gates of the commanding officer's compound beheld Major Dobbin
in the moonlight rushing towards the house with a swift step and a very agitated
countenance, and he passed the sentinel and went up to the windows of the
Colonel's bedchamber.
    »O'Dowd - Colonel!« said Dobbin, and kept up a great shouting.
    »Heavens, Meejor!« said Glorvina of the curl-papers, putting out her head
too from her window.
    »What is it, Dob, me boy?« said the Colonel, expecting there was a fire in
the station, or that the route had come from headquarters.
    »I - I must have leave of absence. I must go to England - on the most urgent
private affairs,« Dobbin said.
    »Good heavens, what has happened!« thought Glorvina, trembling with all the
papillotes.
    »I want to be off - now - to-night,« Dobbin continued; and the Colonel
getting up, came out to parley with him.
    In the postscript of Miss Dobbin's cross-letter the Major had just come upon
a paragraph to the following effect: - »I drove yesterday to see your old
acquaintance, Mrs. Osborne. The wretched place they live at since they were
bankrupts you know. Mr. S., to judge from a brass-plate on the door of his hut
(it is little better) is a coal-merchant. The little boy, your godson, is
certainly a fine child, though forward, and inclined to be saucy and
self-willed. But we have taken notice of him as you wish it, and have introduced
him to his aunt, Miss O., who was rather pleased with him. Perhaps his grandpapa
- not the bankrupt one, who is almost doting, but Mr. Osborne of Russell Square
- may be induced to relent towards the child of your friend, his erring and
self-willed son. And Amelia will not be ill-disposed to give him up. The widow
is consoled, and is about to marry a reverend gentleman, the Rev. Mr. Binny, one
of the curates of Brompton. A poor match. But Mrs. O. is getting old, and I saw
a great deal of grey in her hair - she was in very good spirits; and your little
godson overate himself at our house. Mamma sends her love, with that of your
affectionate, Ann Dobbin.«
 

                                  Chapter XLIV

               A Roundabout Chapter Between London and Hampshire.

Our old friends the Crawleys' family house, in Great Gaunt Street, still bore
over its front the hatchment which had been placed there as a token of mourning
for Sir Pitt Crawley's demise; yet this heraldic emblem was in itself a very
splendid and gaudy piece of furniture, and all the rest of the mansion became
more brilliant than it had ever been during the late baronet's reign. The black
outer coating of the bricks was removed, and they appeared with a cheerful,
blushing face streaked with white; the old bronze lions of the knocker were gilt
handsomely, the railings painted, and the dismallest house in Great Gaunt Street
became the smartest in the whole quarter, before the green leaves in Hampshire
had replaced those yellowing ones which were on trees in Queen's Crawley avenue
when old Sir Pitt Crawley passed under them for the last time.
    A little woman, with a carriage to correspond, was perpetually seen about
this mansion; an elderly spinster, accompanied by a little boy, also might be
remarked coming thither daily. It was Miss Briggs and little Rawdon, whose
business it was to see to the inward renovation of Sir Pitt's house, to
superintend the female band engaged in stitching the blinds and hangings, to
poke and rummage in the drawers and cupboards crammed with the dirty relics and
congregated trumperies of a couple of generations of Lady Crawleys, and to take
inventories of the china, the glass, and other properties in the closets and
storerooms.
    Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was general-in-chief over these arrangements, with full
orders from Sir Pitt to sell, barter, confiscate, or purchase furniture; and she
enjoyed herself not a little in an occupation which gave full scope to her taste
and ingenuity. The renovation of the house was determined upon when Sir Pitt
came to town in November to see his lawyers, and when he passed nearly a week in
Curzon Street, under the roof of his affectionate brother and sister.
    He had put up at a hotel at first; but Becky, as soon as she heard of the
Baronet's arrival, went off alone to greet him, and returned in an hour to
Curzon Street with Sir Pitt in the carriage by her side. It was impossible
sometimes to resist this artless little creature's hospitalities, so kindly were
they pressed, so frankly and amiably offered. Becky seized Pitt's hand in a
transport of gratitude when he agreed to come. »Thank you,« she said, squeezing
it, and looking into the Baronet's eyes, who blushed a good deal; »how happy
this will make Rawdon!« She bustled up to Pitt's bedroom, leading on the
servants, who were carrying his trunks thither. She came in herself laughing,
with a coal-scuttle out of her own room.
    A fire was blazing already in Sir Pitt's apartment (it was Miss Briggs's
room, by the way, who was sent upstairs to sleep with the maid). »I knew I
should bring you,« she said, with pleasure beaming in her glance. Indeed, she
was really sincerely happy at having him for a guest.
    Becky made Rawdon dine out once or twice on business while Pitt stayed with
them, and the Baronet passed the happy evening alone with her and Briggs. She
went downstairs to the kitchen, and actually cooked little dishes for him.
»Isn't it a good salmi?« she said; »I made it for you. I can make you better
dishes than that, and will when you come to see me.«
    »Everything you do, you do well,« said the Baronet gallantly. »The salmi is
excellent indeed.«
    »A poor man's wife,« Rebecca replied gaily, »must make herself useful, you
know;« on which her brother-in-law vowed that »she was fit to be the wife of an
Emperor, and that to be skilful in domestic duties was surely one of the most
charming of woman's qualities.« And Sir Pitt thought, with something like
mortification, of Lady Jane at home, and of a certain pie which she had insisted
on making, and serving to him at dinner - a most abominable pie.
    Besides the salmi, which was made of Lord Steyne's pheasants from his
lordship's cottage of Stillbrook, Becky gave her brother-in-law a bottle of
white wine, some that Rawdon had brought with him from France, and had picked up
for nothing, the little story-teller said; whereas the liquor was, in truth,
some White Hermitage from the Marquis of Steyne's famous cellars, which brought
fire into the Baronet's pallid cheeks and a glow into his feeble frame.
    Then when he had drunk up the bottle of petit vin blanc, she gave him her
hand and took him up to the drawing-room, and made him sung on the sofa by the
fire, and let him talk as she listened with the tenderest kindly interest,
sitting by him, and hemming a shirt for her dear little boy. Whenever Mrs.
Rawdon wished to be particularly humble and virtuous, this little shirt used to
come out of her work-box. It had got to be too small for Rawdon long before it
was finished.
    Well, Rebecca listened to Pitt, she talked to him, she sang to him, and
cuddled him, so that he found himself more and more glad every day to get back
from the lawyer's at Gray's Inn to the blazing fire in Curzon Street - a
gladness in which the men of law likewise participated, for Pitt's harangues
were of the longest - and so that when away he felt quite a pang at departing.
How pretty she looked kissing her hand to him from the carriage, and waving her
handkerchief when he had taken his place in the mail! She put the handkerchief
to her eyes once. He pulled his sealskin cap over his as the coach drove away,
and sinking back he thought to himself how she respected him and how he deserved
it, and how Rawdon was a foolish, dull fellow, who didn't half appreciate his
wife; and how mum and stupid his own wife was compared to that brilliant little
Becky. Becky had hinted every one of these things herself, perhaps, but so
delicately and gently that you hardly knew when or where. And before they parted
it was agreed that the house in London should be redecorated for the next
season, and that the brothers' families should meet again in the country at
Christmas.
    »I wish you could have got a little money out of him,« Rawdon said to his
wife moodily when the Baronet was gone. »I should like to give something to old
Raggles, hanged if I shouldn't. It ain't right, you know, that the old fellow
should be kept out of all his money. It may be inconvenient, and he might let to
somebody else besides us, you know.«
    »Tell him,« said Becky, »that as soon as Sir Pitt's affairs are settled
everybody will be paid, and give him a little something on account. Here's a
cheque that Pitt left for the boy.« And she took from her bag and gave her
husband a paper which his brother had handed over to her, on behalf of the
little son and heir of the younger branch of the Crawleys.
    The truth is, she had tried personally the ground on which her husband
expressed a wish that she should venture - tried it ever so delicately, and
found it unsafe. Even at a hint about embarrassments Sir Pitt Crawley was off
and alarmed. And he began a long speech, explaining how straitened he himself
was in money matters: how the tenants would not pay; how his father's affairs,
and the expenses attendant upon the demise of the old gentleman, had involved
him; how he wanted to pay off encumbrances; and how the bankers and agents were
overdrawn; and Pitt Crawley ended by making a compromise with his sister-in-law,
and giving her a very small sum for the benefit of her little boy.
    Pitt knew how poor his brother and his brother's family must be. It could
not have escaped the noticed of such a cool and experienced old diplomatist that
Rawdon's family had nothing to live upon, and that houses and carriages are not
to be kept for nothing. He knew very well that he was the proprietor or
appropriator of the money which, according to all proper calculation, ought to
have fallen to his younger brother, and he had, we may be sure, some secret
pangs of remorse within him which warned him that he ought to perform some act
of justice, or let us say compensation, towards these disappointed relations. A
just, decent man, not without brains, who said his prayers, and knew his
catechism, and did his duty outwardly through life, he could not be otherwise
than aware that something was due to his brother at his hands, and that morally
he was Rawdon's debtor.
    But as one reads in the columns of The Times newspaper every now and then
queer announcements from the Chancellor of the Exchequer, acknowledging the
receipt of £50 from A.B., or £10 from W.T., as conscience-money, on account of
taxes due by the said A.B. or W.T., which payments the penitents beg the
honourable gentleman to acknowledge through the medium of the public press, - so
is the Chancellor no doubt, and the reader likewise, always perfectly sure that
the above-named A.B. or W.T. are only paying a very small instalment of what
they really owe, and that the man who sends up a twenty-pound note has very
likely hundreds or thousands more for which he ought to account. Such, at least,
are my feelings when I see A.B. or W.T.'s insufficient acts of repentance. And I
have no doubt that Pitt Crawley's contrition, or kindness if you will, towards
his younger brother, by whom he had so much profited, was only a very small
dividend upon the capital sum in which he was indebted to Rawdon. Not everybody
is willing to pay even so much. To part with money is a sacrifice beyond almost
all men endowed with a sense of order. There is scarcely any man alive who does
not think himself meritorious for giving his neighbour five pounds. Thriftless
gives, not from a beneficent pleasure in giving, but from a lazy delight in
spending. He would not deny himself one enjoyment - not his opera-stall, not his
horse, not his dinner, not even the pleasure of giving Lazarus the five pounds.
Thrifty, who is good, wise, just, and owes no man a penny, turns from a beggar,
haggles with a hackney coachman, or denies a poor relation, and I doubt which is
the most selfish of the two. Money has only a different value in the eyes of
each.
    So, in a word, Pitt Crawley thought he would do something for his brother,
and then thought that he would think about it some other time.
    And with regard to Becky, she was not a woman who expected too much from the
generosity of her neighbours, and so was quite content with all that Pitt
Crawley had done for her. She was acknowledged by the head of the family.
    If Pitt would not give her anything, he would get something for her some
day. If she got no money from her brother-in-law, she got what was as good as
money - credit. Raggles was made rather easy in his mind by the spectacle of the
union between the brothers, by a small payment on the spot, and by the promise
of a much larger sum speedily to be assigned to him. And Rebecca told Miss
Briggs, whose Christmas dividend upon the little sum lent by her Becky paid with
an air of candid joy, and as if her exchequer was brimming over with gold -
Rebecca, we say, told Miss Briggs, in strict confidence, that she had conferred
with Sir Pitt, who was famous as a financier, on Briggs's special behalf, as to
the most profitable investment of Miss B.'s remaining capital; that Sir Pitt,
after much consideration, had thought of a most safe and advantageous way in
which Briggs could lay out her money; that, being especially interested in her
as an attached friend of the late Miss Crawley and of the whole family, and that
long before he left town, he had recommended that she should be ready with the
money at a moment's notice, so as to purchase at the most favourable opportunity
the shares which Sir Pitt had in his eye. Poor Miss Briggs was very grateful for
this mark of Sir Pitt's attention - it came so unsolicited, she said, for she
never should have thought of removing the money from the funds - and the
delicacy enhanced the kindness of the office; and she promised to see her man of
business immediately, and be ready with her little cash at the proper hour.
    And this worthy woman was so grateful for the kindness of Rebecca in the
matter, and for that of her generous benefactor the Colonel, that she went out
and spent a great part of her half-year's dividend in the purchase of a black
velvet coat for little Rawdon, who, by the way, was grown almost too big for
black velvet now, and was of a size and age befitting him for the assumption of
the virile jacket and pantaloons.
    He was a fine open-faced boy, with blue eyes and waving flaxen hair, sturdy
in limb, but generous and soft in heart, fondly attaching himself to all who
were good to him - to the pony; to Lord Southdown, who gave him the horse (he
used to blush and glow all over when he saw that kind young nobleman); to the
groom who had charge of the pony; to Molly, the cook, who crammed him with ghost
stories at night, and with good things from the dinner; to Briggs, whom he
plagued and laughed at; and to his father especially, whose attachment towards
the lad was curious too to witness. Here, as he grew to be about eight years
old, his attachments may be said to have ended. The beautiful mother-vision had
faded away after a while. During near two years she had scarcely spoken to the
child. She disliked him. He had the measles and the whooping-cough. He bored
her. One day when he was standing at the landing-place, having crept down from
the upper regions, attracted by the sound of his mother's voice, who was singing
to Lord Steyne, the drawing-room door opening suddenly discovered the little
spy, who but a moment before had been rapt in delight, and listening to the
music.
    His mother came out and struck him violently a couple of boxes on the ear.
He heard a laugh from the Marquis in the inner room (who was amused by this free
and artless exhibition of Becky's temper), and fled down below to his friends of
the kitchen, bursting in an agony of grief.
    »It is not because it hurts me,« little Rawdon gasped out - »only - only« -
sobs and tears wound up the sentence in a storm. It was the little boy's heart
that was bleeding. »Why mayn't I hear her singing? Why don't she ever sing to me
- as she does to that bald-headed man with the large teeth?« He gasped out at
various intervals these exclamations of rage and grief. The cook looked at the
housemaid, the housemaid looked knowingly at the footman - the awful kitchen
inquisition, which sits in judgment in every house and knows everything, sate on
Rebecca at that moment.
    After this incident the mother's dislike increased to hatred; the
consciousness that the child was in the house was a reproach and a pain to her.
His very sight annoyed her. Fear, doubt, and resistance sprang up, too, in the
boy's own bosom. They were separated from that day of the boxes on the ear.
    Lord Steyne also heartily disliked the boy. When they met by mischance, he
made sarcastic bows or remarks to the child, or glared at him with
savage-looking eyes. Rawdon used to stare him in the face and double his little
fists in return. He knew his enemy, and this gentleman, of all who came to the
house, was the one who angered him most. One day the footman found him squaring
his fists at Lord Steyne's hat in the hall. The footman told the circumstance as
a good joke to Lord Steyne's coachman; that officer imparted it to Lord Steyne's
gentleman, and to the servants' hall in general. And very soon afterwards, when
Mrs. Rawdon Crawley made her appearance at Gaunt House, the porter who unbarred
the gates, the servants of all uniforms in the hall, the functionaries in white
waistcoats, who bawled out from landing the names of Colonel and Mrs. Rawdon
Crawley, knew about her, or fancied they did. The man who brought her
refreshment and stood behind her chair had talked her character over with the
large gentleman in motley-coloured clothes at his side. Bon Dieu! it is awful,
that servants' inquisition! You see a woman in a great party in a splendid
saloon, surrounded by faithful admirers, distributing sparkling glances, dressed
to perfection, curled, rouged, smiling and happy. Discovery walks respectfully
up to her, in the shape of a huge powdered man with large calves and a tray of
ices - with Calumny (which is as fatal as truth) behind him, in the shape of a
hulking fellow carrying the wafer-biscuits. Madam, your secret will be talked
over by those men at their club at the public-house to-night. Jeames will tell
Chawles his notions about you over their pipes and pewter beer-pots. Some people
ought to have mutes for servants in Vanity Fair - mutes who could not write. If
you are guilty, tremble. That fellow behind your chair may be a Janissary with a
bow-string in his plush breeches pocket. If you are not guilty, have a care of
appearances, which are as ruinous as guilt.
    »Was Rebecca guilty or not?« The Vehmgericht of the servants' hall had
pronounced against her.
    And, I shame to say, she would not have got credit had they not believed her
to be guilty. It was the sight of the Marquis of Steyne's carriage-lamps at her
door, contemplated by Raggles, burning in the blackness of midnight, »that kept'
him up,« as he afterwards said - that even more than Rebecca's arts and
coaxings.
    And so - guiltless very likely - she was writhing and pushing onward towards
what they call »a position in society,« and the servants were pointing at her as
lost and ruined. So you see Molly the housemaid of a morning watching a spider
in the door-post lay his thread and laboriously crawl up it, until, tired of the
sport, she raises her broom and sweeps away the thread and the artificer.
    A day or two before Christmas, Becky, her husband, and her son made ready
and went to pass the holidays at the seat of their ancestors at Queen's Crawley.
Becky would have liked to leave the little brat behind, and would have done so
but for Lady Jane's urgent invitation to the youngster, and the symptoms of
revolt and discontent which Rawdon manifested at her neglect of her son. »He's
the finest boy in England,« the father said in a tone of reproach to her, »and
you don't seem I to care for him, Becky, as much as you do for your spaniel. He
shan't bother you much: at home he will be away from you in the nursery, and he
shall go outside on the coach with me.«
    »Where you go yourself because you want to smoke those filthy cigars,«
replied Mrs. Rawdon.
    »I remember when you liked, 'em though,« answered the husband.
    Becky laughed; she was almost always good-humored. »That was when I was on
my promotion, Goosey,« she said. »Take Rawdon outside with you, and give him a
cigar too if you like.«
    Rawdon did not warm his little son for the winter's journey in this way, but
he and Briggs wrapped up the child in shawls and comforters, and he was hoisted
respectfully on to the roof of the dark morning, under the lamps of the White
Horse Cellar; and with no small delight he watched the dawn rise, and made his
first journey to the place which his father still called home. It was a journey
of infinite pleasure to the boy, to whom the incidents of the road afforded
endless interest - his father answering to him all question connected with it,
and telling him who lived in the house to the right, and whom the park belonged
to. His mother, inside the vehicle, with her maid and her furs, her wrappers,
and her scent-bottles, made such a to-do that you would have thought she never
had been in a stage-coach before, much less that she had been turned out of this
very one to make room for a paying passenger on a certain journey performed some
half-score years ago.
    It was dark again when little Rawdon was wakened up to enter his uncle's
carriage at Mudbury, and he sate and looked out of it wondering as the great
iron gates flew open, and at the white trunks of the limes as they swept by,
until they stopped at length before the light windows of the Hall, which were
blazing and comfortable with Christmas welcome. The hall-door was flung open; a
big fire was burning in the great old fireplace; a carpet was down over the
chequered black flags. »It's the old Turkey one that used to be in the Ladies'
Gallery,« thought Rebecca, and the next instant was kissing Lady Jane.
    She and Sir Pitt performed the same salute with great gravity; but Rawdon
having been smoking, hung back rather from his sister-in-law, whose two children
came up to their cousin; and while Matilda held out her hand and kissed him,
Pitt Binkie Southdown, the son and heir, stood aloof rather, and examined him as
a little dog does a big dog.
    Then the kind hostess conducted her guests to the snug apartments blazing
with cheerful fires. Then the young ladies came and knocked at Mrs. Rawdon's
door, under the pretence that they were desirous to be useful, but in reality to
have the pleasure of inspecting the contents of her band and bonnet boxes, and
her dresses, which though black were of the newest London fashion. And they told
her how much the Hall was changed for the better, and how old Lady Southdown was
gone, and how Pitt was taking his station in the county, as became a Crawley, in
fact. Then the great dinner-bell having rung, the family assembled at dinner, at
which meal Rawdon Junior was placed by his aunt, the good-natured lady of the
house; Sir Pitt being uncommonly attentive to his sister-in-law at his own right
hand.
    Little Rawdon exhibited a fine appetite, and showed a gentlemanlike
behaviour.
    »I like to dine here,« he said to his aunt when he had completed his meal,
at the conclusion of which, and after a decent grace by Sir Pitt, the younger
son and heir was introduced, and was perched on a high chair by the Baronet's
side, while the daughter took possession of the place and the little wine-glass
prepared for her near her mother. »I like to dine here,« said Rawdon Minor,
looking up at his relation's kind face.
    »Why?« said the good Lady Jane.
    »I dine in the kitchen when I am at home,« replied Rawdon Minor, »or else
with Briggs.« But Becky was so engaged with the Baronet, her host, pouring out a
flood of compliments and delights and raptures, and admiring young Pitt Binkie,
whom she declared to be the most beautiful, intelligent, noble-looking little
creature, and so like his father, that she did not hear the remarks of her own
flesh and blood at the other end of the broad shining table.
    As a guest, and it being the first night of his arrival, Rawdon the Second
was allowed to sit up until the hour when, tea being over, and a great gilt book
being laid on the table before Sir Pitt, all the domestics of the family
streamed in, and Sir Pitt read, prayers. It was the first time the poor little
boy had ever witnessed or heard of such a ceremonial.
 
The house had been much improved even since the Baronet's brief reign, and was
pronounced by Becky to be perfect, charming, delightful, when she surveyed it in
his company. As for little Rawdon, who examined it with the children for his
guides, it seemed to him a perfect palace of enchantment and wonder. There were
long galleries and ancient state bedrooms, there were pictures and old china,
and armour. There were the rooms in which grandpapa died, and by which the
children walked with terrified looks. »Who was grandpapa?« he asked; and they
told him how he used to be very old, and used to be wheeled about in a
garden-chair, and they showed him the garden-chair one day rotting in the
outhouse in which it had lain since the old gentleman had been wheeled away
yonder to the church of which the spire was glittering over the park elms.
    The brothers had good occupation for several mornings in examining the
improvements which had been effected by Sir Pitt's genius and economy. And as
they walked or rode and looked at them, they could talk without too much boring
each other. And Pitt took care to tell Rawdon what a heavy outlay of money these
improvements had occasioned, and that a man of landed and funded property was
often very hard pressed for twenty pounds. »There is that new lodge gate,« said
Pitt, pointing to it humbly with the bamboo cane: »I can no more pay for it
before the dividends in January than I can fly.«
    »I can lend you, Pitt, till then,« Rawdon answered, rather ruefully; and
they went in and looked at the restored lodge, where the family arms were just
new scraped in stone, and where old Mrs. Lock, for the first time these many
long years, had tight doors, sound roofs, and whole windows.
 

                                  Chapter XLV

                         Between Hampshire and London.

Sir Pitt Crawley had done more than repair fences and restore dilapidated lodges
on the Queen's Crawley estate. Like a wise man, he had set to work to rebuild
the injured popularity of his house, and stop up the gaps and ruins in which his
name had been left by his disreputable and thriftless old predecessor. He was
elected for the borough speedily after his father's demise. A magistrate, a
member of Parliament, a county magnate and representative of an ancient family,
he made it his duty to show himself before the Hampshire public, subscribed
handsomely to the county charities, called assiduously upon all the county folk,
and laid himself out, in a word, to take that position in Hampshire, and in the
Empire afterwards, to which he thought his prodigious talents justly entitled
him. Lady Jane was instructed to be friendly with the Fuddlestons, and the
Wapshots, and the other famous baronets their neighbours. Their carriages might
frequently be seen in the Queen's Crawley avenue now; they dined pretty
frequently at the Hall (where the cookery was so good that it was clear Lady
Jane very seldom had a hand in it), and in return Pitt and his wife most
energetically dined out in all sorts of weather and at all sorts of distances.
For though Pitt did not care for joviality, being a frigid man of poor health
and appetite, yet he considered that to be hospitable and condescending was
quite incumbent on his station, and every time that he got a headache from too
long an after-dinner sitting he felt that he was a martyr to duty. He talked
about crops, corn-laws, politics, with the best country gentlemen. He (who had
been formerly inclined to be a sad freethinker on these points) entered into
poaching and game-preserving with ardour. He didn't hunt - he wasn't't a hunting
man; he was a man of books and peaceful habits - but he thought that the breed
of horses must be kept up in the country, and that the breed of foxes must
therefore be looked to, and for his part, if his friend Sir Huddleston
Fuddleston liked to draw his country, and meet as of old the F. hounds used to
do at Queen's Crawley, he should be happy to see him there, and the gentlemen of
the Fuddleston hunt. And to Lady Southdown's dismay, too, he became more
orthodox in his tendencies every day: gave up preaching in public and attending
meeting-houses; went stoutly to Church; called on the Bishop, and all the Clergy
at Winchester; and made no objection when the Venerable Archdeacon Trumper asked
for a game of whist. What pangs must have been those of Lady Southdown, and what
an utter castaway she must have thought her son-in-law for permitting such a
good-less diversion! and when, on the return of the family from an oratorio at
Winchester, the Baronet announced to the young ladies that he should next year
very probably take them to the »country balls,« they worshipped him for his
kindness. Lady Jane was only too obedient, and perhaps glad herself to go. The
Dowager wrote off the direst descriptions of her daughter's worldly behaviour to
the authoress of the »Washerwoman of Finchley Common« at the Cape; and her house
in Brighton being about this time unoccupied, returned to that watering-place,
her absence being not very much deplored by her children. We may suppose, too,
that Rebecca, on paying a second visit to Queen's Crawley, did not feel
particularly grieved at the absence of the lady of the medicine chest; though
she wrote a Christmas letter to her Ladyship, in which she respectfully recalled
herself to Lady Southdown's recollection, spoke with gratitude of the delight
which her Ladyship's conversation had given her on the former visit, dilated on
the kindness with which her Ladyship had treated her in sickness, and declared
that everything at Queen's Crawley reminded her of her absent friend.
    A great part of the altered demeanour and popularity of Sir Crawley might
have been traced to the counsels of that astute little lady of Curzon Street. »
You remain a baronet - you consent to be a mere country gentleman!« she said to
him, while he had been her guest in London. »No, Sir Pitt Crawley, I know you
better. I know your talents and your ambition. You fancy you hide them both, but
you can conceal neither from me. I showed Lord Steyne your pamphlet on Malt. He
was familiar with it, and said it was in the opinion of the whole Cabinet the
most masterly thing that had appeared on the subject. The Ministry has its eye
upon you, and I know what you want. You want to distinguish yourself in
Parliament; every one says you are the finest speaker in England (for your
speeches at Oxford are still remembered). You want to be member for the county,
where, with your own vote and your borough at your back, you can command
anything. And you want to be Baron Crawley of Queen's Crawley, and will be
before you die. I saw it all. I could read your heart, Sir Pitt. If I had a
husband who possessed your intellect as he does your name, I sometimes think I
should not be unworthy of him; but - but I am your kinswoman now,« she added,
with a laugh. »Poor little penniless I have got a little interest; and who
knows, perhaps the mouse may be able to aid the lion.«
    Pitt Crawley was amazed and enraptured with her speech. »How that woman
comprehends me!« he said. »I never could get Jane to read three pages of the
Malt pamphlet. She has no idea that I have commanding talents or secret
ambition. So they remember my speaking at Oxford, do they? The rascals! now that
I represent my borough and may sit for the county, they begin to recollect me!
Why, Lord Steyne cut me at the levee last year: they are beginning to find out
that Pitt Crawley is some one at last. Yes, the man was always the same whom
these people neglected; it was only the opportunity that was wanting, and I will
show them now that I can speak and act as well as write. Achilles did not
declare himself until they gave him the sword. I hold it now, and the world
shall yet hear of Pitt Crawley.«
    Therefore it was that this roguish diplomatist has grown so hospitable; that
he was so civil to oratorios and hospitals, so kind to Deans and Chapters, so
generous in giving and accepting dinners, so uncommonly gracious to farmers on
market-days, and so much interested about county business; and that the
Christmas at the Hall was the gayest which had been known there for many a long
day.
    On Christmas Day a great family gathering took place. All the Crawleys from
the Rectory came to dine. Rebecca was as frank and fond of Mrs. Bute as if the
other had never been her enemy; she was affectionately interested in the dear
girls, and surprised at the progress which they had made in music since her
time, and insisted upon encoring one of the duets out of the great song-books
which Jim, grumbling, had been forced to bring under his arm from the Rectory.
Mrs. Bute, perforce, was obliged to adopt a decent demeanour towards the little
adventuress - of course being free to discourse with her daughters afterwards
about the absurd respect with which Sir Pitt treated his sister-in-law. But Jim,
who had sat next to her at dinner, declared she was a trump; and one and all of
the Rector's family agreed that little Rawdon was a fine boy. They respected a
possible baronet in the boy, between whom and the title there was only the
little sickly pale Pitt Binkie.
    The children were very good friends. Pitt Binkie was too little a dog for
such a big dog as Rawdon to play with; and Matilda being only a girl, of course
not fit companion for a young gentleman who was near eight years old, and going
into jackets very soon. He took the command of this small party at once - the
little girl and the little boy following him about with great reverence at such
times as he condescended to sport with them. His happiness and pleasure in the
country were extreme. The kitchen garden pleased him hugely, the flowers
moderately, but the pigeons and the poultry, and the stables when he was allowed
to visit them, were delightful objects to him. He resisted being kissed by the
Misses Crawley, but he allowed Lady Jane sometimes to embrace him, and it was by
her side that he liked to sit when, the signal to retire to the drawing-room
being given, the ladies left the gentlemen to their claret - by her side rather
than by his mother. For Rebecca, seeing that tenderness was the fashion, called
Rawdon to her one evening, and stooped down and kissed him in the presence of
all the ladies.
    He looked her full in the face after the operation, trembling and turning
very red, as his wont was when moved. »You never kiss me at home, mamma,« he
said; at which there was a general silence and consternation, and a by no means
pleasant look in Becky's eyes.
    Rawdon was found of his sister-in-law, for her regard for his son. Lady Jane
and Becky did not get on quite so well at this visit as on occasion of the
former one, when the Colonel's wife was bent upon pleasing. Those two speeches
of the child struck rather a child. Perhaps Sir Pitt was rather too attentive to
her.
    But Rawdon, as became his age and size, was fonder of the society of the men
than of the women, and never wearied of accompanying his sire to the stables,
whither the Colonel retired to smoke his cigar - Jim, the Rector's son,
sometimes joining his cousin in that and other amusements. He and the Baronet's
keeper were very close friends, their mutual taste for »dawgs« bringing them
much together. On one day Mr. James, the Colonel, and Horn the keeper went and
shot pheasants, taking little Rawdon with them. On another most blissful morning
these four gentlemen partook of the amusement of rat-hunting in a barn, than
which sport Rawdon as yet had never seen anything more noble. They stopped up
the ends of certain drains in the barn, into the other openings of which ferrets
were inserted; and then stood silently aloof, with uplifted stakes in their
hands, and an anxious little terrier (Mr. James's celebrated »dawg« Forceps,
indeed), scarcely breathing from excitement, listening motionless on three legs
to the faint squeaking of the rats below. Desperately bold at last, the
persecuted animals bolted above ground: the terrier accounted for one, the
keeper for another; Rawdon, from flurry and excitement, missed his rat, but, on
the other hand, he half murdered a ferret.
    But the greatest day of all was that on which Sir Huddleston Fuddleston's
hounds met upon the lawn at Queen's Crawley.
    That was a famous sight for little Rawdon. At half-past ten, Tom Moody, Sir
Huddleston Fuddleston's huntsman, was seen trotting up the avenue, followed by
the noble pack of hounds in a compact body, the rear being brought up by the two
whips clad in stained scarlet frocks - light, hard-featured lads on well-bred
lean horses, possessing marvellous dexterity in casting the points of their
long, heavy whips at the thinnest part of any dog's skin who dares to straggle
from the main body, or to take the slightest notice, or even so much as wink, at
the hares and rabbits starting under their noses.
    Next comes boy Jack Moody's son, who weighs five stone, measures
eight-and-forty inches, and will never be any bigger. He is perched on a large,
raw-boned hunter, half covered by a capacious saddle. This animal is Sir
Huddleston Fuddleston's favourite horse - the Nob. Other horses, ridden by other
small boys, arrive from time to time, awaiting their masters, who will come
cantering on anon.
    Tom Moody rides up to the door of the Hall, where he is welcomed by the
butler, who offers him drink, which he declines. He and his pack then draw off
into a sheltered corner of the lawn, where the dogs roll on the grass, and play
or growl angrily at one another, ever and anon breaking out into furious fight
speedily to be quelled by Tom's voice, unmatched at rating, or the snaky thongs
of the whips.
    Many young gentlemen canter up on thoroughbred hacks, spatterdashed to the
knee, and enter the house to drink cherry brandy and pay their respects to
ladies, or, more modest and sportsmanlike, divest themselves of their mud-boots,
exchange their hacks for their hunters, and warm their blood by a preliminary
gallop round the lawn. Then they collect round the pack in the corner, and talk
with Tom Moody of past sport, and the merits of Sniveller and Diamond, and of
the state of the country and of the wretched breed of foxes.
    Sir Huddleston presently appears mounted on a clever cob, and rides up to
the Hall, where he enters and does the civil thing by the ladies, after which,
being a man of few words, he proceeds to business. The hounds are drawn up to
the Hall door, and little Rawdon descends amongst them, excited yet half alarmed
by the caresses which they bestow upon him, at the thumps he receives from their
waving tails, and at their canine bickerings, scarcely restrained by Tom Moody's
tongue and lash.
    Meanwhile Sir Huddleston has hoisted himself unwieldily on the Nob. »Let's
try Sowster's Spinney, Tom,« says the Baronet. »Farmer Mangle tells me there are
two foxes in it.« Tom blows his horn and trots off, followed by the pack, by the
whips, by the young gents from Winchester, by the farmers of the neighbourhood,
by the labourers of the parish on foot, with whom the day is a great holiday;
Sir Huddleston bringing up the rear with Colonel Crawley, and the whole cortége
disappears down the avenue.
    The Reverend Bute Crawley, who has been too modest to appear at the public
meet before his nephew's windows, and whom Tom Moody remembers forty years back
a slender divine riding the wildest horses, jumping the widest brooks, and
larking over the newest gates in the country - his Reverence, we say, happens to
trot out from the Rectory Lane on his powerful black horse, just as Sir
Huddleston passes; he joins the worthy Baronet. Hounds and horsemen disappear,
and little Rawdon remains on the door-steps, wondering and happy.
    During the progress of this memorable holiday, little Rawdon, if he had got
no special liking for his uncle - always awful and cold, and locked up in his
study, plunged in justice business and surrounded by bailiffs and farmers - has
gained the good graces of his married and maiden aunts, of the two little folks
of the Hall, and of Jim of the Rectory, whom Sir Pitt is encouraging to pay his
addresses to one of the young ladies, with an understanding, doubtless, that he
shall be presented to the living when it shall be vacated by his fox-hunting old
sire. Jim has given up that sport himself, and confines himself to a little
harmless duck or snipe shooting, or a little quiet trifling with the rats during
the Christmas holidays, after which he will return to the University, and try
and not be plucked, once more. He has already eschewed green coats, red
neckcloths, and other worldly ornaments, and is preparing himself for a change
in his condition. In this cheap and thrifty way Sir Pitt tries to pay off his
debt to his family.
 
Also before this merry Christmas was over, the Baronet had screwed up courage
enough to give his brother another draft on his bankers, and for no less a sum
than a hundred pounds; an act which caused Sir Pitt cruel pangs at first, but
which made him glow afterwards to think himself one of the most generous of men.
Rawdon and his son went away with the utmost heaviness of heart. Becky and the
ladies parted with some alacrity, however, and our friend returned to London to
commence those avocations with which we find her occupied when this chapter
begins. Under her care the Crawley house in Great Gaunt Street was quite
rejuvenescent, and ready for the reception of Sir Pitt and his family when the
Baronet came to London to attend his duties in Parliament, and to assume that
position in the country for which his vast genius fitted him.
    For the first session this profound dissembler hid his projects, and never
opened his lips but to present a petition from Mudbury. But he attended
assiduously in his place, and learned thoroughly the routine and business of the
House. At home he gave himself up to the perusal of Blue Books, to the alarm and
wonder of Lady Jane, who thought he was killing himself by late hours and
intense application. And he made acquaintance with the Ministers and the chiefs
of his party, determining to rank as one of them before many years were over.
    Lady Jane's sweetness and kindness had inspired Rebecca with such a contempt
for her Ladyship as the little woman found no small difficulty in concealing.
That sort of goodness and simplicity which Lady Jane possessed, annoyed our
friend Becky, and it was impossible for her at times not to show or to let the
other divine scorn. Her presence, too, rendered Lady Jane uneasy. Her husband
talked constantly with Becky. Signs of intelligence seemed to pass between them,
and Pitt spoke with her on subjects on which he never thought of discoursing
with Lady Jane. The latter did not understand them, to be sure, but it was
mortifying to remain silent, still more mortifying to know that you had nothing
to say, and hear that little audacious Mrs. Rawdon dashing on from subject to
subject, with a word for every man, and a joke always pat; and to sit in one's
own house alone, by the fireside, and watching all the men round your rival.
    In the country, when Lady Jane was telling stories to the children, who
clustered about her knees (little Rawdon into the bargain, who was very fond of
her), and Becky came into the room, sneering with green, scornful eyes, poor
Lady Jane grew silent under those baleful glances. Her simple little fancies
shrank away tremulously, as fairies in the storybooks before a superior bad
angel. She could not go on, although Rebecca, with the smallest inflection of
sarcasm in her voice, besought her to continue that charming story. And on her
side gentle thoughts and simple pleasures were odious to Mrs. Becky; they
discorded with her; she hated people for liking them; she spurned children and
children lovers. »I have no taste for bread and butter,« she would say when
caricaturing Lady Jane and her ways to my Lord Steyne.
    »No more has a certain person for holy water,« his Lordship replied, with a
bow and a grin, and a great jarring laugh afterwards.
    So these two ladies did not see much of each other except upon those
occasions when the younger brother's wife, having an object to gain from the
other, frequented her. They my-loved and my-deared each other assiduously, but
kept apart generally; whereas Sir Pitt, in the midst of his multiplied
avocations, found daily time to see his sister-in-law.
    On the occasion of his first Speaker's dinner, Sir Pitt took the opportunity
of appearing before his sister-in-law in his uniform - that old diplomatic suit
which he had worn when attaché to the Pumpernickel legation.
    Becky complimented him upon that dress, and admired him almost as much as
his own wife and children, to whom he displayed himself before he set out. She
said that it was only the thoroughbred gentleman who could wear the Court suit
with advantage; it was only your men of ancient race whom the coulotte courte
became. Pitt looked down with complacency at his legs, which had not, in truth,
much more symmetry or swell than the lean Court sword which dangled by his side
- looked down at his legs, and thought in his heart that he was killing.
    When he was gone, Mrs. Becky made a caricature of his figure, which she
showed to Lord Steyne when he arrived. His Lordship carried off the sketch,
delighted with the accuracy of the resemblance. He had done Sir Pitt Crawley the
honour to meet him at Mrs. Becky's house, and had been most gracious to the new
Baronet and member. Pitt was struck, too, by the deference with which the great
Peer treated his sister-in-law, by her ease and sprightliness in the
conversation, and by the delight with which the other men of the party listened
to her talk. Lord Steyne made no doubt but that the Baronet had only commenced
his career in public life, and expected rather anxiously to hear him as an
orator; as they were neighbours (for Great Gaunt Street leads into Gaunt Square,
whereof Gaunt House, as everybody knows, forms one side) my Lord hoped that as
soon as Lady Steyne arrived in London she would have the honour of making the
aquaintance of Lady Crawley. He left a card upon his neighbour in the course of
a day or two, having never thought fit to notice his predecessor, though they
had lived near each other for near a century past.
    In the midst of these intrigues and fine parties and wise and brilliant
personages Rawdon felt himself more and more isolated every day. He was allowed
to go to the club more; to dine abroad with bachelor friends; to come and go
when he liked, without any questions being asked. And he and Rawdon the younger
many a time would walk to Gaunt Street, and sit with the lady and the children
there while Sir Pitt was closeted with Rebecca, on his way to the House or on
his return from it.
    The ex-Colonel would sit for hours in his brother's house very silent, and
thinking and doing as little as possible. He was glad to be employed of an
errand, to go and make inquiries about a horse of a servant, or to carve the
roast mutton for the dinner of the children. He was beat and cowed into laziness
and submission. Delilah had imprisoned him, and cut his hair off too. The bold
and reckless young blood of ten years back was subjugated, and was turned into a
torpid, submissive, middle-aged, stout gentleman.
    And poor Lady Jane was aware that Rebecca had captivated her husband,
although she and Mrs. Rawdon my-deared and my-loved each other every day they
met.
 

                                  Chapter XLVI

                             Struggles and Trials.

Our friends at Brompton were meanwhile passing their Christmas after their
fashion, and in a manner by no means too cheerful.
    Out of the hundred pounds a year which was about the amount of her income
the widow Osborne had been in the habit of giving up nearly three-fourths to her
father and mother, for the expenses of herself and her little boy. With £120
more, supplied by Jos, this family of four people, attended by a single Irish
servant, who also did for Clapp and his wife, might manage to live in decent
comfort through the year, and hold up their heads yet, and be able to give a
friend a dish of tea still, after the storms and disappointments of their early
life. Sedley still maintained his ascendency over the family of Mr. Clapp, his
ex-clerk. Clapp remembered the time when, sitting on the edge of the chair, he
tossed off a bumper to the health of »Mrs. S--, Miss Emmy, and Mr. Joseph in
India,« at the merchant's rich table in Russell Square. Time magnified the
splendour of those recollections in the honest clerk's bosom. Whenever he came
up from the kitchen-parlour to the drawing-room, and partook of tea or
gin-and-water with Mr. Sedley, he would say, »This was not what you was
accustomed to once, sir,« and as gravely and reverentially drink the health of
the ladies as he had done in the days of their utmost prosperity. He thought
Miss 'Melia's playing the divinest music ever performed, and her the finest
lady. He never would sit down before Sedley at the club even, nor would he have
that gentleman's character abused by any member of the society. He had seen the
first men in London shaking hands with Mr. S--, he said; »He'd known him in
times when Rothschild might be seen on 'Change with him any day, and he owed him
personally everythink.«
    Clapp, with the best of characters and handwritings, had been able very soon
after his master's disaster to find other employment for himself. »Such a little
fish as me can swim in any bucket,« he used to remark; and a member of the house
from which old Sedley had seceded was very glad to make use of Mr. Clapp's
services, and to reward them with a comfortable salary. In fine, all Sedley's
wealthy friends had dropped off one by one, and this poor ex-dependant still
remained faithfully attached to him.
    Out of the small residue of her income, which Amelia kept back for herself,
the widow had need of all the thrift and care possible in order to enable her to
keep her darling boy dressed in such a manner as became George Osborne's son,
and to defray the expenses of the little school to which, after much misgiving
and reluctance, and many secret pangs and fears on her own part, she had been
induced to send the lad. She had sate up of nights conning lessons and spelling
over crabbed grammars and geography books in order to teach them to Georgy. She
had worked even at the Latin accidence, fondly hoping that she might be capable
of instructing him in that language. To part with him all day - to send him out
to the mercy of a school-master's cane and his schoolfellows' roughness - was
almost like weaning him over again to that weak mother, so tremulous and full of
sensibility. He, for his part, rushed off to the school with the utmost
happiness. He was longing for the change. That childish gladness wounded his
mother, who was herself so grieved to part with him. She would rather have had
him more sorry, she thought, and then was deeply repentant within herself for
daring to be so selfish as to wish her own son to be unhappy.
    Georgy made great progress in the school, which was kept by a friend of his
mother's constant admirer, the Rev. Mr. Binny. He brought home numberless prizes
and testimonials of ability. He told his mother countless stories every night
about his school companions; and what a fine fellow Lyons was, and what a sneak
Sniffin was; and how Steel's father actually supplied the meat for the
establishment, whereas Golding's mother came in a carriage to fetch him every
Saturday; and how Neat had straps to his trousers - might he have straps? - and
how Bull Major was so strong (though only in Eutropius) that it was believed he
could lick the usher, Mr. Ward, himself. So Amelia learned to know every one of
the boys in that school as well as Georgy him- self; and of nights she used to
help him in his exercises and puzzle her little head over his lessons as eagerly
as if she was herself going in the morning into the presence of the master.
Once, after a certain combat with Master Smith, George came home to his mother
with a black eye, and bragged prodigiously to his parent and his delighted old
grandfather about his valour in the fight, in which, if the truth was known, he
did not behave with particular heroism, and in which he decidedly had the worst.
But Amelia has never forgiven that Smith to this day, though he is now a
peaceful near Leicester Square.
    In these quiet labours and harmless cares the gentle widow's life was
passing away, a silver hair or two marking the progress of time on her head, and
a line deepening ever so little on her fair forehead. She used to smile at these
marks of time. »What matters it,« she asked, »for an old woman like me?« All she
hoped for was to live to see her son great, famous, and glorious, as he deserved
to be. She kept his copy-books, his drawings, and compositions, and showed them
about in her little circle, as if they were miracles of genius. She confided
some of the specimens to Miss Dobbin, to show them to Miss Osborne, George's
aunt, to show them to Mr. Osborne himself - to make that old man repent of his
cruelty and ill-feeling towards him who was gone. All her husband's faults and
foibles she had buried in the grave with him; she only remembered the lover, who
had married her at all sacrifices - the noble husband so brave and beautiful, in
whose arms she had hung on the morning when he had gone away to fight and die
gloriously for his king. From heaven the hero must be smiling down upon that
paragon of a boy whom he had left to comfort and console her.
    We have seen how one of George's grandfathers (Mr. Osborne), in his
easy-chair in Russell Square, daily grew more violent and moody, and how his
daughter, with her fine carriage, and her fine horses, and her name on half the
public charity lists of the town, was a lonely, miserable, persecuted old maid.
She thought again and again of the beautiful little boy, her brother's son, whom
she had seen. She longed to be allowed to drive in the fine carriage to the
house in which he lived; and she used to look out day after day as she took her
solitary drive in the Park, in hopes that she might see him. Her sister, the
banker's lady, occasionally condescended to pay her old home and companion a
visit in Russell Square. She brought a couple of sickly children attended by a
prim nurse, and in a faint genteel giggling tone cackled to her sister about her
fine acquaintance, and how her little Frederick was the image of Lord Claud
Lollypop, and her sweet Maria had been noticed by the Baroness as they were
driving in their donkey-chaise at Roehampton. She urged her to make her papa do
something for the darlings. Frederick she had determined should go into the
Guards; and if they made an elder son of him (and Mr. Bullock was positively
ruining and pinching himself to death to buy land), how was the darling girl to
be provided for? »I expect you, dear,« Mrs. Bullock would say, »for of course my
share of our papa's property must go to the head of the house, you know. Dear
Rhoda M'Mull will disengage the whole of the Castletoddy property as soon as
poor dear Lord Castletoddy dies, who is quite epileptic, and little Macduff
M'Mull will be Viscount Castletoddy. Both the Mr. Bludyers of Mincing Lane have
settled their fortunes on Fanny Bludyer's little boy. My darling Frederick must
positively be an eldest son; and - and do ask papa to bring us back his account
in Lombard Street, will you, dear? It doesn't't look well his going to Stumpy
&amp; Rowdy's.« After which kind of speeches, in which fashion and the main
chance were blended together, and after a kiss which was like the contact of an
oyster, Mrs. Frederick Bullock would gather her starched nurslings and simper
back into her carriage.
    Every visit which this leader of ton paid to her family was more unlucky for
her. Her father paid more money into Stumpy and Rowdy's. Her patronage became
more and more insufferable. The poor widow in the little cottage at Brompton,
guarding her treasure there, little knew how eagerly some people coveted it.
    On that night when Jane Osborne had told her father that she had seen his
grandson, the old man had made her no reply; but he had shown no anger, and had
bade her good-night on going himself to his room in rather a kindly voice. And
he must have meditated on what she said, and have made some inquiries of the
Dobbin family regarding her visit; for a fortnight after it took place, he asked
her where was her little French watch and chain she used to wear?
    »I bought it with my money, sir,« she said, in a great fright.
    »Go and order another like it, or a better if you can get it,« said the old
gentlemen, and lapsed again into silence.
    Of late the Misses Dobbin more than once repeated their entreaties to Amelia
to allow George to visit them. His aunt had shown her inclination; perhaps his
grandfather himself, they hinted, might be disposed to be reconciled to him.
Surely Amelia could not refuse such advantageous chances for the boy.
    Nor could she; but she acceded to their overtures with a very heavy and
suspicious heart, was always uneasy during the child's absence from her, and
welcomed him back as if he was rescued out of some danger. He brought back money
and toys, at which the widow looked with alarm and jealousy; she asked him
always if he had seen any gentleman. »Only old Sir William, who drove him about
in the four-wheeled chaise, and Mr. Dobbin, who arrived on the beautiful bay
horse in the afternoon - in the green coat and pink neckcloth, with the
gold-headed whip, who promised to show him the Tower of London and take him out
with the Surrey hounds.« At last he said, »There was an old gentleman, with
thick eyebrows and a broad hat, and large chain and seals.« He came one day as
the coachman was lunging Georgy round the lawn on the grey pony. »He looked at
me very much. He shook very much. I said, My name is Norval after dinner. My
aunt began to cry. She is always crying.« Such was George's report on that
night.
    Then Amelia knew that the boy seen his grandfather, and looked out
feverishly for a proposal which she was sure would follow, and which came, in
fact, in a few days afterwards. Mr. Osborne formally offered to take the boy,
and make him heir to the fortune which he had intended that his father should
inherit. He would make Mrs. George Osborne an allowance, such as to assure her a
decent competency. If Mrs. George Osborne proposed to marry again, as Mr. O.
heard was her intention, he would not withdraw allowance. But it must be
understood that the child would live entirely with his grandfather in Russell
Square, or at whatever other place Mr. O. should select, and that he would be
occasionally permitted to see Mrs. George Osborne at her own residence. This
message was brought or read to her in a letter one day, when her mother was from
home, and her father absent as usual in the City.
    She was never seen angry but twice or thrice in her life, and it was in one
of these moods that Mr. Osborne's attorney had the fortune to behold her. She
rose up trembling and flushing very much as soon as, after reading the letter,
Mr. Poe handed it to her, and she tore the paper into a hundred fragments, which
she trod on. »I marry again! I take money to part from my child! Who dares
insult me by proposing such a thing? Tell Mr. Osborne it is a cowardly letter,
sir - a cowardly letter; I will not answer it. I wish you good-morning, sir. And
she bowed me out of the room like a tragedy queen,« said the lawyer who told the
story.
    Her parents never remarked her agitation on that day, and she never told
them of the interview. They had their own affairs to interest them - affairs
which deeply interested this innocent and unconscious lady. The old gentleman,
her father, was always dabbling in speculation. We have seen how the Wine
Company and the Coal Company had failed him. But prowling about the City always
eagerly and restlessly still, he lighted upon some other scheme, of which he
thought so well that he embarked in it in spite of the remonstrances of Mr.
Clapp, to whom indeed he never dared to tell how far he had engaged himself in
it. And as it was always Mr. Sedley's maxim not to talk about money matters
before women, they had no inkling of the misfortunes that were in store for them
until the unhappy old gentleman was forced to make gradual confessions.
    The bills of the little household, which had been settled weekly, first fell
into arrear. The remittances had not arrived from India, Mr. Sedley told his
wife, with a disturbed face. As she had paid her bills very regularly hitherto,
one or two of the tradesmen to whom the poor lady was obliged to go round asking
for time were very angry at a delay to which they were perfectly used from more
irregular customers. Emmy's contribution, paid over cheerfully without any
questions, kept the little company in half-rations, however. And the first six
months passed away pretty easily, old Sedley still keeping up with the notion
that his shares must rise, and that all would be well.
    No sixty pounds, however, came to help the household at the end of the
half-year, and it fell deeper and deeper into trouble. Mrs. Sedley, who was
growing infirm and was much shaken, remained silent, or wept a great deal with
Mrs. Clapp in the kitchen. The butcher was particularly surly, the grocer
insolent. Once or twice little Georgy had grumbled about the dinners, and
Amelia, who still would have been satisfied with a silence of bread for her own
dinner, could not but perceive that her son was neglected, and purchased little
things out of her private purse to keep the boy in health.
    At last they told her, or told her such a garbled story as people in
difficulties tell. One day, her own money having been received, and Amelia about
to pay it over, she, who had kept an account of the moneys expended by her,
proposed to keep a certain portion back out of her dividend, having contracted
engagements for a new suit for Georgy.
    Then it came out that Jos's remittances were not paid; that the house was in
difficulties, which Amelia ought to have seen before, her mother said, but she
cared for nothing or nobody except Georgy. At this she passed all her money
across the table, without a word, to her mother, and returned to her room to cry
her eyes out. She had a great access of sensibility too that day when obliged to
go and countermand the clothes, the darling clothes on which she had set her
heart for Christmas Day, and the cut and fashion of which she had arranged in
many conversation with a small milliner her friend.
    Hardest of all, she had to break the matter to Georgy, who made a loud
outcry. Everybody had new clothes at Christmas. The others would laugh at him.
He would have new clothes. She had promised them to him. The poor widow had only
kisses to give him. She darned the old suit in tears. She cast about among her
little ornaments to see if she could sell anything to procure the desired
novelties. There was her India shawl that Dobbin had sent her. She remembered in
former days going with her mother to a fine India shop on Ludgate Hill, where
the ladies had all sorts of dealings and bargains in these articles. Her cheeks
flushed and her eyes shone with pleasure as she thought of this resource, and
she kissed away George to school in the morning, smiling brightly after him. The
boy felt that there was good news in her look.
    Packing up her shawl in a handkerchief (another of the gifts of the good
Major), she hid them under her cloak, and walked flushed and eager all the way
to Ludgate Hill, tripping along by the Park wall and running over the crossings,
so that many a man turned as she hurried by him and looked after her rosy pretty
face. She calculated how she should spend the proceeds of her shawl: how,
besides the clothes, she would buy the books that he longed for, and pay his
half-year's schooling; and how she would buy a cloak for her father instead of
that old greatcoat which he wore. She was not mistaken as to the value of the
Major's gift. It was a very fine and beautiful web; and merchant made a very
good bargain when he gave her twenty guineas for her shawl.
    She ran on amazed and flurried with her riches to Darton's shop in St.
Paul's Churchyard, and there purchased the »Parents' Assistant,« and the
»Sandford and Merton« Georgy longed for, and got into the coach there with her
parcel, and went home exulting. And she pleased herself by writing in the
fly-leaf, in her neatest little hand, »George Osborne. A Christmas gift from his
affectionate mother.« The books are extant to this day, with the fair delicate
superscription.
    She was going from her own room with the books in her hand to place them on
George's table, where he might find them on his return from school, when in the
passage she and her mother met. The gilt bindings of the seven handsome little
volumes caught the old lady's eye.
    »What are those?« she said.
    »Some books for Georgy,« Amelia replied; »I - I promised them to him at
Christmas.«
    »Books!« cried the elder lady indignantly - »books, when the whole house
wants bread; books, when to keep you and your son in luxury, and your dear
father out of jail, I've sold every trinket I had - the India shawl from my
back, even down to the very spoons - that our tradesmen mightn't insult us, and
that Mr. Clapp, which indeed he is justly entitled, being not a hard landlord,
and a civil man, and a father, might have his rent. O Amelia, you break my heart
with your books and that books and that boy of yours, whom you are ruining,
though part with him you will not. O Amelia, may God send you a more dutiful
child than I have had! There's Jos deserts his father in his old age, and
there's George, who might be provided for, and who might be rich, going to
school like a lord, with a gold watch and chain round his neck; while my dear,
dear old man is without a sh-shilling.« Hysteric sobs and cries ended Mrs.
Sedley's speech; it echoed through every room in the small house, whereof the
other female inmates heard every word of the colloquy.
    »O mother, mother!« cried poor Amelia in reply. »You told me nothing. I - I
promised him the books. I - I only sold my shawl this morning. Take the money -
take everything,« and with quivering hands she took out her silver and her
sovereigns - her precious golden sovereigns - which she thrust into the hands of
her mother, whence they over-flowed and tumbled, rolling down the stairs.
    And then she went into her room, and sank down in despair and utter misery.
She saw it all now. Her selfishness was sacrificing the boy. But for her he
might have wealth, station, education, and his father's place, which the elder
George had forfeited for her sake. She had but to speak the words, and her
father was restored to competency, and the boy raised to fortune. Oh, what a
conviction it was to that tender and stricken heart!
 

                                 Chapter XLVII

                                  Gaunt House.

All the world knows that Lord Steyne's town palace stands in Gaunt Square, out
of which Great Gaunt Street leads, wither we first conducted Rebecca in the time
of the departed Sir Pitt Crawley. Peering over the railings and through the
black trees into the garden of the Square, you see a few miserable governesses
with wan-faced pupils wandering round and round it, and round the dreary
grassplot, in the centre of which rises the statue of Lord Gaunt, who fought at
Minden, in a three-tailed wig, and otherwise habited like a Roman emperor. Gaunt
House occupies nearly a side of the Square. The remaining three sides are
composed of mansions that have passed away into dowager-ism - tall, dark houses,
with window-frames of stone, or picked out of a lighter red. Little light seems
to be behind those lean, comfortless casements now; and hospitality to have
passed away from those doors as much as the laced lacqueys and linkboys of old
times, who used to put out their torches in the blank iron extinguishers that
still flank the lamps over the steps. Brass plates have penetrated into the
Square - Doctors, the Diddlesex Bank Western Branch - the English and European
Reunion, etc. It has dreary look; nor is my Lord Steyne's palace less dreary.
All I have ever seen of it is the vast wall in front, with the rustic columns at
the great gate, through which an old porter peers sometimes with a fat and
gloomy red face; and over the wall, the garret and bedroom windows, and the
chimneys, out of which there seldom comes any smoke now. For the present Lord
Steyne lives at Naples, preferring the view of the Bay and Capri and Vesuvius,
to the dreary aspect of the wall in Gaunt Square.
    A few score yards down New Gaunt Street, and leading into Gaunt Mews indeed,
is a little modest back door, which you would not remark from that of any of
other stables. But many a little close carriage has stopped at that door, as my
informant (little Tom Eaves, who knows everything, and who showed me the place)
told me. »The Prince and Perdita have been in and out of that door, sir,« he has
often me; »Marianne Clarke has entered it with the Duke of --.
    It conducts to the famous petits appartements of Lord Steyne - one, sir,
fitted up all in ivory and white satin, another in ebony and black velvet; there
is a little banqueting-room taken from Sallust's house at Pompeii, and painted
by Cosway - a little private kitchen, in which every saucepan was silver and all
the spits were gold. It was there that Egallité Orleans roasted partridges on
the night when he and the Marquis of Steyne won a hundred thousand from a great
personage at ombre. Half of the money went to the French Revolution, half to
purchase Lord Gaunt's Marquisate and Garter; and the remainder« - but it forms
no part of our scheme to tell what became of the remainder, of every shilling of
which, and a great deal more, little Tom Eaves, who knows everybody's affairs,
is ready to account.
    Besides his town palace, the Marquis had castles and palaces in various
quarters of the three kingdoms, whereof the descriptions may be found in the
road-books - Castle Strongbow, with its woods, on the Shannon shore; Gaunt
Castle, in Carmarthenshire, where Richard II. was taken prisoner; Gauntly Hall
in Yorkshire, where I have been informed there were two hundred silver teapots
for the breakfasts of the guests of the house, with everything to correspond in
splendour; and Stillbrook in Hampshire, which was my lord's farm, a humble place
of residence, of which we all remember the wonderful furniture which was sold at
my lord's demise by a late celebrated auctioneer.
    The Marchioness of Steyne was of the renowned and ancient family of the
Caerlyons, Marquises of Camelot, who have presented the old faith ever since the
conversion of the venerable Druid, their first ancestor, and whose pedigree goes
far beyond the date of the arrival of King Brute in these islands. Pendragon is
the title of the eldest son of the house. The sons have been called Arthurs,
Uthers, and Caradocs, from immemorial time. Their heads have fallen in many a
loyal conspiracy. Elizabeth chopped off the head of the Arthur of her day, who
had been chamberlain to Philip and Mary, and carried letters between the Queen
of Scots and her uncles the Guises. A cadet of the house was an officer of the
great Duke, and distinguished in the famous Saint Bartholomew conspiracy. During
the whole of Mary's confinement, the house of Camelot conspired in her behalf.
It was as much injured by its charges in fitting out an armament against the
Spaniards, during the time of the Armada, as by fines and confiscations levied
on it by Elizabeth for harbouring of priests, obstinate recusancy, and Popish
misdoings. A recreant of James's time was momentarily from his religion by the
arguments of that great theologian, and the fortunes of the family somewhat
restored by his timely weakness. But the Earl of Camelot, of the reign of
Charles, returned to the old creed of his family; and they continued to fight
for it, and ruin themselves for it, as long as there was a Stuart left to head
or to instigate a rebellion.
    Lady Mary Caerlyon was brought up at a Parisian convent; the Dauphiness
Marie Antoinette was her godmother. In the pride of her beauty she had been
married - sold, it was said - to Lord Gaunt, then at Paris, who won vast sums
from the lady's brother at some of Philip of Orleans's banquets. The Earl of
Gaunt's famous duel with the Count de la Marche, of the Grey Musqueteers, was
attributed by common report to the pretensions of that officer (who had been a
page, and remained a favourite with the Queen) to the hand of the beautiful Lady
Mary Caerlyon. She was married to Lord Gaunt while the Count lay ill of his
wound, and came to dwell at Gaunt House, and to figure for a short time in the
splendid Court of the Prince of Wales. Fox had toasted her; Morris and Sheridan
had written songs about her; Malmesbury had made her his best bow; Walpole had
pronounced her charming; Devonshire had been almost jealous of her: but she was
scared by the wild pleasures and gaieties of the society into which she was
flung, and after she had borne a couple of sons, shrank away into a life of
devout seclusion. No wonder that my Lord Steyne, who liked pleasure and
cheerfulness, was not often seen, after their marriage, by the side of this
trembling, silent, superstitious, unhappy lady.
    The before-mentioned Tom Eaves (who has no part in this history, except that
he knew all the great folks in London, and the stories and mysteries of each
family) had further information regarding my Lady Steyne, which may or may not
be true. »The humiliations,« Tom used to say, »which that woman has been made to
undergo, in her own house, have been frightful. Lord Steyne has made her sit
down to table with women with whom I would rather die than allow Mrs. Eaves to
associate - with Lady Crackenbury, with Mrs. Chippenham, with Madame de la
Cruchecassée, the French secretary's wife« (from every one of which ladies Tom
Eaves - who would have sacrificed his wife for knowing them - was too glad to
get a bow or a dinner), »with the reigning favourite, in a word. And do you
suppose that that woman, of that family, who are as proud as the Bourbons, and
to whom the Steynes are but lacqueys, mushrooms of yesterday (for after all they
are not of the old Gaunts, but of a minor and doubtful branch of the house) - do
you suppose, I say« (the reader must bear in mind that it is always Tom Eaves
who speaks), »that the Marchioness of Steyne, the haughtiest woman in England,
would bend down to her husband so submissively, if there were not some cause?
Pooh! I tell you there are secret reasons. I tell you, that in the emigration,
the Abbé de la Marche who was here, and was employed in the Quiberoon business
with Puisaye and Tinteniac, was the same Colonel of Mousquetaries Gris with whom
Steyne fought in the year '86: that he and the Marchioness met again: that it
was it after the Reverend Colonel was shot in Brittany that Lady Steyne took to
those extreme practices of devotion which she carries on now; for she is
closeted with her director every day - she is at service at Spanish Place every
morning, I've watched her there - that is, I've happened to be passing there -
and depend on it there's a mystery in her case. People are not so unhappy unless
they have something to repent of,« added Tom Eaves with a knowing wag of his
head; »and depend on it, that woman would not be so submissive as she is, if the
Marquis had not some sword to hold over her.«
    So, if Mr. Eaves's information be correct, it is very likely that this lady,
in her high station, had to submit to many a private indignity, and to hide many
secret griefs under a calm face. And let us, my brethren who have not our names
in the Red Book, console ourselves by thinking comfortably how miserable our
betters may be, and that Damocles, who sits on satin cushions, and is served on
gold plate, has an awful sword hanging over his head in the shape of a bailiff,
or an hereditary disease, or a family secret, which peeps out every now and then
from the embroidered arras in a ghastly manner, and will be sure to drop one day
or the other in the right place.
    In comparing, too, the poor man's situation with that of the great, there is
(always according to Mr. Eaves) another source of comfort for the former. You
who have little or no patrimony to bequeath or to inherit, may be on good terms
with your father or your son; whereas the heir of a great prince, such as my
Lord Steyne, must naturally be angry at being kept out of his kingdom, and eye
the occupant of it with no very agreeable glances. »Take it as a rule,« this
sardonic old Eaves would say, »the fathers and elder sons of all great families
hate each other. The Crown Prince is always in opposition to the crown, or
hankering after it. Shakespeare knew the world, my good sir, and when he
describes Prince Hall (from whose family the Gaunts pretend to be descended,
though they are no more related to John of Gaunt than you are) trying on his
father's coronet, he gives you a natural description of all he heirs-apparent.
If you were heir to a dukedom and a thousand pounds a day, do you mean to say
you would not wish for possession? Pooh! And it stands to reason that every
great man, having experienced this feeling towards his father, must be aware
that his son entertains it towards himself; and so they can't but be suspicious
and hostile.
    Then, again, as to the feeling of elder towards younger sons. My dear sir,
you ought to know that every elder brother looks upon the cadets of the house as
his natural enemies, who deprive him of so much ready-money which ought to be
his by right. I have often heard George Mac-Turk, Lord Bajazet's eldest son, say
that if he had his will when he came to the title he would do what the sultans
do, and clear the estate by chopping off all his younger brothers' heads at
once; and so the case is, more or less, with them all. I tell you they are all
Turks in their hearts. Pooh! sir, they know the world.« And here, haply, a great
man coming up, Tom Eaves's hat would drop off his head, and he would rush
forward with a bow and a grin, which showed that he knew the world too - in the
Tomeavesian way, that is. And having laid out every shilling of his fortune on
an annuity, Tom could afford to bear no malice to his nephews and nieces, and to
have no other feeling with regard to his betters, but a constant and generous
desire to dine with them.
    Between the Marchioness and the natural and the tender regard of mother for
children, there was that cruel barrier placed of difference of faith. The very
love which she might feel for her sons, only served to render the timid and
pious lady more fearful and unhappy. The gulf which separated them was fatal and
impassable. She could not stretch her weak arms across it, or draw her children
over to that side away from which her belief told her there was no safety.
During the youth of his sons, Lord Steyne, who was a good scholar and amateur
casuist, had no better sport in the evening after dinner in the country than in
setting the boys' tutor, the Reverend Mr. Trail (now my Lord Bishop of Ealing),
on her Ladyship's director, Father Mole, over their wine, and in pitting Oxford
against St. Acheul. He cried, »Bravo, Lattimer!« »Well said, Loyola!«
alternately. He promised Mole a bishopric if he would come over; and vowed he
would use all his influence to get Trail a cardinal's hat if he would secede.
Neither divine allowed himself to be conquered; and though the fond mother hoped
that her youngest and favourite son would be reconciled to her Church - his
mother Church - a sad and awful disappointment awaited the devout lady - a
disappointment which seemed to be a judgment upon her for the sin of her
marriage.
    My Lord Gaunt married, as every person who frequents the Peerage knows, the
Lady Blanche Thistlewood, a daughter of the noble house of Bareacres,
before-mentioned in this veracious history. A wing of Gaunt House was assigned
to this couple; for the head of the family chose to govern it, and while he
reigned to reign supreme: his son and heir, however, living little at home,
disagreeing with his wife, and borrowing upon post-obits such moneys as he
required beyond the very moderate sums which his father was disposed to allow
him. The Marquis knew every shilling of his son's debts. At his lamented demise,
he was found himself to be possessor of many of his heir's bonds, purchased for
their benefit, and devised by his Lordship to the children of his younger son.
    As, to my Lord Gaunt's dismay, and the chuckling delight of his natural
enemy and father, the Lady Gaunt had no children, the Lord George Gaunt was
desired to return from Vienna, where he was engaged in waltzing and diplomacy,
and to contract a matrimonial alliance with the Honourable Joan, only daughter
of John Johnes, First Baron Helvellyn, and head of the firm of Jones, Brown
&amp; Robinson, of Threadneedle Street, Bankers; from which union sprang several
sons and daughters, whose doings do not appertain to this story.
    This marriage at first was a happy and prosperous one. My Lord George Gaunt
could not only read, but write pretty correctly. He spoke French with
considerable fluency, and was one of the finest waltzers in Europe. With these
talents, and his interest at home, there was little doubt that his Lordship
would rise to the highest dignities in his profession. The lady, his wife, felt
that courts were her sphere; and her wealth enabled her to receive splendidly in
those Continental towns whither her husband's diplomatic duties led him. There
was talk of appointing him Minister, and bets were laid at the Travellers' that
he would be ambassador ere long, when, of a sudden, rumours arrived of the
secretary's extraordinary behaviour. At a grand diplomatic dinner given by his
chief, he had started up, and declared than a pâté de foie gras was poisoned. He
went to ball at the hotel of the Bavarian envoy, the Count de
Springbock-Hohenlaufen, with his head shaved, and dressed as a Capuchin friar.
It was not a masked ball, as some folks wanted to persuade you. It was something
queer, people whispered. His grandfather was so. It was in the family.
    His wife and family returned to this country, and took up their abode at
Gaunt House. Lord George gave up his post on the European continent, and was
gazetted to Brazil. But people knew better: he never returned from that Brazil
expedition - never died there - never lived there - never was there at all. He
was nowhere; he was gone out altogether. »Brazil,« said one gossip to another,
with a grin - »Brazil is St. John's Wood. Rio Janeiro is a cottage surrounded by
four walls; and George Gaunt is accredited to a keeper, who has invest him with
the order of the Strait-Waistcoat.«
    These are the kinds of epitaphs which men pass over one another in Vanity
Fair.
    Twice or thrice in a week, in the earliest morning, the poor mother went for
her sins and saw the poor invalid. Sometimes he laughed at her (and his laughter
was more pitiful than to hear him cry); sometimes she found the brilliant dandy
diplomatist of the Congress of Vienna dragging about a child's toy, or nursing
the keeper's baby's doll. Sometimes he knew her and Father Mole, her director
and companion; oftener he forgot her, as he had done wife, children, love,
ambition, vanity. But he remembered his dinner hour, and used to cry if his
wine-and-water was not strong enough.
    It was the mysterious taint of the blood: the poor mother had brought it
from her own, ancient race. The evil had broken out once or twice in the
father's family, long before Lady Steyne's sins had begun, or her fasts and
tears and penances had been offered in their expiation. The pride of the race
was struck down as the first-born of Pharaoh. The dark mark of fate and doom was
on the threshold, - the tall old threshold surmounted by coronets and carved
heraldry.
    The absent lord's children meanwhile prattled and grew on quite unconscious
that the doom was over them too. First they talked of their father, and devised
plans against his return. Then the name of the living dead man was less
frequently in their mouth; then not mentioned at all. But the stricken old
grandmother trembled to think that these two were the inheritors of their
father's shame as well as of his honours, and watched sickening for the day when
the awful ancestral curse should come down on them.
    This dark presentiment also haunted Lord Steyne. He tried to lay the horrid
bedside ghost in Red Seas of wine and jollity, and lost sight of it sometimes in
the crowd and rout of his pleasures. But it always came back to him when alone,
and seemed to grow more threatening with years. »I have taken your son,« it
said, »why not you? I may shut you up in a prison some day like your son George.
I may tap you on the head to-morrow, and away go pleasure and honours, feasts
and beauty, friends, flatterers, French cooks, fine horses and houses - in
exchange for a prison, a keeper, and a straw mattress like George Gaunt's.« And
then my lord would defy the ghost which threatened him; for he knew of a remedy
by which he could balk his enemy.
    So there was splendour and wealth, but no great happiness perchance, behind
the tall carved portals of Gaunt House with its smoky coronets and ciphers. The
feasts there were of the grandest in London; but there was not overmuch content
therewith, except among the guests who sat at my lord's table. Had he not been
so great a prince very few possibly would have visited him, but in Vanity Fair
the sins of very great personages are looked at indulgently. »Nous regardons à
deux fois« (as the French lady said) before we condemn a person of my lord's
undoubted quality. Some notorious carpers and squeamish moralists might be sulky
with Lord Steyne, but they were glad enough to come when he asked them.
    »Lord Steyne is really too bad,« Lady Slingstone said; »but everybody goes,
and of course I shall see that my girls come to no harm.« »His Lordship is a man
to whom I owe much, everything in life,« said the Right Reverend Doctor Trail,
thinking that the Archbishop was rather shaky; and Mrs. Trail and the young
ladies would as soon have missed going to church as to one of his Lordship's
parties. »His morals are bad,« said little Lord Southdown to his sister, who
meekly expostulated, having heard terrific legends from her mamma with respect
to the doings at Gaunt House; »but hang it, he's got the best dry Sillery in
Europe!« And as for Sir Pitt Crawley, Bart. - Sir Pitt, that pattern of decorum
- Sir Pitt, who had led off at missionary meetings, - he never for one moment
thought of not going too. »Where you see such persons as the Bishop of Ealing
and the Countess of Slingstone, you may be pretty sure, Jane,« the Baronet would
say, »that we cannot be wrong. The great rank and station of Lord Steyne put him
in a position to command people in our station in life. The Lord Lieutenant of a
County, my dear, is a respectable man. Besides, George Gaunt and I were intimate
in early life; he was my junior when we were attachés at Pumpernickel together.«
    In a word, everybody went to wait upon this great man - everybody who was
asked; as you the reader (do not say nay) or I the writer hereof would go if we
had an invitation.
 

                                 Chapter XLVIII

         In which the Reader Is Introduced to the Very Best of Company.

At last Becky's kindness and attention to the chief of her husband's family were
destined to meet with an exceeding great reward; a reward which, though
certainly somewhat unsubstantial, the little woman coveted with greater
eagerness than more positive benefits. If she did not wish to lead a virtuous
life, at least she desired to enjoy a character for virtue; and we know that no
lady in the genteel world can possess this desideratum, until she has put on a
train and feathers, and has been presented to her Sovereign at Court. From that
august interview they come out stamped as honest women. The Lord Chamberlain
gives them a certificate of virtue. And as dubious goods or letters are passed
through an oven at quarantine, sprinkled with aromatic vinegar, and then
pronounced clean, many a lady whose reputation would be doubtful otherwise, and
liable to give infection, passes through the wholesome ordeal of the Royal
presence, and issues from it free from all taint.
    It might be very well for my Lady Bareacres, my Lady Tufto, Mrs. Bute
Crawley in the country, and other ladies who had come into contact with Mrs.
Rawdon Crawley, to cry fie at the idea of the odious little adventuress making
her curtsy before the Sovereign, and to declare that, if dear good Queen
Charlotte had been alive, she never would have admitted such an extremely
ill-regulated personage into her chaste drawing-room. But when we consider that
it was the First Gentleman in Europe in whose high presence Mrs. Rawdon passed
her examination, and, as it were, took her degree in reputation, it surely must
be flat disloyalty to doubt any more about her virtue. I, for my part, look back
with love and awe to that Great Character in history. Ah, what a high and noble
appreciation of Gentlewomanhood there must have been in Vanity Fair, when
revered and august being was invested, by the universal acclaim of the refined
and educated portion of this empire, with the title of Premier Gentilhomme of
his Kingdom. Do you remember, dear M--, O friend of my youth, how one blissful
night five-and-twenty years since, the »Hypocrite« being acted, Elliston being
manager, Dowton and Liston performers, two boys had leave from their loyal
masters to go out from Slaughter House School where they were educated, and to
appear on Drury Lane stage, amongst a crowd which asembled there to greet the
King. The King? There he was. Beefeaters were before the august box; the Marquis
of Steyne (Lord of the Powder Closet) and other great officers of state were
behind the chair on which he state, He state - florid of face, portly of person,
covered with orders, and in a rich curling head of hair. How we sang, God save
him! How the house rocked and shouted with that magnificent music. How they
cheered, and cried, and waved handkerchiefs. Ladies wept; mothers clasped their
children; some fainted with emotion. People were suffocated in the pit, shrieks
and groans rising up amidst the writhing and shouting mass there of his people
who were, and indeed showed themselves almost to be, ready to die for him. Yes,
we saw him. Fate cannot deprive us of that. Others have seen Napoleon. Some few
exist who have beheld Frederick the Great, Doctor Johnson, Marie Antoinette,
etc.: be it our reasonable boast to our children that we saw George the Good,
the Magnificent, the Great.
    Well, there came a happy day in Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's existence when this
angel was admitted into the paradise of a Court which she coveted; her
sister-in-law acting as her godmother. On the appointed day, Sir Pitt and his
lady, in their great family carriage (just newly built, and ready for the
Baronet's assumption of the office of High Sheriff of his county), drove up to
the little house in Curzon Street, to the edification of Raggles, who was
watching from his greengrocer's shop, and saw fine plumes within, and enormous
bunches of flowers in the breasts of the new livery-coats of the footmen.
    Sir Pitt, in a glittering uniform, descended and went into Curzon Street,
his sword between his legs. Little Rawdon stood with his face against the
parlour window-panes, smiling and nodding with all his might to his aunt in the
carriage within; and presently Sir Pitt issued forth from the house again,
leading forth a lady with grand feathers, covered in a white shawl, and holding
up daintily a train of magnificent brocade. She stepped into the vehicle as if
she were a princess and accustomed all her life to go to Court, smiling
graciously on the footman at the door, and on Sir Pitt, who followed her into
the carriage.
    Then Rawdon followed in his old Guards' uniform, which had grown woefully
shabby, and was much too tight. He was to have followed the procession, and
waited upon his Sovereign in a cab, but that his good-natured sister-in-law
insisted that they should be a family party. The coach was large, the ladies not
very big, they would hold their trains in their laps - finally, the four went
fraternally together; and their carriage presently joined the line of royal
equipages which was making its way down Piccadilly and St. James's Street,
towards the old brick palace where the Star of Brunswick was in waiting to
receive his nobles and gentlefolk.
    Becky felt as if she could bless the people out of the carriage windows, so
elated was she in spirit, and so strong a sense had she of the dignified
position which she had at last attained in life. Even our Becky had her
weaknesses, and as one often sees how men pride themselves upon excellences
which others are slow to perceive - how, for instance, Comus firmly believes
that he is the greatest tragic actor in England; how Brown, the famous novelist,
longs to be considered, not a man of genius, but a man of fashion; while
Robinson, the great lawyer, does not in the least care about his reputation in
Westminster Hall, but believes himself incomparable across country, and at a
five-barred gate - so to be, and to be thought, a respectable woman, was Becky's
aim in life, and she got up the genteel with amazing assiduity, readiness, and
success. We have said there were times when she believed herself to be a fine
lady, and forgot that there was no money in the chest at home - duns round the
gate, tradesmen to coax and wheedle - no ground to walk upon, in a word. And as
she went to Court in the carriage, the family carriage, she adopted a demeanour
so grand, self-satisfied, deliberate, and imposing, that it made even Lady Jane
laugh. She walked into the royal apartments with a toss of the head which would
have befitted an empress; and I have no doubt had she been one, she would have
become the character perfectly.
    We are authorized to state that Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's costume de cour on the
occasion of her presentation to the Sovereign was of the most elegant and
brilliant description. Some ladies we may have seen - we who wear stars and
cordons, and attend the St. James's assemblies, or we who, in muddy boots,
dawdle up and down Pall Mall, and peep into the coaches as they drive up with
the great folks in their feathers - some ladies of fashion, I say, we may have
seen, about two o'clock of the forenoon of a levee day, as the laced-jacketed
band of the Life Guards are blowing triumphal marches seated on those prancing
music-stools, their cream-coloured chargers - who are by no means lovely and
enticing objects at that early period of noon. A stout countess of sixty,
décolletée, painted, wrinkled with rouge up to her drooping eyelids, and
diamonds twinkling in her wig, is a wholesome and edifying, but not a pleasant
sight. She has the faded look of a St. James's Street illumination, as it may be
seen of an early morning, when half the lamps are out, and the others are
blinking wanly, as if they were about to vanish like ghosts before the dawn.
Such charms as those of which we catch glimpses while her ladyship's carriage
passes should appear abroad at night alone. If even Cynthia looks haggard of an
afternoon, as we may see her sometimes in the present winter season, with
Phoebus staring her out countenance from the opposite side of the heavens, how
much more can old Lady Castlemouldy keep her head up when the sun is shining
full upon it through the chariot windows, and showing all the chinks and
crannies with which time has marked her face! No. Drawing-rooms should be
announced for November, or the first foggy day; or the elderly sultans of our
Vanity Fair should drive up in closed litters, descend in a covered way, and
make their curtsy to the Sovereign under the protection of lamplight.
    Our beloved Rebecca had no need, however, of any such a friendly halo to set
off her beauty. Her complexion could bear any sunshine as yet; and her dress,
though if you were to see it now, any present lady of Vanity Fair would
pronounce it to be the most foolish and preposterous attire ever worn, was as
handsome in her eyes and those of the public, some five-and-twenty years since,
as the most brilliant costume of the most famous beauty of the present season. A
score of years hence that too, that milliner's wonder, will have passed into the
domain of the absurd, along with all previous vanities. But we are wandering too
much. Mrs. Rawdon's dress was pronounced to be charmante on the eventful day of
her presentation. Even good little Lady Jane was forced to acknowledge this
effect, as she looked at her kinswoman, and owned, sorrowfully, to herself that
she was quite inferior in taste to Mrs. Becky.
    She did not know how much care, thought, and genius Mrs. Rawdon had bestowed
upon that garment. Rebecca had as good taste as any milliner in Europe, and such
a clever way of doing things as Lady Jane little understood. The latter quickly
spied out the magnificence of the brocade of Becky's train, and the splendour of
the lace on her dress.
    The brocade was an old remnant, Becky said; and as for the lace, it was a
great bargain. She had had it these hundred years.
    »My dear Mrs. Crawley, it must have cost a little fortune,« Lady Jane said,
looking down at her own lace, which was not nearly so good; and then examining
the quality of the ancient brocade which formed the material of Mrs. Rawdon's
Court dress, she felt inclined to say that she could not afford such fine
clothing, but checked that speech, with an effort, as one uncharitable to her
kinswoman.
    And yet, if Lady Jane had known all, I think even her kindly temper would
have failed her. The fact is, when she was putting Sir Pitt's in order, Mrs.
Rawdon had found the lace and the brocade in old wardrobes, the property of the
former ladies of the house, and had quietly carried the goods home, and had
suited them to her own little person. Briggs saw her take them, asked no
questions, told no stories; but I believe quite sympathized with her on this
matter, and so would many another honest woman.
    And the diamonds - »Where the doose did you get the diamonds, Becky?« said
her husband, admiring some jewels which he had never seen before, and which
sparkled in her ears and on her neck with brilliance and profusion.
    Becky blushed a little, and looked at him hard for a moment. Pitt Crawley
blushed a little too, and looked out of window. The fact is, he had given her a
very small portion of the brilliants - a pretty diamond clasp, which confined a
pearl necklace which she wore - and the Baronet had omitted to mention the
circumstance to his lady.
    Becky looked at her husband, and then at Sir Pitt, with an air of saucy
triumph - as much as to say, »Shall I betray you?«
    »Guess!« she said to her husband. »Why, you silly man,« she continued,
»where do you suppose I got them? - all except the little clasp, which a dear
friend of mine gave me long ago. I hired them, to be sure. I hired them at Mr.
Polonius's, in Coventry Street. You don't suppose that all the diamonds which go
to Court belong to the wearers; like those beautiful stones that Lady Jane has,
and which are much handsomer than any which I have, I am certain«.
    »They are family jewels,« said Sir Pitt, again looking uneasy. And in this
family conversation the carriage rolled down the street, until its cargo was
finally discharged at the gates of the palace where the Sovereign was sitting in
state.
    The diamonds, which had created Rawdon's admiration, never went back to Mr.
Polonius, of Coventry Street, and that gentleman never applied for their
restoration; but they retired into a little private repository, in an old desk,
which Amelia Sedley had given her years ago, and in which Becky kept a number of
useful and, perhaps, valuable things about which her husband knew nothing. To
know nothing, or little, is in the nature of some husbands. To hide, in the
nature of how many women? O ladies! how many of you have surreptitious
milliners' bills? How many of you have gowns and bracelets, which you daren't
show, or which you wear trembling? - trembling, and coaxing with smiles the
husband by your side, who does not know the new velvet gown from the old one, or
the new bracelet from last year's, or has any notion that the ragged-looking
yellow lace scarf cost forty guineas, and that Madame Bobinot is writing dunning
letters every week for the money!
    Thus Rawdon knew nothing about the brilliant diamond earrings, or the superb
brilliant ornament which decorated the fair bosom of his lady; but Lord Steyne,
who was in his place at Court, as Lord of the Powder Closet, and one of the
great dignitaries and illustrious defences of the throne of England, and came up
with all his stars, garters, collars, and cordons, and paid particular attention
to the little woman, knew whence the jewels came, and who paid for them.
    As he bowed over her he smiled, and quoted the hackneyed and beautiful
lines, from the »Rape of the Lock,« about Belinda's diamonds, »which Jews might
kiss and infidels adore.«
    »But I hope your Lordship is orthodox,« said the little lady, with a toss of
her head. And many ladies round about whispered and talked, and many gentlemen
nodded and whispered, as they saw what marked attention the great nobleman was
paying to the little adventuress.
    What were the circumstances of the interview between Rebecca Crawley, née
Sharp, and her Imperial Master, it does not become such a feeble and
inexperienced pen as mine to attempt to relate. The dazzled eyes close before
that Magnificent Idea. Loyal respect and decency tell even the imagination not
to look too keenly and audaciously about the sacred audience chamber, but to
back away rapidly, silently, and respectfully, making profound bows out of the
August Presence.
    This may be said, that in all London there was no more loyal heart than
Becky's after this interview. The name of her King was always on her lips, and
he was proclaimed by her to be the most charming of men. She went to Colnaghi's
and ordered the finest portrait of him that art had produced, and credit could
supply. She chose that famous one in which the best of monarchs is represented
in a frock-coat with a fur collar, and breeches and silk stockings, simpering on
a sofa from under his curly brown wig. She had him painted in a brooch and wore
it - indeed she amused and somewhat pestered her acquaintance with her perpetual
talk about his urbanity and beauty. Who knows? Perhaps the little woman thought
she might play the part of a Maintenon or a Pompadour.
    But the finest sport of all after her presentation was to hear her talk
virtuously. She had a few female acquaintances, not, it must be owned, of the
very highest reputation in Vanity Fair. But being made an honest woman of, so to
speak, Becky would not consort any longer with these dubious ones, and cut Lady
Crackenbury when the latter nodded to her from her opera-box, and gave Mrs.
Washington White the go-by in the Ring. »One must, my dear, show one is
somebody,« she said. »One mustn't be seen with doubtful people. I pity Lady
Crackenbury from my heart; and Mrs. Washington White may be a very good-natured
person. You may go and dine with them, as you like your rubber. But I mustn't,
and won't; and you will have the goodness to tell Smith to say I am not at home
when either of them calls.«
    The particulars of Becky's costume were in the newspapers - feathers,
lappets, superb diamonds, and all the rest. Lady Crackenbury read the paragraph
in bitterness of spirit, and discoursed to her followers about the airs which
that woman was giving herself. Mrs. Bute Crawley and her young ladies in the
country had a copy of The Morning Post from town; and gave a vent to their
honest indignation. »If you had been sandy-haired, green-eyed, and a French
rope-dancer's daughter,« Mrs. Bute said to her eldest girl (who, on the
contrary, was a very swarthy, short, and snub-nosed young lady), »you might have
had superb diamonds forsooth, and have been presented at Court by your cousin,
the Lady Jane. But you're only a gentlewoman, my poor dear child. You have only
some of the best blood in England in your veins, and good principles and piety
for your portion. I, myself, the wife of a Baronet's younger brother, too, never
thought of such a thing as going to Court - nor would other people, if good
Queen Charlotte had been alive.« In this way the worthy Rectoress consoled
herself; and her daughters sighed, and sate over the Peerage all night.
    A few days after the famous presentation, another great and exceeding honour
was vouchsafed to the virtuous Becky. Lady Steyne's carriage drove up to Mr.
Rawdon Crawley's door, and the footman, instead of driving down the front of the
house, as by his tremendous knocking he appeared to be inclined to do, relented,
and only delivered in a couple of cards, on which were engraven the names of the
Marchioness of Steyne and the Countess of Gaunt. If these bits of pasteboard had
been beautiful pictures, or had had a hundred yards of Malines lace rolled round
them, worth twice the number of guineas, Becky could not have regarded them with
more pleasure. You may be sure they occupied a conspicuous place in the china
bowl on the drawing-room table, where Becky kept the cards of her visitors.
Lord! lord! how poor Mrs. Washington White's card and Lady Crackenbury's card,
which our little friend had been glad enough to get a few months back, and of
which the silly little creature was rather proud once - lord! lord! I say, how
soon at the appearance of these grand court cards did those poor little
neglected deuces sink down to the bottom of the pack. Steyne! Bareacres! Johnes
of Helvellyn! and Caerlyon of Camelot! we may be sure that Becky and Briggs
looked out those august names in the Peerage, and followed the noble races up
through all the ramifications of the family tree.
    My Lord Steyne coming to call a couple of hours afterwards, and looking
about him, and observing everything as was his wont, found his ladies' cards
already ranged as the trumps of Becky's hand, and grinned, as this old cynic
always did at any naïve display of human weakness. Becky came down to him
presently: whenever the dear girl expected his Lordship, her toilette was
prepared, her hair in perfect order, her mouchoirs, aprons, scarfs, little
morocco slippers, and other female gimcracks arranged, and she seated in some
artless and agreeable posture ready to receive him; whenever she was surprised,
of course she had to fly to her apartment to take a rapid survey of matters in
the glass, and to trip down again to wait upon the great peer.
    She found him grinning over the bowl. She was discovered, and she blushed a
little. »Thank you, Monseigneur,« she said. »You see your ladies have been here.
How good of you! I couldn't come before; I was in the kitchen making a pudding.«
    »I know you were; I saw you through the area railings as I drove up,«
replied the old gentleman.
    »You see everything,« she replied.
    »A few things, but not that, my pretty lady,« he said good-naturedly. »You
silly little fibster! I heard you in the room overhead, where I have no doubt
you were putting a little rouge on, - you must give some of yours to my Lady
Gaunt, whose complexion is quite preposterous, - and I heard the bedroom door
open, and then you came downstairs.«
    »Is it a crime to try and look my best when you come here?« answered Mrs.
Rawdon plaintively, and she rubbed her cheek with her handkerchief as if to show
there was no rouge at all, only genuine blushes and modesty in her case. About
this who can tell? I know there is some rouge that won't come off on a
pocket-handkerchief, and some so good that even tears will not disturb it.
    »Well,« said the old gentleman, twiddling round his wife's card, »you are
bent on becoming a fine lady. You pester my poor old life out to get you into
the world. You won't be able to hold your own there, you silly little fool.
You've got no money.«
    »You will get us a place,« interposed Becky, »as quick as possible.«
    »You've got no money, and you want to compete with those who have. You poor
little earthenware pipkin, you want to swim down the stream along with the great
copper kettles. All women are alike. Everybody is striving for what is not worth
the having! 'Gad! I dined with the King yesterday, and we had neck of mutton and
turnips. A dinner of herbs is better than a stalled ox very often. You will go
to Gaunt House. You give an old fellow no rest until you get there. It's not
half so nice as here. You'll be bored there. I am. My wife is as gay as Lady
Macbeth, and my daughters as cheerful as Regan and Goneril. I daren't sleep in
what they call my bedroom. The bed is like the baldaquin of St. Peter's, and the
pictures frighten me. I have a little brass bed in a dressing-room, and a little
hair mattress like an anchorite. I am an anchorite. Ho! ho! You'll be asked to
dinner next week. And gare aux femmes, look out and hold your own! How the women
will bully you!« This was a very long speech for a man of few words like my Lord
Steyne; nor was it the first which he uttered for Becky's benefit on that day.
    Briggs looked up from the work-table at which she was seated in the farther
room, and gave a deep sigh as she heard the great Marquis speak so lightly of
her sex.
    »If you don't turn off that abominable sheep-dog,« said Lord Steyne, with a
savage look over his shoulder at her, »I will have her poisoned.«
    »I always give my dog dinner from my own plate,« said Rebecca, laughing
mischievously; and having enjoyed for some time the discomfiture of my lord, who
hated poor Briggs for interrupting his tête-à-tête with the fair Colonel's wife,
Mrs. Rawdon at length had pity upon her admirer, and calling to Briggs, praised
the fineness of the weather to her, and bade her to take out the child for a
walk.
    »I can't send her away,« Becky said presently, after a pause, and in a very
sad voice. Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and she turned away her
head.
    »You owe her her wages, I suppose?« said the Peer.
    »Worse than that,« said Becky, still casting down her eyes; »I have ruined
her.«
    »Ruined her! - then why don't you turn her out?« the gentleman asked.
    »Men do that,« Becky answered bitterly. »Women are not so bad as you. Last
year, when we were reduced to our last guinea, she gave us everything. She shall
never leave me, until we are ruined utterly ourselves, which does not seem far
off, or until I can pay her the utmost farthing.«
    »-- it, how much is it?« said the Peer, with an oath. And Becky, reflecting
on the largeness of his means, mentioned not only the sum which she had borrowed
from Miss Briggs, but one of nearly double the amount.
    This caused the Lord Steyne to break out in another brief and energetic
expression of anger, at which Rebecca held down her head the more, and cried
bitterly. »I could not help it. It was my only chance. I dare not tell my
husband. He would kill me if I told him what I have done. I have kept it a
secret from everybody but you - and you forced it from me. Ah, what shall I do,
Lord Steyne? for I am very, very unhappy!«
    Lord Steyne made no reply except by beating the devil's tattoo, and biting
his nails. At last he clapped his hat on his head, and flung out of the room.
Rebecca did not rise from her attitude of misery until the door slammed upon
him, and his carriage whirled away. Then she rose up with the queerest
expression of victorious mischief glittering in her green eyes. She burst out
laughing once or twice to herself, as she sate at work; and sitting down at the
piano, she rattled away a triumphant voluntary on the keys, which made the
people pause under her window to listen to her brilliant music.
    That night there came two notes from Gaunt House for the little woman, the
one containing a card of invitation from Lord and Lady Steyne to a dinner at
Gaunt House next Friday; while the other enclosed a slip of grey paper bearing
Lord Steyne's signature and the address of Messrs. Jones, Brown, &amp; Robinson,
Lombard Street.
    Rawdon heard Becky laughing in the night once or twice. It was only her
delight at going to Gaunt House and facing the ladies there, she said, which
amused her so. But the truth was, that she was occupied with a great number of
other thoughts. Should she pay off old Briggs and give her her congé? Should she
astonish Raggles by settling his account? She turned over all these thoughts on
her pillow; and on the next day, when Rawdon went out to pay his morning visit
to the Club, Mrs. Crawley (in a modest dress with a veil on) whipped off in a
hackney-coach to the City, and being landed at Messrs. Jones &amp; Robinson's
bank, presented a document there to the authority at the desk, who, in reply,
asked her, »How she would take it?«
    She gently said »she would take a hundred and fifty pounds in small notes,
and the remainder in one note;« and passing through St. Paul's Churchyard,
stopped there and bought the handsomest black silk gown for Briggs which money
could buy, and which, with a kiss and the kindest speeches, she presented to the
simple old spinster.
    Then she walked to Mr. Raggles', inquired about his children affectionately,
and gave him fifty pounds on account. Then she went to the liveryman from whom
she jobbed her carriages, and gratified him with a similar sum. »And I hope this
will be a lesson to you, Spavin,« she said, »and that on the next Drawing-room
day my brother, Sir Pitt, will not be inconvenienced by being obliged to take
four of us in his carriage to wait upon His Majesty, because my own carriage is
not forthcoming.« It appears there had been a difference on the last
Drawing-room day. Hence the degradation which the Colonel had almost suffered,
of being obliged to enter the presence of his Sovereign in a hack cab.
    These arrangements concluded, Becky paid a visit upstairs to the
before-mentioned desk, which Amelia Sedley had given her years and years ago,
and which contained a number of useful and valuable little things; in which
private museum she placed the one note which Messrs. Jones &amp; Robinson's
cashier had given her.
 

                                  Chapter XLIX

                 In which We Enjoy Three Courses and a Dessert.

When the ladies of Gaunt House were at breakfast that morning, Lord Steyne, who
took his chocolate in private, and seldom disturbed the females of his
household, or saw them except upon public days, or when they crossed each other
in the hall, or when from his pit-box at the Opera he surveyed them in their box
on the grand tier - his Lordship, we say, appeared among the ladies and the
children who were assembled over the tea and toast, and a battle-royal ensued
apropos of Rebecca.
    »My Lady Steyne,« he said, »I want to see the list for your dinner on
Friday; and I want you, if you please, to write a card for Colonel and Mrs.
Crawley.«
    »Blanche writes them,« Lady Steyne said, in a flutter; »Lady Gaunt writes
them.«
    »I will not write to that person,« Lady Gaunt said, a tall and stately lady,
who looked up for an instant and then down again after she had spoken. It was
not good to meet Lord Steyne's eyes for those who had offended him.
    »Send the children out of the room. - Go!« said he, pulling at the
bell-rope. The urchins, always frightened before him, retired; their mother
would have followed too. »Not you,« he said; »you stop.«
    »My Lady Steyne,« he said, »once more will you have the goodness to go to
the desk and write that card for your dinner on Friday?«
    »My Lord, I will not be present at it,« Lady Gaunt said; »I will go home.«
    »I wish you would, and stay there. You will find the bailiffs at Bareacres
very pleasant company, and I shall be freed from lending money to your
relations, and from your own damned tragedy airs. Who are you to give orders
here? You have no money; you've got no brains. You were here to have children,
and you have not had any. Gaunt's tired of you, and George's wife is the only
person in the family who doesn't't wish you were dead. Gaunt would marry again if
you were.«
    »I wish I were,« her Ladyship answered, with tears and rage in her eyes.
    »You, forsooth, must give yourself airs of virtue; while my wife, who is an
immaculate saint, as everybody knows, and never did wrong in her life, has no
objection to meet my young friend Mrs. Crawley. My Lady Steyne knows that
appearances are sometimes against the best of women; that lies are often told
about the most innocent of them. Pray, Madam, shall I tell you some little
anecdotes about my Lady Bareacres, your mamma?«
    »You may strike me if you like, sir, or hit any cruel blow,« Lady Gaunt
said. To see his wife and daughter suffering always put his Lordship into a good
humour.
    »My sweet Blanche,« he said, »I am a gentleman, and never lay my hand upon a
woman, save in the way of kindness. I only wish to correct little faults in your
character. You women are too proud, and sadly lack humility, as Father Mole, I'm
sure, would tell my Lady Steyne if he were here. You mustn't give yourselves
airs; you must be meek and humble, my blessings. For all Lady Steyne knows, this
calumniated, simple, good-humoured Mrs. Crawley is quite innocent - even more
innocent than herself. Her husband's character is not good; but it is as good as
Bareacres', who has played a little and not paid a great deal, who cheated you
out of the only legacy you ever had, and left you a pauper on my hands. And Mrs.
Crawley is not very well born; but she is not worse than Fanny's illustrious
ancestor, the first De la Jones.«
    »The money which I brought into the family, sir,« Lady George cried out -
    »You purchased a contingent reversion with it,« the Marquis said darkly. »If
Gaunt dies, your husband may come to his honours; your little boys may inherit
them, and who knows what besides? In the meanwhile, ladies, be as proud and
virtuous as you like abroad, but don't give me any airs. As for Mrs. Crawley's
character, I shan't demean myself or that most spotless and perfectly
irreproachable lady by even hinting that it requires a defence. You will be
pleased to receive her with the utmost cordiality, as you will receive all
persons whom I present in this house. This house?« He broke out with a laugh.
»Who is the master of it? and what is it? This Temple of Virtue belongs to me.
And if I invite all Newgate or all Bedlam here, by -- they shall be welcome.«
    After this vigorous allocution, to one of which sort Lord Steyne treated his
»Hareem« whenever symptoms of insubordination appeared in his household, the
crestfallen women had nothing for it but to obey. Lady Gaunt wrote the
invitation which his Lordship required, and she and her mother-in-law drove in
person, and with bitter and humiliated hearts, to leave the cards on Mrs.
Rawdon, the reception of which caused that innocent woman so much pleasure.
    There were families in London who would have sacrificed a year's income to
receive such an honour at the hands of those great ladies. Mrs. Frederick
Bullock, for instance, would have gone on her knees from Mayfair to Lombard
Street if Lady Steyne and Lady Gaunt had been waiting in the City to raise her
up, and say, »Come to us next Friday« - not to one of the great crushes and
grand balls of Gaunt House, whither everybody went, but to the sacred,
unapproachable, mysterious, delicious entertainments, to be admitted to one of
which was a privilege, and an honour, and a blessing indeed.
    Severe, spotless, and beautiful, Lady Gaunt held the very highest rank in
Vanity Fair. The distinguished courtesy with which Lord Steyne treated her
charmed everybody who witnessed his behaviour, caused the severest critics to
admit how perfect a gentleman he was, and to own that his Lordship's heart at
least was in the right place.
 
The ladies of Gaunt House called Lady Bareacres in to their aid, in order to
repulse the common enemy. One of Lady Gaunt's carriages went to Hill Street for
her Ladyship's mother, all whose equipages were in the hands of the bailiffs,
whose very jewels and wardrobe, it was said, had been seized by those inexorable
Israelites. Bareacres Castle was theirs, too, with all its costly pictures,
furniture, and articles of vertu - the magnificent Vandykes; the noble Reynolds
pictures; the Lawrence portraits, tawdry and beautiful, and thirty years ago
deemed as precious as works of real genius; the matchless Dancing Nymph of
Canova, for which Lady Bareacres had sate in her youth - Lady Bareacres splendid
then, and radiant in wealth, rank, and beauty; a toothless, bald old woman now -
a mere rag of a former robe of state. Her lord, painted at the same time by
Lawrence, as waving his sabre in front of Bareacres Castle, and clothed in his
uniform as Colonel of the Thistlewood Yeomanry, was a withered, old, lean man in
a greatcoat and a Brutus wig, slinking about Gray's Inn of mornings chiefly, and
dining alone at clubs. He did not like to dine with Steyne now. They had run
races of pleasure together in youth, when Bareacres was the winner. But Steyne
had more bottom than he, and had lasted him out. The Marquis was ten times a
greater man now than the young Lord Gaunt of '85; and Bareacres nowhere in the
race - old, beaten, bankrupt, and broken down. He had borrowed too much money of
Steyne to find it pleasant to meet his old comrade often. The latter, whenever
he wished to be merry, used jeeringly to ask Lady Gaunt why her father had not
come to see her. »He has not been here for four months,« Lord Steyne would say.
»I can always tell by my cheque-book afterwards when I get a visit from
Bareacres. What a comfort it is, my ladies, I bank with one of my sons'
fathers-in-law, and the other banks with me!«
    Of the other illustrious persons whom Becky had the honour to encounter on
this her first presentation to the grand world it does not become the present
historian to say much. There was His Excellency the Prince of Peterwaradin, with
his Princess - a nobleman tightly girthed, with a large military chest, on which
the plaque of his order shone magnificently, and wearing the red collar of the
golden fleece round his neck. He was the owner of countless flocks. »Look at his
face. I think he must be descended from a sheep,« Becky whispered to Lord
Steyne. Indeed, His Excellency's countenance, long, solemn, and white, with the
ornament round his neck, bore some resemblance to that of a venerable
bell-wether.
    There was Mr. John Paul Jefferson Jones, titularly attached to the American
Embassy, and correspondent of The New York Demagogue; who, by way of making
himself agreeable to the company, asked Lady Steyne, during a pause in the
conversation at dinner, how his dear friend George Gaunt liked the Brazils. He
and George had been most intimate at Naples, and had gone up Vesuvius together.
Mr. Jones wrote a full and particular account of the dinner, which appeared duly
in the Demagogue. He mentioned the names and titles of all the guests, giving
biographical sketches of the principal people. He described the persons of the
ladies with great eloquence, the service of the table, the size and costume of
the servants; enumerated the dishes and wines served, the ornaments of the
sideboard, and the probable value of the plate. Such a dinner he calculated
could not be dished up under fifteen or eighteen dollars per head. And he was in
the habit, until very lately, of sending over protégés with letters of
recommendation to the present Marquis of Steyne, encouraged to do so by the
intimate terms on which he had lived with his dear friend the late lord. He was
most indignant that a young and insignificant aristocrat, the Earl of Southdown,
should have taken the pas of him in their procession to the dining-room. »Just
as I was stepping up to offer my hand to a very pleasing and witty fashionable,
the brilliant and exclusive Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,« he wrote, »the young patrician
interposed between me and the lady, and whisked my Helen off without a word of
apology. I was fain to bring up the rear with the Colonel, the lady's husband, a
stout, red-faced warrior who distinguished himself at Waterloo, where he had
better luck than befell some of his brother redcoats at New Orleans.«
 
The Colonel's countenance on coming into this polite society wore as many
blushes as the face of a boy of sixteen assumes when he is confronted with his
sister's schoolfellows. It has been told before that honest Rawdon had not been
much used at any period of his life to ladies' company. With the men at the club
or the mess-room he was well enough; and could ride, bet, smoke, or play at
billiards with the boldest of them. He had had his time for female friendships
too, but that was twenty years ago, and the ladies were of the rank of those
with whom Young Marlow in the comedy is represented as having been familiar
before he became abashed in the presence of Miss Hardcastle. The times are such
that one scarcely dares to allude to that kind of company which thousands of our
young men in Vanity Fair are frequenting every day, which nightly fills casinos
and dancing-rooms, which is known to exist as well as the Ring in Hyde Park or
the Congregation at St. James's, but which the most squeamish if not the most
moral of societies is determined to ignore. In a word, although Colonel Crawley
was now five-and-forty years of age, it had not been his lot in life to meet
with a half-dozen good women besides his paragon of a wife. All except her and
his kind sister Lady Jane, whose gentle nature had tamed and won him, scared the
worthy Colonel; and on occasion of his first dinner at Gaunt House he was not
heard to make a single remark except to state that the weather was very hot.
Indeed, Becky would have left him at home, but that virtue ordained that her
husband should be by her side to protect the timid and fluttering little
creature on her first appearance in polite society.
    On her first appearance Lord Steyne stepped forward, taking her hand, and
greeting her with great courtesy, and presenting her to Lady Steyne and their
ladyships her daughters. Their ladyships made three stately curtsies, and the
elder lady, to be sure, gave her hand to the newcomer, but it was as cold and
lifeless as marble.
    Becky took it, however, with grateful humility, and performing a reverence
which would have done credit to the best dancing-master, put herself at Lady
Steyne's feet, as it were, by saying that his Lordship had been her father's
earliest friend and patron, and that she, Becky, had learned to honour and
respect the Steyne family from the days of her childhood. The fact is, that Lord
Steyne had once purchased a couple of pictures of the late Sharp, and the
affectionate orphan could never forget her gratitude for that favour.
    The Lady Bareacres then came under Becky's cognizance; to whom the Colonel's
lady made also a most respectful obeisance. It was returned with severe dignity
by the exalted person in question.
    »I had the pleasure of making your Ladyship's acquaintance at Brussels, ten
years ago,« Becky said, in the most winning manner. »I had the good fortune to
meet Lady Bareacres, at the Duchess of Richmond's ball, the night before the
battle of Waterloo. And I recollect your Ladyship, and my Lady Blanche your
daughter, sitting in the carriage in the porte-cochère at the inn, waiting for
horses. I hope your Ladyship's diamonds are safe.«
    Everybody's eyes looked into their neighbour's. The famous diamonds had
undergone a famous seizure, it appears, about which Becky, of course, knew
nothing. Rawdon Crawley retreated with Lord Southdown into a window, where the
latter was heard to laugh immoderately as Rawdon told him the story of Lady
Bareacres wanting horses, and »knuckling down, by Jove,« to Mrs. Crawley. »I
think I needn't be afraid of that woman,« Becky thought. Indeed, Lady Bareacres
exchanged terrified and angry looks with her daughter, and retreated to a table,
where she began to look at pictures with great energy.
    When the Potentate from the Danube made his appearance, the conversation was
carried on in the French language, and the Lady Bareacres and the younger ladies
found, to their further mortification, that Mrs. Crawley was much better
acquainted with that tongue and spoke it with a much better accent than they.
Becky had met other Hungarian magnates with the army in France in 1816-17. She
asked after her friends with great interest. The foreign personages thought that
she was a lady of great distinction, and the Prince and the Princess asked
severally of Lord Steyne and the Marchioness, whom they conducted to dinner, who
was that petite dame who spoke so well.
    Finally, the procession being formed in the order described by the American
diplomatist, they marched into the apartment where the banquet was served; and
which, as I have promised the reader he shall enjoy it, he shall have the
liberty of ordering himself so as to suit his fancy.
    But it was when the ladies were alone that Becky knew the tug of war would
come. And then indeed the little woman found herself in such a situation as made
her acknowledge the correctness of Lord Steyne's caution to her to beware of the
society of ladies above her own sphere. As they say the persons who hate
Irishmen most are Irishmen, so, assuredly, the greatest tyrants over women are
women. When poor little Becky, alone with the ladies, went up to the fireplace
whither the great ladies had repaired, the great ladies marched away, and took
possession of a table of drawings. When Becky followed them to the table of
drawings, they dropped off one by one to the fire again. She tried to speak to
one of the children (of whom she was commonly fond in public places), but Master
George Gaunt was called away by his mamma; and the stranger was treated with
such cruelty finally that even Lady Steyne herself pitied her, and went up to
speak to the friendless little woman.
    »Lord Steyne,« said her Ladyship, as her wan cheeks glowed with a blush,
»says you sing and play very beautifully, Mrs. Crawley; I wish you would do me
the kindness to sing to me.«
    »I will do anything that may give pleasure to my Lord Steyne or to you,«
said Rebecca, sincerely grateful, and seating herself at the piano, began to
sing.
    She sang religious songs of Mozart, which had been early favourites of Lady
Steyne, and with such sweetness and tenderness that the lady, lingering round
the piano, sate down by its side, and listened until the tears rolled down her
eyes. It is true that the opposition ladies at the other end of the room kept up
a loud and ceaseless buzzing and talking; but the Lady Steyne did not hear those
rumours. She was a child again, and had wandered back through a forty years'
wilderness to her Convent Garden. The chapel organ had pealed the same tones;
the organist, the sister whom she loved best of the community, had taught them
to her in those early happy days. She was a girl once more, and the brief period
of her happiness bloomed out again for an hour. She started when the jarring
doors were flung open, and, with a loud laugh from Lord Steyne, the men of the
party entered full of gaiety.
    He saw at a glance what had happened in his absence, and was grateful to his
wife for once. He went and spoke to her, and called her by her Christian name,
so as again to bring blushes to her pale face. »My wife says you have been
singing like an angel,« he said to Becky. Now there are angels of two kinds, and
both sorts, it is said, are charming in their way.
    Whatever the previous portion of the evening had been, the rest of that
night was a great triumph for Becky. She sang her very best, and it was so good
that every one of the men came and crowded round the piano. The women, her
enemies, were left quite alone. And Mr. Paul Jefferson Jones thought he had made
a conquest of Lady Gaunt by going up to her Ladyship and praising her delightful
friend's first-rate singing.
 

                                   Chapter L

                          Contains a Vulgar Incident.

The Muse, whoever she be, who presides over this Comic History must now descend
from the genteel heights in which she has been soaring, and have the goodness to
drop down upon the lowly roof of John Sedley at Brompton, and describe what
events are taking place there. Here, too, in this humble tenement, live care,
and distrust, and dismay. Mrs. Clapp in the kitchen is grumbling in secret to
her husband about the rent, and urging the good fellow to rebel against his old
friend and patron and his present lodger. Mrs. Sedley has ceased to visit her
landlady in the lower regions now, and indeed is in a position to patronize Mrs.
Clapp no longer. How can one be condescending to a lady to whom one owes a
matter of forty pounds, and who is perpetually throwing out hints for the money?
The Irish maid-servant has not altered in the least in her kind and respectful
behaviour; but Mrs. Sedley fancies that she is growing insolent and ungrateful,
and, as the guilty thief who fears each bush an officer, sees threatening
innuendoes and hints of capture in all the girl's speeches and answers. Miss
Clapp, grown quite a young woman now, is declared by the sour old lady to be an
unbearable and impudent little minx. Why Amelia can be so fond of her, or have
her in her room so much, or walk out with her so constantly, Mrs. Sedley cannot
conceive. The bitterness of poverty has poisoned the life of the once cheerful
and kindly woman. She is thankless for Amelia's constant and gentle bearing
towards her; carps at her for her efforts at kindness or service; rails at her
for her silly pride in her child, and her neglect of her parents. Georgy's house
is not a very lively one since Uncle Jos's annuity has been withdrawn, and the
little family are almost upon famine diet.
    Amelia thinks, and thinks, and racks her brain to find some means of
increasing the small pittance upon which the household is starving. Can she give
lessons in anything? paint card-racks? do fine work? She finds that women are
working hard, and better than she can, for twopence a day. She buys a couple of
begilt Bristol boards at the fancy stationer's, and paints her very best upon
them - a shepherd with a red waistcoat on one, and a pink face smiling in the
midst of a pencil landscape; a shepherdess on the other, crossing a little
bridge, with a little dog, nicely shaded. The man of the Fancy Repository and
Brompton Emporium of Fine Arts (of whom she bought the screens, vainly hoping
that he would repurchase them when ornamented by her hand) can hardly hide the
sneer with which he examines these feeble works of art. He looks askance at the
lady who waits in the shop, and ties up the cards again in their envelope of
whity-brown paper, and hands them to the poor widow and Miss Clapp, who had
never seen such beautiful things in her life, and had been quite confident that
the man must give at least two guineas for the screens. They try at other shops
in the interior of London, with faint, sickening hopes. »Don't want 'em,« says
one. »Be off,« says another fiercely. Three and sixpence has been spent in vain:
the screens retire to Miss Clapp's bedroom, who persists in thinking them
lovely.
    She writes out a little card in her neatest hand, and after long thought and
labour of composition, in which the public is informed that »A Lady who has some
time at her disposal wishes to undertake the education of some little girls,
whom she would instruct in English, in French, in Geography, in History, and in
Music - address A.O., at Mr. Brown's;« and she confides the card to the
gentleman of the Fine Art Repository, who consents to allow it to lie upon the
counter, where it grows dingy and fly-blown. Amelia passes the door wistfully
many a time, in hopes that Mr. Brown will have some news to give her; but he
never beckons her in. When she goes to make little purchases, there is no news
for her. Poor, simple lady, tender and weak, how are you to battle with the
struggling, violent world?
    She grows daily more careworn and sad, fixing upon her child alarmed eyes,
whereof the little boy cannot interpret the expression. She starts up of a night
and peeps into his room stealthily, to see that he is sleeping and not stolen
away. She sleeps but little now. A constant thought and terror is haunting her.
How she weeps and prays in the long silent nights! how she tries to hide from
herself the thought, which will return to her, that she ought to part with the
boy - that she is the only barrier between him and prosperity! She can't, she
can't. Not now, at least; some other day. Oh, it is too hard to think of and to
bear!
    A thought comes over her which makes her blush and turn from herself: her
parents might keep the annuity; the curate would marry her and give a home to
her and the boy. But George's picture and dearest memory are there to rebuke
her. Shame and love say no to the sacrifice. She shrinks from it as from
something unholy; and such thoughts never found a resting-place in that pure and
gentle bosom.
    The combat, which we describe in a sentence or two, lasted for many weeks in
poor Amelia's heart, during which she had no confidante; indeed, she could never
have one, as she would not allow to herself the possibility of yielding, though
she was giving way daily before the enemy with whom she had to battle. One truth
after another was marshalling itself silently against her and keeping its
ground. Poverty and misery for all, want and degradation for her parents,
injustice to the boy - one by one the outworks of the little citadel were taken,
in which the poor soul passionately guarded her only love and treasure.
    At the beginning of the struggle she had written off a letter of tender
supplication to her brother at Calcutta, imploring him not to withdraw the
support which he had granted to their parents, and painting in terms of artless
pathos their lonely and hapless condition. She did not know the truth of the
matter. The payment of Jos's annuity was still regular, but it was a
money-lender in the City who was receiving it; old Sedley had sold it for a sum
of money wherewith to prosecute his bootless schemes. Emmy was calculating
eagerly the time that would elapse before the letter would arrive and be
answered. She had written down the date in her pocket-book of the day when she
dispatched it. To her son's guardian, the good Major at Madras, she had not
communicated any of her griefs and perplexities. She had not written to him
since she wrote to congratulate him on his approaching marriage. She thought
with sickening despondency that that friend - the only one, the one who had felt
such a regard for her - was fallen away.
    One day, when things had come to a very bad pass - when the creditors were
pressing, the mother in hysteric grief, the father in more than usual gloom, the
inmates of the family avoiding each other, each secretly oppressed with his
private unhappiness and notion of wrong - the father and daughter happened to be
left alone together; and Amelia thought to comfort her father by telling him
what she had done. She had written to Joseph; an answer must come in three or
four months. He was always generous though careless. He could not refuse when he
knew how straitened were the circumstances of his parents.
    Then the poor old gentleman revealed the whole truth to her - that his son
was still paying the annuity, which his own imprudence had flung away. He had
not dared to tell it sooner. He thought Amelia's ghastly and terrified look,
when, with a trembling, miserable voice he made the confession, conveyed
reproaches to him for his concealment. »Ah,« said he, with quivering lips and
turning away, »you despise your old father now!«
    »O papa! it is not that,« Amelia cried out, falling on his neck, and kissing
him many times. »You are always good and kind. You did it for the best. It is
not for the money; it is - O my God, my God! have mercy upon me, and give me
strength to bear this trial;« and she kissed him again wildly, and went away.
    Still the father did not know what that explanation meant, and the burst of
anguish with which the poor girl left him. It was that she was conquered. The
sentence was passed. The child must go from her - to others - to forget her. Her
heart and her treasure - her joy, hope, love, worship - her God almost! She must
give him up, and then - and then she would go to George; and they would watch
over the child, and wait for him until he came to them in heaven.
    She put on her bonnet, scarcely knowing what she did, and went out to walk
in the lanes by which George used to come back from school, and where she was in
the habit of going on his return to meet the boy. It was May, a half-holiday.
The leaves were all coming out, the weather was brilliant. The boy came running
to her flushed with health, singing, his bundle of school-books hanging by a
thong. There he was. Both her arms were round him. No, it was impossible. They
could not be going to part. »What is the matter, mother?« said he; »you look
very pale.«
    »Nothing, my child,« she said, and stooped down and kissed him.
    That night Amelia made the boy read the story of Samuel to her, and how
Hannah, his mother, having weaned him, brought him to Eli the High Priest to
minister before the Lord. And he read the song of gratitude which Hannah sang,
and which says who it is who maketh poor and maketh rich, and bringeth low and
exalteth - how the poor shall be raised up out of the dust, and how in his own
might no man shall be strong. Then he read how Samuel's mother made him a little
coat, and brought it to him from year to year when she came up to offer the
yearly sacrifice. And then, in her sweet, simple way, George's mother made
commentaries to the boy upon this affecting story: how Hannah, though she loved
her son so much, yet gave him up because of her vow; and how she must always
have thought of him as she sat at home, far away, making the little coat; and
Samuel, she was sure, never forgot his mother; and how happy she must have been
as the time came (and the years pass away very quick) when she should see her
boy, and how good and wise he had grown. This little sermon she spoke with a
gentle, solemn voice, and dry eyes, until she came to the account of their
meeting; then the discourse broke off suddenly, the tender heart overflowed, and
taking the boy to her breast, she rocked him in her arms, and wept silently over
him in a sainted agony of tears.
 
Her mind being made up, the widow began to take such measures as seemed right to
her for advancing the end which she proposed. One day Miss Osborne, in Russell
Square (Amelia had not written the name or number of the house for ten years;
her youth, her early story came back to her as she wrote the superscription) -
one day Miss Osborne got a letter from Amelia, which made her blush very much
and look towards her father, sitting glooming in his place at the other end of
the table.
    In simple terms Amelia told her the reasons which had induced her to change
her mind respecting her boy. Her father had met with fresh misfortunes, which
had entirely ruined him. Her own pittance was so small that it would barely
enable her to support her parents, and would not suffice to give George the
advantages which were his due. Great as her sufferings would be at parting with
him, she would, by God's help, endure them for the boy's sake. She knew that
those to whom he was going would do all in their power to make him happy. She
described his disposition, such as she fancied it - quick and impatient of
control or harshness, easily to be moved by love and kindness. In a postscript
she stipulated that she should have a written agreement that she should see the
child as often as she wished; she could not part with him under any other terms.
    »What! Mrs. Pride has come down, has she?« old Osborne said, when with a
tremulous, eager voice Miss Osborne read him the letter. »Reg'lar starved out,
hey? ha, ha! I knew she would.« He tried to keep his dignity and to read his
paper as usual, but he could not follow it. He chuckled and swore to himself
behind the sheet.
    At last he flung it down, and scowling at his daughter, as his wont was,
went out of the room into his study adjoining, from whence he presently returned
with a key. He flung it to Miss Osborne.
    »Get the room over mine - his room that was - ready,« he said. »Yes, sir,«
his daughter replied in a tremble. It was George's room. It had not been opened
for more than ten years. Some of his clothes, papers, handkerchiefs, whips and
caps, fishing-rods and sporting gear, were still there. An Army List of 1814,
with his name written on the cover, a little dictionary he was wont to use in
writing, and the Bible his mother had given him were on the mantelpiece, with a
pair of spurs, and a dried inkstand covered with the dust of ten years. Ah,
since that ink was wet, what days and people had passed away! The writing-book,
still on the table, was blotted with his hand.
    Miss Osborne was much affected when she first entered this room with the
servants under her. She sank quite pale on the little bed. »This is blessed
news, mam - indeed, mam,« the housekeeper said; »and the good old times is
returning, mam. The dear little feller, to be sure, mam; how happy he will be!
But some folks in Mayfair, mam, will owe him a grudge, mam;« and she clicked
back the bolt which held the window-sash, and let the air into the chamber.
    »You had better send that woman some money,« Mr. Osborne said, before he
went out. »She shan't want for nothing. Send her a hundred pound.«
    »And I'll go and see her to-morrow?« Miss Osborne asked.
    »That's your look-out. She don't come in here, mind. No, by --, not for all
the money in London. But she mustn't want now. So look out and get things
right.« With which brief speeches Mr. Osborne took leave of his daughter, and
went on his accustomed way into the City.
    »Here, papa, is some money,« Amelia said that night, kissing the old man,
her father, and putting a bill for a hundred pounds into his hands. - »And -
and, mamma, don't be harsh with Georgy; he - he is not going to stop with us
long.« She could say nothing more, and walked away silently to her room. Let us
close it upon her prayers and her sorrow. I think we had best speak little about
so much love and grief.
    Miss Osborne came the next day, according to the promise contained in her
note, and saw Amelia. The meeting between them was friendly. A look and a few
words from Miss Osborne showed the poor widow that, with regard to this woman at
least, there need be no fear lest she should take the first place in her son's
affection. She was cold, sensible, not unkind. The mother had not been so well
pleased, perhaps, had the rival been better looking, younger, more affectionate,
warmer-hearted. Miss Osborne, on the other hand, thought of old times and
memories, and could not but be touched with the poor mother's pitiful situation.
She was conquered, and laying down her arms, as it were, she humbly submitted.
That day they arranged together the preliminaries of the treaty of capitulation.
    George was kept from school the next day, and saw his aunt. Amelia left them
alone together, and went to her room. She was trying the separation - as that
poor gentle Lady Jane Grey felt the edge of the axe that was to come down and
sever her slender life. Days were passed in parleys, visits, preparations. The
widow broke the matter to Georgy with great caution; she looked to see him very
much affected by the intelligence. He was rather elated than otherwise, and the
poor woman turned sadly away. He bragged about the news that day to the boys at
school; told them how he was going to live with his grandpapa his father's
father, not the one who comes here sometimes; and that he would be very rich,
and have a carriage and a pony, and go to a much finer school, and when he was
rich he would buy Leader's pencil-case, and pay the tart-woman. The boy was the
image of his father, as his fond mother thought.
    Indeed I have no heart, on account of our dear Amelia's sake, to go through
the story of George's last days at home.
    At last the day came. The carriage drove up; the little humble packets
containing tokens of love and remembrance were ready and disposed in the hall
long since. George was in his new suit, for which the tailor had come previously
to measure him. He had sprung up with the sun and put on the new clothes - his
mother hearing him from the room close by, in which she had been lying, in
speechless grief and watching. Days before she had been making preparations for
the end - purchasing little stores for the boy's use; marking his books and
linen; talking with him and preparing him for the change - fondly fancying that
he needed preparation.
    So that he had change, what cared he? He was longing for it. By a thousand
eager declarations as to what he would do when he went to live with his
grandfather, he had shown the poor widow how little the idea of parting had cast
him down. »He would come and see his mamma often on the pony,« he said; »he
would come and fetch her in the carriage; they would drive in the Park; and she
should have everything she wanted.« The poor mother was fain to content herself
with these selfish demonstrations of attachment, and tried to convince herself
how sincerely her son loved her. He must love her. All children were so; a
little anxious for novelty, and - no, not selfish, but self-willed. Her child
must have his enjoyments and ambition in the world. She herself, by her own
selfishness and imprudent love for him, had denied him his just rights and
pleasures hitherto.
    I know few things more affecting than that timorous debasement and
self-humiliation of a woman. How she owns that it is she and not the man who is
guilty; how she takes all the faults on her side; how she courts in a manner
punishment for the wrongs which she has not committed, and persists in shielding
the real culprit! It is those who injure women who get the most kindness from
them; they are born timid and tyrants, and maltreat those who are humblest
before them.
    So poor Amelia had been getting ready in silent misery for her son's
departure, and had passed many and many a long solitary hour in making
preparations for the end. George stood by his mother, watching her arrangements
without the least concern. Tears had fallen into his boxes; passages had been
scored in his favourite books; old toys, relics, treasures had been hoarded away
for him, and packed with strange neatness and care; and of all these things the
boy took no note. The child goes away smiling as the mother breaks her heart. By
heavens it is pitiful, the bootless love of women for children in Vanity Fair.
    A few days are past, and the great event of Amelia's life is consummated. No
angel has intervened. The child is sacrificed and offered up to fate, and the
widow is quite alone.
    The boy comes to see her often, to be sure. He rides on a pony with a
coachman behind him, to the delight of his old grandfather, Sedley, who walks
proudly down the lane by his side. She sees him, but he is not her boy any more.
Why, he rides to see the boys at the little school, too, and to show off before
them his new wealth and splendour. In two days he has adopted a slightly
imperious air and patronizing manner. He was born to command, his mother thinks,
as his father was before him.
    It is fine weather now. Of evenings on the days when he does not come she
takes a long walk into London - yes, as far as Russell Square, and rests on the
stone by the railing of the garden opposite Mr. Osborne's house. It is so
pleasant and cool. She can look up and see the drawing-room windows illuminated,
and, at about nine o'clock, the chamber in the upper story where Georgy sleeps.
She knows - he has told her. She prays there as the light goes out - prays with
a humble, humble heart, and walks home shrinking and silent. She is very tired
when she comes home. Perhaps she will sleep the better for that long, weary
walk; and she may dream about Georgy.
    One Sunday she happened to be walking in Russell Square, at some distance
from Mr. Osborne's house (she could see it from a distance though), when all the
bells of Sabbath were ringing, and George and his aunt came out to go to church;
a little sweep asked for charity, and the footman, who carried the books, tried
to drive him away; but Georgy stopped and gave him money. May God's blessing be
on the boy! Emmy ran round the square, and coming up to the sweep gave him her
mite too. All the bells of Sabbath were ringing, and she followed them until she
came to the Foundling Church, into which she went. There she sat in a place
whence she could see the head of the boy under his father's tombstone. Many
hundred fresh children's voices rose up there and sang hymns to the Father
Beneficent, and little George's soul thrilled with delight at the burst of
glorious psalmody. His mother could not see him for a while, through the mist
that dimmed her eyes.
 

                                   Chapter LI

      In which a Charade Is Acted which May or May not Puzzle the Reader.

After Becky's appearance at my Lord Steyne's private and select parties, the
claims of that estimable woman as regards fashion were settled, and some of the
very greatest and tallest doors in the metropolis were speedily opened to her -
doors so great and tall that the beloved reader and writer hereof may hope in
vain to enter at them. Dear brethren, let us tremble before those august
portals. I fancy them guarded by grooms of the chamber with flaming silver forks
with which they prong all those who have not the right of the entrée. They say
the honest newspaper-fellow who sits in the hall, and takes down the names of
the great ones who are admitted to the feasts, dies after a little time. He
can't survive the glare of fashion long. It scorches him up, as the presence of
Jupiter in full dress wasted that poor imprudent Semele, a giddy moth of a
creature who ruined herself by venturing out of her natural atmosphere. Her myth
ought to be taken to heart amongst the Tyburnians, the Belgravians, - her story,
and perhaps Becky's too. Ah, ladies! ask the Reverend Mr. Thurifer if Belgravia
is not a sounding brass, and Tyburnia a tinkling cymbal. These are vanities.
Even these will pass away. And some day or other (but it will be after our time,
thank goodness) Hyde Park Gardens will be no better known than the celebrated
horticultural outskirts of Babylon, and Belgrave Square will be as desolate as
Baker Street, or Tadmor in the wilderness.
    Ladies, are you aware that the great Pitt lived in Baker Street? What would
not your grandmothers have given to be asked to Lady Hester's parties in that
now decayed mansion? I have dined in it - moi qui vous parle. I peopled the
chamber with ghosts of the mighty dead. As we sate soberly drinking claret there
with men of to-day, the spirits of the departed came in and took their places
round the darksome board. The pilot who weathered the storm tossed off great
bumpers of spiritual port; the shade of Dundas did not leave the ghost of a
heeltap; Addington sate bowing and smirking in a ghastly manner, and would not
be behindhand when the noiseless bottle went round; Scott, from under bushy
eyebrows, winked at the apparition of a beeswing; Wilberforce's eyes went up to
the ceiling, so that he did not seem to know how his glass went up full to his
mouth and came down empty - up to the ceiling which was above us only yesterday,
and which the great of the past days have all looked at. They let the house as a
furnished lodging now. Yes, Lady Hester once lived in Baker Street, and lies
asleep in the wilderness. Eothen saw her there - not in Baker Street, but in the
other solitude.
    It is all vanity, to be sure; but who will not own to liking a little of it?
I should like to know what well-constituted mind, merely because it is
transitory, dislikes roast beef? That is a vanity; but may every man who reads
this have a wholesome portion of it through life, I beg - ay, though my readers
were five hundred thousand. Sit down, gentlemen, and fall to, with a good,
hearty appetite; the fat, the lean, the gravy, the horse-radish as you like it -
don't spare it. Another glass of wine, Jones, my boy - a little bit of the
Sunday side. Yes, let us eat our fill of the vain thing, and be thankful
therefor. And let us make the best of Becky's aristocratic pleasures likewise,
for these too, like all other mortal delights, were but transitory.
 
The upshot of her visit to Lord Steyne was that His Highness the Prince of
Peterwaradin took occasion to renew his acquaintance with Colonel Crawley, when
they met on the next day at the Club, and to compliment Mrs. Crawley in the Ring
of Hyde Park with a profound salute of the hat. She and her husband were invited
immediately to one of the Prince's small parties at Levant House, then occupied
by His Highness during the temporary absence from England of its noble
proprietor. She sang after dinner to a very little comité. The Marquis of Steyne
was present, paternally superintending the progress of his pupil.
    At Levant House Becky met one of the finest gentlemen and greatest ministers
that Europe has produced - the Duc de la Jabotière, then Ambassador from the
Most Christian King, and subsequently Minister to that monarch. I declare I
swell with pride as these august names are transcribed by my pen, and I think in
what brilliant company my dear Becky is moving. She became a constant guest at
the French Embassy, where no party was considered to be complete without the
presence of the charming Madame Ravdonn Cravley.
    Messieurs de Truffigny (of the Périgord family) and Champignac, both
attachés of the Embassy, were straightway smitten by the charms of the fair
Colonel's wife; and both declared, according to the wont of their nation (for
who ever yet met a Frenchman, come out of England, that has not left half a
dozen families miserable, and brought away as many hearts in his pocket-book?) -
both, I say, declared that they were au mieux with the charming Madame Ravdonn.
    But I doubt the correctness of the assertion. Champignac was very fond of
écarté, and made many parties with the Colonel of evenings, while Becky was
singing to Lord Steyne in the other room; and as for Truffigny, it is a
well-known fact that he dared not go to the Travellers', where he owed money to
the waiters, and if he had not had the Embassy as a dining-place, the worthy
young gentleman must have starved. I doubt, I say, that Becky would have
selected either of these young men as a person on whom she would bestow her
special regard. They ran of her messages, purchased her gloves and flowers, went
in debt for opera-boxes for her, and made themselves amiable in a thousand ways.
And they talked English with adorable simplicity, and to the constant amusement
of Becky and my Lord Steyne, she would mimic one or other to his face, and
compliment him on his advance in the English language with a gravity which never
failed to tickle the Marquis, her sardonic old patron. Truffigny gave Briggs a
shawl by way of winning over Becky's confidante, and asked her to take charge of
a letter, which the simple spinster handed over in public to the person to whom
it was addressed, and the composition of which amused everybody who read it
greatly. Lord Steyne read it - everybody but honest Rawdon, to whom it was not
necessary to tell everything that passed in the little house in Mayfair.
    Here, before long, Becky received not only »the best« foreigners (as the
phrase is in our noble and admirable society slang), but some of the best
English people too. I don't mean the most virtuous, or indeed the least
virtuous, or the cleverest, or the stupidest, or the richest, or the best born,
but »the best« - in a word, people about whom there is no question - such as the
great Lady Fitz-Willis, that Patron Saint of Almack's, the great Lady Slowbore,
the great Lady Grizzel Macbeth (she was Lady G. Glowry, daughter of Lord Grey of
Glowry), and the like. When the Countess of Fitz-Willis (her Ladyship is of the
King Street family, see Debrett and Burke) takes up a person, he or she is safe.
There is no question about them any more. Not that my Lady Fitz-Willis is any
better than anybody else, being, on the contrary, a faded person, fifty-seven
years of age, and neither handsome, nor wealthy, nor entertaining; but it is
agreed on all sides that she is of the »best people.« Those who go to her are of
the best; and from an old grudge probably to Lady Steyne (for whose coronet her
Ladyship, then the youthful Georgina Frederica, daughter of the Prince of
Wales's favourite, the Earl of Portansherry, had once tried), this great and
famous leader of the fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs. Rawdon Crawley - made her
a most marked curtsy at the assembly over which she presided, and not only
encouraged her son, Sir Kitts (his Lordship got his place through Lord Steyne's
interest), to frequent Mrs. Crawley's house, but asked her to her own mansion,
and spoke to her twice in the most public and condescending manner during
dinner. The important fact was known all over London that night. People who had
been crying fie about Mrs. Crawley were silent. Wenham, the wit and lawyer, Lord
Steyne's right-hand man, went about everywhere praising her; some who had
hesitated came forward at once and welcomed her; little Tom Toady, who had
warned Southdown about visiting such an abandoned woman, now besought to be
introduced to her. In a word, she was admitted to be among the »best« people.
Ah, my beloved readers and brethren, do not envy poor Becky prematurely! glory
like this is said to be fugitive. It is currently reported that even in the very
inmost circles they are no happier than the poor wanderers outside the zone; and
Becky, who penetrated into the very centre of fashion, and saw the great George
IV. face to face, has owned since that there too was Vanity.
    We must be brief in descanting upon this part of her career. As I cannot
describe the mysteries of Freemasonry, although I have a shrewd idea that it is
a humbug, so an uninitiated man cannot take upon himself to portray the great
world accurately, and had best keep his opinions to himself whatever they are.
    Becky has often spoken in subsequent years of this season of her life, when
she moved among the very greatest circles of the London fashion. Her success
excited, elated, and then bored her. At first no occupation was more pleasant
than to invent and procure (the latter a work of no small trouble and ingenuity,
by the way, in a person of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's very narrow means) - to
procure, we say, the prettiest new dresses and ornaments; to drive to fine
dinner parties, where she was welcomed by great people; and from the fine dinner
parties to fine assemblies, whither the same people came with whom she had been
dining, whom she had met the night before, and would see on the morrow - the
young men faultlessly appointed, handsomely cravatted, with the neatest glossy
boots and white gloves; the elders portly, brass-buttoned, noble-looking,
polite, and prosy; the young ladies blonde, timid, and in pink; the mothers
grand, beautiful, sumptuous, solemn, and in diamonds. They talked in English,
not in bad French, as they do in the novels. They talked about each other's
houses, and characters, and families, just as the Joneses do about the Smiths.
Becky's former acquaintances hated and envied her; the poor woman herself was
yawning in spirit. »I wish I were out of it,« she said to herself. »I would
rather be a parson's wife, and teach a Sunday school, than this; or a sergeant's
lady, and ride in the regimental wagon; or - oh how much gayer it would be to
wear spangles and trousers, and dance before a booth at a fair!«
    »You would do it very well,« said Lord Steyne, laughing. She used to tell
the great man her ennuis and perplexities in her artless way; they amused him.
    »Rawdon would make a very good Ecuyer - Master of the Ceremonies - what do
you call him - the man in the large boots and the uniform who goes round the
ring cracking the whip? He is large, heavy, and of a military figure. I
recollect,« Becky continued pensively, »my father took me to see a show at
Brookgreen Fair when I was a child; and when we came home, I made myself a pair
of stilts, and danced in the studio to the wonder of all the pupils.«
    »I should have liked to see it,« said Lord Steyne.
    »I should like to do it now,« Becky continued. »How Lady Blinkey would open
her eyes, and Lady Grizzel Macbeth would stare! Hush! silence! there is Pasta
beginning to sing.« Becky always made a point of being conspicuously polite to
the professional ladies and gentlemen who attended at these aristocratic parties
- of following them into the corners where they sate in silence, and shaking
hands with them and smiling in the view of all persons. She was an artist
herself, as she said very truly; there was a frankness and humility in the
manner in which she acknowledged her origin, which provoked, or disarmed, or
amused lookers-on, as the case might be. »How cool that woman is!« said one;
»what airs of independence she assumes, where she ought to sit still and be
thankful if anybody speaks to her!« »What an honest and good-natured soul she
is!« said another. »What an artful little minx!« said a third. They were all
right, very likely; but Becky went her own way, and so fascinated the
professional personages that they would leave off their sore throats in order to
sing at her parties, and give her lessons for nothing.
    Yes, she gave parties in the little house in Curzon Street. Many scores of
carriages with blazing lamps blocked up the street, to the disgust of No. 200,
who could not rest for the thunder of the knocking, and of 202, who could not
sleep for envy. The gigantic footmen who accompanied the vehicles were too big
to be contained in Becky's little hall, and were billeted off in the
neighbouring public-houses, whence, when they were wanted, call-boys summoned
them from their beer. Scores of the great dandies of London squeezed and trod on
each other on the little stairs, laughing to find themselves there; and many
spotless and severe ladies of ton were seated in the little drawing-room,
listening to the professional singers, who were singing according to their wont,
and as if they wished to blow the windows down. And the day after, there
appeared among the fashionable réunions in The Morning Post a paragraph to the
following effect: -
    »Yesterday Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained a select party at dinner at
their house at Mayfair - their Excellencies the Prince and Princess of
Peterwaradin, H.E. Papoosh Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador (attended by Kibob Bey,
dragoman of the mission), the Marquess of Steyne, Earl of Southdown, Sir Pitt
and Lady Jane Crawley, Mr. Wagg, etc. After dinner Mrs. Crawley had an assembly,
which was attended by the Duchess (Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyère,
Marchioness of Cheshire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte de Brie, Baron
Schapzuger, Chevalier Tosti, Countess of Slingstone, and Lady F. Macadam,
Major-General and Lady G. Macbeth, and (2) Miss Macbeths; Viscount Paddington,
Sir Horace Fogey, Hon. Sands Bedwin, Bobbachy Bahawder,« and an etc., which the
reader may fill at his pleasure through a dozen close lines of small type.
    And in her commerce with the great our dear friend showed the same frankness
which distinguished her transactions with the lowly in station. On one occasion,
when out at a very fine house, Rebecca was (perhaps rather ostentatiously)
holding a conversation in the French language with a celebrated tenor singer of
that nation, while the Lady Grizzel Macbeth looked over her shoulder scowling at
the pair.
    »How very well you speak French!« Lady Grizzel said, who herself spoke the
tongue in an Edinburgh accent most remarkable to hear.
    »I ought to know it,« Becky modestly said, casting down her eyes. »I taught
it in a school, and my mother was a Frenchwoman.«
    Lady Grizzel was won by her humility, and was mollified towards the little
woman. She deplored the fatal levelling tendencies of the age, which admitted
persons of all classes into the society of their superiors; but her Ladyship
owned that this one at least was well behaved and never forgot her place in
life. She was a very good woman - good to the poor; stupid, blameless,
unsuspicious. It is not her Ladyship's fault that she fancies herself better
than you and me. The skirts of her ancestors' garments have been kissed for
centuries; it is a thousand years, they say, since the tartans of the head of
the family were embraced by the defunct Duncan's lords and councillors, when the
great ancestor of the House became King of Scotland.
    Lady Steyne, after the music scene, succumbed before Becky, and perhaps was
not disinclined to her. The younger ladies of the House of Gaunt were also
compelled into submission. Once or twice they set people at her, but they
failed. The brilliant Lady Stunnington tried a passage of arms with her, but was
routed with great slaughter by the intrepid little Becky. When attacked
sometimes, Becky had a knack of adopting a demure, ingénue air, under which she
was most dangerous. She said the wickedest things with the most simple,
unaffected air when in this mood, and would take care artlessly to apologize for
her blunders, so that all the world should know that she had made them.
    Mr. Wagg, the celebrated wit, and a led-captain and trencherman of my Lord
Steyne, was caused by the ladies to charge her; and the worthy fellow, leering
at his patronesses, and giving them a wink, as much as to say, »Now look out for
sport,« one evening began an assault upon Becky, who was unsuspiciously eating
her dinner. The little woman, attacked on a sudden, but never without arms,
lighted up in an instant, parried and riposted with a home-thrust which made
Wagg's face tingle with shame; then she returned to her soup with the most
perfect calm and a quiet smile on her face. Wagg's great patron, who gave him
dinners and lent him a little money sometimes, and whose election, newspaper,
and other jobs Wagg did, gave the luckless fellow such a savage glance with the
eyes as almost made him sink under the table and burst into tears. He looked
piteously at my Lord, who never spoke to him during dinner, and at the ladies,
who disowned him. At last Becky herself took compassion upon him, and tried to
engage him in talk. He was not asked to dinner again for six weeks; and Fiche,
my Lord's confidential man, to whom Wagg naturally paid a good deal of court,
was instructed to tell him that if he ever dared to say a rude thing to Mrs.
Crawley again, or make her the butt of his stupid jokes, Milor would put every
one of his notes of hand into his lawyer's hands, and sell him up without mercy.
Wagg wept before Fiche, and implored his dear friend to intercede for him. He
wrote a poem in favour of Mrs. R.C., which appeared in the very next number of
The Harum-scarum Magazine, which he conducted. He implored her good-will at
parties where he met her. He cringed and coaxed Rawdon at the club. He was
allowed to come back to Gaunt House after a while. Becky was always good to him,
always amused, never angry.
    His Lordship's vizier and chief confidential servant (with a seat in
Parliament and at the dinner-table), Mr. Wenham, was much more prudent in his
behaviour and opinions than Mr. Wagg. However much he might be disposed to hate
all parvenus (Mr. Wenham himself was a stanch old True Blue Tory, and his father
a small coal-merchant in the north of England), this aide-de-camp of the Marquis
never showed any sort of hostility to the new favourite, but pursued her with
stealthy kindnesses, and a sly and deferential politeness which somehow made
Becky more uneasy than other people's overt hostilities.
    How the Crawleys got the money which was spent upon the entertainments with
which they treated the polite world was a mystery which gave rise to some
conversation at the time, and probably added zest to these little festivities.
Some persons averred that Sir Pitt Crawley gave his brother a handsome
allowance; if he did, Becky's power over the Baronet must have been
extraordinary indeed, and his character greatly changed in his advanced age.
Other parties hinted that it was Becky's habit to levy contributions on all her
husband's friends - going to this one in tears with an account that there was an
execution in the house; falling on her knees to that one, and declaring that the
whole family must go to jail or commit suicide unless such and such a bill could
be paid. Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced to give many hundreds
through these pathetic representations. Young Feltham of the -th Dragoons, and
son of the firm of Tiler &amp; Feltham, hatters and army accoutrement makers,
and whom the Crawleys introduced into fashionable life, was also cited as one of
Becky's victims in the pecuniary way. People declared that she got money from
various simply-disposed persons, under pretence of getting them confidential
appointments under Government. Who knows what stories were or were not told of
our dear and innocent friend? Certain it is that if she had had all the money
which she was said to have begged or borrowed or stolen, she might have
capitalized and been honest for life; whereas, - but this is advancing matters.
    The truth is, that by economy and good management - by a sparing use of
ready money and by paying scarcely anybody - people can manage, for a time at
least, to make a great show with very little means; and it is our belief that
Becky's much-talked-of parties, which were not, after all was said, very
numerous, cost this lady very little more than the wax candles which lighted the
walls. Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley supplied her with game and fruit in
abundance. Lord Steyne's cellars were at her disposal, and that excellent
nobleman's famous cooks presided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's
order the rarest delicacies from their own. I protest it is quite shameful in
the world to abuse a simple creature as people of her time abuse Becky, and I
warn the public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her. If every
person is to be banished from society who runs into debt and cannot pay - if we
are to be peering into everybody's private life, speculating upon their income,
and cutting them if we don't approve of their expenditure - why, what a howling
wilderness and intolerable dwelling Vanity Fair would be! Every man's hand would
be against his neighbour in this case, my dear sir, and the benefits of
civilization would be done away with. We should be quarrelling, abusing,
avoiding one another. Our houses would become caverns; and we should go in rags
because we cared for nobody. Rents would go down. Parties wouldn't be given any
more. All the tradesmen of the town would be bankrupt. Wine, wax-lights,
comestibles, rouge, crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs, Louis-Quatorze
gimcracks, and old china, park hacks, and splendid high-stepping carriage horses
- all the delights of life, I say - would go to the deuce if people did but act
upon their silly principles, and avoid those whom they dislike and abuse.
Whereas, by a little charity and mutual forbearance, things are made to go on
pleasantly enough. We may abuse a man as much as we like, and call him the
greatest rascal unhanged; but do we wish to hang him therefore? No; we shake
hands when we meet. If his cook is good, we forgive him, and go and dine with
him, and we expect he will do the same by us. Thus trade flourishes;
civilization advances; peace is kept; new dresses are wanted for new assemblies
every week; and the last year's vintage of Lafitte will remunerate the honest
proprietor who reared it.
    At the time whereof we are writing, though the Great George was on the
throne and ladies wore gigots and large combs like tortoiseshell shovels in
their hair, instead of the simple sleeves and lovely wreaths which are actually
in fashion, the manners of the very polite world were not, I take it,
essentially different from those of the present day, and their amusements pretty
similar. To us, from the outside, gazing over the policeman's shoulders at the
bewildering beauties as they pass into Court or ball, they may seem beings of
unearthly splendour, and in the enjoyment of an exquisite happiness by us
unattainable. It is to console some of these dissatisfied beings, that we are
narrating our dear Becky's struggles, and triumphs, and disappointments, of all
of which, indeed, as is the case with all persons of merit, she had her share.
    At this time the amiable amusement of acting charades had come among us from
France, and was considerably in vogue in this country, enabling the many ladies
amongst us who had beauty to display their charms, and the fewer number who had
cleverness to exhibit their wit. My Lord Steyne was incited by Becky, who
perhaps believed herself endowed with both the above qualifications, to give an
entertainment at Gaunt House which should include some of these little dramas;
and we must take leave to introduce the reader to this brilliant réunion, and
with a melancholy welcome too, for it will be among the very last of the
fashionable entertainments to which it will be our fortune to conduct him.
    A portion of that splendid room, the picture gallery of Gaunt House, was
arranged as the charade theatre. It had been so used when George III. was king;
and a picture of the Marquis of Gaunt is still extant, with his hair in powder
and a pink ribbon, in a Roman shape, as it was called, enacting the part of Cato
in Mr. Addison's tragedy of that name, performed before their Royal Highnesses
the Prince of Wales, the Bishop of Osnaburgh, and Prince William Henry, then
children like the actor. One or two of the old properties were drawn out of the
garrets, where they had lain ever since, and furbished up anew for the present
festivities.
    Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Eastern traveller, was manager
of the revels. An Eastern traveller was somebody in those days, and the
adventurous Bedwin, who had published his quarto, and passed some months under
the tents in the desert, was a personage of no small importance. In his volume
there were several pictures of Sands in various Oriental costumes; and he
travelled about with a black attendant of most unprepossessing appearance, just
like another Brian de Bois Guilbert. Bedwin, his costumes, and black man were
hailed at Gaunt House as very valuable acquisitions.
    He led off the first charade. A Turkish officer with an immense plume of
feathers (the Janizaries were supposed to be still in existence, and the
tarboosh had not as yet displaced the ancient and majestic head-dress of the
true believers) was seen couched on a divan, and making believe to puff at a
narghile, in which, however, for the sake of the ladies, only a fragrant
pastille was allowed to smoke. The Turkish dignitary yawns and expresses signs
of weariness and idleness. He claps his hands, and Mesrour the Nubian appears,
with bare arms, bangles, yataghans, and every Eastern ornament - gaunt, tall,
and hideous. He makes a salaam before my lord the Aga.
    A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly. The ladies whisper
to one another. The black slave was given to Bedwin Sands by an Egyptian Pasha
in exchange for three dozen of Maraschino. He has sewn up ever so many
odalisques in sacks and tilted them into the Nile.
    »Bid the slave-merchant enter,« says the Turkish voluptuary, with a wave of
his hand. Mesrour conducts the slave-merchant into my lord's presence; he brings
a veiled female with him. He removes the veil. A thrill of applause bursts
through the house. It is Mrs. Winkworth (she was a Miss Absolom) with the
beautiful eyes and hair. She is in a gorgeous Oriental costume; the black
braided locks are twined with innumerable jewels; her dress is covered over with
gold piastres. The odious Mahometan expresses himself charmed by her beauty. She
falls down on her knees, and entreats him to restore her to the mountains where
she was born, and where her Circassian lover is still deploring the absence of
his Zuleikah. No entreaties will move the obdurate Hassan. He laughs at the
notion of the Circassian bridegroom. Zuleikah covers her face with her hands,
and drops down in an attitude of the most beautiful despair. There seems to be
no hope for her, when - when the Kislar Aga appears.
    The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan. Hassan receives and places
on his head the dread firman. A ghastly terror seizes him, while on the negro's
face (it is Mesrour again in another costume) appears a ghastly joy. »Mercy!
mercy!« cries the Pasha; while the Kislar Aga, grinning horribly, pulls out - a
bow-string.
    The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awful weapon. Hassan from
within bawls out, »First two syllables;« and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who is going
to act in the charade, comes forward and compliments Mrs. Winkworth on the
admirable taste and beauty of her costume.
    The second part of the charade takes place. It is still an Eastern scene.
Hassan, in another dress, is in an attitude by Zuleikah, who is perfectly
reconciled to him. The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful black slave. It is
sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their heads eastwards and bow to the
sand. As there are no dromedaries at hand, the band facetiously plays »The
Camels are Coming.« An enormous Egyptian head figures in the scene. It is a
musical one, and, to the surprise of the Oriental travellers, sings a comic
song, composed by Mr. Wagg. The Eastern voyagers go off dancing, like Papageno
and the Moorish King in the »Magic Flute.« »Last two syllables,« roars the head.
    The last act opens. It is a Grecian tent this time. A tall and stalwart man
reposes on a couch there. Above him hang his helmet and shield. There is need
for them now. Ilium is down; Iphigenia is slain; Cassandra is a prisoner in his
outer halls. The king of men (it is Colonel Crawley, who, indeed, has no notion
about the sack of Ilium or the conquest of Cassandra), the anax andrôn is asleep
in his chamber at Argos. A lamp casts the broad shadow of the sleeping warrior
flickering on the wall; the sword and shield of Troy glitter in its light. The
band plays the awful music of »Don Juan« before the statue enters.
    Ægisthus steals in pale and on tiptoe. What is that ghastly face looking out
balefully after him from behind the arras? He raises his dagger to strike the
sleeper, who turns in his bed, and opens his broad chest as if for the blow. He
cannot strike the noble slumbering chieftain. Clytemnestra glides swiftly into
the room like an apparition; her arms are bare and white, her tawny hair floats
down her shoulders, her face is deadly pale, and her eyes are lighted up with a
smile so ghastly that people quake as they look at her.
    A tremor ran through the room. »Good God!« somebody said, »it's Mrs. Rawdon
Crawley.«
    Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Ægisthus's hand, and advances to
the bed. You see it shining over her head in the glimmer of the lamp, and - and
the lamp goes out, with a groan, and all is dark.
    The darkness and the scene frightened people. Rebecca performed her part so
well, and with such ghastly truth, that the spectators were all dumb, until,
with a burst, all the lamps of the hall blazed out again, when everybody began
to shout applause. »Brava! brava!« old Steyne's strident voice was heard roaring
over all the rest. »By --, she'd do it too,« he said, between his teeth. The
performers were called by the whole house, which sounded with cries of »Manager!
Clytemnestra!« AGAMEMNON could not be got to show in his classical tunic, but
stood in the background with Ægisthus and others of the performers of the little
play. Mr. Bedwin Sands led on Zuleikah and Clytemnestra. A great personage
insisted on being presented to the charming Clytemnestra. »Heigh ha? Run him
through the body. Marry somebody else, hey?« was the apposite remark made by His
Royal Highness.
    »Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part,« said Lord Steyne. Becky
laughed, gay, and saucy looking, and swept the prettiest little curtsy ever
seen.
    Servants brought in salvers covered with numerous cool dainties, and the
performers disappeared to get ready for the second charade-tableau.
    The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted in pantomime, and
the performance took place in the following wise: -
    First syllable. Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., with a slouched hat and a
staff, a greatcoat, and a lantern borrowed from the stables, passed across the
stage, bawling out as if warning the inhabitants of the hour. In the lower
window are seen two bagmen, playing apparently at the game of cribbage, over
which they yawn much. To them enters one looking like Boots (the Honourable G.
Ringwood, which character the young gentleman performed to perfection), and
divests them of their lower coverings; and presently Chambermaid (the Right
Honourable Lord Southdown), with two candlesticks and a warming-pan. She ascends
to the upper apartment, and warms the bed. She uses the warming-pan as a weapon
wherewith she wards off the attention of the bagmen. She exits. They put on
their nightcaps and pull down the blinds. Boots comes out and closes the
shutters of the ground-floor chamber. You hear him bolting and chaining the door
within. All the lights go out. The music plays Dormez, dormez, chers Amours. A
voice from behind the curtain says, »First syllable.«
    Second syllable. The lamps are lighted up all of a sudden. The music plays
the old air from John of Paris, Ah quel plaisir d'être en voyage. It is the same
scene. Between the first and second floors of the house represented you behold a
sign on which the Steyne arms are painted. All the bells are ringing all over
the house. In the lower apartment you see a man with a long slip of paper
presenting it to another, who shakes his fists, threatens, and vows that it is
monstrous. »Ostler, bring round my gig,« cries another at the door. He chucks
Chambermaid (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown) under the chin; she seems to
deplore his absence, as Calypso did that of that other eminent traveller
Ulysses. Boots (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes with a wooden box containing
silver flagons, and cries »Pots« with such exquisite humour and naturalness that
the whole house rings with applause, and a bouquet is thrown to him. Crack,
crack, crack go the whips. Landlord, chambermaid, waiter rush to the door; but
just as some distinguished guest is arriving, the curtains close, and the
invisible theatrical manager cries out, »Second syllable.«
    »I think it must be Hotel,« says Captain Grigg of the Life Guards. There is
a general laugh at the Captain's cleverness. He is not very far from the mark.
    While the third syllable is in preparation, the band begins a nautical
medley - »All in the Downs,« »Cease, Rude Boreas,« »Rule Britannia,« »In the Bay
of Biscay O!« Some maritime event is about to take place. A bell is heard
ringing as the curtain draws aside. »Now, gents, for the shore!« a voice
exclaims. People take leave of each other. They point anxiously as if towards
the clouds, which are represented by a dark curtain, and they nod their heads in
fear. Lady Squeams (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags,
reticules, and husband sit down, and cling hold of some ropes. It is evidently a
ship.
    The Captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cocked hat and a telescope,
comes in, holding his hat on his head, and looks out; his coat-tails fly about
as if in the wind. When he leaves go of his hat to use his telescope, his hat
flies off, with immense applause. It is blowing fresh. The music rises and
whistles louder and louder; the mariners go across the stage staggering, as if
the ship was in severe motion. The Steward (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes
reeling by, holding six basins. He put one rapidly by Lord Squeams. Lady
Squeams, giving a pinch to her dog, which begins to howl piteously, puts her
pocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes away as for the cabin. The music
rises up to the wildest pitch of stormy excitement, and the third syllable is
concluded.
    There was a little ballet, »Le Rossignol,« in which Montessu and Noblet used
to be famous in those days, and which Mr. Wagg transferred to the English stage
as an opera, putting his verse, of which he was a skilful writer, to the pretty
airs of the ballet. It was dressed in old French costume, and little Lord
Southdown now appeared admirably attired in the disguise of an old woman
hobbling about the stage with a faultless crooked stick.
    Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and gurgling from a sweet
pasteboard cottage covered with roses and trellis-work. »Philomèle, Philomèle,«
cries the old woman; and Philomèle comes out.
    More applause: it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder and patches, the most
ravissante little Marquise in the world.
    She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the stage with all the
innocence of theatrical youth; she makes a curtsy. Mamma says, »Why, child, you
are always laughing and singing,« and away she goes, with -
 

                           The Rose upon My Balcony.

The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming
Was leafless all the winter time, and pining for the spring;
You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming;
It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.
 
The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing,
Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen;
And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,
It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.
 
Thus each performs his part, Mamma: the birds have found their voices,
The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye;
And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices,
And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why.
 
During the intervals of the stanzas of this ditty, the good natured personage
addressed as mamma by the singer, and whose large whiskers appeared under her
cap, seemed very anxious to exhibit her maternal affection by embracing the
innocent creature who performed the daughter's part. Every caress was received
with loud acclamations of laughter by the sympathizing audience. At its
conclusion (while the music was performing a symphony as if ever so many birds
were warbling) the whole house was unanimous for an encore, and applause and
bouquets without end were showered upon the NIGHTINGALE of the evening. Lord
Steyne's voice of applause was loudest of all. Becky, the nightingale, took the
flowers which he threw to her, and pressed them to her heart with the air of a
consummate comedian. Lord Steyne was frantic with delight. His guests'
enthusiasm harmonized with his own. Where was the beautiful black-eyed Houri
whose appearance in the first charade had caused such delight? She was twice as
handsome as Becky, but the brilliancy of the latter had quite eclipsed her. All
voices were for her. Stephens, Caradori, Ronzi de Begnis - people compared her
to one or the other, and agreed, with good reason, very likely, that had she
been an actress none on the stage could have surpassed her. She had reached her
culmination; her voice rose trilling and bright over the storm of applause, and
soared as high and joyful as her triumph. There was a ball after the dramatic
entertainments, and everybody pressed round Becky as the great point of
attraction of the evening. The Royal Personage declared, with an oath, that she
was perfection, and engaged her again and again in conversation. Little Becky's
soul swelled with pride and delight at these honours; she saw fortune, fame,
fashion before her. Lord Steyne was her slave - followed her everywhere, and
scarcely spoke to any one in the room besides, and paid her the most marked
compliments and attention. She still appeared in her Marquise costume, and
danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truffigny, Monsieur Le Duc de la Jabotière's
attaché; and the Duke, who had all the traditions of the ancient Court,
pronounced that Madame Crawley was worthy to have been a pupil of Vestris, or to
have figured at Versailles. Only a feeling of dignity, the gout, and the
strongest sense of duty and personal sacrifice prevented his Excellency from
dancing with her himself; and he declared in public that a lady who could talk
and dance like Mrs. Rawdon was fit to be ambassadress at any court in Europe. He
was only consoled when he heard that she was half a Frenchwoman by birth. »None
but a compatriot,« his Excellency declared, »could have performed that majestic
dance in such a way.«
    Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de Klingenspohr, the Prince of
Peterwaradin's cousin and attaché. The delighted Prince, having less retenue
than his French diplomatic colleague, insisted on taking a turn with the
charming creature, and twirled round the ball-room with her, scattering the
diamonds out of his boot-tassels and hussar jacket until His Highness was fairly
out of breath. Papoosh Pasha himself would have liked to dance with her if that
amusement had been the custom of his country. The company made a circle round
her, and applauded as wildly as if she had been a Noblet or a Taglioni.
Everybody was in ecstasy; and Becky too, you may be sure. She passed by Lady
Stunnington with a look of scorn. She patronized Lady Gaunt and her astonished
and mortified sister-in-law - she écraséd all rival charmers. As for poor Mrs.
Winkworth, and her long hair and great eyes, which had made such an effect at
the commencement of the evening, where was she now? Nowhere in the race. She
might tear her long hair and cry her great eyes out, but there was not a person
to heed or to deplore the discomfiture.
    The greatest triumph of all was at supper-time. She was placed at the grand
exclusive table with his Royal Highness, the exalted personage before-mentioned,
and the rest of the great guests. She was served on gold plate. She might have
had pearls melted into her champagne if she liked - another Cleopatra; and the
potentate of Peterwaradin would have given half the brilliants off his jacket
for a kind glance from those dazzling eyes. Jabotière wrote home about her to
his government. The ladies at the other tables, who supped off mere silver, and
marked Lord Steyne's constant attention to her, vowed it was a monstrous
infatuation, a gross insult to ladies of rank. If sarcasm could have killed,
Lady Stunnington would have slain her on the spot.
    Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. They seemed to separate his
wife farther than ever from him somehow. He thought, with a feeling very like
pain, how immeasurably she was his superior.
    When the hour of departure came, a crowd of young men followed her to her
carriage, for which the people without bawled, the cry being caught up by the
linkmen who were stationed outside the tall gates of Gaunt House, congratulating
each person who issued from the gate and hoping his Lordship had enjoyed this
noble party.
    Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's carriage, coming up to the gate after due shouting,
rattled into the illuminated courtyard, and drove up to the covered way. Rawdon
put his wife into the carriage, which drove off. Mr. Wenham had proposed to him
to walk home, and offered the Colonel the refreshment of a cigar.
    They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of the many linkboys outside,
and Rawdon walked on with his friend Wenham. Two persons separated from the
crowd and followed the two gentlemen; and when they had walked down Gaunt Square
a few score of paces, one of the men came up, and touching Rawdon on the
shoulder, said, »Beg your pardon, Colonel, I vish to speak to you most
particular.« This gentleman's acquaintance gave a loud whistle as the latter
spoke, at which signal a cab came clattering up from those stationed at the gate
of Gaunt House, and the aide-de-camp ran round and placed himself in front of
Colonel Crawley.
    That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen him. He was in the hands
of the bailiffs. He started back, falling against the man who had first touched
him.
    »We're three on us; it's no use bolting,« the man behind said.
    »It's you, Moss, is it?« said the Colonel, who appeared to know his
interlocutor. »How much is it?«
    »Only a small thing,« whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane,
and assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex - »one hundred and thirty-six,
six and eightpence, at the suit of Mr. Nathan.«
    »Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake,« poor Rawdon said; »I've got
seventy at home.«
    »I've not got ten pounds in the world,« said poor Mr. Wenham. »Good-night,
my dear fellow.«
    »Good-night,« said Rawdon ruefully. And Wenham walked away, and Rawdon
Crawley finished his cigar as the cab drove under Temple Bar.
 

                                  Chapter LII

          In which Lord Steyne Shows Himself in a Most Amiable Light.

When Lord Steyne was benevolently disposed, he did nothing by halves, and his
kindness towards the Crawley family did the greatest honour to his benevolent
discrimination. His Lordship extended his good-will to little Rawdon: he pointed
out to the boy's parents the necessity of sending him to a public school; that
he was of an age now when emulation, the first principles of the Latin language,
pugilistic exercises, and the society of his fellow-boys would be of the
greatest benefit to the boy. His father objected that he was not rich enough to
send the child to a good public school; his mother, that Briggs was a capital
mistress for him, and had brought him on (as indeed was the fact) famously in
English, the Latin rudiments, and in general learning; but all these objections
disappeared before the generous perseverance of the Marquis of Steyne. His
lordship was one of the governors of that famous old collegiate institution
called the Whitefriars. It had been a Cistercian Convent in old days, when the
Smithfield, which is contiguous to it, was a tournament ground. Obstinate
heretics used to be brought thither convenient for burning hard by. Henry VIII.,
the Defender of the Faith, seized upon the monastery and its possessions, and
hanged and tortured some of the monks who could not accommodate themselves to
the pace of his reform. Finally, a great merchant bought the house and land
adjoining, in which, and with the help of other wealthy endowments of land and
money, he established a famous foundation hospital for old men and children. An
extern school grew round the old almost monastic foundation, which subsists
still with its Middle-Age costume and usages; and all Cistercians pray that it
may long flourish.
    Of this famous house some of the greatest noblemen, prelates, and
dignitaries in England are governors; and as the boys are very comfortably
lodged, fed, and educated, and subsequently inducted to good scholarships at the
University and livings in the Church, many little gentlemen are devoted to the
ecclesiastical profession from their tenderest years, and there is considerable
emulation to procure nominations for the foundation. It was originally intended
for the sons of poor and deserving clerics and laics; but many of the noble
governors of the Institution, with an enlarged and rather capricious
benevolence, selected all sorts of objects for their bounty. To get an education
for nothing, and a future livelihood and profession assured, was so excellent a
scheme that some of the richest people did not disdain it; and not only great
men's relations, but great men themselves, sent their sons to profit by the
chance. Right Rev. Prelates sent their own kinsmen or the sons of their clergy,
while, on the other hand, some great noblemen did not disdain to patronize the
children of their confidential servants; so that a lad entering this
establishment had every variety of youthful society wherewith to mingle.
    Rawdon Crawley, though the only book which he studied was the Racing
Calendar, and though his chief recollections of polite learning were connected
with the floggings which he received at Eton in his early youth, had that decent
and honest reverence for classical learning which all English gentlemen feel,
and was glad to think that his son was to have a provision for life, perhaps,
and a certain opportunity of becoming a scholar. And although his boy was his
chief solace and companion, and endeared to him by a thousand small ties, about
which he did not care to speak to his wife, who had all along shown the utmost
indifference to their son, yet Rawdon agreed at once to part with him, and to
give up his own greatest comfort and benefit for the sake of the welfare of the
little lad. He did not know how fond he was of the child until it became
necessary to let him go away. When he was gone, he felt more sad and downcast
than he cared to own - far sadder than the boy himself, who was happy enough to
enter a new career, and find companions of his own age. Becky burst out laughing
once or twice when the Colonel, in his clumsy, incoherent way, tried to express
his sentimental sorrows at the boy's departure. The poor fellow felt that his
dearest pleasure and closest friend was taken from him. He looked often and
wistfully at the little vacant bed in his dressing-room, where the child used to
sleep. He missed him sadly of mornings, and tried in vain to walk in the Park
without him. He did not know how solitary he was until little Rawdon was gone.
He liked the people who were fond of him, and would go and sit for long hours
with his good-natured sister Lady Jane, and talk to her about the virtues, and
good looks, and hundred good qualities of the child.
    Young Rawdon's aunt, we have said, was very fond of him, as was her little
girl, who wept copiously when the time for her cousin's departure came. The
elder Rawdon was thankful for the fondness of mother and daughter. The very best
and honestest feelings of the man came out in these artless outpourings of
paternal feeling in which he indulged in their presence, and encouraged by their
sympathy. He secured not only Lady Jane's kindness, but her sincere regard, by
the feelings which he manifested, and which he could not show to his own wife.
The two kinswomen met as seldom as possible. Becky laughed bitterly at Jane's
feelings and softness; the other's kindly and gentle nature could not but revolt
at her sister's callous behaviour.
    It estranged Rawdon from his wife more than he knew or acknowledged to
himself. She did not care for the estrangement. Indeed, she did not miss him or
anybody. She looked upon him as her errand-man and humble slave. He might be
ever so depressed or sulky, and she did not mark his demeanour, or only treated
it with a sneer. She was busy thinking about her position, or her pleasures, or
her advancement in society; she ought to have held a great place in it, that is
certain.
    It was honest Briggs who made up the little kit for the boy which he was to
take to school. Molly, the housemaid, blubbered in the passage when he went away
- Molly, kind and faithful in spite of a long arrear of unpaid wages. Mrs. Becky
could not let her husband have the carriage to take the boy to school. Take the
horses into the City! such a thing was never heard of. Let a cab be brought. She
did not offer to kiss him when he went; nor did the child propose to embrace
her, but gave a kiss to old Briggs (whom in general he was very shy of
caressing), and consoled her by pointing out that he was to come home on
Saturdays, when she would have the benefit of seeing him. As the cab rolled
towards the City, Becky's carriage rattled off to the Park. She was chattering
and laughing with a score of young dandies by the Serpentine as the father and
son entered at the old gates of the school, where Rawdon left the child, and
came away with a sadder, purer feeling in his heart than perhaps that poor
battered fellow had ever known since he himself came out of the nursery.
    He walked all the way home very dismally, and dined alone with Briggs. He
was very kind to her, and grateful for her love and watchfulness over the boy.
His conscience smote him that he had borrowed Briggs's money and aided in
deceiving her. They talked about little Rawdon a long time, for Becky only came
home to dress and go out to dinner; and then he went off uneasily to drink tea
with Lady Jane, and tell her of what had happened, and how little Rawdon went
off like a trump, and how he was to wear a gown and little knee-breeches, and
how young Blackball, Jack Blackball's son, of the old regiment, had taken him in
charge and promised to be kind to him.
    In the course of a week young Blackball had constituted little Rawdon his
fag, shoeblack, and breakfast toaster; initiated him into the mysteries of the
Latin Grammar, and thrashed him three or four times, but not severely. The
little chap's good-natured, honest face won his way for him. He only got that
degree of beating which was, no doubt, good for him; and as for blacking shoes,
toasting bread, and fagging in general, were these offices not deemed to be
necessary parts of every young English gentleman's education?
    Our business does not lie with the second generation and Master Rawdon's
life at school, otherwise the present tale might be carried to any indefinite
length. The Colonel went to see his son a short time afterwards, and found the
lad sufficiently well and happy, grinning and laughing in his little black gown
and little breeches.
    His father sagaciously tipped Blackball, his master, a sovereign, and
secured that young gentleman's goodwill towards his fag. As a protégé of the
great Lord Steyne, the nephew of a County member, and son of a Colonel and C.B.,
whose name appeared in some of the most fashionable parties in The Morning Post,
perhaps the school authorities were disposed not to look unkindly on the child.
He had plenty of pocket-money, which he spent in treating his comrades royally
to raspberry tarts; and he was often allowed to come home on Saturdays to his
father, who always made a jubilee of that day. When free, Rawdon would take him
to the play, or send him thither with the footman; and on Sundays he went to
church with Briggs and Lady Jane and his cousins. Rawdon marvelled over his
stories about school, and fights, and fagging. Before long he knew the names of
all the masters and the principal boys as well as little Rawdon himself. He
invited little Rawdon's crony from school, and made both the children sick with
pastry, and oysters, and porter after the play. He tried to look knowing over
the Latin Grammar when little Rawdon showed him what part of that work he was
»in.« »Stick to it, my boy,« he said to him, with much gravity; »there's nothing
like a good classical education - nothing!«
    Becky's contempt for her husband grew greater every day. »Do what you like:
dine where you please, go and have ginger-beer and sawdust at Astley's or
psalm-singing with Lady Jane, only don't expect me to busy myself with the boy.
I have your interests to attend to, as you can't attend to them yourself. I
should like to know where you would have been now, and in what sort of a
position in society, if I had not looked after you.« Indeed, nobody wanted poor
old Rawdon at the parties whither Becky used to go. She was often asked without
him now. She talked about great people as if she had the fee-simple of Mayfair;
and when the Court went into mourning, she always wore black.
    Little Rawdon being disposed of, Lord Steyne, who took such a parental
interest in the affairs of this amiable poor family, thought that their expenses
might be very advantageously curtailed by the departure of Miss Briggs, and that
Becky was quite clever enough to take the management of her own house. It has
been narrated in a former chapter how the benevolent nobleman had given his
protégée money to pay off her little debt to Miss Briggs, who, however, still
remained behind with her friends; whence my lord came to the painful conclusion
that Mrs. Crawley had made some other use of the money confided to her than that
for which her generous patron had given the loan. However, Lord Steyne was not
so rude as to impart his suspicions upon this head to Mrs. Becky, whose feelings
might be hurt by any controversy on the money question, and who might have a
thousand painful reasons for disposing otherwise of his Lordship's generous
loan. But he determined to satisfy himself of the real state of the case, and
instituted the necessary inquiries in a most cautious and delicate manner.
    In the first place, he took an early opportunity of pumping Miss Briggs.
That was not a difficult operation. A very little encouragement would set that
worthy woman to talk volubly, and pour out all within her. And one day when Mrs.
Rawdon had gone out to drive (as Mr. Fiche, his Lordship's confidential servant,
easily learned at the livery stables where the Crawleys kept their carriage and
horses, or rather where the liveryman kept a carriage and horses for Mr. and
Mrs. Crawley), my lord dropped in upon the Curzon Street house, asked Briggs for
a cup of coffee, told her that he had good accounts of the little boy at school,
and in five minutes found out from her that Mrs. Rawdon had given her nothing
except a black silk gown, for which Miss Briggs was immensely grateful.
    He laughed within himself at this artless story. For the truth is, our dear
friend Rebecca had given him a most circumstantial narration of Briggs's delight
at receiving her money - eleven hundred and twenty-five pounds - and in what
securities she had invested it, and what a pang Becky herself felt in being
obliged to pay away such a delightful sum of money. »Who knows,« the dear woman
may have thought within herself, »perhaps he may give me a little more?« My
lord, however, made no such proposal to the little schemer - very likely
thinking that he had been sufficiently generous already.
    He had the curiosity, then, to ask Miss Briggs about the state of her
private affairs, and she told his Lordship candidly what her position was - how
Miss Crawley had left her a legacy; how her relatives had had part of it; how
Colonel Crawley had put out another portion, for which she had the best security
and interest; and how Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon had kindly busied themselves with Sir
Pitt, who was to dispose of the remainder most advantageously for her, when he
had time. My lord asked how much the Colonel had already invested for her, and
Miss Briggs at once and truly told him that the sum was six hundred and odd
pounds.
    But as soon as she had told her story, the voluble Briggs repented of her
frankness, and besought my lord not to tell Mr. Crawley of the confessions which
she had made. »The Colonel was so kind - Mr. Crawley might be offended and pay
back the money, for which she could get no such good interest anywhere else.«
Lord Steyne, laughing, promised he never would divulge their conversation, and
when he and Miss Briggs parted he laughed still more.
    »What an accomplished little devil it is!« thought he; »what a splendid
actress and manager! She had almost got a second supply out of me the other day
with her coaxing ways. She beats all the women I have ever seen in the course of
all my well-spent life. They are babies compared to her. I am a greenhorn
myself, and a fool in her hands - an old fool. She is unsurpassable in lies.«
His Lordship's admiration for Becky rose immeasurably at this proof of her
cleverness. Getting the money was nothing, but getting double the sum she
wanted, and paying nobody - it was a magnificent stroke. And Crawley, my lord
thought - Crawley is not such a fool as he looks and seems. He has managed the
matter cleverly enough on his side. Nobody would ever have supposed from his
face and demeanour that he knew anything about this money business; and yet he
put her up to it, and has spent the money, no doubt. In this opinion my lord, we
know, was mistaken; but it influenced a good deal his behaviour towards Colonel
Crawley, whom he began to treat with even less than that semblance of respect
which he had formerly shown towards that gentleman. It never entered into the
head of Mrs. Crawley's patron that the little lady might be making a purse for
herself; and, perhaps, if the truth must be told, he judged of Colonel Crawley
by his experience of other husbands whom he had known in the course of the long
and well-spent life which had made him acquainted with a great deal of the
weakness of mankind. My lord had bought so many men during his life, that he was
surely to be pardoned for supposing that he had found the price of this one.
    He taxed Becky upon the point on the very first occasion when he met her
alone, and he complimented her good-humouredly on her cleverness in getting more
than the money which she required. Becky was only a little taken aback. It was
not the habit of this dear creature to tell falsehoods except when necessity
compelled, but in these great emergencies it was her practice to lie very
freely; and in an instant she was ready with another neat, plausible
circumstantial story which she administered to her patron. The previous
statement which she had made to him was a falsehood - a wicked falsehood - she
owned it; but who had made her tell it? »Ah, my Lord,« she said, »you don't know
all I have to suffer and bear in silence. You see me gay and happy before you;
you little know what I have to endure when there is no protector near me. It was
my husband, by threats and the most savage treatment, forced me to ask for that
sum about which I deceived you. It was he who, foreseeing that questions might
be asked regarding the disposal of the money, forced me to account for it as I
did. He took the money. He told me he had paid Miss Briggs; I did not want, I
did not dare to doubt him. Pardon the wrong which a desperate man is forced to
commit, and pity a miserable, miserable woman.« She burst into tears as she
spoke. Persecuted virtue never looked more bewitchingly wretched.
    They had a long conversation, driving round and round the Regent's Park in
Mrs. Crawley's carriage together - a conversation of which it is not necessary
to repeat the details; but the upshot of it was, that when Becky came home she
flew to her dear Briggs with a smiling face, and announced that she had some
very good news for her. Lord Steyne had acted in the noblest and most generous
manner. He was always thinking how and when he could do good. Now that little
Rawdon was gone to school, a dear companion and friend was no longer necessary
to her. She was grieved beyond measure to part with Briggs; but her means
required that she should practise every retrenchment, and her sorrow was
mitigated by the idea that her dear Briggs would be far better provided for by
her generous patron than in her humble home. Mrs. Pilkington, the housekeeper at
Gauntly Hall, was growing exceedingly old, feeble, and rheumatic: she was not
equal to the work of superintending that vast mansion, and must be on the
look-out for a successor. It was a splendid position. The family did not go to
Gauntly once in two years. At other times the housekeeper was the mistress of
the magnificent mansion: had four covers daily for her table; was visited by the
clergy and the most respectable people of the county - was the lady of Gauntly,
in fact; and the two last housekeepers before Mrs. Pilkington had married
rectors of Gauntly, but Mrs. P. could not, being the aunt of the present Rector.
The place was not to be hers yet; but she might go down on a visit to Mrs.
Pilkington, and see whether she would like to succeed her.
    What words can paint the ecstatic gratitude of Briggs! All she stipulated
for was that little Rawdon should be allowed to come down and see her at the
Hall. Becky promised this - anything. She ran up to her husband when he came
home and told him the joyful news. Rawdon was glad, deuced glad; the weight was
off his conscience about poor Briggs's money. She was provided for, at any rate,
but - but his mind was disquiet. He did not seem to be all right somehow. He
told little Southdown what Lord Steyne had done, and the young man eyed Crawley
with an air which surprised the latter.
    He told Lady Jane of this second proof of Steyne's bounty, and she, too,
looked odd and alarmed; so did Sir Pitt. »She is too clever and - and gay to be
allowed to go from party to party without a companion,« both said. »You must go
with her, Rawdon, wherever she goes, and you must have somebody with her - one
of the girls from Queen's Crawley, perhaps, though they were rather giddy
guardians for her.«
    Somebody Becky should have. But in the meantime it was clear that honest
Briggs must not lose her chance of settlement for life; and so she and her bags
were packed, and she set off on her journey. And so two of Rawdon's
out-sentinels were in the hands of the enemy.
    Sir Pitt went and expostulated with his sister-in-law upon the subject of
the dismissal of Briggs, and other matters of delicate family interest. In vain
she pointed out to him how necessary was the protection of Lord Steyne for her
poor husband; how cruel it would be on their part to deprive Briggs of the
position offered to her. Cajolements, coaxings, smiles, tears could not satisfy
Sir Pitt, and he had something very like a quarrel with his once admired Becky.
He spoke of the honour of the family - the unsullied reputation of the Crawleys;
expressed himself in indignant tones about her receiving those young Frenchmen -
those wild young men of fashion - my Lord Steyne himself, whose carriage was
always at her door, who passed hours daily in her company, and whose constant
presence made the world talk about her. As the head of the house he implored her
to be more prudent. Society was already speaking lightly of her. Lord Steyne,
though a nobleman of the greatest station and talents, was a man whose
attentions would compromise any woman; he besought, he implored, he commanded
his sister-in-law to be watchful in her intercourse with that nobleman.
    Becky promised anything and everything Pitt wanted; but Lord Steyne came to
her house as often as ever, and Sir Pitt's anger increased. I wonder was Lady
Jane angry or pleased that her husband at last found fault with his favourite
Rebecca? Lord Steyne's visits continuing, his own ceased; and his wife was for
refusing all further intercourse with that nobleman, and declining the
invitation to the Charade-night which the Marchioness sent to her; but Sir Pitt
thought it was necessary to accept it, as His Royal Highness would be there.
    Although he went to the party in question, Sir Pitt quitted it very early;
and his wife, too, was very glad to come away. Becky hardly so much as spoke to
him or noticed her sister-in-law. Pitt Crawley declared her behaviour was
monstrously indecorous, reprobated in strong terms the habit of play-acting and
fancy dressing as highly unbecoming a British female; and after the charades
were over, took his brother Rawdon severely to task for appearing himself, and
allowing his wife to join in such improper exhibitions.
    Rawdon said she should not join in any more such amusements; but indeed, and
perhaps from hints from his elder brother and sister, he had already become a
very watchful and exemplary domestic character. He left off his clubs and
billiards. He never left home. He took Becky out to drive; he went laboriously
with her to all her parties. Whenever my Lord Steyne called, he was sure to find
the Colonel. And when Becky proposed to go out without her husband, or received
invitations for herself, he peremptorily ordered her to refuse them; and there
was that in the gentleman's manner which enforced obedience. Little Becky, to do
her justice, was charmed with Rawdon's gallantry. If he was surly, she never
was. Whether friends were present or absent, she had always a kind smile for
him, and was attentive to his pleasure and comfort. It was the early days of
their marriage over again - the same good-humour, prévenances, merriment, and
artless confidence and regard. »How much pleasanter it is,« she would say, »to
have you by my side in the carriage than that foolish old Briggs! Let us always
go on so, dear Rawdon. How nice it would be, and how happy we should always be,
if we had but the money!« He fell asleep after dinner in his chair; he did not
see the face opposite to him - haggard, weary, and terrible. It lighted up with
fresh, candid smiles when he woke. It kissed him gaily. He wondered that he had
ever had suspicions. No, he never had suspicions; all those dumb doubts and
surly misgivings which had been gathering on his mind were mere idle jealousies.
She was fond of him; she always had been. As for her shining in society, it was
no fault of hers; she was formed to shine there. Was there any woman who could
talk, or sing, or do anything like her? If she would but like the boy! Rawdon
thought. But the mother and son never could be brought together.
    And it was while Rawdon's mind was agitated with these doubts and
perplexities that the incident occurred which was mentioned in the last chapter,
and the unfortunate Colonel found himself a prisoner away from home.
 

                                  Chapter LIII

                          A Rescue and a Catastrophe.

Friend Rawdon drove on then to Mr. Moss's mansion in Cursitor Street, and was
duly inducted into that dismal place of hospitality. Morning was breaking over
the cheerful house-tops of Chancery Lane as the rattling cab woke up the echoes
there. A little, pink-eyed Jew-boy, with a head as ruddy as the rising morn, let
the party into the house, and Rawdon was welcomed to the ground-floor apartments
by Mr. Moss, his travelling companion and host, who cheerfully asked him if he
would like a glass of something warm after his drive.
    The Colonel was not so depressed as some mortals would be, who, quitting a
palace and a placens uxor, find themselves barred into a spunging-house; for, if
the truth must be told, he had been a lodger at Mr. Moss's establishment once or
twice before. We have not thought it necessary in the previous course of this
narrative to mention these trivial little domestic incidents; but the reader may
be assured that they can't unfrequently occur in the life of a man who lives on
nothing a year.
    Upon his first visit to Mr. Moss, the Colonel, then a bachelor, had been
liberated by the generosity of his aunt. On the second mishap, little Becky,
with the greatest spirit and kindness, had borrowed a sum of money from Lord
Southdown, and had coaxed her husband's creditor (who was her shawl,
velvet-gown, lace pocket-handkerchief, trinket, and gimcrack purveyor, indeed)
to take a portion of the sum claimed, and Rawdon's promissory note for the
remainder. So on both these occasions the capture and release had been conducted
with the utmost gallantry on all sides, and Moss and the Colonel were therefore
on the very best of terms.
    »You'll find your old bed, Colonel, and everything comfortable,« that
gentleman said, »as I may honestly say. You may be pretty sure it's kept' aired,
and by the best of company, too. It was slep' in the night afore last by the
Honourable Capting Famish, of the Fiftieth Dragoons, whose mar took him out,
after a fortnight, jest to punish him, she said. But, Law bless you, I promise
you he punished my champagne, and had a party 'ere every night - reg'lar tip-top
swells, down from the clubs and the West End - Capting Ragg, the Honourable
Deuceace, who lives in the Temple, and some fellows as knows a good glass of
wine, I warrant you. I've got a Doctor of Diwinity upstairs, five gents in the
coffee-room, and Mrs. Moss has a tably-dy-hoty at half-past five, and a little
cards or music afterwards, when we shall be most happy to see you.«
    »I'll ring when I want anything,« said Rawdon, and went quietly to his
bedroom. He was an old soldier, we have said, and not to be disturbed by any
little shocks of fate. A weaker man would have sent off a letter to his wife on
the instant of his capture. »But what is the use of disturbing her night's
rest?« thought Rawdon. »She won't know whether I am in my room or not. It will
be time enough to write to her when she has had her sleep out, and I have had
mine. It's only a hundred-and-seventy, and the deuce is in it if we can't raise
that.« And so, thinking about little Rawdon (whom he would not have know that he
was in such a queer place), the Colonel turned into the bed lately occupied by
Captain Famish, and fell asleep. It was ten o'clock when he woke up, and the
ruddy-headed youth brought him, with conscious pride, a fine silver
dressing-case, wherewith he might perform the operation of shaving. Indeed, Mr.
Moss's house, though somewhat dirty, was splendid throughout. There were dirty
trays, and wine-coolers en permanence on the sideboard, huge dirty gilt
cornices, with dingy yellow satin hangings to the barred windows which looked
into Cursitor Street - vast and dirty gilt picture-frames surrounding pieces
sporting and sacred, all of which works were by the greatest masters; and
fetched the greatest prices, too, in the bill transactions, in the course of
which they were sold and bought over and over again. The Colonel's breakfast was
served to him in the same dingy and gorgeous plated ware. Miss Moss, a dark-eyed
maid in curl-papers, appeared with the teapot, and, smiling, asked the Colonel
how he had slep'? and she brought him in The Morning Post, with the names of all
the great people who had figured at Lord Steyne's entertainment the night
before. It contained a brilliant account of the festivities, and of the
beautiful and accomplished Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's admirable personifications.
    After a lively chat with this lady (who sat on the edge of the breakfast
table in an easy attitude, displaying the drapery of her stocking and an
ex-white satin shoe which was down at heel), Colonel Crawley called for pens and
ink, and paper; and being asked how many sheets, chose one which was brought to
him between Miss Moss's own finger and thumb. Many a sheet had that dark-eyed
damsel brought in; many a poor fellow had scrawled and blotted hurried lines of
entreaty, and paced up and down that awful room until his messenger brought back
the reply. Poor men always use messengers instead of the post. Who has not had
their letters, with the wafers wet, and the announcement that a person is
waiting in the hall?
    Now on the score of his application, Rawdon had not many misgivings.
 
        »Dear Becky (Rawdon wrote), - I hope you slept well. Don't be frightened
        if I don't bring you in your coffy. Last night as I was coming home
        smoking, I met with an accadent. I was nabbed by Moss of Cursitor
        Street - from whose gilt and splendid parler I write this - the same
        that had me this time two years. Miss Moss brought in my tea - she is
        grown very fat, and, as usual, had her stockens down at heal.
            It's Nathan's business - a hundred-and-fifty - with costs,
        hundred-and-seventy. Please send me my desk and some cloths - I'm in
        pumps and a white tye (something like Miss M.'s stockings) - I've
        seventy in it. And as soon as you get this, Drive to Nathan's - offer
        him seventy-five down, and ask him to renew - say I'll take wine - we
        may as well have some dinner sherry; but not picturs, they're too dear.
            If he won't stand it. Take my ticker and such of your things as you
        can spare, and send them to Balls - we must, of coarse, have the sum to-
        night. It won't do to let it stand over, as to- morrow's Sunday; the
        beds here are not very clean, and there may be other things out against
        me - I'm glad it an't Rawdon's Saturday for coming home. God bless you.
                                                                 Yours in haste,
                                                                            R.C.
        P.S. - Make haste and come.«
 
This letter, sealed with a wafer, was dispatched by one of the messengers who
are always hanging about Mr. Moss's establishment; and Rawdon, having seen him
depart, went out in the courtyard, and smoked his cigar with a tolerably easy
mind - in spite of the bars overhead; for Mr. Moss's courtyard is railed in like
a cage, lest the gentlemen who are boarding with him should take a fancy to
escape from his hospitality.
    Three hours, he calculated, would be the utmost time required, before Becky
should arrive and open his prison doors; and he passed these pretty cheerfully
in smoking, in reading the paper, and in the coffee-room with an acquaintance,
Captain Walker, who happened to be there, and with whom he cut for sixpences for
some hours, with pretty equal luck on either side.
    But the day passed away and no messenger returned - no Becky. Mr. Moss's
tably-dy-hoty was served at the appointed hour of half-past five, when such of
the gentlemen lodging in the house as could afford to pay for the banquet came
and partook of it in the splendid front parlour before described, and with which
Mr. Crawley's temporary lodging communicated, when Miss M. (Miss Hem, as her
papa called her) appeared without the curl-papers of the morning, and Mrs. Hem
did the honours of a prime boiled leg of mutton and turnips, of which the
Colonel ate with a very faint appetite. Asked whether he would stand a bottle of
champagne for the company, he consented, and the ladies drank to his 'ealth, and
Mr. Moss, in the most polite manner, looked towards him. In the midst of this
repast, however, the door-bell was heard. Young Moss, of the ruddy hair, rose up
with the keys and answered the summons; and coming back, told the Colonel that
the messenger had returned with a bag, a desk, and a letter, which he gave him.
»No ceramony, Colonel, I beg,« said Mrs. Moss with a wave of her hand, and he
opened the letter rather tremulously. It was a beautiful letter, highly scented,
on a pink paper, and with a light green seal.
 
        »Mon pauvre cher petit (Mrs. Crawley wrote), - I could not sleep one
        wink for thinking of what had become of my odious old monstre; and only
        got to rest in the morning after sending for Mr. Blench (for I was in a
        fever), who gave me a composing draught, and left orders with Finette
        that I should be disturbed on no account. So that my poor old man's
        messenger, who had bien mauvaise mine, Finette says, and sentoit le
        genièvre, remained in the hall for some hours waiting my bell. You may
        fancy my state when I read your poor dear old ill-spelt letter.
            Ill as I was, I instantly called for the carriage, and as soon as I
        was dressed (though I couldn't drink a drop of chocolate - I assure you
        I couldn't without my monstre to bring it to me), I drove ventre à terre
        to Nathan's. I saw him - I wept - I cried - I fell at his odious knees.
        Nothing would mollify the horrid man. He would have all the money, he
        said, or keep my poor monstre in prison. I drove home with the intention
        of paying that triste visite chez mon oncle (when every trinket I have
        should be at your disposal, though they would not fetch a hundred
        pounds, for some, you know, are with ce cher oncle already), and found
        Milor there with the Bulgarian old sheep-faced monster, who had come to
        compliment me upon last night's performances. Paddington came in, too,
        drawling and lisping and twiddling his hair; so did Champignac, and his
        chef - everybody with foison of compliments and pretty speeches -
        plaguing poor me, who longed to be rid of them, and was thinking every
        moment of the time of mon pauvre prisonnier.
            When they were gone, I went down on my knees to Milor; told him we
        were going to pawn everything, and begged and prayed him to give me two
        hundred pounds. He pish'd and psha'd in a fury - told me not to be such
        a fool as to pawn - and said he would see whether he could lend me the
        money. At last he went away, promising that he would send it me in the
        morning; when I will bring it to my poor old monster with a kiss from
        his affectionate
                                                                          BECKY.
        I am writing in bed. Oh, I have such a headache and such a heartache!«
 
When Rawdon read over this letter, he turned so red and looked so savage that
the company at the table d'hôte easily perceived that bad news had reached him.
All his suspicions, which he had been trying to banish, returned upon him. She
could not even go out and sell her trinkets to free him. She could laugh and
talk about compliments paid to her, whilst he was in prison. Who had put him
there? Wenham had walked with him. Was there .... He could hardly bear to think
of what he suspected. Leaving the room hurriedly, he ran into his own, opened
his desk, wrote two hurried lines, which he directed to Sir Pitt or Lady
Crawley, and bade the messenger carry them at once to Gaunt Street, bidding him
to take a cab, and promising him a guinea if he was back in an hour.
    In the note he besought his dear brother and sister, for the sake of God -
for the sake of his dear child and his honour - to come to him and relieve him
from his difficulty. He was in prison: he wanted a hundred pounds to set him
free - he entreated them to come to him.
    He went back to the dining-room after dispatching his messenger, and called
for more wine. He laughed and talked with a strange boisterousness, as the
people thought. Sometimes he laughed madly at his own fears, and went on
drinking for an hour; listening all the while for the carriage which was to
bring his fate back.
    At the expiration of that time, wheels were heard whirling up to the gate.
The young janitor went out with his gate-keys. It was a lady whom he let in at
the bailiff's door.
    »Colonel Crawley,« she said, trembling very much. He, with a knowing look,
locked the outer door upon her; then unlocked and opened the inner one, and
calling out, »Colonel, you're wanted,« led her into the back parlour which he
occupied.
    Rawdon came in from the dining-parlour where all those people were
carousing, into his back room; a flare of coarse light following him into the
apartment where the lady stood, still very nervous.
    »It is I, Rawdon,« she said in a timid voice, which she strove to render
cheerful. »It is Jane.« Rawdon was quite overcome by that kind voice and
presence. He ran up to her - caught her in his arms - gasped out some
inarticulate words of thanks, and fairly sobbed on her shoulder. She did not
know the cause of his emotion.
    The bills of Mr. Moss were quickly settled, perhaps to the disappointment of
that gentleman, who had counted on having the Colonel as his guest over Sunday
at least; and Jane, with beaming smiles and happiness in her eyes, carried away
Rawdon from the bailiff's house, and they went homewards in the cab in which she
had hastened to his release. »Pitt was gone to a Parliamentary dinner,« she
said, »when Rawdon's note came, and so, dear Rawdon, I - I came myself;« and she
put her kind hand in his. Perhaps it was well for Rawdon Crawley that Pitt was
away at that dinner. Rawdon thanked his sister a hundred times, and with an
ardour of gratitude which touched and almost alarmed that soft-hearted woman.
»Oh,« said he, in his rude, artless way, »you - you don't know how I'm changed
since I've known you, and - and little Rawdy. I - I'd like to change somehow.
You see I want - I want - to be -« He did not finish the sentence, but she could
interpret it. And that night after he left her, and as she sate by her own
little boy's bed, she prayed humbly for that poor wayworn sinner.
 
Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly. It was nine o'clock at night. He ran
across the streets, and the great squares of Vanity Fair, and at length came up
breathless opposite his own house. He started back and fell against the
railings, trembling as he looked up. The drawing-room windows were blazing with
light. She had said that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for some time,
the light from the rooms on his pale face.
    He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He could hear
laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the ball-dress in which he had been
captured the night before. He went silently up the stairs, leaning against the
banisters at the stair-head. Nobody was stirring in the house besides: all the
servants had been sent away. Rawdon heard laughter within - laughter and
singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the night before; a hoarse
voice shouted, »Brava! Brava!« - it was Lord Steyne's.
    Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a dinner was laid
out - and wine and plate. Steyne was hanging over the sofa on which Becky sate.
The wretched woman was in a brilliant full toilette, her arms and all her
fingers sparkling with bracelets and rings, and the brilliants on her breast
which Steyne had given her. He had her hand in his, and was bowing over it to
kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint scream as she caught sight of
Rawdon's white face. At the next instant she tried a smile, a horrid smile, as
if to welcome her husband; and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and
with fury in his looks.
    He, too, attempted a laugh; and came forward, holding out his hand. »What,
come back! How d'ye do, Crawley?« he said, the nerves of his mouth twitching as
he tried to grin at the intruder.
    There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Becky to fling herself before
him. »I am innocent, Rawdon,« she said; »before God, I am innocent!« She clung
hold of his coat, of his hands; her own were all covered with serpents, and
rings, and baubles. »I am innocent. - Say I am innocent!« she said to Lord
Steyne.
    He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as furious with the wife as
with the husband. »You innocent! Damn you,« he screamed out. »You innocent! Why,
every trinket you have on your body is paid for by me. I have given you
thousands of pounds which this fellow has spent, and for which he has sold you.
Innocent, by -! You're as innocent as your mother, the ballet-girl, and your
husband the bully. Don't think to frighten me as you have done others. Make way,
sir, and let me pass;« and Lord Steyne seized up his hat, and, with flame in his
eyes, and looking his enemy fiercely in the face, marched upon him, never for a
moment doubting that the other would give way.
    But Rawdon Crawley springing out, seized him by the neckcloth, until Steyne,
almost strangled, writhed, and bent under his arm. »You lie, you dog!« said
Rawdon. »You lie, you coward and villain!« And he struck the Peer twice over the
face with his open hand, and flung him bleeding to the ground. It was all done
before Rebecca could interpose. She stood there trembling before him. She
admired her husband, strong, brave, and victorious.
    »Come here,« he said. She came up at once.
    »Take off those things.« She began, trembling, pulling the jewels from her
arms, and the rings from her shaking fingers, and held them all in a heap,
quivering and looking up at him. »Throw them down,« he said, and she dropped
them. He tore the diamond ornament out of her breast, and flung it at Lord
Steyne. It cut him on his bald forehead. Steyne wore the scar to his dying day.
    »Come upstairs,« Rawdon said to his wife. »Don't kill me, Rawdon,« she said.
He laughed savagely. »I want to see if that man lies about the money as he has
about me. Has he given you any?«
    »No,« said Rebecca, »that is -«
    »Give me your keys,« Rawdon answered, and they went out together.
    Rebecca gave him all the keys but one; and she was in hopes that he would
not have remarked the absence of that. It belonged to the little desk which
Amelia had given her in early days, and which she kept in a secret place. But
Rawdon flung open boxes and wardrobes, throwing the multifarious trumpery of
their contents here and there, and at last he found the desk. The woman was
forced to open it. It contained papers, love-letters many years old - all sorts
of small trinkets and woman's memoranda. And it contained a pocket-book with
bank-notes. Some of these were dated ten years back, too, and one was quite a
fresh one - a note for a thousand pounds which Lord Steyne had given her.
    »Did he give you this?« Rawdon said.
    »Yes,« Rebecca answered.
    »I'll send it to him to-day,« Rawdon said (for day had dawned again, and
many hours had passed in this search), »and I will pay Briggs, who was kind to
the boy, and some of the debts. You will let me know where I shall send the rest
to you. You might have spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this; I
have always shared with you.«
    »I am innocent,« said Becky. And he left her without another word.
 
What were her thoughts when he left her? She remained for hours after he was
gone, the sunshine pouring into the room, and Rebecca sitting alone on the bed's
edge. The drawers were all opened and their contents scattered about - dresses
and feathers, scarfs and trinkets, a heap of tumbled vanities lying in a wreck.
Her hair was falling over her shoulders; her gown was torn where Rawdon had
wrenched the brilliants out of it. She heard him go downstairs a few minutes
after he left her, and the door slamming and closing on him. She knew he would
never come back. He was gone for ever. Would he kill himself? she thought - not
until after he had met Lord Steyne. She thought of her long past life, and all
the dismal incidents of it. Ah, how dreary it seemed, how miserable, lonely, and
profitless! Should she take laudanum, and end it, too - have done with all
hopes, schemes, debts, and triumphs? The French maid found her in this position
- sitting in the midst of her miserable ruins with clasped hands and dry eyes.
The woman was her accomplice and in Steyne's pay. »Mon Dieu, Madame, what has
happened?« she asked.
    What had happened? Was she guilty or not? She said not; but who could tell
what was truth which came from those lips, or if that corrupt heart was in this
case pure? All her lies and her schemes, all her selfishness and her wiles, all
her wit and genius had come to this bankruptcy. The woman closed the curtains,
and with some entreaty and show of kindness persuaded her mistress to lie down
on the bed. Then she went below and gathered up the trinkets which had been
lying on the floor since Rebecca dropped them there at her husband's orders, and
Lord Steyne went away.
 

                                  Chapter LIV

                            Sunday After the Battle.

The mansion of Sir Pitt Crawley in Great Gaunt Street was just beginning to
dress itself for the day, as Rawdon, in his evening costume, which he had now
worn two days, passed by the scared female who was scouring the steps, and
entered into his brother's study. Lady Jane, in her morning-gown, was up and
above stairs in the nursery superintending the toilettes of her children, and
listening to the morning prayers which the little creatures performed at her
knee. Every morning she and they performed this duty privately, and before the
public ceremonial at which Sir Pitt presided, and at which all the people of the
household were expected to assemble. Rawdon sate down in the study before the
Baronet's table, set out with the orderly blue books and the letters, the
neatly-docketed bills and symmetrical pamphlets; the locked account-books,
desks, and dispatch-boxes, the Bible, The Quarterly Review and The Court Guide,
which all stood as if on parade awaiting the inspection of their chief.
    A book of family sermons, one of which Sir Pitt was in the habit of
administering to his family on Sunday mornings, lay ready on the study table,
and awaiting his judicious selection. And by the sermon-book was The Observer
newspaper, damp and neatly folded, and for Sir Pitt's own private use. His
gentleman alone took the opportunity of perusing the newspaper before he laid it
by his master's desk. Before he had brought it into the study that morning he
had read in the journal a flaming account of »Festivities at Gaunt House,« with
the names of all the distinguished personages invited by the Marquis of Steyne
to meet his Royal Highness. Having made comments upon this entertainment to the
housekeeper and her niece as they were taking early tea and hot buttered toast
in the former lady's apartment, and wondered how »the Rawding Crawleys could git
on,« the valet had damped and folded the paper once more, so that it looked
quite fresh and innocent against the arrival of the master of the house.
    Poor Rawdon took up the paper and began to try and read it until his brother
should arrive. But the print fell blank upon his eyes, and he did not know in
the least what he was reading. The Government news and appointments (which Sir
Pitt as a public man was bound to peruse, otherwise he would by no means permit
the introduction of Sunday papers into his household), the theatrical
criticisms, the fight for a hundred pounds a side between the Barking Butcher
and the Tutbury Pet, the Gaunt House Chronicle itself, which contained a most
complimentary though guarded account of the famous charades of which Mrs. Becky
had been the heroine - all these passed as in a haze before Rawdon, as he sate
waiting the arrival of the chief of the family.
    Punctually, as the shrill-toned bell of the black marble study clock began
to chime nine, Sir Pitt made his appearance, fresh, neat, smugly shaved, with a
waxy clean face, and stiff shirt collar, his scanty hair combed and oiled,
trimming his nails as he descended the stairs majestically, in a starched cravat
and a grey flannel dressing-gown - a real old English gentleman, in a word - a
model of neatness and every propriety. He started when he saw poor Rawdon in his
study in tumbled clothes, with bloodshot eyes, and his hair over his face. He
thought his brother was not sober, and had been out all night on some orgy.
»Good gracious, Rawdon,« he said, with a blank face, »what brings you here at
this time of the morning? Why ain't you at home?«
    »Home,« said Rawdon, with a wild laugh. »Don't be frightened, Pitt. I'm not
drunk. Shut the door; I want to speak to you.«
    Pitt closed the door and came up to the table, where he sate down in the
other arm-chair - that one placed for the reception of the steward, agent, or
confidential visitor who came to transact business with the Baronet - and
trimmed his nails more vehemently than ever.
    »Pitt, it's all over with me,« the Colonel said, after a pause. »I'm done.«
    »I always said it would come to this,« the Baronet cried peevishly, and
beating a tune with his clean-trimmed nails. »I warned you a thousand times. I
can't help you any more. Every shilling of my money is tied up. Even the hundred
pounds that Jane took you last night were promised to my lawyer to-morrow
morning, and the want of it will put me to great inconvenience. I don't mean to
say that I won't assist you ultimately. But as for paying your creditors in
full, I might as well hope to pay the National Debt. It is madness, sheer
madness, to think of such a thing. You must come to a compromise. It's a painful
thing for the family; but everybody does it. There was George Kitely, Lord
Ragland's son, went through the Court last week, and was what they call
whitewashed, I believe. Lord Ragland would not pay a shilling for him, and -«
    »It's not money I want,« Rawdon broke in. »I'm not come to you about myself.
Never mind what happens to me -«
    »What is the matter, then?« said Pitt, somewhat relieved.
    »It's the boy,« said Rawdon, in a husky voice. »I want you to promise me
that you will take charge of him when I'm gone. That dear good wife of yours has
always been good to him, and he's fonder of her than he is of his ... - Damn it.
Look here, Pitt: you know that I was to have had Miss Crawley's money. I wasn't't
brought up like a younger brother, but was always encouraged to be extravagant
and kept' idle. But for this I might have been quite a different man. I didn't do
my duty with the regiment so bad. You know how I was thrown over about the
money, and who got it.«
    »After the sacrifices I have made, and the manner in which I have stood by
you, I think this sort of reproach is useless,« Sir Pitt said. »Your marriage
was your own doing, not mine.«
    »That's over now,« said Rawdon - »that's over now.« And the words were
wrenched from him with a groan, which made his brother start.
    »Good God! is she dead?« Sir Pitt said, with a voice of genuine alarm and
commiseration.
    »I wish I was,« Rawdon replied. »If it wasn't't for little Rawdon, I'd have
cut my throat this morning, and that damned villain's too.«
    Sir Pitt instantly guessed the truth, and surmised that Lord Steyne was the
person whose life Rawdon wished to take. The Colonel told his senior briefly,
and in broken accents, the circumstances of the case. »It was a regular plan
between that scoundrel and her,« he said. »The bailiffs were put upon me; I was
taken as I was going out of his house; when I wrote to her for money, she said
she was ill in bed, and put me off to another day. And when I got home I found
her in diamonds, and sitting with that villain alone.« He then went on to
describe hurriedly the personal conflict with Lord Steyne. To an affair of that
nature, of course, he said, there was but one issue; and after his conference
with his brother, he was going away to make the necessary arrangements for the
meeting which must ensue. »And as it may end fatally with me,« Rawdon said with
a broken voice, »and as the boy has no mother, I must leave him to you and Jane,
Pitt - only it will be a comfort to me if you will promise me to be his friend.«
    The elder brother was much affected, and shook Rawdon's hand with a
cordiality seldom exhibited by him. Rawdon passed his hand over his shaggy
eyebrows. »Thank you, brother,« said he. »I know I can trust your word.«
    »I will, upon my honour,« the Baronet said. And thus, and almost mutely,
this bargain was struck between them.
    Then Rawdon took out of his pocket the little pocket-book which he had
discovered in Becky's desk, and from which he drew a bundle of the notes which
it contained. »Here's six hundred,« he said - »you didn't know I was so rich. I
want you to give the money to Briggs, who lent it to us - and who was kind to
the boy - and I've always felt ashamed of having taken the poor old woman's
money. And here's some more - I've only kept back a few pounds - which Becky may
as well have, to get on with.« As he spoke he took hold of the other notes to
give to his brother; but his hands shook, and he was so agitated that the
pocket-book fell from him, and out of it the thousand-pound note which had been
the last of the unlucky Becky's winnings.
    Pitt stooped and picked them up, amazed at so much wealth. »Not that,«
Rawdon said; »I hope to put a bullet into the man whom that belongs to.« He had
thought to himself, it would be a fine revenge to wrap a ball in the note, and
kill Steyne with it.
    After this colloquy the brothers once more shook hands and parted. Lady Jane
had heard of the Colonel's arrival, and was waiting for her husband in the
adjoining dining-room, with female instinct auguring evil. The door of the
dining-room happened to be left open, and the lady of course was issuing from it
as the two brothers passed out of the study. She held out her hand to Rawdon,
and said she was glad he was come to breakfast; though she could perceive, by
his haggard, unshorn face, and the dark looks of her husband, that there was
very little question of breakfast between them. Rawdon muttered some excuses
about an engagement, squeezing hard the timid little hand which his
sister-in-law reached out to him. Her imploring eyes could read nothing but
calamity in his face; but he went away without another word. Nor did Sir Pitt
vouchsafe her any explanation. The children came up to salute him, and he kissed
them in his usual frigid manner. The mother took both of them close to herself,
and held a hand of each of them as they knelt down to prayers, which Sir Pitt
read to them, and to the servants in their Sunday suits or liveries, ranged upon
chairs on the other side of the hissing tea-urn. Breakfast was so late that day,
in consequence of the delays which had occurred, that the church-bells began to
ring whilst they were sitting over their meal; and Lady Jane was too ill, she
said, to go to church, though her thoughts had been entirely astray during the
period of family devotion.
    Rawdon Crawley meanwhile hurried on from Great Gaunt Street, and knocking at
the great bronze Medusa's head which stands on the portal of Gaunt House,
brought out the purple Silenus in a red and silver waistcoat who acts as porter
of that palace. The man was scared also by the Colonel's dishevelled appearance,
and barred the way as if afraid that the other was going to force it. But
Colonel Crawley only took out a card and enjoined him particularly to send it in
to Lord Steyne, and to mark the address written on it, and say that Colonel
Crawley would be all day after one o'clock at the Regent Club in St. James's
Street - not at home. The fat red-faced man looked after him with astonishment
as he strode away; so did the people in their Sunday clothes who were out so
early, the charity boys with shining faces, the greengrocer lolling at his door,
and the publican shutting his shutters in the sunshine against service
commenced. The people joked at the cab-stand about his appearance, as he took a
carriage there, and told the driver to drive him to Knightsbridge Barracks.
    All the bells were jangling and tolling as he reached that place. He might
have seen his old acquaintance Amelia on her way from Brompton to Russell Square
had he been looking out. Troops of schools were on their march to church, the
shiny pavement and outsides of coaches in the suburbs were thronged with people
out upon their Sunday pleasure; but the Colonel was much too busy to take any
heed of these phenomena, and, arriving at Knightsbridge, speedily made his way
up to the room of his old friend and comrade Captain Macmurdo, who Crawley
found, to his satisfaction, was in barracks.
    Captain Macmurdo, a veteran officer and Waterloo man, greatly liked by his
regiment, in which want of money alone prevented him from attaining the highest
ranks, was enjoying the forenoon calmly in bed. He had been at a fast
supper-party given the night before by Captain the Honourable George Cinqbars,
at his house in Brompton Square, to several young men of the regiment, and a
number of ladies of the corps de ballet; and old Mac, who was at home with
people of all ages and ranks, and consorted with generals, dog-fanciers,
opera-dancers, bruisers, and every kind of person, in a word, was resting
himself after the night's labours, and, not being on duty, was in bed.
    His room was hung round with boxing, sporting, and dancing pictures,
presented to him by comrades as they retired from the regiment, and married and
settled into quiet life. And as he was now nearly fifty years of age,
twenty-four of which he had passed in the corps, he had a singular museum. He
was one of the best shots in England, and, for a heavy man, one of the best
riders; indeed, he and Crawley had been rivals when the latter was in the army.
To be brief, Mr. Macmurdo was lying in bed, reading in Bell's Life an account of
that very fight between the Tutbury Pet and the Barking Butcher which has been
before mentioned - a venerable bristly warrior, with a little close-shaved grey
head with a silk nightcap, a red face and nose, and a great dyed moustache.
    When Rawdon told the Captain he wanted a friend, the latter knew perfectly
well on what duty of friendship he was called to act, and indeed had conducted
scores of affairs for his acquaintances with the greatest prudence and skill.
His Royal Highness the late lamented Commander-in-Chief had had the greatest
regard for Macmurdo on this account; and he was the common refuge of gentlemen
in trouble.
    »What's the row about, Crawley, my boy?« said the old warrior. »No more
gambling business, hey, like that when we shot Captain Marker?«
    »It's about - about my wife,« Crawley answered, casting down his eyes and
turning very red.
    The other gave a whistle. »I always said she'd throw you over,« he began -
indeed there were bets in the regiment and at the clubs regarding the probable
fate of Colonel Crawley, so lightly was his wife's character esteemed by his
comrades and the world - but seeing the savage look with which Rawdon answered
the expression of this opinion, Macmurdo did not think fit to enlarge upon it
further.
    »Is there no way out of it, old boy?« the Captain continued in a grave tone.
»Is it only suspicion, you know, or - or what is it? Any letters? Can't you keep
it quiet? Best not make any noise about a thing of that sort if you can help
it.« »Think of his only finding her out now,« the Captain thought to himself,
and remembered a hundred particular conversations at the mess-table, in which
Mrs. Crawley's reputation had been torn to shreds.
    »There's no way but one out of it,« Rawdon replied - »and there's only a way
out of it for one of us, Mac - do you understand? I was put out of the way -
arrested - I found 'em alone together. I told him he was a liar and a coward,
and knocked him down and thrashed him.«
    »Serve him right,« Macmurdo said. »Who is it?«
    Rawdon answered it was Lord Steyne.
    »The deuce! a Marquis! They said he - that is, they said you -«
    »What the devil do you mean?« roared out Rawdon. »Do you mean that you ever
heard a fellow doubt about my wife, and didn't tell me, Mac?«
    »The world's very censorious, old boy,« the other replied. »What the deuce
was the good of my telling you what any tomfools talked about?«
    »It was damned unfriendly, Mac,« said Rawdon, quite overcome; and, covering
his face with his hands, he gave way to an emotion, the sight of which caused
the tough old campaigner opposite him to wince with sympathy. »Hold up, old
boy,« he said; »great man or not, we'll put a bullet in him, damn him. As for
women, they're all so.«
    »You don't know how fond I was of that one,« Rawdon said, half
inarticulately. »Damme, I followed her like a footman. I gave up everything I
had to her. I'm a beggar because I would marry her. By Jove, sir, I've pawned my
own watch in order to get her anything she fancied; and she - she's been making
a purse for herself all the time, and grudged me a hundred pounds to get me out
of quod.« He then fiercely and incoherently, and with an agitation under which
his counsellor had never before seen him labour, told Macmurdo the circumstances
of the story. His adviser caught at some stray hints in it.
    »She may be innocent, after all,« he said. »She says so. Steyne has been a
hundred times alone with her in the house before.«
    »It may be so,« Rawdon answered sadly, »but this don't look very innocent;«
and he showed the Captain the thousand-pound note which he had found in Becky's
pocket-book. »This is what he gave her, Mac; and she kept' it unknown to me. And
with this money in the house, she refused to stand by me when I was locked up.«
The Captain could not but own that the secreting of the money had a very ugly
look.
    Whilst they were engaged in their conference, Rawdon dispatched Captain
Macmurdo's servant to Curzon Street, with an order to the domestic there to give
up a bag of clothes of which the Colonel had great need. And during the man's
absence, and with great labour and a Johnson's Dictionary, which stood them in
much stead, Rawdon and his second composed a letter, which the latter was to
send to Lord Steyne. Captain Macmurdo had the honour of waiting upon the Marquis
of Steyne, on the part of Colonel Rawdon Crawley, and begged to intimate that he
was empowered by the Colonel to make any arrangements for the meeting which, he
had no doubt, it was his Lordship's intention to demand, and which the
circumstances of the morning had rendered inevitable. Captain Macmurdo begged
Lord Steyne, in the most polite manner, to appoint a friend, with whom he
(Captain M'M.) might communicate, and desired that the meeting might take place
with as little delay as possible. In a postscript the Captain stated that he had
in his possession a bank-note for a large amount, which Colonel Crawley had
reason to suppose was the property of the Marquis of Steyne. And he was anxious,
on the Colonel's behalf, to give up the note to its owner.
    By the time this note was composed, the Captain's servant returned from his
mission to Colonel Crawley's house in Curzon Street, but without the carpet-bag
and portmanteau for which he had been sent, and with a very puzzled and odd
face.
    »They won't give 'em up,« said the man; »there's a regular shinty in the
house, and everything at sixes and sevens. The landlord's come in and took
possession. The servants was a drinkin' up in the drawing-room. They said - they
said you had gone off with the plate, Colonel,« the man added after a pause.
»One of the servants is off already. And Simpson, the man as was very noisy and
drunk indeed, says nothing shall go out of the house until his wages is paid
up.«
    The account of this little revolution in Mayfair astonished and gave a
little gaiety to an otherwise very triste conversation. The two officers laughed
at Rawdon's discomfiture.
    »I'm glad the little 'un isn't at home,« Rawdon said, biting his nails. »You
remember him, Mac, don't you, in the Riding School? How he sat the kicker to be
sure! didn't he?«
    »That he did, old boy,« said the good-natured Captain.
    Little Rawdon was then sitting, one of fifty gown boys, in the chapel of
Whitefriars School; thinking, not about the sermon, but about going home next
Saturday, when his father would certainly tip him, and perhaps would take him to
the play.
    »He's a regular trump, that boy,« the father went on, still musing about his
son. »I say, Mac, if anything goes wrong - if I drop - I should like you to - to
go and see him, you know; and say that I was very fond of him, and that. And -
dash it - old chap, give him these gold sleeve-buttons; it's all I've got.« He
covered his face with his black hands, over which the tears rolled and made
furrows of white. Mr. Macmurdo had also occasion to take off his silk nightcap
and rub it across his eyes.
    »Go down and order some breakfast,« he said to his man in a loud cheerful
voice. »What'll you have, Crawley? Some devilled kidneys and a herring - let's
say. And, Clay, lay out some dressing things for the Colonel. We were always
pretty much of a size, Rawdon, my boy, and neither of us ride so light as we did
when we first entered the corps.« With which, and leaving the Colonel to dress
himself, Macmurdo turned round towards the wall, and resumed the perusal of
Bell's Life, until such time as his friend's toilette was complete, and he was
at liberty to commence his own.
    This, as he was about to meet a lord, Captain Macmurdo performed with
particular care. He waxed his mustachios into a state of brilliant polish, and
put on a tight cravat and a trim buff waistcoat; so that all the young officers
in the mess-room, whither Crawley had preceded his friend, complimented Mac on
his appearance at breakfast, and asked if he was going to be married that
Sunday?
 

                                   Chapter LV

                     In which the Same Subject Is Pursued.

Becky did not rally from the state of stupor and confusion in which the events
of the previous night had plunged her intrepid spirit, until the bells of the
Curzon Street chapels were ringing for afternoon service; and rising from her
bed she began to ply her own bell, in order to summon the French maid who had
left her some hours before.
    Mrs. Rawdon Crawley rang many times in vain; and though, on the last
occasion, she rang with such vehemence as to pull down the bell-rope,
Mademoiselle Fifine did not make her appearance, - no, not though her mistress,
in a great pet, and with the bell-rope in her hand, came out to the
landing-place with her hair over her shoulders, and screamed out repeatedly for
her attendant.
    The truth is, she had quitted the premises for many hours, and upon that
permission which is called French leave among us. After picking up the trinkets
in the drawing-room, Mademoiselle had ascended to her own apartments, packed and
corded her own boxes there, tripped out and called a cab for herself, brought
down her trunks with her own hand, and without ever so much as asking the aid of
any of the other servants, who would probably have refused it, as they hated her
cordially, and without wishing any one of them good-bye, had made her exit from
Curzon Street.
    The game, in her opinion, was over in that little domestic establishment.
Fifine went off in a cab, as we have known more exalted persons of her nation to
do under similar circumstances; but, more provident or lucky than these, she
secured not only her own property, but some of her mistress's (if indeed that
lady could be said to have any property at all), and not only carried off the
trinkets before alluded to, and some favourite dresses on which she had long
kept her eye, but four richly gilt Louis Quatorze candlesticks, six gilt Albums,
Keepsakes, and Books of Beauty, a gold enamelled snuff-box which had once
belonged to Madame du Barri, and the sweetest little inkstand and
mother-of-pearl blotting-book, which Becky used when she composed her charming
little pink notes, had vanished from the premises in Curzon Street together with
Mademoiselle Fifine, and all the silver laid on the table for the little festin
which Rawdon interrupted. The plated ware Mademoiselle left behind her was too
cumbrous, probably for which reason, no doubt, she also left the fire-irons, the
chimney-glasses, and the rosewood cottage piano.
    A lady very like her subsequently kept a milliner's shop in the Rue du
Helder at Paris, where she lived with great credit, and enjoyed the patronage of
my Lord Steyne. This person always spoke of England as of the most treacherous
country in the world, and stated to her young pupils that she had been
affreusement volé by natives of that island. It was no doubt compassion for her
misfortunes which induced the Marquis of Steyne to be so very kind to Madame de
Saint-Amaranthe. May she flourish as she deserves, - she appears no more in our
quarter of Vanity Fair.
    Hearing a buzz and a stir below, and indignant at the impudence of those
servants who would not answer her summons, Mrs. Crawley flung her morning robe
round her, and descended majestically to the drawing-room, whence the noise
proceeded.
    The cook was there with blackened face, seated on the beautiful chintz sofa
by the side of Mrs. Raggles, to whom she was administering Maraschino. The page
with the sugar-loaf buttons, who carried about Becky's pink notes, and jumped
about her little carriage with such alacrity, was now engaged putting his
fingers into a cream dish; the footman was talking to Raggles, who had a face
full of perplexity and woe; and yet, though the door was open, and Becky had
been screaming a half-dozen of times a few feet off, not one of her attendants
had obeyed her call. »Have a little drop, do'ee now, Mrs. Raggles,« the cook was
saying as Becky entered, the white cashmere dressing-gown flouncing around her.
    »Simpson! Trotter!« the mistress of the house cried in great wrath, »how
dare you stay here when you heard me call? How dare you sit down in my presence?
Where's my maid?« The page withdrew his fingers from his mouth with a momentary
terror; but the cook took off a glass of Maraschino, of which Mrs. Raggles had
had enough, staring at Becky over the little gilt glass as she drained its
contents. The liquor appeared to give the odious rebel courage.
    »Your sofy, indeed!« Mrs. Cook said. »I'm a settin' on Mrs. Raggles's sofy.
Don't you stir, Mrs. Raggles, Mum. I'm a settin' on Mr. and Mrs. Raggles's sofy,
which they bought with honest money, and very dear it cost 'em, too. And I'm
thinking' if I set here until I'm paid my wages, I shall set a precious long
time, Mrs. Raggles; and set I will, too - ha! ha!« and with this she filled
herself another glass of the liquor, and drank it with a more hideously
satirical air.
    »Trotter! Simpson! turn that drunken wretch out,« screamed Mrs. Crawley.
    »I shawn't,« said Trotter the footman: »turn out yourself. Pay our
selleries, and turn me out too. We'll go fast enough.«
    »Are you all here to insult me?« cried Becky in a fury; »when Colonel
Crawley comes home I'll -«
    At this the servants burst into a horse haw-haw, in which, however, Raggles,
who still kept a most melancholy countenance, did not join. »He ain't a coming
back,« Mr. Trotter resumed. »He sent for his things, and I wouldn't let 'em go,
although Mr. Raggles would; and I don't b'lieve he's no more a Colonel than I
am. He's hoff; and I suppose you're a goin' after him. You're no better than
swindlers, both on you. Don't be a bullyin' me. I won't stand it. Pay us our
selleries, I say. Pay us our selleries.« It was evident, from Mr. Trotter's
flushed countenance and defective intonation, that he, too, had had recourse to
vinous stimulus.
    »Mr. Raggles,« said Becky, in a passion of vexation, »you will not surely
let me be insulted by that drunken man?« »Hold your noise, Trotter; do now,«
said Simpson the page. He was affected by his mistress's deplorable situation,
and succeeded in preventing an outrageous denial of the epithet »drunken« on the
footman's part.
    »O Mam,« said Raggles, »I never thought to live to see this year day. I've
known the Crawley family ever since I was born. I lived butler with Miss Crawley
for thirty years; and I little thought one of that family was a goin' to ruing
me - yes, ruing me,« said the poor fellow, with tears in his eyes. »Har you a
goin' to pay me? You've lived in this 'ouse four year. You've 'ad my substance -
my plate and linning. You ho me a milk and butter bill of two 'undred pound; you
must 'ave noo-laid heggs for your homlets, and cream for your spanil dog.«
    »She didn't care what her own flesh and blood had,« interposed the cook.
»Many's the time he'd have starved but for me.«
    »He's a charaty boy now, Cooky,« said Mr. Trotter, with a drunken »Ha! ha!«
- and honest Raggles continued, in a lamentable tone, an enumeration of his
griefs. All he said was true. Becky and her husband had ruined him. He had bills
coming due next week, and no means to meet them. He would be sold up and turned
out of his shop and his house, because he had trusted to the Crawley family. His
tears and lamentations made Becky more peevish than ever.
    »You all seem to be against me,« she said, bitterly. »What do you want? I
can't pay you on Sunday. Come back to-morrow, and I'll pay you everything. I
thought Colonel Crawley had settled with you. He will to-morrow. I declare to
you upon my honour that he left home this morning with fifteen hundred pounds in
his pocket-book. He has left me nothing. Apply to him. Give me a bonnet and
shawl, and let me go out and find him. There was a difference between us this
morning. You all seem to know it. I promise you upon my word that you shall all
be paid. He has got a good appointment. Let me go out and find him.«
    This audacious statement caused Raggles and the other personages present to
look at one another with a wild surprise, and with it Rebecca left them. She
went upstairs and dressed herself, this time without the aid of her French maid.
She went into Rawdon's room, and there saw that a trunk and bag were packed
ready for removal, with a pencil direction that they should be given when called
for. Then she went into the Frenchwoman's garret: everything was clean, and all
the drawers emptied there. She bethought herself of the trinkets which had been
left on the ground, and felt certain that the woman had fled. »Good heavens! was
ever such ill luck as mine?« she said; »to be so near, and to lose all. Is it
all too late?« No; there was one chance more.
    She dressed herself, and went away, unmolested this time, but alone. It was
four o'clock. She went swiftly down the streets (she had no money to pay for a
carriage), and never stopped until she came to Sir Pitt Crawley's door, in Great
Gaunt Street. Where was Lady Jane Crawley? She was at church. Becky was not
sorry. Sir Pitt was in his study, and had given orders not to be disturbed - she
must see him - she slipped by the sentinel in livery at once, and was in Sir
Pitt's room before the astonished Baronet had even laid down the paper.
    He turned red, and started back from her with a look of great alarm and
horror.
    »Do not look so,« she said. »I am not guilty, Pitt, dear Pitt; you were my
friend once. Before God, I am not guilty. I seem so. Everything is against me.
And oh! at such a moment! just when all my hopes were about to be realized -
just when happiness was in store for us.«
    »Is this true, what I see in paper, then?« Sir Pitt said - a paragraph in
which had greatly surprised him.
    »It is true. Lord Steyne told me on Friday night, the night of that fatal
ball. He has been promised an appointment any time these six months. Mr. Martyr,
the Colonial Secretary, told him yesterday that it was made out. That unlucky
arrest ensued; that horrible meeting. I was only guilty of too much devotedness
to Rawdon's service. I have received Lord Steyne alone a hundred times before. I
confess I had money of which Rawdon knew nothing. Don't you know how careless he
is of it, and could I dare to confide it to him?« And so she went on with a
perfectly connected story, which she poured into the ears of her perplexed
kinsman.
    It was to the following effect: - Becky owned, and with perfect frankness,
but deep contrition, that having remarked Lord Steyne's partiality for her (at
the mention of which Pitt blushed), and being secure of her own virtue, she had
determined to turn the great peer's attachment to the advantage of herself and
her family. »I looked for a peerage for you, Pitt,« she said (the brother-in-law
again turned red). »We have talked about it. Your genius and Lord Steyne's
interest made it more than probable, had not this dreadful calamity come to put
an end to all our hopes. But, first, I own that it was my object to rescue my
dear husband, - him whom I love in spite of all his ill-usage and suspicions of
me, - to remove him from the poverty and ruin which was impending over us. I saw
Lord Steyne's partiality for me,« she said, casting down her eyes. »I own that I
did everything in my power to make myself pleasing to him, and as far as an
honest woman may, to secure his - his esteem. It was only on Friday morning that
the news arrived of the death of the Governor of Coventry Island, and my Lord
instantly secured the appointment for my dear husband. It was intended as a
surprise for him - he was to see it in the papers to-day. Even after that horrid
arrest took place (the expenses of which Lord Steyne generously said he would
settle, so that I was in a manner prevented from coming to my husband's
assistance), my Lord was laughing with me, and saying that my dearest Rawdon
would be consoled when he read of his appointment in the paper, in that shocking
spun - bailiff's house. And then - then he came home. His suspicions were
excited - the dreadful scene took place between my Lord and my cruel, cruel
Rawdon - and, O my God, what will happen next? Pitt, dear Pitt! pity me, and
reconcile us!« And as she spoke she flung herself down on her knees, and
bursting into tears, seized hold of Pitt's hand, which she kissed passionately.
    It was in this very attitude that Lady Jane, who, returning from church, ran
to her husband's room directly she heard Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was closeted there,
found the Baronet and his sister-in-law.
    »I am surprised that woman has the audacity to enter this house,« Lady Jane
said, trembling in every limb, and turning quite pale. (Her Ladyship had sent
out her maid directly after breakfast, who had communicated with Raggles and
Rawdon Crawley's household, who had told her all, and a great deal more than
they knew, of that story, and many others besides.) »How dare Mrs. Crawley to
enter the house of - of an honest family?«
    Sir Pitt started back, amazed at his wife's display of vigour. Becky still
kept her kneeling posture, and clung to Sir Pitt's hand.
    »Tell her that she does not know all. Tell her that I am innocent, dear
Pitt,« she whimpered out.
    »Upon my word, my love, I think you do Mrs. Crawley injustice,« Sir Pitt
said; at which speech Rebecca was vastly relieved. »Indeed I believe her to be
-« »To be what?« cried out Lady Jane, her clear voice thrilling, and her heart
beating violently as she spoke. »To be a wicked woman - a heartless mother, a
false wife! She never loved her dear little boy, who used to fly here and tell
me of her cruelty to him. She never came into a family but she strove to bring
misery with her, and to weaken the most sacred affections with her wicked
flattery and falsehoods. She has deceived her husband, as she has deceived
everybody; her soul is black with vanity, worldliness, and all sorts of crime. I
tremble when I touch her. I keep my children out of her sight. I -«
    »Lady Jane!« cried Sir Pitt, starting up, »this is really language -«
    »I have been a true and faithful wife to Sir Pitt,« Lady Jane continued
intrepidly; »I have kept my marriage vow as I made it to God, and have been
obedient and gentle as a wife should. But righteous obedience has its limits,
and I declare that I will not bear that - that woman again under my roof: if she
enters it, I and my children will leave it. She is not worthy to sit down with
Christian people. You - you must choose, sir, between her and me;« and with this
my Lady swept out of the room, fluttering with her own audacity, and leaving
Rebecca and Sir Pitt not a little astonished at it.
    As for Becky, she was not hurt; nay, she was pleased. »It was the diamond
clasp you gave me,« she said to Sir Pitt, reaching him out her hand; before she
left him (for which event you may be sure my Lady Jane was looking out from her
dressing-room window in the upper story) the Baronet had promised to go and seek
out his brother, and endeavour to bring about a reconciliation.
 
Rawdon found some of the young fellows of the regiment seated in the mess-room
at breakfast, and was induced without much difficulty to partake of that meal,
and of the devilled legs of fowls and soda-water with which these young
gentlemen fortified themselves. Then they had a conversation befitting the day
and their time of life - about the next pigeon-match at Battersea, with relative
bets upon Ross and Osbaldiston; about Mademoiselle Ariane of the French Opera,
and who had left her, and how she was consoled by Panther Carr; and about the
fight between the Butcher and the Pet, and the probabilities that it was a
cross. Young Tandyman, a hero of seventeen, laboriously endeavouring to get up a
pair of mustachios, had seen the fight, and spoke in the most scientific manner
about the battle, and the condition of the men. It was he who had driven the
Butcher on to the ground in his drag, and passed the whole of the previous night
with him. Had there not been foul play he must have won it. All the old files of
the ring were in it; and Tandyman wouldn't pay - no, dammy, he wouldn't pay. -
It was but a year since the young Cornet, now so knowing a hand in Cribb's
parlour, had a still lingering liking for toffy, and used to be birched at Eton.
    So they went on talking about dancers, fights, drinking, demireps, until
Macmurdo came down and joined the boys and the conversation. He did not appear
to think that any especial reverence was due to their boyhood; the old fellow
cut in with stories, to the full as choice as any the youngest rake present had
to tell; nor did his own grey hairs nor their smooth faces detain him. Old Mac
was famous for his good stories. He was not exactly a lady's man; that is, men
asked him to dine rather at the houses of their mistresses than of their
mothers. There can scarcely be a life lower, perhaps, than his; but he was quite
contented with it, such as it was, and led it in perfect good nature,
simplicity, and modesty of demeanour.
    By the time Mac had finished a copious breakfast, most of the others had
concluded their meal. Young Lord Varinas was smoking an immense meerschaum pipe,
while Captain Hugues was employed with a cigar; that violent little devil
Tandyman, with his little bull-terrier between his legs, was tossing for
shillings with all his might (that fellow was always at some game or other),
against Captain Deuceace; and Mac and Rawdon walked off to the Club, neither, of
course, having given any hint of the business which was occupying their minds.
Both, on the other hand, had joined pretty gaily in the conversation; for why
should they interrupt it? Feasting, drinking, ribaldry, laughter, go on
alongside of all sorts of other occupations in Vanity Fair: the crowds were
pouring out of church as Rawdon and his friend passed down St. James's Street
and entered into their Club.
    The old bucks and habitués, who ordinarily stand gaping and grinning out of
the great front window of the Club, had not arrived at their posts as yet; the
newspaper-room was almost empty. One man was present whom Rawdon did not know;
another to whom he owed a little score for whist, and whom, in consequence, he
did not care to meet; a third was reading The Royalist (a periodical famous for
its scandal and its attachment to Church and King) Sunday paper at the table,
and looking up at Crawley with some interest, said, »Crawley, I congratulate
you.«
    »What do you mean?« said the Colonel.
    »It's in The Observer and The Royalist too,« said Mr. Smith.
    »What?« Rawdon cried, turning very red. He thought that the affair with Lord
Steyne was already in the public prints. Smith looked up wondering and smiling
at the agitation which the Colonel exhibited as he took up the paper, and
trembling, began to read.
    Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown (the gentleman with whom Rawdon had the outstanding
whist account) had been talking about the Colonel just before he came in.
    »It is come just in the nick of time,« said Smith. »I suppose Crawley had
not a shilling in the world.«
    »It's a wind that blows everybody good,« Mr. Brown said. »He can't go away
without paying me a pony he owes me.«
    »What's the salary?« asked Smith.
    »Two or three thousand,« answered the other. »But the climate's so infernal,
they don't enjoy it long. Liverseege died after eighteen months of it; and the
man before went off in six weeks, I hear.«
    »Some people say his brother is a very clever man. I always found him a d--
bore,« Smith ejaculated. »He must have good interest, though. He must have got
the Colonel the place.«
    »He!« said Brown, with a sneer - »Pooh. It was Lord Steyne got it.«
    »How do you mean?«
    »A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband,« answered the other
enigmatically, and went to read his papers.
    Rawdon, for his part, read in The Royalist the following astonishing
paragraph:
 
        »Governorship of Coventry Island. - H.M.S. Yellow-jack, Commander
        Jaunders, has brought letters and papers from Coventry Island. H.E. Sir
        Thomas Liverseege had fallen a victim to the prevailing fever at
        Swampton. His loss is deeply felt in the flourishing colony. We hear
        that the Governorship has been offered to Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B.,
        a distinguished Waterloo officer. We need not only men of acknowledged
        bravery, but men of administrative talents to superintend the affairs of
        our colonies; and we have no doubt that the gentleman selected by the
        Colonial Office to fill the lamented vacancy which has occurred at
        Coventry Island is admirably calculated for the post which he is about
        to occupy.«
 
»Coventry Island! where was it? who had appointed him to the government? You
must take me out as your secretary, old boy,« Captain Macmurdo said, laughing;
and as Crawley and his friend sat wondering and perplexed over the announcement,
the Club waiter brought in to the Colonel a card, on which the name of Mr.
Wenham was engraved, who begged to see Colonel Crawley.
    The Colonel and his aide-de-camp went out to meet the gentleman, rightly
conjecturing that he was an emissary of Lord Steyne. »How d'ye do, Crawley? I am
glad to see you,« said Mr. Wenham, with a bland smile, and grasping Crawley's
hand with great cordiality.
    »You come, I suppose, from -«
    »Exactly,« said Mr. Wenham.
    »Then this is my friend Captain Macmurdo, of the Life Guards Green.«
    »Delighted to know Captain Macmurdo, I'm sure,« Mr. Wenham said, and
tendered another smile and shake of the hand to the second, as he had done to
the principal. Mac put out one finger, armed with a buckskin glove, and made a
very frigid bow to Mr. Wenham over his tight cravat. He was, perhaps,
discontented at being put in communication with a pékin, and thought that Lord
Steyne should have sent him a Colonel at the very least.
    »As Macmurdo acts for me, and knows what I mean,« Crawley said, »I had
better retire and leave you together.«
    »Of course,« said Macmurdo.
    »By no means, my dear Colonel,« Mr. Wenham said; »the interview which I had
the honour of requesting was with you personally, though the company of Captain
Macmurdo cannot fail to be also most pleasing. In fact, Captain, I hope that our
conversation will lead to none but the most agreeable results, very different
from those which my friend Colonel Crawley appears to anticipate.«
    »Humph!« said Captain Macmurdo. - Be hanged to these civilians, he thought
to himself, they are always for arranging and speechifying. Mr. Wenham took a
chair which was not offered to him - took a paper from his pocket, and resumed:
-
    »You have seen this gratifying announcement in the papers this morning,
Colonel? Government has secured a most valuable servant, and you, if you accept
office, as I presume you will, an excellent appointment. Three thousand a year,
delightful climate, excellent government-house, all your own way in the colony,
and a certain promotion. I congratulate you with all my heart. I presume you
know, gentlemen, to whom my friend is indebted for this piece of patronage?«
    »Hanged if I know,« the Captain said. His principal turned very red.
    »To one of the most generous and kindest men in the world, as he is one of
the greatest - to my excellent friend, the Marquis of Steyne.«
    »I'll see him d-- before I take his place,« growled out Rawdon.
    »You are irritated against my noble friend,« Mr. Wenham calmly resumed; »and
now, in the name of common sense and justice, tell me why?«
    »Why?« cried Rawdon in surprise.
    »Why? Dammy!« said the Captain, ringing his stick on the ground.
    »Dammy, indeed,« said Mr. Wenham, with the most agreeable smile; »still,
look at the matter as a man of the world - as an honest man, and see if you have
not been in the wrong. You come home a journey, and find - what? - my Lord
Steyne supping at your house in Curzon Street with Mrs. Crawley. Is the
circumstance strange or novel? Has he not been a hundred times before in the
same position? Upon my honour and word as a gentleman« (Mr. Wenham here put his
hand on his waistcoat with a parliamentary air) - »I declare I think that your
suspicions are monstrous and utterly unfounded, and that they injure an
honourable gentleman who has proved his goodwill towards you by a thousand
benefactions - and a most spotless and innocent lady.«
    »You don't mean to say that - that Crawley's mistaken?« said Mr. Macmurdo.
    »I believe that Mrs. Crawley is as innocent as my wife, Mrs. Wenham,« Mr.
Wenham said, with great energy. »I believe that, misled by an infernal jealousy,
my friend here strikes a blow against not only an infirm and old man of high
station, his constant friend and benefactor, but against his wife, his own
dearest honour, his son's future reputation, and his own prospects in life.
    I will tell you what happened,« Mr. Wenham continued with great solemnity.
»I was sent for morning by my Lord Steyne, and found him in a pitiable state,
as, I need hardly inform Colonel Crawley, any man of age infirmity would be
after a personal conflict with a man of your strength. I say to your face, it
was a cruel advantage you took of that strength, Colonel Crawley. It was not
only the body of my noble and excellent friend which was wounded, - his heart,
sir, was bleeding. A man whom he had loaded with benefits and regarded with
affection, had subjected him to the foulest indignity. What was this very
appointment, which appears in the journals of to-day, but a proof of his
kindness to you? When I saw his Lordship this morning I found him in a state
pitiable indeed to see; and as anxious as you are to revenge the outrage
committed upon him, by blood. You know he has given his proofs, I presume,
Colonel Crawley.«
    »He has plenty of pluck,« said Colonel. »Nobody ever said he hadn't.«
    »His first order to me was to write a letter of challenge, and to carry it
to Colonel Crawley. One or other of us, he said, must not survive the outrage of
last night.«
    Crawley nodded. »You're coming to the point, Wenham,« he said.
    »I tried my utmost to calm Lord Steyne. Good God! sir, I said, how regret
that Mrs. Wenham and myself had not accepted Mrs. Crawley's invitation to sup
with her!«
    »She asked you to sup with her?« Captain Macmurdo said.
    »After the Opera. Here's the note of invitation - stop - no, this is another
paper - I thought I had it, but it's of no consequence, and I pledge you my word
to the fact. If we had come - and it was only one of Mrs. Wenham's headaches
which prevented us; she suffers under them a good deal, especially in the
spring, - if we had come, and you had returned home, there would have been no
quarrel, no insult, no suspicion; and so it is positively because my poor wife
has a headache that you are to bring death down upon two men of honour, and
plunge two of the most excellent and ancient families in the kingdom into
disgrace and sorrow.«
    Mr. Macmurdo looked at his principal with air of a man profoundly puzzled;
and Rawdon felt with a kind of rage that his prey was escaping him. He did not
believe a word of the story, and yet, how discredit or disprove it?
    Mr. Wenham continued with the same fluent oratory, which in his place in
Parliament he had so often practised - »I sate for an hour or more by Lord
Steyne's bedside, beseeching, imploring Lord Steyne to forego his intention of
demanding a meeting. I pointed out to him that the circumstances were after all
suspicious - they were suspicious. I acknowledge it, - any man in your position
might have been taken in. I said that a man furious with jealously is to all
intents and purposes a madman, and should be as such regarded; that a duel
between you must lead to the disgrace of all parties concerned; that a man of
his Lordship's exalted station had no right in these days, when the most
atrocious revolutionary principles and the most dangerous levelling doctrines
are preached among the vulgar, to create a public scandal; and that, however
innocent, the common people would insist that he was guilty. In fine, I implored
him not to send the challenge.«
    »I don't believe one word of the whole story,« said Rawdon, grinding his
teeth. »I believe it a d-- lie, and that you're in it, Mr. Wenham. If the
challenge don't come from him, by Jove, it shall come from me.«
    Mr. Wenham turned deadly pale at this savage interruption of the Colonel,
and looked towards the door.
    But he found a champion in Captain Macmurdo. That gentleman rose up with an
oath, and rebuked Rawdon for his language. »You put the affair into my hands,
and you shall act as I think fit, by Jove, and not as you do. You have not right
to insult Mr. Wenham with this sort of language; and dammy, Mr. Wenham, you
deserve an apology. And as for a challenge to Lord Steyne, you may get somebody
else to carry it, I won't. If my Lord, after being thrashed, chooses to sit
still, dammy let him. And as for the affair with - with Mrs. Crawley, my belief
is, there's nothing proved at all; that your wife's innocent, as innocent as Mr.
Wenham says she is; and, any rate, that you would be a d-- fool not to take the
place and hold your tongue.«
    »Captain Macmurdo, you speak like a man of sense,« Mr. Wenham cried out,
immensely relieved; »I forget any words that Colonel Crawley has used in the
irritation of the moment.«
    »I thought you would,« Rawdon said, with a sneer.
    »Shut your mouth, you old stoopid,« the Captain said good-naturedly. »Mr.
Wenham ain't a fighting man; and quite right, too.«
    »This matter, in my belief,« the Steyne emissary cried, »ought to be buried
in the most profound oblivion. A word concerning it should never pass these
doors. I speak in the interest of my friend, as well as of Colonel Crawley, who
persists in considering me his enemy.«
    »I suppose Lord Steyne won't talk about it very much,« said Captain
Macmurdo; »and I don't see why our side should. The affair ain't a very pretty
one, any way you take it; and the less said about it the better. It's you are
thrashed, and not us; and if you are satisfied, why, I think, we should be.«
    Mr. Wenham took his hat upon this, and Captain Macmurdo following him to the
door, shut it upon himself and Lord Steyne's agent, leaving Rawdon chafing
within. When the two were on the other side, Macmurdo looked hard at the other
ambassador, and with an expression of anything but respect on his round jolly
face.
    »You don't stick at a trifle, Mr. Wenham,« he said.
    »You flatter me, Captain Macmurdo,« answered the other, with a smile. »Upon
my honour and conscience now, Mrs. Crawley did ask us to sup after the Opera.«
    »Of course; and Mrs. Wenham had one of her headaches. I say, I've got a
thousand-pound note here, which I will give you if you will give me a receipt,
please; and I will put the note up in an envelope for Lord Steyne. My man shan't
fight him. But we had rather not take his money.«
    »It was all a mistake, - all a mistake, my dear sir,« the other said, with
the utmost innocence of manner; and was bowed down the Club steps by Captain
Macmurdo, just as Sir Pitt Crawley ascended them. There was a slight
acquaintance between these two gentlemen; and the Captain, going back with the
Baronet to the room the latter's brother was, told Sir Pitt, in confidence, that
he had made the affair all right between Lord Steyne and the Colonel.
    Sir Pitt was well pleased, of course, at this intelligence; and
congratulated his brother warmly upon the peaceful issue of the affair, making
appropriate moral remarks upon the evils of duelling, and the unsatisfactory
nature of that sort of settlement of disputes.
    And after this preface, he tried with all his eloquence to effect a
reconciliation between Rawdon and his wife. He recapitulated the statements
which Becky had made, pointed out the probabilities of their truth, and asserted
his own belief in her innocence.
    But Rawdon would not hear of it. »She has kept' money concealed from me these
ten years,« he said. »She swore, last night only, she had none from Steyne. She
knew it was all up, directly I found it. If she's not guilty, Pitt, she's as bad
as guilty; and I'll never see her again, - never.« His head sank down on his
chest as he spoke the words, and he looked quite broken and sad.
    »Poor old boy,« Macmurdo said, shaking his head.
    Rawdon Crawley resisted for some time the idea of taking the place which had
been procured for him by so odious a patron; and was also for removing the boy
from the school where Lord Steyne's interest had placed him. He was induced,
however, to acquiesce in these benefits by the entreaties of his brother and
Macmurdo; but mainly by the latter pointing out to him what a fury Steyne would
be in, to think that his enemy's fortune was made through his means.
    When the Marquis of Steyne came abroad after his accident, the Colonial
Secretary bowed up to him, and congratulated himself and the Service upon having
made so excellent an appointment. These congratulations were received with a
degree of gratitude which may be imagined on the part of Lord Steyne.
    The secret of the reconnoitre between him and Colonel Crawley was buried in
the profoundest oblivion, as Wenham said - that is, by the seconds and the
principals. But before that evening was over it was talked of at fifty
dinner-tables in Vanity Fair. Little Cackleby himself went to seven evening
parties, and told the story with comments and emendations at each place. How
Mrs. Washington White revelled in it! The Bishopess of Ealing was shocked beyond
expression; the Bishop went and wrote his name down in the visiting-book at
Gaunt House that very day. Little Southdown was sorry; so you may be sure was
his sister Lady Jane, very sorry. Lady Southdown wrote it off to her other
daughter at the Cape of Good Hope. It was town-talk for at least three days, and
was only kept out of the newspapers by the exertions of Mr. Wagg, acting upon a
hint from Mr. Wenham.
    The bailiffs and brokers seized upon poor Raggles in Curzon Street; and the
late fair tenant of that poor little mansion was in the meanwhile - where? Who
cared? Who asked after a day or two? Was she guilty or not? We all know how
charitable the world is, and how the verdict of Vanity Fair goes when there is a
doubt. Some people said she had gone to Naples in pursuit of Lord Steyne; whilst
others averred that his Lordship quitted that city, and fled to Palermo on
hearing of Becky's arrival; some said she was living in Bierstadt, and had
become a dame d'honneur to the Queen of Bulgaria; some that she was at Boulogne;
and others, at a boarding-house at Cheltenham.
    Rawdon made her a tolerable annuity; and we may be sure that she was a woman
who could make little money go a great way, as the saying is. He would have paid
his debts on leaving England, could he have got any insurance office to take his
life; but the climate of Coventry Island was so bad that he could borrow no
money on the strength of his salary. He remitted, however, to his brother
punctually, and wrote to his little boy regularly every mail. He kept Macmurdo
in cigars; and sent over quantities of shells, cayenne pepper, hot pickles,
guava jelly, and colonial produce to Lady Jane. He sent his brother home The
Swamp Town Gazette, in which the new Governor was praised with immense
enthusiasm; whereas The Swamp Town Sentinel, whose wife was not asked to
Government House, declared that His Excellency was a tyrant, compared to whom
Nero was an enlightened philanthropist. Little Rawdon used to like to get the
papers and read about His Excellency.
    His mother never made any movement to see the child. He went home to his
aunt for Sundays and holidays; he soon knew every bird's nest about Queen's
Crawley, and rode with Sir Huddleston's hounds, which he admired so on his first
well-remembered visit to Hampshire.
 

                                  Chapter LVI

                          Georgy Is Made a Gentleman.

Georgy Osborne was now fairly established in his grandfather's mansion in
Russell Square - occupant of his father's room in the house, and heir-apparent
of all the splendours there. The good looks, gallant bearing, and gentleman-like
appearance of the boy won the grandsire's heart for him. Mr. Osborne was as
proud of him as ever he had been of the elder George.
    The child had many more luxuries and indulgences than had been awarded to
his father. Osborne's commerce had prospered greatly of late years. His wealth
and importance in the City had very much increased. He had been glad enough in
former days to put the elder George to a good private school; and a commission
in the army for his son had been a source of no small pride to him. For little
George and his future prospects the old man looked much higher. He would make a
gentleman of the little chap, was Mr. Osborne's constant saying regarding little
Georgy. He saw him in his mind's eye, a collegian, a Parliament man - a Baronet,
perhaps. The old man thought he would die contended if he could see his grandson
in a fair way to such honours. He would have none but a tip-top college man to
educate him - none of your quacks and pretenders - no, no. A few years before,
he used to be savage and inveigh against all parsons, scholars, and the like, -
declaring that they were a pack of humbugs, and quacks, that weren't fit to get
their living but by grinding Latin and Greek, and a set of supercilious dogs,
that pretended to look down upon British merchants and gentlemen, who could buy
up half a hundred of 'em. He would mourn now, in a very solemn manner, that his
own education had been neglected, and repeatedly point out, in pompous orations
to Georgy, the necessity and excellence of classical acquirements.
    When they met at dinner the grandsire used to ask the lad he had been
reading during the day, and was greatly interested to understand little George
when he spoke regarding them. He made a hundred blunders, and showed his
ignorance many a time. It did not increase the respect which the child had for
his senior. A quick brain and a better education elsewhere showed the boy very
soon that his grandsire was a dullard, and he began accordingly to command him
and to look down upon him; for his previous education, humble and contracted as
it had been, had made a much better gentleman of Georgy than any plants of his
grandfather could make him. He had been brought up by a kind, weak, and tender
woman, who had no pride about anything but about him, and whose heart was so
pure and whose bearing was so meek and humble, that she could not but needs be a
true lady. She busied herself in gentle offices and quiet duties; if she never
said brilliant things, she never spoke or thought unkind ones; guileless and
artless, loving and pure, indeed how could our poor little Amelia be other than
a real gentlewoman!
    Young Georgy lorded over this soft and yielding nature; and the contrast of
its simplicity and delicacy with the coarse pomposity of the dull old man with
whom he next came in contact, made him lord over the latter too. If he had been
a Prince Royal he could not have been better brought up to think well of
himself.
    Whilst his mother was yearning after him at home, and I do believe every
hour of the day, and during most hours of the sad lonely nights, thinking of
him, this young gentleman had a number of pleasures and consolations
administered to him, which made him for his part bear the separation from Amelia
very easily. Little boys who cry when they are going to school, cry because they
are going to a very uncomfortable place. It is only a very few who weep from
sheer affection. When you think that the eyes of your childhood dried at the
sight of a piece of gingerbread, and that a plum- was a compensation for the
agony of parting with your mamma and sisters, O my friend and brother, you need
not to be too confident of your own feelings.
    Well, then, Master George Osborne had every comfort and luxury that a
wealthy and lavish old grandfather thought fit to provide. The coachman was
instructed to purchase for him the handsomest pony which could be bought for
money; and on this George was taught to ride, first at a riding-school, whence,
after having performed satisfactorily without stirrups, and over the
leaping-bar, he was conducted through the New Road to Regent's Park, and then to
Hyde Park, where he rode in state with Martin the coachman behind him. Old
Osborne, who took matters more easily in the City now, where he left his affairs
to his junior partners, would often ride out with Miss O. in the same
fashionable direction. As a little George came cantering up with his dandified
air, and his heels down, his grandfather would nudge the lad's aunt, and say,
»Look, Miss O.« And he would laugh, and his face would grow red with pleasure,
as he nodded out of the window to the boy, as the groom saluted the carriage,
and the footman saluted Master George. Here, too, his aunt, Mrs. Frederick
Bullock (whose chariot might daily be seen in the Ring, with bullocks or
emblazoned on the panels and harness, and three pasty-faced little Bullocks,
covered with cockades and feathers, staring from the windows), - Mrs. Frederick
Bullock, I say, flung glances of the bitterest hatred at a little upstart as he
rode by with his hand on his side and his hat on one ear, as proud as a lord.
    Though he was scarcely eleven years of age, Master George wore straps, and
the most beautiful little boots like a man. He had gilt spurs, and a gold-headed
whip, and a fine pin in his handkerchief, and the neatest little kid gloves
which Lamb's, Conduit Street, could furnish. His mother had given him a couple
of neckcloths, and carefully hemmed and made some little shirts for him; but
when her Samuel came to see the widow, they were replaced by much finer linen.
    He had little jewelled buttons in the lawn shirt-fronts. Her humble presents
had been put aside - I believe Miss Osborne had given them to the coachman's
boy. Amelia tried to think she was pleased at the change. Indeed, she was happy
and charmed to see the boy looking so beautiful.
    She had had a little black profile of him done for a shilling, and this was
hung up by the side of another portrait over her bed. One day the boy came on
his accustomed visit, galloping down the little street at Brompton, and
bringing, as usual, all the inhabitants to the window to admire his splendour;
and with great eagerness, and a look of triumph in his face, he pulled a case
out his greatcoat - (it was a natty white greatcoat, with a cape and a velvet
collar) - pulled out a red morocco case, which he gave her.
    »I bought it with my own money, mamma,« he said. »I thought you'd like it.«
    Amelia opened the case, and giving a little cry of delighted affection,
seized a boy and embraced him a hundred times. It was a miniature of himself,
very prettily done (though not half handsome enough, we may be sure, the widow
thought). His grandfather had wished to have a picture of him by an artist whose
works, exhibited in a shop-window in Southampton Row, had caught the old
gentleman's eyes; and George, who had plenty of money, bethought him of asking
the painter how much a copy of the little portrait would cost, saying that he
would pay for it out of his own money, and that he wanted to give it to his
mother. The pleased painter executed it for a small price; and old Osborne
himself, when he heard of the incident, growled out his satisfaction, and gave
the boy twice as many sovereigns as he paid for the miniature.
    But what was the grandfather's pleasure compared to Amelia's ecstasy? That
proof of the boy's affection charmed her so, that she thought no child in the
world was like hers for goodness. For long weeks after, the thought of his love
made her happy. She slept better with the picture under her pillow; and how
many, many times did she kiss it, and weep and pray over it! A small kindness
from those she loved made that timid heart grateful. Since her parting with
George she had had no such joy and consolation.
    At his new home Master George ruled like a lord. At dinner he invited the
ladies to drink wine with the utmost coolness, and took off his champagne in a
way which charmed his old grandfather. »Look at him,« the old man would say,
nudging his neighbour, with a delighted purple face, »did you ever see such a
chap? Lord, lord! He'll be ordering a dressing-case next, and razors to shave
with; I'm blessed if he won't.«
    The antics of the lad did not, however, delight Mr. Osborne's friends so
much as they pleased the old gentleman. It gave Mr. Justice Coffin no pleasure
to hear Georgy cut into the conversation and spoil his stories. Colonel Fogey
was not interested in seeing the little boy half tipsy. Mr. Serjeant Toffy's
lady felt no particular gratitude, when, with a twist of his elbow, he tilted a
glass of port-wine over her yellow satin, and laughed at the disaster; nor was
she better pleased, although old Osborne was highly delighted, when Georgy
whopped her third boy (a young gentleman a year older than Georgy, and by chance
home for the holidays from Dr. Tickleus's at Ealing School) in Russell Square.
George's grandfather gave the boy a couple of sovereigns for that feat, and
promised to reward him further for every boy above his own size and age whom he
whopped in a similar manner. It is difficult to say what good the old man saw in
these combats; he had a vague notion that quarrelling made boys hardy, and that
tyranny was a useful accomplishment for them to learn. English youth have been
so educated time out of mind, and we have hundreds of thousands of thousands of
apologists and admirers of injustice, misery, and brutality, as perpetrated
among children. Flushed with praise and victory over Master Toffy, George wished
naturally to pursue his conquests further; and one day, as he was strutting
about in prodigiously dandified new clothes, near St. Pancras, and a young
baker's boy made sarcastic comments upon his appearance, the youthful patrician
pulled off his dandy jacket with great spirit, and giving it in charge to the
friend who accompanied him (Master Todd, of Great Coram Street, Russell Square,
son of the junior partner of the house of Osborne &amp; Co.), George tried to
whop the little baker. But the chances of war were unfavourable this time, and
the little baker whopped Georgy; who came home with a rueful black eye, and all
his fine shirt-frill dabbled with the claret drawn from his own little nose. He
told his grandfather that he had been in combat with a giant; and frightened his
poor mother at Brompton with long, and by no means authentic, accounts of the
battle.
    This young Todd, of Coram Street, Russell Square, was Master George's great
friend and admirer. They both had a taste for painting theatrical characters;
for hardbake and raspberry tarts; for sliding and skating in the Regent's Park
and the Serpentine, when the weather permitted; for going to the play, whither
they were often conducted by Mr. Osborne's orders, by Rowson, Master George's
appointed body-servant, with whom they sate in great comfort in the pit.
    In the company of this gentleman they visited all the principal theatres of
the metropolis - knew the names of all the actors from Drury Lane to Sadler's
Wells; and performed, indeed, many of the plays to the Todd family and their
youthful friends, with West's famous characters, on their pasteboard theatre.
Rowson, the footman, who was of a generous disposition, would not unfrequently,
when in cash, treat his young master to oysters after the play, and to a glass
of rum-shrub for a nightcap. We may be pretty certain that Mr. Rowson profited
in his turn by his young master's liberality and gratitude for the pleasures to
which the footman inducted him.
    A famous tailor from the West End of the town - Mr. Osborne would have none
of your City or Holborn bunglers, he said, for the boy (though a City tailor was
good enough for him) - was summoned to ornament little George's person, and was
told to spare no expense in so doing. So, Mr. Woolsey, of Conduit Street, gave a
loose to his imagination, and sent the child home fancy trousers, fancy
waistcoats, and fancy jackets enough to furnish a school of little dandies.
Georgy had little white waistcoats for evening parties, and little cut velvet
waistcoats for dinners, and a dear little darling shawl dressing-gown, for all
the world like a little man. He dressed for dinner every day, »like a regular
West End swell,« as his grandfather remarked. One of the domestics was affected
to his special service, attended him at his toilette, answered his bell, and
brought him his letters always on a silver tray.
    Georgy, after breakfast would sit in the arm-chair in the dining-room, and
read The Morning Post, just like a grown-up man. »How he du dam and swear,« the
servants would cry, delighted at his precocity. Those who remembered the Captain
his father, declared Master George was his Pa every inch of him. He made the
house lively by his activity, his imperiousness, his scolding, and his
good-nature.
    George's education was confided to a neighbouring scholar and private
pedagogue who »prepared young noblemen and gentlemen for the Universities, the
senate, and the learned professions; whose system did not embrace the degrading
corporal severities still practised at the ancient places of education, and in
whose family the pupils would find the elegances of refined society and the
confidence and affection of a home.« It was in this way that the Reverend
Lawrence Veal of Hart Street, Bloomsbury, and Domestic Chaplain to the Earl of
Bareacres, strove with Mrs. Veal his wife to entice pupils.
    By thus advertising and pushing sedulously, the Domestic Chaplain and his
Lady generally succeeded in having one or two scholars by them; who paid a high
figure, and were thought to be in uncommonly comfortable quarters. There was a
large West Indian, whom nobody came to see, with a mahogany complexion, a woolly
head, and an exceedingly dandified appearance; there was another hulking boy of
three-and-twenty whose education had been neglected, and whom Mr. and Mrs. Veal
were to introduce into the polite world; there were two sons of Colonel Bangles
of the East India Company's Service: these four sate down to dinner at Mrs.
Veal's genteel board, when Georgy was introduced to her establishment.
    Georgy was, like some dozen other pupils, only a day boy. He arrived in the
morning under the guardianship of his friend Mr. Rowson; and if it was fine,
would ride away in the afternoon on his pony, followed by the groom. The wealth
of his grandfather was reported in the school to be prodigious. The Rev. Mr.
Veal used to compliment Georgy upon it personally, warning him that he was
destined for a high station; that it became him to prepare, by sedulity and
docility in youth, for the lofty duties to which he would be called in mature
age; that obedience in the child was the best preparation for command in the
man; and that he therefore begged George would not bring toffy into the school,
and ruin the health of the Masters Bangles, who had everything they wanted at
the elegant and abundant table of Mr. Veal.
    With respect to learning, the Curriculum, as Mr. Veal loved to call it, was
of prodigious extent, and the young gentlemen in Hart Street might learn a
something of every known science. The Rev. Mr. Veal had an orrery, an
electrifying machine, a turning-lathe, a theatre (in the wash-house), a chemical
apparatus, and what he called a select library of all the works of the best
authors of ancient and modern times and languages. He took the boys to the
British Museum, and descanted upon the antiquities and the specimens of natural
history there, so that audiences would gather round him as he spoke, and all
Bloomsbury highly admired him as a prodigiously well-informed man. And whenever
he spoke (which he did almost always), he took care to produce the very finest
and longest words of which the vocabulary gave him the use; rightly judging,
that it was as cheap to employ a handsome, large, and sonorous epithet, as to
use a little stingy one.
    Thus he would say to George in school: »I observed on my return home from
taking the indulgence of an evening's scientific conversation with my excellent
friend Dr. Bulders - a true archæologian, gentlemen, a true archæologian - that
the windows of your venerated grandfather's almost princely mansion in Russell
Square were illuminated as if for the purposes of festivity. Am I right in my
conjecture that Mr. Osborne entertained a society of chosen spirits round his
sumptuous board last night?«
    Little Georgy, who had considerable humour, and used to mimic Mr. Veal to
his face with great spirit and dexterity, would reply, that Mr. V. was quite
correct in his surmise.
    »Then those friends who had the honour of partaking of Mr. Osborne's
hospitality, gentlemen, had no reason, I will lay any wager, to complain of
their repast. I myself have been more than once so favoured. (By the way, Master
Osborne, you came a little late this morning, and have been a defaulter in this
respect more than once.) I myself, I say, gentlemen, humble as I am, have been
found not unworthy to share Mr. Osborne's elegant hospitality. And though I have
feasted with the great and noble of the world - for I presume that I may call my
excellent friend and patron, the Right Honourable George, Earl of the Bareacres,
one of the number - yet I assure you that the board of the British merchant was
to the full as richly served, and his reception as gratifying and noble. Mr.
Bluck, sir, we will resume, if you please, that passage of Eutropius which was
interrupted by the late arrival of Master Osborne.«
    To his great man George's education was for some time entrusted. Amelia was
bewildered by his phrases, but thought him a prodigy of learning. That poor
widow made friends of Mrs. Veal, for reasons of her own. She liked to be in the
house, and see George coming to school there. She liked to be asked to Mrs.
Veal's conversazioni, which took place once a month (as you were informed on
pink cards, With AtHNH engraved on them), and where the professor welcomed his
pupils and their friends to weak tea and scientific conversation. Poor little
Amelia never missed one of these entertainments, and thought them delicious so
long as she might have Georgy sitting by her. And she would walk from Brompton
in any weather, and embrace Mrs. Veal with tearful gratitude for the delightful
evening she passed, when, the company having retired and Georgy gone off with
Mr. Rowson, his attendant, poor Mrs. Osborne put on her cloaks and her shawls
preparatory to walking home.
    As for the learning which Georgy imbibed under this valuable master of a
hundred sciences, to judge from the weekly reports which the lad took home to
his grandfather, his progress was remarkable. The names of a score or more of
desirable branches of knowledge were printed in a table, and the pupil's
progress in each was marked by the professor. In Greek Georgy was pronounced
aristos, in Latin optimus, in French très bien, and so forth; and everybody had
prizes for everything at the end of the year. Even Mr. Swartz, the woolly-headed
young gentleman, and half-brother to the Honourable Mrs. MacMull, and Mr. Bluck,
the neglected young pupil of three-and-twenty from the agricultural districts,
and that idle young scapegrace of a Master Todd before mentioned, received
little eighteen-penny books, with »Athene« engraved on them, and a pompous Latin
inscription from the professor to his young friends.
    The family of this Master Todd were hangers-on of the house of Osborne. The
old gentleman had advanced Todd from being a clerk to be a junior partner in his
establishment.
    Mr. Osborne was the godfather of young Master Todd (who in subsequent life
wrote Mr. Osborne Todd on his cards, and became a man of decided fashion), while
Miss Osborne had accompanied Miss Maria Todd to the font, and gave her protéjée
a prayer-book, a collection of tracts, a volume of very Low Church poetry, or
some such memento of her goodness, every year. Miss O. drove the Todds out in
her carriage now and then; when they were ill, her footman, in large plush
smalls and waistcoat, brought jellies and delicacies from Russell Square to
Coram Street. Coram Street trembled and looked up to Russell Square indeed; and
Mrs. Todd, who had a pretty hand at cutting out paper trimmings for haunches of
mutton, and could make flowers, ducks, etc., out of turnips and carrots in a
very creditable manner, would go to the Square, as it was called, and assist in
the preparations incident to a great dinner, without even so much as thinking of
sitting down to the banquet. If any guest failed at the eleventh hour, Todd was
asked to dine. Mrs. Todd and Maria came across in the evening, slipped in with a
muffled knock, and were in the drawing-room by the time Miss Osborne and the
ladies under her convoy reached that apartment; and ready to fire off duets and
sing until the gentlemen came up. Poor Maria Todd! poor young lady! How she had
to work and thrum at these duets and sonatas in the Street, before they appeared
in public in the Square!
    Thus it seemed to be decreed by fate that Georgy was to domineer over
everybody with whom he came in contact, and that friends, relatives, and
domestics were all to bow the knee before the little fellow. It must be owned
that he accommodated himself very willingly to this arrangement. Most people do
so. And Georgy liked to play the part of master, and perhaps had a natural
aptitude for it.
    In Russell Square everybody was afraid of Mr. Osborne, and Mr. Osborne was
afraid of Georgy. The boy's dashing manners, and off-hand rattle about books and
learning, his likeness to his father (dead unreconciled in Brussels yonder),
awed the old gentleman, and gave the young boy the mastery. The old man would
start at some hereditary feature or tone unconsciously used by the little lad,
and fancy that George's father was again before him. He tried by indulgence to
the grandson to make up for harshness to the elder George. People were surprised
at his gentleness to the boy. He growled and swore at Miss Osborne as usual, and
would smile when George came down late for breakfast.
    Miss Osborne, George's aunt, was a faded old spinster, broken down by more
than forty years of dullness and coarse usage. It was easy for a lad of spirit
to master her. And whenever George wanted anything from her, from the jam-pots
in her cupboards to the cracked and dry old colours in her paint-box (the old
paint-box which she had had when she was a pupil of Mr. Smee, and was still
almost young and blooming), Georgy took possession of the object of his desire;
which obtained, he took no further notice of his aunt.
    For his friends and cronies he had a pompous old school-master, who
flattered him, and a toady, his senior, whom he could thrash. It was dear Mrs.
Todd's delight to leave him with her youngest daughter, Rosa Jemima, a darling
child of eight years old. The little pair looked so well together, she would say
(but not to the folks in the Square, we may be sure), - »Who knows what might
happen? Don't they make a pretty little couple?« the fond mother thought.
    The broken-spirited, old maternal grandfather was likewise subject to the
little tyrant. He could not help respecting a lad who had such fine clothes, and
rode with a groom behind him. Georgy, on his side, was in the constant habit of
hearing coarse abuse and vulgar satire levelled at John Sedley by his pitiless
old enemy, Mr. Osborne. Osborne used to call the other the old pauper, the old
coalman, the old bankrupt, and by many other such names of brutal contumely. How
was little George to respect a man so prostrate? A few months after he was with
his paternal grandfather, Mrs. Sedley died. There had been little love between
her and the child. He did not care to show much grief. He came down to visit his
mother in a fine new suit of mourning, and was very angry that he could not go
to a play upon which he had set his heart.
    The illness of that old lady had been the occupation and perhaps the
safeguard of Amelia. What do men know about women's martyrdoms? We should go mad
had we to endure the hundredth part of those daily pains which are meekly borne
by many women. Ceaseless slavery, meeting with no reward; constant gentleness
and kindness, met by cruelty as constant; love, labour, patience, watchfulness,
without even so much as the acknowledgement of a good word, - all this how many
of them have to bear in quiet, and appear abroad with cheerful faces, as if they
felt nothing. Tender slaves that they are, they must needs be hypocrites and
weak.
    From her chair Amelia's mother had taken to her bed, which she had never
left; and from which Mrs. Osborne herself was never absent, except when she ran
to see George. The old lady grudged her even those rare visits; she, who had
been a kind, smiling, good-natured mother once, in the days of her prosperity,
but whom poverty and infirmities had broken down. Her illness or estrangement
did not affect Amelia. They rather enabled her to support the other calamity
under which she was suffering, and from the thoughts of which she was kept by
the ceaseless calls of the invalid. Amelia bore her harshness quite gently;
smoothed the uneasy pillow; was always ready with a soft answer to the watchful,
querulous voice; soothed the sufferer with words of hope, such as her pious
simple heart could best feel and utter; and closed the eyes that had once looked
so tenderly upon her.
    Then all her time and tenderness were devoted to the consolation and comfort
of the bereaved old father, who was stunned by the blow which had befallen him,
and stood utterly alone in the world. His wife, his honour, his fortune,
everything he loved best, had fallen away from him. There was only Amelia to
stand by and support with her gentle arms the tottering, heart-broken old man.
We are not going to write the history; it would be too dreary and stupid. I can
see Vanity Fair yawning over it d'avance.
 
One day, as the young gentlemen were assembled in the study at the Rev. Mr.
Veal's, and the domestic chaplain to the Right Honourable the Earl of Bareacres
was spouting away as usual, a smart carriage drove up to the door decorated with
the statue of Athene, and two gentlemen stepped out. The young Masters Bangles
rushed to the window, with a vague notion that their father might have arrived
from Bombay. The great hulking scholar of three-and-twenty, who was crying
secretly over a passage of Eutropius, flattened his neglected nose against the
panes, and looked at the drag, as the laquais de place sprang from the box and
let out the persons in the carriage.
    »It's a fat one and a thin one,« Mr. Bluck said, as a thundering knock came
to the door.
    Everybody was interested, from the domestic chaplain himself, who hoped he
saw the fathers of some future pupils, down to Master Georgy, glad of any
pretext for laying his book down.
    The boy in the shabby livery with the faded copper buttons, who always
thrust himself into the tight coat to open the door, came into the study and
said, »Two gentlemen want to see Master Osborne.« The professor had had a
trifling altercation in the morning with that young gentleman, owing to a
difference about the introduction of crackers in school-time; but his face
resumed its habitual expression of bland courtesy, as he said, »Master Osborne,
I give you full permission to go and see your carriage friends, to whom I beg
you to convey the respectful compliments of myself and Mrs. Veal.«
    Georgy went into the reception-room, and saw two strangers, whom he looked
at with his head up, in his usual haughty manner. One was fat, with mustachios,
and the other was lean and long, in a blue frock-coat, with a brown face and a
grizzled head.
    »My God, how like he is!« said the long gentleman, with a start. »Can you
guess who we are, George?«
    The boy's face flushed up, as it did usually when he was moved, and his eyes
brightened. »I don't know the other,« he said, »but I should think you must be
Major Dobbin.«
    Indeed it was our old friend. His voice trembled with pleasure as he greeted
the boy, and taking both the other's hands in his own, drew the lad to him.
    »Your mother has talked to you about me - has she?« he said.
    »That she has,« Georgy answered, »hundreds and hundreds of times.«
 

                                  Chapter LVII

                                    Eothen.

It was one of the many causes for personal pride with which old Osborne chose to
recreate himself, that Sedley, his ancient rival, enemy, and benefactor, was in
his last days so utterly defeated and humiliated as to be forced to accept
pecuniary obligations at the hands of the man who had most injured and insulted
him. The successful man of the world cursed the old pauper, and relieved him
from time to time. As he furnished George with money for his mother, he gave the
boy to understand by hints, delivered in his brutal, coarse way, that George's
maternal grandfather was but a wretched old bankrupt and dependant, and that
John Sedley might thank the man to whom he already owed ever so much money, for
the aid which his generosity now chose to administer. George carried the pompous
supplies to his mother and the shattered old widower whom it was now the main
business of her life to tend and comfort. The little fellow patronized the
feeble and disappointed old man.
    It may have shown a want of proper pride in Amelia that she chose to accept
these money benefits at the hands of her father's enemy. But proper pride and
this poor lady had never had much acquaintance together. A disposition naturally
simple and demanding protection; a long course of poverty and humility, of daily
privations and hard words, of kind offices and no returns, had been her lot ever
since womanhood almost, or since her luckless marriage with George Osborne. You
who see your betters bearing up under this shame every day, meekly suffering
under the slights of fortune, gentle and unpitied, poor, and rather despised for
their poverty, do you ever step down from your prosperity, and wash the feet of
these poor wearied beggars? The very thought of them is odious and low. »There
must be classes - there must be rich and poor,« Dives says, smacking his claret
- (it is well if he even sends the broken meat out to Lazarus sitting under the
window). Very true; but think how mysterious and often unaccountable it is -
that lottery of life which gives to this man the purple and fine linen, and
sends to the other rags for garments and dogs for comforters.
    So I must own, that without much repining, on the contrary with something
akin to gratitude, Amelia took the crumbs that her father-in-law let drop now
and then, and with them fed her own parent. Directly she understood it to be her
duty, it was this young woman's nature (ladies, she is but thirty still, and we
choose to call her a young woman even at that age) - it was, I say, her nature
to sacrifice herself and to fling all that she had at the feet of the beloved
object. During what long thankless nights had she worked out her fingers for
little Georgy whilst at home with her; what buffets, scorns, privations,
poverties had she endured for father and mother! And in the midst of all these
solitary resignations and unseen sacrifices, she did not respect herself any
more than the world respected her, but I believe thought in her heart that she
was a poor-spirited, despicable little creature, whose luck in life was only too
good for her merits. O you poor women! O you poor secret martyrs and victims,
whose life is a torture, who are stretched on racks in your bedrooms, and who
lay your heads down on the block daily at the drawing-room table; every man who
watches your pains, or peers into those dark places where the torture is
administered to you, must pity you - and - and thank God that he has a beard. I
recollect seeing, years ago, at the prisons for idiots and madmen at Bicêtre,
near Paris, a poor wretch bent down under the bondage of his imprisonment and
his personal infirmity, to whom one of our party gave a halfpennyworth of snuff
in a cornet or screw of paper. The kindness was too much for the poor epileptic
creature. He cried in an anguish of delight and gratitude: if anybody gave you
and me a thousand a year, or saved our lives, we could not be so affected. And
so, if you properly tyrannize over a woman, you will find a halfp'orth of
kindness act upon her, and bring tears into her eyes, as though you were an
angel benefiting her.
    Some such boons as these were the best which Fortune allotted to poor little
Amelia. Her life, begun not unprosperously, had come down to this - to a mean
prison and a long, ignoble bondage. Little George visited her captivity
sometimes, and consoled it with feeble gleams of encouragement. Russell Square
was the boundary of her prison. She might walk thither occasionally, but was
always back to sleep in her cell at night; to perform cheerless duties; to watch
by thankless sick-beds; to suffer the harassment and tyranny of querulous
disappointed old age. How many thousands of people are there, women for the most
part, who are doomed to endure this long slavery - who are hospital nurses
without wages - Sisters of Charity, if you like, without the romance and the
sentiment of sacrifice, - who strive, fast, watch, and suffer, unpitied; and
fade away ignobly and unknown!
    The hidden and awful Wisdom which apportions the destinies of mankind is
pleased so to humiliate and cast down the tender, good, and wise; and to set up
the selfish, the foolish, or the wicked. O be humble, my brother, in your
prosperity! Be gentle with those who are less lucky, if not more deserving.
Think, what right have you to be scornful, whose virtue is a deficiency of
temptation, whose success may be a chance, whose rank may be an ancestor's
accident, whose prosperity is very likely a satire.
 
They buried Amelia's mother in the churchyard at Brompton, upon just such a
rainy, dark day as Amelia recollected when first she had been there to marry
George. Her little boy sate by her side in pompous new sables. She remembered
the old pew-woman and clerk. Her thoughts were away in other times as the parson
read. But that she held George's hand in her own, perhaps she would have liked
to change places with .... Then, as usual, she felt ashamed of her selfish
thoughts, and prayed inwardly to be strengthened to do her duty.
    So she determined with all her might and strength to try and make her old
father happy. She slaved, toiled, patched, and mended, sang, and played
backgammon, read out the newspaper, cooked dishes, for old Sedley, walked him
out sedulously into Kensington Gardens or the Brompton lanes, listened to his
stories with untiring smiles and affectionate hypocrisy, or sate musing by his
side and communing with her own thoughts and reminiscences, as the old man,
feeble and querulous, sunned himself on the garden benches and prattled about
his wrongs or his sorrows. What sad, unsatisfactory thoughts those of the widow
were! The children running up and down the slopes and broad paths in the gardens
reminded her of George who was taken from her: the first George was taken from
her: her selfish guilty love, in both instances, had been rebuked and bitterly
chastised. She strove to think it was right that she should be so punished; she
was such a miserable wicked sinner. She was quite alone in the world.
    I know that the account of this kind of solitary imprisonment is
insufferably tedious, unless there is some cheerful or humorous incident to
enliven it, - a tender jailer, for instance, or a waggish commandant of the
fortress, or a mouse to come out and play about Latude's beard and whiskers, or
a subterranean passage under the castle dug by Trenck with his nails and a
toothpick: the historian has no such enlivening incident to relate in the
narrative of Amelia's captivity. Fancy her, if you please, during this period -
very sad, but always ready to smile when spoken to; in a very mean, poor, not to
say vulgar position of life - singing songs, making puddings, playing cards,
mending stockings, for her old father's benefit. So, never mind, whether she be
a heroine or no; or you and I, however old, scolding and bankrupt; - may we have
in our last days a kind soft shoulder on which to lean, and a gentle hand to
soothe our gouty old pillows.
    Old Sedley grew very fond of his daughter after his wife's death, and Amelia
had her consolation in doing her duty by the old man.
    But we are not going to leave these two people long in such a low and
ungenteel station of life. Better days, as far as worldly prosperity went, were
in store for both. Perhaps the ingenious reader has guessed who was the stout
gentleman who called upon Georgy at his school in company with our old friend
Major Dobbin. It was another old acquaintance returned to England, and at a time
when his presence was likely to be of great comfort to his relatives there.
    Major Dobbin having easily succeeded in getting leave from his good-natured
commandant to proceed to Madras, and thence probably to Europe, on urgent
private affairs, never ceased travelling night and day until he reached his
journey's end, and had directed his march with such celerity that he arrived at
Madras in a high fever. His servants who accompanied him brought him to the
house of the friend with whom he had resolved to stay until his departure for
Europe, in a state of delirium; and it was thought for many, many days that he
would never travel further than the burying-ground of the church of St.
George's, where the troops should fire a salvo over his grave, and where many a
gallant officer lies far away from his home.
    Here, as the poor fellow lay tossing in his fever, the people who watched
him might have heard him raving about Amelia. The idea that he should never see
her again depressed him in his lucid hours. He thought his last day was come,
and he made his solemn preparations for departure: setting his affairs in this
world in order, and leaving the little property of which he was possessed to
those whom he most desired to benefit. The friend in whose house he was located
witnessed his testament. He desired to be buried with a little brown hair-chain
which he wore round his neck, and which, if the truth must be known, he had got
from Amelia's maid at Brussels, when the young widow's hair was cut off during
the fever which prostrated her after the death of George Osborne on the plateau
at Mount St. John.
    He recovered, rallied, relapsed again, having undergone such a process of
blood-letting and calomel as showed the strength of his original constitution.
He was almost a skeleton when they put him on board the Ramchunder East
Indiaman, Captain Bragg, from Calcutta, touching at Madras; and so weak and
prostrate, that his friend who had tended him through his illness prophesied
that the honest Major would never survive the voyage, and that he would pass
some morning, shrouded in flag and hammock, over the ship's side, and carrying
down to the sea with him the relic that he wore at his heart. But whether it was
the sea air, or the hope which sprung up in him afresh, from the day that the
ship spread her canvas and stood out of the roads towards home our friend began
to amend, and he was quite well (though as gaunt as a greyhound) before they
reached the Cape. »Kirk will be disappointed of his majority this time,« he
said, with a smile; »he will expect to find himself gazetted by the time the
regiment reaches home.« For it must be premised that while the Major was lying
ill at Madras, having made such prodigious haste to go thither, the gallant -th,
which had passed many years abroad, which after its return from the West Indies
had been balked of its stay at home by the Waterloo campaign, and had been
ordered from Flanders to India, had received orders home; and the Major might
have accompanied his comrades, had he chosen to wait for their arrival at
Madras.
    Perhaps he was not inclined to put himself in his exhausted state again
under the guardianship of Glorvina. »I think Miss O'Dowd would have done for
me,« he said laughingly, to a fellow-passenger, »if we had had her on board; and
when she had sunk me, she would have fallen upon you, depend upon it, and
carried you in as a prize to Southampton, Jos, my boy.«
    For indeed it was no other than our stout friend who was also a passenger on
board the Ramchunder. He had passed ten years in Bengal. Constant dinners,
tiffins, pale ale and claret, the prodigious labour of cutcherry, and the
refreshment of brandy-pawnee which he was forced to take there, had their effect
upon Waterloo Sedley. A voyage to Europe was pronounced necessary for him; and
having served his full time in India, and had fine appointments, which had
enabled him to lay by a considerable sum of money, he was free to come home and
stay with a good pension, or to return and resume that rank in the service to
which his seniority and his vast talents entitled him.
    He was rather thinner than when we last saw him, but had gained in majesty
and solemnity of demeanour. He had resumed the mustachios to which his services
at Waterloo entitled him, and swaggered about on deck in a magnificent velvet
cap with a gold band, and a profuse ornamentation of pins and jewellery about
his person. He took breakfast in his cabin, and dressed as solemnly to appear on
the quarter-deck, as if he were going to turn out for Bond Street, or the Course
at Calcutta. He brought a native servant with him, who was his valet and
pipe-bearer, and who wore the Sedley crest in silver on his turban. That
Oriental menial had a wretched life under the tyranny of Jos Sedley. Jos was as
vain of his person as a woman, and took as long a time at his toilette as any
fading beauty. The youngsters among the passengers, young Chaffers of the 150th,
and poor little Ricketts, coming home after his third fever, used to draw out
Sedley at the cuddy-table, and make him tell prodigious stories about himself
and his exploits against tigers and Napoleon. He was great when he visited the
Emperor's tomb at Longwood, when to these gentlemen and the young officers of
the ship, Major Dobbin not being by, he described the whole battle of Waterloo,
and all but announced that Napoleon never would have gone to St. Helena at all
but for him, Jos Sedley.
    After leaving St. Helena he became very generous, disposing of a great
quantity of ship stores, claret, preserved meats, and great casks packed with
soda-water, brought out for his private delectation. There were no ladies on
board. The Major gave the pas of precedency to the civilian, so that he was the
first dignitary at table, and treated by Captain Bragg and the officers of the
Ramchunder with the respect which his rank warranted. He disappeared rather in a
panic during a two-days' gale, in which he had the port- of his cabin battened
down; and remained in his cot reading the »Washerwoman of Finchley Common,« left
on board the Ramchunder by the Right Honourable the Lady Emily Hornblower, wife
of the Rev. Silas Hornblower, when on their passage out to the Cape, where the
reverend gentleman was a missionary. But for common reading, he had brought a
stock of novels and plays, which he lent to the rest of the ship, and rendered
himself agreeable to all by his kindness and condescension.
    Many and many a night, as the ship was cutting through the roaring dark sea,
the moon and stars shining overhead, and the bell singing out the watch, Mr.
Sedley and the Major would sit on the quarter-deck of the vessel talking about
home, as the Major smoked his cheroot, and the civilian puffed at the hookah
which his servant prepared for him.
    In these conversations it was wonderful with what perseverance and ingenuity
Major Dobbin would manage to bring the talk round to the subject of Amelia and
her little boy. Jos, a little testy about his father's misfortunes and
unceremonious applications to him, was soothed down by the Major, who pointed
out the elder's ill fortunes and old age. He would not perhaps like to live with
the old couple, whose ways and hours might not agree with those of a younger
man, accustomed to different society (Jos bowed at this compliment); but, the
Major pointed out, how advantageous it would be for Jos Sedley to have a house
of his own in London, and not a mere bachelor's establishment as before - how
his sister Amelia would be the very person to preside over it - how elegant, how
gentle she was, and of what refined good manners. He recounted stories of the
success which Mrs. George Osborne had had in former days at Brusells, and in
London, where she was much admired by people of very great fashion; and he then
hinted how becoming it would be for Jos to send George to a good school and make
a man of him, for his mother and her parents would be sure to spoil him. In a
word, this artful Major made the civilian promise to take charge of Amelia and
her unprotected child. He did not know as yet what events had happened in the
little Sedley family, and how death had removed the mother, and riches had
carried off George from Amelia. But the fact is, that every day and always this
love-smitten and middle-aged gentleman was thinking about Mrs. Osborne, and his
whole heart was bent upon doing her good. He coaxed, wheedled, cajoled, and
complimented Jos Sedley with a perseverance and cordiality of which he was not
aware himself, very likely; but some men who have unmarried sisters or daughters
even, may remember how uncommonly agreeable gentlemen are to the male relations
when they are courting the females, and perhaps this rogue of a Dobbin was urged
by a similar hypocrisy.
    The truth is, when Major Dobbin came on board the Ramchunder, very sick, and
for the three days she lay in the Madras Roads, he did not begin to rally, nor
did even the appearance and recognition of his old acquaintance, Mr. Sedley, on
board much cheer him, until after a conversation which they had one day, as the
Major was laid languidly on the deck. He said then he thought he was doomed; he
had left a little something to his godson in his will; and he trusted Mrs.
Osborne would remember him kindly, and be happy in the marriage she was about to
make. »Married? not the least,« Jos answered. »He had heard from her; she made
no mention of the marriage: and by the way, it was curious, she wrote to say
that Major Dobbin was going to be married, and hoped that he would be happy.«
What were the dates of Sedley's letters from Europe? The civilian fetched them.
They were two months later than the Major's; and the ship's surgeon
congratulated himself upon the treatment adopted by him towards his new patient,
who had been consigned to shipboard by the Madras practitioner with very small
hopes indeed, for from that day, the very day that he changed the draught, Major
Dobbin began to mend. And thus it was that deserving officer, Captain Kirk, was
disappointed of his majority.
    After they passed St. Helena, Major Dobbin's gaiety and strength was such as
to astonish all his fellow-passengers. He larked with the midshipmen, played
single-stick with the mates, ran up the shrouds like a boy, sang a comic song
one night to the amusement of the whole party assembled over their grog after
supper, and rendered himself so gay, lively, and amiable, that even Captain
Bragg, who thought there was nothing in his passenger, and considered he was a
poor-spirited feller at first, was constrained to own that the Major was a
reserved but well-informed and meritorious officer. »He ain't got distangy
manners, dammy,« Bragg observed to his first mate; »he wouldn't do at Government
House, Roper, where his Lordship and Lady William was as kind to me, and shook
hands with me before the whole company, and asking me at dinner to take beer
with him, before the Commander-in-Chief himself; he ain't got manners, but
there's something about him -« And thus Captain Bragg showed that he possessed
discrimination as a man, as well as ability as a commander.
    But a calm taking place when the Ramchunder was within ten days' sail of
England, Dobbin became so impatient and ill-humoured as to surprise those
comrades who had before admired his vivacity and good temper. He did not recover
until the breeze sprang up again, and was in a highly-excited state when the
pilot came on board. Good God, how his heart beat as the two friendly spires of
Southampton came in sight!
 

                                 Chapter LVIII

                             Our Friend the Major.

Our Major had rendered himself so popular on board the Ramchunder, that when he
and Mr. Sedley descended into the welcome shore-boat which was to take them from
the ship, the whole crew, men and officers, the great Captain Bragg himself
leading off, gave three cheers for Major Dobbin, who blushed very much, and
ducked his head in token of thanks. Jos, who very likely thought the cheers were
for himself, took off his gold-laced cap and waved it majestically to his
friends; and they were pulled to shore, and landed with great dignity at the
pier, whence they proceeded to the Royal George Hotel.
    Although the sight of that magnificent round of beef, and the silver tankard
suggestive of real British home-brewed ale and porter, which perennially greet
the eyes of the traveller returning from foreign parts who enters the
coffee-room of the George, are so in invigorating and delightful, that a man
entering such a comfortable, snug, homely English inn, might well like to stop
some days there, yet Dobbin began to talk about a post-chaise instantly, and was
no sooner at Southampton than he wished to be on the road to London. Jos,
however, would not hear of moving that evening. Why was he to pass a night in a
post-chaise instead of a great large undulating downy feather bed, which was
there ready to replace the horrid little narrow crib in which the portly Bengal
gentleman had been confined during the voyage? He could not think of moving till
his baggage was cleared, or of travelling until he could do so with his chillum.
So the Major was forced to wait over that night, and dispatched a letter to his
family announcing his arrival; entreating from Jos a promise to write to his own
friends. Jos promised, but didn't keep his promise. The captain, the surgeon,
and one or two passengers came and dined with our two gentlemen at the inn; Jos
exerting himself in a sumptuous way in ordering the dinner, and promising to go
to town the next day with the Major. The landlord said it did his eyes good to
see Mr. Sedley take off his first pint of porter. If I had time and dared to
enter into digressions, I would write a chapter about that first pint of porter
drunk upon English ground. Ah, how good it is! It is worth while to leave home
for a year just to enjoy that one draught.
    Major Dobbin made his appearance the next morning very neatly shaved and
dressed, according to his wont. Indeed, it was so early in the morning, that
nobody was up in the house except that wonderful Boots of an inn who never seems
to want sleep; and the Major could hear the snores of the various inmates of the
house roaring through the corridors as he creaked about in those dim passages.
Then the sleepless Boots went shirking round from door to door, gathering up at
the Bluchers, Wellingtons, Oxonians, which stood outside. Then Jos's native
servant arose and began to get ready his master's ponderous dressing apparatus,
and prepare his hookah; then the maid-servants got up, and meeting the dark man
in the passages, shrieked, and mistook him for the devil. He and Dobbin stumbled
over their nails in the passages as they were scouring the decks of the Royal
George. When the first unshorn waiter appeared and unbarred the door of the in
the inn, the Major thought that time for departure was arrived, and ordered a
post-chaise to be fetched instantly, that they might set off.
    He then directed his steps to Mr. Sedley's room, and opened the curtains of
the great large family bed wherein Mr. Jos was snoring. »Come, up! Sedley,« the
Major said, »it's time to be off; the chaise will be at the door in half an
hour.«
    Jos growled from under the counterpane to know what the time was; but when
he at last extorted from the blushing Major (who never told fibs, however they
might be to his advantage) what was the real hour of the morning, he broke out
into a volley of bad language, which we will not repeat here, but by which he
gave Dobbin to understand that he would jeopardize his soul if he got up at that
moment - that the Major might go an be hanged - that he would not travel with
Dobbin, and that it was most unkind and ungentlemanlike to disturb a man out of
his sleep in that way; on which the discomfited Major was obliged to retreat,
leaving Jos to resume his interrupted slumbers.
    The chaise came up presently, and the Major would wait no longer.
    If he had been an English nobleman travelling on a pleasure tour, or a
newspaper courier bearing dispatches (government messages are generally carried
much more quietly), he could not have travelled more quickly. The post-boys
wondered at the fees he flung amongst them. How happy and green the country
looked as the chaise whirled rapidly from milestone to milestone, through neat
country towns where landlords came out to welcome him with smiles and bows; by
pretty roadside inns, where the signs hung on the elms, and horses and wagoners
were drinking under the chequered shadow of the trees; by old halls and parks;
rustic hamlets clustered round ancient grey churches - and through the charming,
friendly English landscape. Is there any in the world like it? To a traveller
returning home it looks so kind - it seems to shake hands with you as you pass
through it. Well, Major Dobbin passed through all this from Southampton to
London, and without noting much beyond the milestones along the road. You see he
was so eager to see his parents at Camberwell.
    He grudged the time lost between Piccadilly and his old haunt at the
Slaughters', whither he drove faithfully. Long years had passed since he saw it
last - since he and George, as young men, had enjoyed many a feast and held many
a revel there. He had now passed into the stage of old-fellow-hood. His hair was
grizzled, and many a passion and feeling of his youth had grown grey in that
interval. There, however, stood the old waiter at the door, in the same greasy
black suit, with the same double chin and flaccid face, with the same huge bunch
of seals at his fob, rattling his money in his pockets as before, and receiving
the Major as if he had gone away only a week ago. »Put the Major's things in
twenty-three, that's his room,« John said, exhibiting not the least surprise.
»Roast fowl for your dinner, I suppose. You ain't got married? They said you was
married - the Scotch surgeon of yours was here. No, it was Captain Humby of the
thirty-third, as was quartered with the -th in Injee. Like any warm water? What
do you come in a chay for - ain't the coach good enough?« And with this, the
faithful waiter, who knew and remembered every officer who used the house, and
with whom ten years were but as yesterday, led the way up to Dobbin's old room,
where stood the great moreen bed, and the shabby carpet, a thought more dingy,
and all the old black furniture covered with faded chintz, just as the Major
recollected them in his youth.
    He remembered George pacing up and down the room, and biting his nails, and
swearing that the governor must come round, and that if he didn't, he didn't
care a straw, on the day before he was married. He could fancy him walking in,
banging the door of Dobbin's room, and his own hard by - »You ain't got young,«
John said, calmly surveying his friend of former days.
    Dobbin laughed. »Ten years and a fever don't make a man young, John,« he
said. »It is you that are always young - no, you are always old.«
    »What became of Captain Osborne's widow?« John said. »Fine young fellow
that. Lord, how he used to spend his money. He never came back after that day he
was married from here. He owes me three pound at this minute. Look here - I have
it in my book: - April 10, 1815, Captain Osborne: £3. I wonder whether his
father would pay me,« and so saying, John of the Slaughters' pulled out the very
morocco pocket-book in which he had noted his loan to the Captain, upon a greasy
faded page still extant, with many other scrawled memoranda regarding the bygone
frequenters of the house.
    Having inducted his customer into the room, John retired with perfect
calmness; and Major Dobbin, not without a blush and a grin at his own absurdity,
chose out of his kit the very smartest and most becoming civil costume he
possessed, and laughed at his own tanned face and grey hair, as he surveyed them
in the dreary little toilet-glass on the dressing-table.
    »I'm glad old John didn't forget me,« he thought. »She'll know me, too, I
hope.« And he sallied out of the inn, bending his steps once more in the
direction of Brompton.
    Every minute incident of his last meeting with Amelia was present to the
constant man's mind as he walked towards her house. The arch and the Achilles
statue were up since he had last been in Piccadilly; a hundred changes had
occurred which his eye and mind vaguely noted. He began to tremble as he walked
up the lane from Brompton, that well-remembered lane leading to the street where
she lived. Was she going to be married or not? If he were to meet her with the
little boy - good God, what should he do? He saw a woman coming to him with a
child of five years old - was that she? He began to shake at the mere
possibility. When he came up to the row of houses, at last, where she lived, and
to the gate, he caught hold of it and paused. He might have heard the thumping
of his own heart. »May God Almighty bless her, whatever has happened!« he
thought to himself. »Psha! she may be gone from here,« he said, and went in
through the gate.
    The window of the parlour which she used to occupy was open, and there were
no inmates in the room. The Major thought he recognized the piano, though, with
the picture over it, as it used to be in former days, and his perturbations were
renewed. Mr. Clapp's brass plate was still on the door, at the knocker of which
Dobbin performed a summons.
    A buxom-looking lass of sixteen, with bright eyes and purple cheeks, came to
answer the knock, and looked hard at the Major as he leant back against the
little porch.
    He was as pale as a ghost, and could hardly falter out the words - »Does
Mrs. Osborne live here?«
    She looked him hard in the face for a moment - and then turning white too,
said, »Lord bless me - it's Major Dobbin.« She held out both her hands shaking.
»Don't you remember me?« she said. »I used to call you Major Sugarplums.« On
which, and I believe it was for the first time that he ever so conducted himself
in his life, the Major took the girl in his arms and kissed her. She began to
laugh and cry hysterically, and calling out, »Ma, Pa!« with all her voice,
brought up those worthy people, who had already been surveying the Major from
the casement of the ornamental kitchen, and were astonished to find their
daughter in the little passage in the embrace of a great tall man in a blue
frock-coat and white duck trousers.
    »I'm an old friend,« he said - not without blushing though. »Don't you
remember me, Mrs. Clapp, and those good cakes you used to make for tea? - Don't
you recollect me, Clapp? I'm George's godfather, and just come back from India.«
A great shaking of hands ensued. Mrs. Clapp was greatly affected and delighted;
she called upon Heaven to interpose a vast many times in that passage.
    The landlord and landlady of the house led the worthy Major into the
Sedleys' room (whereof he remembered every single article of furniture, from the
old brass ornamented piano, once a natty little instrument, Stothard maker, to
the screens and the alabaster miniature tombstone, in the midst of which ticked
Mr. Sedley's gold watch); and there, as he sat down in the lodger's vacant
arm-chair, the father, the mother, and the daughter, with a thousand ejaculatory
breaks in the narrative, informed Major Dobbin of what we know already, but of
particulars in Amelia's history of which he was not aware - namely, of Mrs.
Sedley's death, of George's reconcilement with his grandfather Osborne, of the
way in which the widow took on at leaving him, and of other particulars of her
life. Twice or thrice he was going to ask about the marriage question, but his
heart failed him. He did not care to lay it bare to these people. Finally, he
was informed that Mrs. O. was gone to walk with her pa in Kensington Gardens,
whither she always went with the old gentleman (who was very weak and peevish
now, and led her a sad life, though she behaved to him like an angel, to be
sure), of a fine afternoon, after dinner.
    »I'm very much pressed for time,« the Major said, »and have business
to-night of importance. I should like to see Mrs. Osborne though. Suppose Miss
Polly would come with me and show me the way.«
    Miss. Polly was charmed and astonished at this proposal. She knew the way.
She would show Major Dobbin. She had often been with Mr. Sedley when Mrs. O. was
gone - was gone Russell Square way; and knew the beach where he liked to sit.
She bounced away to her apartment, and appeared presently in her best bonnet and
her mamma's yellow shawl and large pebble brooch, of which she assumed the loan
in order to make herself a worthy companion for the Major.
    That officer, then, in his blue frock-coat and buckskin gloves, gave the
young his arm, and they walked away very gaily. He was glad to have a friend at
hand for the scene which he dreaded somehow. He asked a thousand more his
companion about Amelia: his kind heart grieved to think that she should have had
to part with her son. How did she bear it? Did she see him often? Was Mr. Sedley
pretty comfortable now in a worldly point of Major Sugarplums to the very best
of her power.
    And in the midst of their walk an incident occurred which, though very
simple in its nature, was productive of the greatest delight to Major Dobbin. A
pale young man with feeble whiskers and a stiff white neckcloth came walking
down the lane, en sandwich - having a lady, that is, on each arm. One was a tall
and commanding middle-aged female, with features and a complexion similar to
those of the clergyman of the Church of England by whose side she marched; and
the other a stunted little woman with a dark face, ornamented by a fine new
bonnet and white ribbons, and in a smart pelisse, with a rich gold watch in the
midst of her person. The gentleman, pinioned as he was by these two ladies,
carried further a parasol, shawl, and basket, so that his arms were entirely
engaged, and of course he was unable to touch his hat in acknowledgement of the
curtsy with which Miss Mary Clapp greeted him.
    He merely bowed his head in reply to her salutation, which the two ladies
returned with a patronizing air, and at the same time looking severely at the
individual in the blue coat and bamboo cane who accompanied Miss Polly.
    »Who's that?« asked the Major, amused by the group, and after he had made
way for the three to pass up the lane. Mary looked at him rather roguishly.
    »That is our curate, the Reverend Mr. Binny« (a twitch from Major Dobbin),
»and his sister Miss B. Lord bless us, how she did use to worret us at Sunday
school; and the other lady, the little one with a cast in her eye, and the
handsome watch, is Mrs. Binny - Miss Grits that was; her pa was a grocer, and
kept the Little Original Gold Tea Pot in Kensington Gravel Pits. They were
married last month, and are just come back from Margate. She's five thousand
pounds to her fortune; but her and Miss B., who made the match, have quarrelled
already.«
    If the Major had twitched before, he started now, and slapped the bamboo on
the ground with an emphasis which made Miss Clapp cry »Law,« and laugh too. He
stood for a moment silent with open mouth, looking after the retreating young
couple, while Miss Mary told their history; but he did not hear beyond the
announcement of the reverend gentleman's marriage - his head was swimming with
felicity. After this reconnoitre he began to walk double quick towards the place
of his destination - and yet they were too soon (for he was in great tremor at
the idea of a meeting for which he had been longing any time these ten years) -
through the Brompton lanes, and entering at the little old portal in Kensington
Garden wall.
    »There they are,« said Miss Polly, and she felt him again start back on her
arm. She was a confidante at once of the whole business. She knew the story as
well as if she had read it in one of her favourite novel-books - »Fatherless
Fanny,« or the »Scottish Chiefs.«
    »Suppose you were to run on and tell her,« the Major said. Polly ran
forward, her yellow shawl streaming in the breeze.
    Old Sedley was seated on a bench, his handkerchief placed over his knees,
prattling away according to his wont, with some old story about old times, to
which Amelia had listened and awarded a patient smile many a time before. She
could of late think of her own affairs, and smile or make other marks of
recognition of her father's stories, scarcely hearing a word of the old man's
tales. As Mary came bouncing along, and Amelia caught sight of her, she started
up from her bench. Her first thought was, that something had happened to Georgy;
but the sight of the messenger's eager and happy face dissipated that fear in
the timorous mother's bosom.
    »News! news!« cried the emissary of Major Dobbin. »He's come! he's come!«
    »Who is come?« said Emmy, still thinking of her son.
    »Look there,« answered Miss Clapp, turning round and pointing; in which
direction Amelia looking, saw Dobbin's lean figure and long shadow stalking
across the grass. Amelia started in her turn, blushed up, and, of course, began
to cry. At all this simple little creature's fêtes the grandes eaux were
accustomed to play.
    He looked at her - oh, how fondly - as she came running towards him, her
hands before her, ready to give them to him. She wasn't't changed. She was a
little pale, a little stouter in figure. Her eyes were the same, the kind
trustful eyes. There were scarce three lines of silver in her soft brown hair.
She gave him both her hands as she looked up flushing and smiling through her
tears into his honest homely face. He took the two little hands between his two,
and held them there. He was speechless for a moment. Why did he not take her in
his arms, and swear that he would never leave her? She must have yielded; she
could not but have obeyed him.
    »I - I've another arrival to announce,« he said, after a pause.
    »Mrs. Dobbin?« Amelia said, making a movement back - Why didn't he speak?
    »No,« he said, letting her hands go. »Who has told you those lies? - I mean,
your brother Jos came in the same ship with me, and is come home to make you all
happy.«
    »Papa, papa!« Emmy cried out, »here are news! My brother is in England. He
is come to take care of you.- Here is Major Dobbin.«
    Mr. Sedley started up, shaking a great deal, and gathering up his thoughts.
Then he stepped forward and made an old-fashioned bow to the Major, whom he
called Mr. Dobbin, and hoped his worthy father, Sir William, was quite well. He
proposed to call upon Sir William, who had done him the honour of a visit a
short time ago. Sir William had not called upon the old gentleman for eight
years - it was that visit he was thinking of returning.
    »He is very much shaken,« Emmy whispered, as Dobbin went up and cordially
shook hands with the old man.
 
Although he had such particular business in London that evening, the Major
consented to forego it upon Mr. Sedley's invitation to him to come home and
partake of tea. Amelia put her arm under that of her young friend with the
yellow shawl, and headed the party on their return homewards, so that Mr. Sedley
fell to Dobbin's share. The old man walked very slowly, and told a number of
ancient histories about himself and his poor Bessy, his former prosperity, and
his bankruptcy. His thoughts, as is usual with failing old men, were quite in
former times. The present, with the exception of the one catastrophe which he
felt, he knew little about. The Major was glad to let him talk on. His eyes were
fixed upon the figure in front of him - the dear little figure always present to
his imagination and his prayers, and visiting his dreams wakeful or slumbering.
    Amelia was very happy, smiling, and active all that evening, performing her
duties as hostess of the little entertainment with the utmost grace and
propriety, as Dobbin thought. His eyes followed her about as they sate in the
twilight. How many a time had he longed for that moment, and thought of her far
away under hot winds and in weary marches, gentle and happy, kindly ministering
to the wants of old age, and decorating poverty with sweet submission - as he
saw her now. I do not say that his taste was the highest, or that it is the duty
of great intellects to be content with a bread-and-butter paradise, such as
sufficed our simple old friend; but his desires were of this sort, whether for
good or bad, and, with Amelia to help him, he was as ready to drink as many cups
of tea as Doctor Johnson.
    Amelia, seeing this propensity, laughingly encouraged it, and looked
exceedingly roguish as she administrated to him cup after cup. It is true she
did not know that the Major had had no dinner, and that the cloth was laid for
him at the Slaughters', and a plate laid thereon to mark that the table was
retained, in that very box in which the Major and George had sate many a time
carousing, when she was a child just come home from Miss Pinkerton's school.
    The first thing Mrs. Osborne showed the Major was Georgy's miniature, for
which she ran upstairs on her arrival at home. It was not half handsome enough
of course for the boy, but wasn't't it noble of him to think of bringing it to his
mother? Whilst her papa was awake she did not talk much about Georgy. To hear
about Mr. Osborne and Russell Square was not agreeable to the old man, who very
likely was unconscious that he had been living for some months past mainly on
the bounty of his richer rival, and lost his temper if allusion was made to the
other.
    Dobbin told him all, a little more perhaps than all, that had happened on
board the Ramchunder; and exaggerated Jos's benevolent dispositions towards his
father, and resolution to make him comfortable in his old days. The truth is,
that during the voyage the Major had impressed this duty most strongly upon his
fellow-passenger, and extorted promises from him that he would take charge of
his sister and her child. He soothed Jos's irritation with regard to the bills
which the old gentleman had drawn upon him; gave a laughing account of his own
sufferings on the same score, and of the famous consignment of wine with which
the old man had favoured him; and brought Mr. Jos, who was by no means an
ill-natured person when well pleased and moderately flattered, to a very good
state of feeling regarding his relatives in Europe. And in fine I am ashamed to
say that the Major stretched the truth so far as to tell old Mr. Sedley that it
was mainly a desire to see his parent which brought Jos once more to Europe.
    At his accustomed hour Mr. Sedley began to doze in his chair, and then it
was Amelia's opportunity to commence her conversation, which she did with great
eagerness: it related exclusively to Georgy. She did not talk at all about her
own sufferings at breaking from him - for indeed this worthy woman, though she
was half-killed by the separation from the child, yet thought it was very wicked
in her to repine at losing him - but everything concerning him, his virtues,
talents, and prospects, she poured out. She described his angelic beauty;
narrated a hundred instances of his generosity and greatness of mind whilst
living with her; how a Royal Duchess had stopped and admired him in Kensington
Gardens; how splendidly he was cared for now, and how he had a groom and a pony;
what quickness and cleverness he had; and what a prodigiously well-read and
delightful person the Reverend Lawrence Veal was, George's master. »He knows
everything,« Amelia said. »He has the most delightful parties. You who are so
learned yourself, and have read so much, and are so clever and accomplished -
don't shake your head and say no; He always used to say you were - you will be
charmed with Mr. Veal's parties. The last Tuesday in every month. He says there
is no place in the bar or the senate that Georgy may not aspire to. Look here,«
and she went to the piano-drawer and drew out a theme of Georgy's composition.
This great effort of genius, which is still in the possession of George's
mother, is as follows: -
 
        On Selfishness.- Of all the vices which degrade the human character,
        Selfishness is the most odious and contemptible. An undue love of Self
        leads to the most monstrous crimes, and occasions the greatest
        misfortunes both in States and Families. As a selfish man will
        impoverish his family and often bring them to ruin, so a selfish king
        brings ruin on his people, and often plunges them into war.
            Example: The selfishness of Achilles, as remarked by the poet Homer,
        occasioned a thousand woes to the Greeks - myri Axaiois algeA ethke -
        (Hom. Il. A. 2). The selfishness of the late Napoleon Bonaparte
        occasioned innumerable wars in Europe, and caused him to perish,
        himself, in a miserable island - that of Saint Helena in the Atlantic
        Ocean.
            We see by these examples that we are not to consult our own interest
        and ambition, but that we are to consider the interests of others as
        well as our own.
                                                              GEORGE S. OSBORNE.
        Athenè House, 24th April, 1827.
 
»Think of him writing such a hand, and quoting Greek too, at his age,« the
delighted mother said. »O William,« she added, holding out her hand to the
Major, »what a treasure Heaven has given me in that boy! He is the comfort of my
life; and he is the image of - of him that's gone!«
    »Ought I to be angry with her for being faithful to him?« William thought.
»Ought I to be jealous of my friend in the grave, or hurt that such a heart as
Amelia's can love only once and for ever? O George, George, how little you knew
the prize you had, though.« This sentiment passed rapidly through William's
mind, as he was holding Amelia's hand, whilst the handkerchief was veiling her
eyes.
    »Dear friend,« she said, pressing the hand which held hers, »how good, how
kind you always have been to me! See, papa is stirring. You will go and see
Georgy to-morrow, won't you?«
    »Not to-morrow,« said poor old Dobbin. »I have business.« He did not like to
own that he had not as yet been to his parents' and his dear sister Ann - a
remissness for which I am sure every well-regulated person will blame the Major.
And presently he took his leave, leaving his address behind him for Jos, against
the latter's arrival. And so the first day was over, and he had seen her.
    When he got back to the Slaughters', the roast fowl was of course cold, in
which condition he ate it for supper. And knowing what early hours his family
kept, and that it would be needless to disturb their slumbers at so late an
hour, it is on record that Major Dobbin treated himself to half-price at the
Haymarket Theatre that evening, where, let us hope, he enjoyed himself.
 

                                  Chapter LIX

                                 The Old Piano.

The Major's visit left old John Sedley in a great state of agitation and
excitement. His daughter could not induce him to settle down to his customary
occupations or amusements that night. He passed the evening fumbling amongst his
boxes and desks, untying his papers with trembling hands, and sorting and
arranging them against Jos's arrival. He had them in the greatest order - his
tapes and his files, his receipts, and his letters with lawyers and
correspondents; the documents relative to the Wine Project (which failed from a
most unaccountable accident, after commencing with the most splendid prospects),
the Coal Project (which only a want of capital prevented from becoming the most
successful scheme ever put before the public), the Patent Sawmills and Sawdust
Consolidation Project, etc., etc. All night, until a very late hour, he passed
in the preparation of these documents, trembling about from one room to another,
with a quivering candle and shaky hands. »Here's the wine papers, here's the
sawdust, here's the coals; here's my letters to Calcutta and Madras, and replies
from Major Dobbin, C.B., and Mr. Joseph Sedley to the same. He shall find no
irregularity about me, Emmy,« the old gentleman said.
    Emmy smiled. »I don't think Jos will care about seeing those papers, papa,«
she said.
    »You don't know anything about business, my dear,« answered the sire,
shaking his head with an important air. And it must be confessed that on this
point Emmy was very ignorant; and that is a pity, some people are so knowing.
All these twopenny documents arranged on a side table, old Sedley covered them
carefully over with a clean bandanna handkerchief (one out of Major Dobbin's
lot), and enjoined the maid and landlady of the house, in the most solemn way,
not to disturb those papers, which were arranged for the arrival of Mr. Joseph
Sedley the next morning - »Mr. Joseph Sedley of the Honourable East India
Company's Bengal Civil Service.«
    Amelia found him up very early the next morning, more eager, more hectic,
and more shaky than ever. »I didn't sleep much, Emmy, my dear,« he said; »I was
thinking of my poor Bessy I wish she was alive, to ride in Jos's carriage once
again. She kept her own, and became it very well.« And his eyes filled with
tears, which trickled down his furrowed old face. Amelia wiped them away, and
smilingly kissed him, and tied the old man's neckcloth in a smart bow, and put
his brooch into his best shirt frill, in which, in his Sunday suit of mourning,
he sat from six o'clock in the morning awaiting the arrival of his son.
 
There are some splendid tailors' shops in the High Street of Southampton in the
fine plate-glass windows of which hang gorgeous waistcoats of all sorts, of silk
and velvet, and gold and crimson, and pictures of the last new fashions, in
which those wonderful gentlemen with quizzing glasses, and holding on to little
boys with the exceeding large eyes and curly hair, ogle ladies in riding habits
prancing by the statue of Achilles at Apsley House. Jos, although provided with
some of the most splendid vests that Calcutta could furnish, thought he could
not go to town until he was supplied with one or two of these garments, and
selected a crimson satin, embroidered with gold butterflies, and a black and red
velvet tartan with white stripes and a rolling collar, with which, and a rich
blue satin stock and a gold pin, consisting of a five-barred gate with a
horseman in a pink enamel jumping over it, he thought he might make his entry
into London with some dignity. For Jos's former shyness and blundering blushing
timidity had given way to a more candid and courageous self-assertion of his
worth. »I don't care about owning it,« Waterloo Sedley would say to his friends,
»I am a dressy man;« and though rather uneasy if the ladies looked at him at the
Government House balls, and though he blushed and turned away alarmed under
their glances, it was chiefly from a dread lest they should make love to him
that he avoided them, being averse to marriage altogether. But there was no such
swell in Calcutta as Waterloo Sedley, I have heard say; and he had the
handsomest turn-out, gave the best bachelor dinners, and had the finest plate in
the whole place.
    To make these waistcoats for a man of his size and dignity took at least a
day, part of which he employed in hiring a servant to wait upon him and his
native, and in instructing the agent who cleared his baggage, his boxes, his
books, which he never read; his chests of mangoes, chutney, and curry powders;
his shawls for presents to people whom he didn't know as yet; and the rest of
his Persicos apparatus.
    At length he drove leisurely to London on the third day, and in the new
waistcoat - the native, with chattering teeth, shuddering in a shawl on the box
by the side of the new European servant; Jos puffing his pipe at intervals
within, and looking so majestic that the little boys cried Hooray, and many
people thought he must be a Governor-General. He, I promise, did not decline the
obsequious invitation of the landlords to alight and refresh himself in the neat
country towns. Having partaken of a copious breakfast, with fish and rice and
hard eggs, at Southampton, he had so far rallied at Winchester as to think a
glass of sherry necessary. At Alton he stepped out of the carriage at his
servant's request, and imbibed some of the ale for which the place is famous. At
Farnham he stopped to view the Bishop's Castle, and to partake of a light dinner
of stewed eels, veal cutlets, and French beans, with a bottle of claret. He was
cold over Bagshot Heath, where the native chattered more and more, and Jos Sahib
took some brandy-and-water; in fact, when he drove into town he was as full of
wine, beer, meat, pickles, cherry-brandy, and tobacco as the steward's cabin of
a steam-packet. It was evening when his carriage thundered up to the little door
in Brompton, whither the affectionate fellow drove first, and before hieing to
the apartments secured for him by Mr. Dobbin at the Slaughters'.
    All the faces in the street were in the windows; the little maid-servant
flew to the wicket-gate, the Mesdames Clapp looked out from the casement of the
ornamented kitchen; Emmy, in a great flutter, was in the passage among the hats
and coats, and old Sedley in the parlour inside, shaking all over. Jos descended
from the post-chaise and down the creaking, swaying steps in awful state,
supposed by the new valet from Southampton and the shuddering native, whose
brown face was now livid with cold, and of the colour of a turkey's gizzard. He
created an immense sensation in the passage presently, where Mrs. and Miss
Clapp, coming perhaps to listen at the parlour door, found Loll Jewab shaking
upon the hall-bench under the coats, moaning in a strange piteous way, and
showing his yellow eyeballs and white teeth.
    For, you see, we have adroitly shut the door upon the meeting between Jos
and the old father and the poor little gentle sister inside. The old man was
very much affected; so, of course, was his daughter; nor was Jos without
feeling. In that long absence of ten years the most selfish will think about
home and early ties. Distance sanctifies both. Long brooding over those lost
pleasures exaggerates their charm and sweetness. Jos was unaffectedly glad to
see and shake the hand of his father, between whom and himself there had been a
coolness; glad to see his little sister, whom he remembered so pretty and
smiling, and pained at the alteration which time, grief, and misfortune had made
in the shattered old man. Emmy had come out to the door in her black clothes and
whispered to him of her mother's death, and not to speak of it to their father.
There was no need of this caution, for the elder Sedley himself began
immediately to speak of the event, and prattled about it, and wept over it
plenteously. It shocked the Indian not a little, and made him think of himself
less than the poor fellow was accustomed to do.
    The result of the interview must have been very satisfactory; for when Jos
had reascended his post-chaise, and had driven away to his hotel, Emmy embraced
her father tenderly, appealing to him with an air of triumph, and asking the old
man whether she did not always say that her brother had a good heart.
    Indeed, Joseph Sedley, affected by the humble position in which he found his
relations, and in the expansiveness and overflowing of heart occasioned by the
first meeting, declared that they should never suffer want or discomfort any
more; that he was at home for some time at any rate, during which his house and
everything he had should be theirs; and that Amelia would look very pretty at
the head of his table - until she would accept one of her own.
    She shook her head sadly, and had, as usual, recourse to the waterworks. She
knew what he meant. She and her young confidante, Miss Mary, had talked over the
matter most fully the very night of the Major's visit; beyond which time the
impetuous Polly could not refrain from talking of the discovery which she had
made, and describing the start and tremor of joy by which Major Dobbin betrayed
himself when Mr. Binny passed with his bride, and the Major learned that he had
no longer a rival to fear. »Didn't you see how he shook all over when you asked
if he was married, and he said, Who told you those lies? O Ma'am,« Polly said,
»he never kept his eyes off you; and I'm sure he's grown grey a-thinking of
you.«
    But Amelia, looking up at her bed, over which hung the portraits of her
husband and son, told her young protégée never, never to speak on that subject
again; that Major Dobbin had been her husband's dearest friend, and her own and
George's most kind and affectionate guardian; that she loved him as a brother;
but that a woman who had been married to such an angel as that - and she pointed
to the wall - could never think of any other union. Poor Polly sighed; she
thought what she should do if young Mr. Tomkins at the surgery, who always
looked at her so at church, and who by those mere aggressive glances had put her
timorous little heart into such a flutter that she was ready to surrender at
once - what she should do if he were to die. She knew he was consumptive, his
checks were so red, and he was so uncommon thin in the waist.
    Not that Emmy, being made aware of the honest Major's passion, rebuffed him
in any way, or felt displeased with him. Such an attachment from so true and
loyal a gentleman could make no woman angry. Desdemona was not angry with
Cassio, though there is very little doubt she saw the Lieutenant's partiality
for her (and I, for my part, believe that many more things took place in that
sad affair than the worthy Moorish officer ever knew of); why, Miranda was even
very kind to Caliban, and we may be pretty sure for the same reason. Not that
she would encourage him in the least - the poor uncouth monster - of course not.
No more would Emmy by any means encourage her admirer, the Major. She would give
him that friendly regard which so much excellence and fidelity merited; she
would treat him with perfect cordiality and frankness unfit he made his
proposals; and then it would be time enough for her to speak, and to put an end
to hopes which never could be realized.
    She slept, therefore, very soundly that evening after the conversation with
Miss Polly, and was more than ordinarily happy in spite of Jos's delaying. »I am
glad he is not going to marry that Miss O'Dowd,« she thought. »Colonel O'Dowd
never could have a sister fit for such an accomplished man as Major William.«
Who was there amongst her little circle who would make him a good wife? Not Miss
Binny, she was too old and ill-tempered; Miss Osborne? too old too. Little Polly
was too young. Mrs. Osborne could not find anybody to suit the Major before she
went to sleep.
    However, when the postman made his appearance, the little party were put out
of suspense by the receipt of a letter from Jos to his sister, who announced
that he felt a little fatigued after his voyage, and should not be able to move
on that day, but that he would leave Southampton early the next morning, and be
with his father and mother at evening. Amelia, as she read out the letter to her
father, paused over the latter word; her brother, it was clear, did not know
what had happened in the family. Nor could he; for the fact is that though the
Major rightly suspected that his travelling companion never would be got into
motion in so short a space as twenty-four hours, and would find some excuse for
delaying, yet Dobbin had not written to Jos to inform him of the calamity which
had befallen the Sedley family, being occupied in talking with Amelia until long
after post-hour.
    The same morning brought Major Dobbin a letter to the Slaughters'
Coffee-House from his friend at Southampton, begging dear Dob to excuse Jos for
being in a rage when awakened the day before (he had a confounded headache, and
was just in his first sleep), and entreating Dob to engage comfortable rooms at
the Slaughters' for Mr. Sedley and his servants. The Major had become necessary
to Jos during the voyage. He was attached to him, and hung upon him. The other
passengers were away to London. Young Ricketts and little Chaffers went away on
the coach that day - Ricketts on the box, and taking the reins from Botley; the
Doctor was off to his family at Portsea; Bragg gone to town to his co-partners;
and the first mate busy in the unloading of the Ramchunder. Mr. Jos was very
lonely at Southampton, and got the landlord of the George to take a glass of
wine with him that day - at the very hour at which Major Dobbin was seated at
the table of his father, Sir William, where his sister found out (for it was
impossible for the Major to tell fibs) that he had been to see Mrs. George
Osborne.
 
Jos was so comfortably situated in St. Martin's Lane, he could enjoy his hookah
there with such perfect ease, and could swagger down to the theatres, when
minded, so agreeably, that perhaps he would have remained altogether at the
Slaughters' had not his friend the Major been at his elbow. That gentleman would
not let the Bengalee rest until he had executed his promise of having a home for
Amelia and his father. Jos was a soft fellow in anybody's hands, Dobbin most
active in anybody's concerns but his own; the civilian was, therefore, an easy
victim to the guileless arts of this good-natured diplomatist, and was ready to
do, to purchase, hire, or relinquish whatever his friend thought fit. Loll
Jewab, of whom the boys about St. Martin's Lane used to make cruel fun whenever
he showed his dusky countenance in the street, was sent back to Calcutta in the
Lady Kicklebury East Indiaman, in which Sir William Dobbin had a share - having
previously taught Jos's European the art of preparing curries, pilaus, and
pipes. It was a matter of great delight and occupation to Jos to superintend the
building of a smart chariot, which he and the Major ordered in the neighbouring
Long Acre; and a pair of handsome horses were jobbed, with which Jos drove about
in state in the Park, or to call upon his Indian friends. Amelia was not seldom
by his side on these excursions, when also Major Dobbin would be seen in the
back seat of the carriage. At other times old Sedley and his daughter took
advantage of it; and Miss Clapp, who frequently accompanied her friend, had
great pleasure in being recognized as she sate in the carriage, dressed in the
famous yellow shawl, by the young gentleman at the surgery, whose face might
commonly be seen over the window-blinds as she passed.
    Shortly after Jos's first appearance at Brompton, a dismal scene, indeed,
took place at that humble cottage, at which the Sedleys had passed the last ten
years of their life. Jos's carriage (the temporary one, not the chariot under
construction) arrived one day and carried off old Sedley and his daughter - to
return no more. The tears that were shed by the landlady and the landlady's
daughter at that event were as genuine tears of sorrow as any that have been
outpoured in the course of this history. In their long acquaintanceship and
intimacy they could not recall a harsh word that had been uttered by Amelia. She
had been all sweetness and kindness, always thankful, always gentle, even when
Mrs. Clapp lost her own temper and pressed for the rent. When the kind creature
was going away for good and all, the landlady reproached herself bitterly for
ever having used a rough expression to her; how she wept as they stuck up with
wafers on the window a paper notifying that the little rooms so long occupied
were to let! They never would have such lodgers again, that was quite clear.
After-life proved the truth of this melancholy prophecy, and Mrs. Clapp revenged
herself for the deterioration of mankind by levying the most savage
contributions upon the tea-caddies and legs of mutton of her locataires. Most of
them scolded and grumbled; some of them did not pay; none of them stayed. The
landlady might well regret those old, old friends who had left her.
    As for Miss Mary, her sorrow at Amelia's departure was such as I shall not
attempt to depict. From childhood upwards she had been with her daily, and had
attached herself so passionately to that dear good lady that when the grand
barouche came to carry her off into splendour, she fainted in the arms of her
friend, who was indeed scarcely less affected than the good-natured girl. Amelia
loved her like a daughter. During eleven years the girl had been her constant
friend and associate. The separation was a very painful one indeed to her. But
it was, of course, arranged that Mary was to come and stay often at the grand
new house whither Mrs. Osborne was going, and where Mary was sure she would
never be so happy as she had been in their humble cot, as Miss Clapp called it,
in the language of the novels which she loved.
    Let us hope she was wrong in her judgment. Poor Emmy's days of happiness had
been very few in that humble cot. A gloomy Fate had oppressed her there. She
never liked to come back to the house after she had left it, or to face the
landlady who had tyrannized over her when ill-humoured and unpaid, or when
pleased had treated her with a coarse familiarity scarcely less odious. Her
servility and fulsome compliments when Emmy was in prosperity were not more to
that lady's liking. She cast about notes of admiration all over the new house,
extolling every article of furniture or ornament; she fingered Mrs. Osborne's
dresses, and calculated their price. Nothing could be too good for that sweet
lady, she vowed and protested. But in the vulgar sycophant who now paid court to
her Emmy always remembered the coarse tyrant who had made her miserable many a
time, to whom she had been forced to put up petitions for time when the rent was
overdue; who cried out at her extravagance if she bought delicacies for her
ailing mother or father; who had seen her humble, and trampled upon her.
    Nobody ever heard of these griefs, which had been part of our poor little
woman's lot in life. She kept them secret from her father, whose improvidence
was the cause of much of her misery. She had to bear all the blame of his
misdoings, and indeed was so utterly gentle and humble as to be made by nature
for a victim.
    I hope she is not to suffer much more of that hard usage. And as in all
griefs there is said to be some consolation, I may mention that poor Mary, when
left at her friend's departure in a hysterical condition, was placed under the
medical treatment of the young fellow from the surgery, under whose care she
rallied after a short period. Emmy, when she went away from Brompton, endowed
Mary with every article of furniture that the house contained, only taking away
her pictures (the two pictures over the bed) and her piano - that little old
piano which had now passed into a plaintive jingling old age, but which she
loved for reasons of her own. She was a child when first she played on it, and
her parents gave it her. It had been given to her again since, as the reader may
remember, when her father's house was gone to ruin, and the instrument was
recovered out of the wreck.
    Major Dobbin was exceedingly pleased when, as he was superintending the
arrangements of Jos's new house, which the Major insisted should be very
handsome and comfortable, the cart arrived from Brompton bringing the trunks and
bandboxes of the emigrants from that village, and with them the old piano.
Amelia would have it up in her sitting-room, a neat little apartment on the
second floor, adjoining her father's chamber, and where the old gentleman sate
commonly of evenings.
    When the men appeared then bearing this old music-box, and Amelia gave
orders that it should be placed in the chamber aforesaid, Dobbin was quite
elated. »I'm glad you've kept it,« he said, in a very sentimental manner. »I was
afraid you didn't care about it.«
    »I value it more than anything I have in the world,« said Amelia.
    »Do you, Amelia?« cried the Major. The fact was, as he had bought it
himself, though he never said anything about it, it never entered into his head
to suppose that Emmy should think anybody else was the purchaser, and as a
matter of course he fancied that she knew the gift came from him. »Do you,
Amelia?« he said; and the question, the great question of all, was trembling on
his lips, when Emmy replied, -
    »Can I do otherwise? did not he give it me?«
    »I did not know,« said poor old Dob, and his countenance fell.
    Emmy did not note the circumstance at the time, nor take immediate heed of
the very dismal expression which honest Dobbin's countenance assumed, but she
thought of it afterwards. And then it struck her, with inexpressible pain and
mortification too, that it was William who was the giver of the piano, and not
George, as she had fancied. It was not George's gift, the only one which she had
received from her lover, as she thought, the thing she had cherished beyond all
others - her dearest relic and prize. She had spoken to it about George; played
his favourite airs upon it; sate for long evening hours, touching, to the best
of her simple art, melancholy harmonies on the keys, and weeping over them in
silence. It was not George's relic. It was valueless now. The next time that old
Sedley asked her to play, she said it was shockingly out of tune, that she had a
headache, that she couldn't play.
    Then, according to her custom, she rebuked herself for her pettishness and
ingratitude, and determined to make a reparation to honest William for the
slight she had not expressed to him, but had felt for his piano. A few days
afterwards, as they were seated in the drawing-room, where Jos had fallen asleep
with great comfort after dinner, Amelia said, with rather a faltering voice, to
Major Dobbin, »I have to beg your pardon for something.«
    »About what?« said he.
    »About - about that little square piano. I never thanked you for it when you
gave it me, many, many years ago, before I was married. I thought somebody else
had given it. Thank you, William.« She held out her hand. But the poor little
woman's heart was bleeding; and as for her eyes, of course they were at their
work.
    But William could hold no more. »Amelia, Amelia,« he said, »I did buy it for
you. I loved you then as I do now. I must tell you. I think I loved you from the
first minute that I saw you, when George brought me to your house, to show me
the Amelia whom he was engaged to. You were but a girl, in white, with large
ringlets; you came down singing - do you remember? - and we went to Vauxhall.
Since then I have thought of but one woman in the world, and that was you. I
think there is no hour in the day has passed for twelve years that I haven't
thought of you. I came to tell you this before I went to India, but you did not
care, and I hadn't the heart to speak. You did not care whether I stayed or
went.«
    »I was very ungrateful,« Amelia said.
    »No, only indifferent,« Dobbin continued desperately. »I have nothing to
make a woman to be otherwise. I know what you are feeling now. You are hurt in
your heart at the discovery about the piano, and that it came from me and not
from George. I forgot, or I should never have spoken of it so. It is for me to
ask your pardon for being a fool for a moment, and thinking that years of
constancy and devotion might have pleaded with you.«
    »It is you who are cruel now,« Amelia said with some spirit. »George is my
husband, here and in heaven. How could I love any other but him? I am his now as
when you first saw me, dear William. It was he who told me how good and generous
you were, and who taught me to love you as a brother. Have you not been
everything to me and my boy - our dearest, truest, kindest friend and protector?
Had you come a few months sooner, perhaps you might have spared me that - that
dreadful parting. Oh, it nearly killed me, William. But you didn't come, though
I wished and prayed for you to come; and they took him too away from me. Isn't
he a noble boy, William? Be his friend still and mine« - and here her voice
broke, and she hid her face on his shoulder.
    The Major folded his arms round her, holding her to him as if she was a
child, and kissed her head. »I will not change, dear Amelia,« he said. »I ask
for no more than your love. I think I would not have it otherwise. Only let me
stay near you and see you often.«
    »Yes, often,« Amelia said. And so William was at liberty to look and long,
as the poor boy at school who has no money may sigh after the contents of the
tart-woman's tray.
 

                                   Chapter LX

                         Returns to the Genteel World.

Good fortune now begins to smile upon Amelia. We are glad to get her out of that
low sphere in which she has been creeping hitherto, and introduce her into a
polite circle; not so grand and refined as that in which our other female
friend, Mrs. Becky, has appeared, but still having no small pretensions to
gentility and fashion. Jos's friends were all from the three presidencies, and
his new house was in the comfortable Anglo-Indian district of which Moira Place
is the centre. Minto Square, Great Clive Street, Warren Street, Hastings Street,
Ochterlony Place, Plassy Square, Assaye Terrace (Gardens was a felicitous word
not applied to stucco houses with asphalt terraces in front, so early as 1827) -
who does not know these respectable abodes of the retired Indian aristocracy,
and the quarter which Mr. Wenham calls the Black Hole, in a word? Jos's position
in life was not grand enough to entitle him to a house in Moira Place, where
none can live but retired Members of Council, and partners of Indian firms (who
break after having settled a hundred thousand pounds on their wives, and retire
into comparative penury to a country place and four thousand a year). He engaged
a comfortable house of a second or third rate order in Gillespie Street,
purchasing the carpets, costly mirrors, and handsome and appropriate planned
furniture by Seddons from the assignees of Mr. Scape, lately admitted partner
into the great Calcutta house of Fogle, Fake, &amp; Cracksman, in which poor
Scape had embarked seventy thousand pounds, the earnings of a long and
honourable life, taking Fake's place, who retired to a princely park in Sussex
(the Fogles have been long out of the firm, and Sir Horace Fogle is about to be
raised to the peerage as Baron Bandanna) - admitted, I say, partner into the
great agency house of Fogle &amp; Fake two years before it failed for a million,
and plunged half the Indian public into misery and ruin.
    Scape, ruined, honest, and broken-hearted at sixty-five years of age, went
out to Calcutta to wind up the affairs of the house. Walter Scape was withdrawn
from Eton, and put into a merchant's house. Florence Scape, Fanny Scape, and
their mother faded away to Boulogne, and will be heard of no more. To be brief,
Jos stepped in and bought their carpets and sideboards, and admired himself in
the mirrors which had reflected their kind, handsome faces. The Scape tradesmen,
all honourably paid, left their cards, and were eager to supply the new
household. The large men in white waistcoats who waited at Scape's dinners,
greengrocers, bank-porters, and milkmen in their private capacity, left their
addresses, and ingratiated themselves with the butler. Mr. Chummy, the
chimney-purifier, who had swep' the last three families, tried to coax the
butler and the boy under him, whose duty it was to go out covered with buttons
and with stripes down his trousers, for the protection of Mrs. Amelia whenever
she chose to walk abroad.
    It was a modest establishment. The butler was Jos's valet also, and never
was more drunk than a butler in a small family should be who has a proper regard
for his master's wine. Emmy was supplied with a maid grown on Sir William
Dobbin's suburban estate - a good girl, whose kindness and humility disarmed
Mrs. Osborne, who was at first terrified at the idea of having a servant to wait
upon herself, who did not in the least know how to use one, and who always spoke
to domestics with the most reverential politeness. But this maid was very useful
in the family, in dexterously tending old Mr. Sedley, who kept almost entirely
to his own quarter of the house, and never mixed in any of the gay doings which
took place there.
    Numbers of people came to see Mrs. Osborne. Lady Dobbin and daughters were
delighted at her change of fortune, and waited upon her. Miss Osborne from
Russell Square came in her grand chariot with the flaming hammer-cloth
emblazoned with the Leeds arms. Jos was reported to be immensely rich. Old
Osborne has no objection that Georgy should inherit his uncle's property as well
as his own. »Damn it, we will make a man of the feller,« he said; »and I'll see
him in Parliament before I die. You may go and see his mother, Miss O., though
I'll never set eyes on her;« and Miss Osborne came. Emmy, you may be sure, was
very glad to see her, and so be brought nearer to George. That young fellow was
allowed to come much more frequently than before to visit his mother. He dined
once or twice a week in Gillespie Street, and bullied the servants and his
relations there, just as he did in Russell Square.
    He was always respectful to Major Dobbin, however, and more modest in his
demeanour when that gentleman was present. He was a clever lad, and afraid of
the Major. George could not help admiring his friend's simplicity, his
good-humour, his various learning quietly imparted, his general love of truth
and justice. He had met no such man as yet in the course of his experience, and
he had an instinctive liking for a gentleman. He hung fondly by his godfather's
side, and it was his delight to walk in the Parks and hear Dobbin talk. William
told George about his father, about India and Waterloo, about everything but
himself. When George was more than usually pert and conceited, the Major made
jokes at him, which Mrs. Osborne thought very cruel. One day, taking him to the
play, and the boy declining to go into the pit because it was vulgar, the Major
took him to the boxes, left him there, and went down himself to the pit. He had
not been seated there very long before he felt an arm thrust under his, and a
dandy little hand in a kid glove squeezing his arm. George had seen the
absurdity of his ways, and come down from the upper region. A tender laugh of
benevolence lighted up old Dobbin's face and eyes as he looked at the repentant
little prodigal. He loved the boy, as he did everything that belonged to Amelia.
How charmed she was when she heard of this instance of George's goodness! Her
eyes looked more kindly on Dobbin than they ever had done. She blushed, he
thought, after looking at him so.
    Georgy never tired of his praises of the Major to his mother. »I like him,
mamma, because he knows such lots of things; and he ain't like old Veal, who is
always bragging and using such long words, don't you know? The chaps call him
Longtail at school. I gave him the name; ain't it capital? But Dob reads Latin
like English, and French and that; and when we go out together he tells me
stories about my papa, and never about himself; though I heard Colonel Buckler
at Grandpapa's say that he was one of the bravest officers in the army, and had
distinguished himself ever so much. Grandpapa was quite surprised, and said, 
That feller! why, I didn't think he could say Bo to a goose. But I know he
could; couldn't he, mamma?«
    Emmy laughed; she thought it was very likely the Major could do thus much.
    If there was a sincere liking between George and the Major, it must be
confessed that between the boy and his uncle no great love existed. George had
got a way of blowing out his cheeks, and putting his hands in his waistcoat
pockets, and saying, »God bless my soul, you don't say so,« so exactly after the
fashion of old Jos that it was impossible to refrain from laughter. The servants
would explode at dinner if the lad, asking for something which wasn't't at table,
put on that countenance and used that favourite phrase. Even Dobbin would shoot
out a sudden peal at the boy's mimicry. If George did not mimic his uncle to his
face, it was only by Dobbin's rebukes and Amelia's terrified entreaties that the
little scapegrace was induced to desist. And the worthy civilian being haunted
by a dim consciousness that the lad thought him an ass, and was inclined to turn
him into ridicule, used to be extremely timorous, and of course doubly pompous
and dignified, in the presence of Master Georgy. When it was announced that the
young gentleman was expected in Gillespie Street to dine with his mother, Mr.
Jos commonly found that he had an engagement at the Club. Perhaps nobody was
much grieved at his absence. On those days Mr. Sedley would commonly be induced
to come out from his place of refuge in the upper stories, and there would be a
small family party, whereof Major Dobbin pretty generally formed one. He was the
ami de la maison - old Sedley's friend, Emmy's friend, Georgy's friend, Jos's
counsel and adviser. »He might almost as well be at Madras for anything we see
of him,« Miss Ann Dobbin remarked, at Camberwell. Ah! Miss Ann, did it not
strike you that it was not you whom the Major wanted to marry?
    Joseph Sedley then led a life of dignified otiosity such as became a person
of his eminence. His very first point, of course, was to become a member of the
Oriental Club; where he spent his mornings in the company of his brother
Indians, where he dined, or whence he brought home men to dine.
    Amelia had to receive and entertain these gentlemen and their ladies. From
these she heard how soon Smith would be in Council; how many lacs Jones had
brought home with him; how Thomson's House in London had refused the bills drawn
by Thomson, Kibobjee, &amp; Co., the Bombay House, and how it was thought that
the Calcutta House must go too; how very imprudent, to say the least of it, Mrs.
Brown's conduct (wife of Brown of the Ahmednuggur Irregulars) had been with
young Swankey of the Body Guard, sitting up with him on deck until all hours,
and losing themselves as they were riding out at the Cape; how Mrs. Hardyman had
had out her thirteen sisters, daughters of a country curate, the Rev. Felix
Rabbits, and married eleven of them, seven high up in the service; how Hornby
was wild because his wife would stay in Europe, and Trotter was appointed
Collector at Ummerapoora. This and similar talk took place at the grand dinners
all round. They had the same conversation, the same silver dishes, the same
saddles of mutton, boiled turkeys, and entrées. Politics set in a short time
after dessert, when the ladies retired upstairs and talked about their
complaints and their children.
    Mutato nomine, it is all the same. Don't the barristers' wives talk about
Circuit? don't the soldiers' ladies gossip about the Regiment? don't the
clergymen's ladies discourse about Sunday schools, and who takes whose duty?
don't the very greatest ladies of all talk about that small clique of persons to
whom they belong? and why should our Indian friends not have their own
conversation? only I admit it is slow for the laymen whose fate it sometimes is
to sit by and listen.
    Before long Emmy had a visiting-book, and was driving about regularly in a
carriage, calling upon Lady Bludyer (wife of Major-General Sir Rodger Bludyer,
K.C.B., Bengal Army); Lady Huff, wife of Sir G. Huff, Bombay ditto; Mrs. Pice,
the Lady of Pice the Director, etc. We are not long in using ourselves to
changes in life. That carriage came round to Gillespie Street every day; that
buttony boy sprang up and down from the box with Emmy's and Jos's
visiting-cards; at stated hours Emmy and the carriage went for Jos to the Club,
and took him an airing; or, putting old Sedley into the vehicle, she drove the
old man round the Regent's Park. The lady's-maid and the chariot, the
visiting-book and the buttony page, became soon as familiar to Amelia as the
humble routine of Brompton. She accommodated her- self to one as to the other.
If Fate had ordained that she should be a duchess, she would even have done duty
too. She was voted, in Jos's female society, rather a pleasing young person -
not much in her, but pleasing, and that sort of thing.
    The men, as usual, liked her artless kindness and simple, refined demeanour.
The gallant young Indian dandies at home on furlough - immense dandies these,
chained and moustached, driving in tearing cabs, the pillars of the theatres,
living at West End hotels - nevertheless admired Mrs. Osborne, liked to bow to
her carriage in the Park, and to be admitted to have the honour of paying her a
morning visit. Swankey of the Body Guard himself, that dangerous youth, and the
greatest buck of all the Indian army now on leave, was one day discovered by
Major Dobbin tête-à-tête with Amelia, and describing the sport of pig-sticking
to her with great humour and eloquence; and he spoke afterwards of a d-- King's
officer that's always hanging about the house - a long, thin, queer-looking,
oldish fellow, a dry fellow though, that took the shine out of a man in the
talking line.
    Had the Major possessed a little more personal vanity, he would have been
jealous of so dangerous a young buck as that fascinating Bengal Captain. But
Dobbin was of too simple and generous a nature to have any doubts about Amelia.
He was that the young men should pay her respect, and that others should admire
her. Ever since her womanhood almost, had she not been persecuted and
undervalued? It pleased him to see how kindness brought out her good qualities,
and how spirits gently rose with her prosperity. And person who appreciated her
paid a compliment to the Major's good judgement - that is, if a man may be said
to have good judgement who is under the influence of Love's delusion.
 
After Jos went to Court, which we may be sure he did as a loyal subject of his
Sovereign (showing himself in his full Court suit at the Club, whither Dobbin
came to fetch him in a very shabby old uniform), he who had always been a stanch
Loyalist and admirer of George IV. became such a tremendous Tory and pillar of
the State that he was for having Amelia to go to a Drawing-room too. He somehow
had worked himself up to believe that he was implicated in the maintenance of
the public welfare, and that the Sovereign would not be happy unless Jos Sedley
and his family appeared to rally round him at St. James's.
    Emmy laughed. »Shall I wear the family diamonds, Jos?« she said.
    »I wish you would let me buy you some,« thought the Major. »I should like to
see any that were too good for you.«
 

                                  Chapter LXI

                        In which Two Lights Are Put Out.

There came a day when the round of decorous pleasures and solemn gaieties in
which Mr. Jos Sedley's family indulged was interrupted by an event which happens
in most houses. As you ascend the staircase of your house from the drawing
towards the bedroom floors, you may have remarked a little arch in the wall
right before you which at once gives light to the stair which leads from the
second story to the third (where the nursery and servants' chambers commonly
are), and serves for another purpose of utility, of which the undertaker's men
can give you a notion. They rest the coffins upon that arch, or pass them
through it so as not to disturb in any unseemly manner the cold tenant
slumbering within the black ark.
    That second-floor arch in a London house, looking up and down the well of
the staircase, and commanding the main thoroughfare by which the inhabitants are
passing; by which Cook lurks down before daylight to scour her pots and pans in
the kitchen; by which young Master stealthily ascends, having left his boots in
the hall, and let himself in after dawn from a jolly night at the Club; down
which Miss comes rustling in fresh ribbons and spreading muslins, brilliant and
beautiful, and prepared for conquest and the ball; or Master Tommy slides,
preferring the banisters for a mode of conveyance, and disdaining danger and the
stair; down which the mother is fondly carried smiling in her strong husband's
arms, as he steps steadily step by step, and followed by the monthly nurse, on
the day when the medical man has pronounced that the charming patient may go
downstairs; up which John lurks to bed, yawning, with a sputtering tallow
candle, and to gather up before sunrise the boots which are awaiting him in the
passages; - that stair, up or down which babies are carried, old people are
helped, guests are marshalled to the ball, the parson walks to the christening,
the doctor to the sickroom, and the undertaker's men to the upper floor - what a
memento of Life, Death, and Vanity it is - that arch and stair - if you choose
to consider it, and sit on the landing looking up and down the well! The doctor
will come up to us too for the last time there, my friend in motley. The nurse
will look in at the curtains, and you take no notice; and then she will fling
open the windows for a little, and let in the air. Then they will pull down all
the front blinds of the house and live in the back rooms; then they will send
for the lawyer and other men in black, etc. Your comedy and mine will have been
played then, and we shall be removed, oh how far, from the trumpets, and the
shouting, and the posture-making. If we are gentlefolks, they will put
hatchments over our late domicile, with gilt cherubim, and mottoes stating that
there is »Quiet in Heaven.« Your son will new furnish the house, or perhaps let
it, and go into a more modern quarter; your name will be among the Members
Deceased in the lists of your clubs next year. However much you may be mourned,
your widow will like to have her weeds neatly made; the cook will send or come
up to ask about dinner; the survivor will soon bear to look at your picture over
the mantelpiece, which will presently be deposed from the place of honour, to
make way for the portrait of the son who reigns.
    Which of the dead are most tenderly and passionately deplored? Those who
love the survivors the least, I believe. The death of a child occasions a
passion of grief and frantic tears such as your end, brother reader, will never
inspire. The death of an infant which scarce knew you, which a week's absence
from you would have caused to forget you, will strike you down more than the
loss of your closest friend or your first-born son, a man grown like yourself,
with children of his own. We may be harsh and stern with Judah and Simeon, our
love and pity gush out for Benjamin, the little one. And if you are old, as some
reader of this may be or shall be - old and rich, or old and poor - you may one
day be thinking for yourself, »These people are very good round about me, but
they won't grieve too much when I am gone. I am very rich, and they want my
inheritance - or very poor, and they are tired of supporting me.«
    The period of mourning for Mrs. Sedley's death was only just concluded, and
Jos scarcely had had time to cast off his black and appear in the splendid
waistcoats which he loved, when it became evident to those about Mr. Sedley that
another event was at hand, and that the old man was about to go seek for his
wife in the dark land whither she had preceded him. »The state of my father's
health,« Jos Sedley solemnly remarked at the Club, »prevents me from giving any
large parties this season; but if you will come in quietly at half-past six,
Chutney, my boy, and take a homely dinner with one or two of the old set, I
shall be always glad to see you«. So Jos and his acquaintances dined and drank
their claret among themselves in silence, whilst the sands of life were running
out in the old man's glass upstairs. The velvet-footed butler brought them their
wine, and they composed themselves to a rubber after dinner, at which Major
Dobbin would sometimes come and take a hand, and Mrs. Osborne would occasionally
descend when her patient above was settled for the night, and had commenced one
of those lightly troubled slumbers which visit the pillow of old age.
    The old man clung to his daughter during this sickness. He would take his
broths and medicines from scarcely any other hand. To tend him became almost the
sole business of her life. Her bed was placed close by the door which opened
into his chamber, and she was alive at the slightest noise or disturbance from
the couch of the querulous invalid. Though, to do him justice, he lay awake many
an hour, silent and without stirring, unwilling to awaken his kind and vigilant
nurse.
    He loved his daughter with more fondness now, perhaps, than ever he had done
since the days of her childhood. In the discharge of gentle offices and kind
filial duties this simple creature shone most especially. »She walks into the
room as silently as a sunbeam,« Mr. Dobbin thought, as he saw her passing in and
out from her father's room, a cheerful sweetness lighting up her face as she
moved to and fro, graceful and noiseless. When women are brooding over their
children or busied in a sickroom, who has not seen in their faces those sweet
angelic beams of love and pity?
    A secret feud of some years' standing was thus healed, and with a tacit
reconciliation. In these last hours, and touched by her love and goodness, the
old man forgot all his grief against her, and wrongs which he and his wife had
many a long night debated: how she had given up everything for her boy; how she
was careless of her parents in their old age and misfortune, and only thought of
the child; how absurdly and foolishly, impiously indeed, she took on when George
was removed form her. Old Sedley forgot these charges as he was making up his
last account, and did justice to the gentle and uncomplaining little martyr. One
night when she stole into his room she found him awake, when the broken old man
made his confession. »O Emmy, I've been thinking we were very unkind and unjust
to you,« he said, and put out his cold and feeble hand to her. She knelt down
and prayed by his bedside, as he did too, having still hold of her hand. When
our turn comes, friend, may we have such company in our prayers!
    Perhaps as he was lying awake then his life may have passed before him - his
early hopeful struggles, his manly successes and prosperity, his downfall in his
declining years, and his present helpless condition - no chance of revenge
against Fortune, which had had the better of him - neither name nor money to
bequeath - a spent-out, bootless life of defeat and disappointment, and the end
here! Which, I wonder, brother reader, is the better lot - to die prosperous and
famous, or poor and disappointed? To have, and to be forced to yield; or to sink
out of life, having played and lost the game? That must be a strange feeling
when a day of our life comes, and we say, »To-morrow, success or failure won't
matter much; and the sun will rise, and all the myriads of mankind go to their
work or their pleasure as usual, but I shall be out of the turmoil.«
    So there came one morning and sunrise when all the world got up and set
about its various works and pleasures, with the exception of old John Sedley,
who was not to fight with Fortune or to hope or scheme any more, but to go and
take up a quiet and utterly unknown residence in a churchyard at Brompton by the
side of his old wife.
    Major Dobbin, Jos, and Georgy followed his remains to the grave, in a black
cloth coach. Jos came on purpose from the Star and Garter at Richmond, whither
he retreated after the deplorable event. He did not care to remain in the house,
with the - under the circumstances, you understand. But Emmy stayed and did her
duty as usual. She was bowed down by no special grief, and rather solemn than
sorrowful. She prayed that her own end might be as calm and painless, and
thought with trust and reverence of the words which she had heard from her
father during his illness indicative of his faith, his resignation, and his
future hope.
    Yes, I think that will be the better ending of the two, after all. Suppose
you are particularly rich and well-to-do, and say on that last day, »I am very
rich; I am tolerably well known; I have lived all my life in the best society,
and, thank Heaven, come of a most respectable family. I have served my King
country with honour. I was in Parliament for several years, where I may say my
speeches were listened to and pretty well received. I don't owe any man a
shilling; on the contrary, I lent my old college friend, Jack Lazarus, fifty
pounds, for which my executors will not press him. I leave my daughters with ten
thousand pounds apiece - very good portions for girls; I bequeath my plate and
furniture, my house in Baker Street, with a handsome jointure, to my widow for
her life; and my landed property, besides money in the funds, and my cellar of
well-selected wine in Baker Street, to my son. I leave twenty pound a year to my
valet; and I defy any man after I have gone to find anything against my
character.« Or suppose, on the other hand, your swan sings quite a different
sort of dirge, and you say, »I am a poor, blighted, disappointed old fellow, and
have made an utter failure through life. I was not endowed either with brains or
with good fortune, and confess that I have committed a hundred mistakes and
blunders. I own to having forgotten my duty many a time. I can't pay what I owe.
On my last bed I lie utterly helpless and humble, and I pray forgiveness for my
weakness, and throw myself, with a contrite heart, at the feet of the Divine
Mercy.« Which of these two speeches, think you, would be the best oration for
your own funeral? Old Sedley made the last, and in that humble frame of mind,
and holding by the hand of his daughter, life and disappointment and vanity sank
away from under him.
 
»You see,« said old Osborne to George, »what comes of merit and industry, and
judicious speculations, and that. Look at me and my banker's account. Look at
your poor grandfather Sedley and his failure. And yet he was a better man than I
was this day twenty years - a better man, I should say, by ten thousand pound.«
    Beyond these people and Mr. Clapp's family, who came over from Brompton to
pay a visit of condolence, not a single soul alive ever cared a penny piece
about old John Sedley, or remembered the existence of such a person.
    When old Osborne first heard from his friend Colonel Buckler (as little
George has already informed us) how distinguished an officer Major Dobbin was,
he exhibited a great deal of scornful incredulity, and expressed his surprise
how ever such a feller as the should possess either brains or reputation. But he
heard of the Major's fame from various members of his society. Sir William
Dobbin had a great opinion of his son, and narrated many stories illustrative of
the Major's learning, valour, and estimation in the world's opinion. Finally,
his name appeared in the lists of one or two great parties of the nobility, and
this circumstance had a prodigious effect upon the old aristocrat of Russell
Square.
    The Major's position as guardian to Georgy, whose possession had been ceded
to his grandfather, rendered some meetings between the two gentlemen inevitable;
and it was in one of these that old Osborne, a keen man of business, looking
into the Major's accounts with his ward and the boy's mother, got a hint which
staggered him very much, and at once pained and pleased him, that it was out of
William Dobbin's own pocket that a part of the fund had been supplied upon which
the poor widow and the child had subsisted.
    When pressed upon the point, Dobbin, who could not tell lies, blushed and
stammered a good deal, and finally confessed. »The marriage,« he said (at which
his interlocutor's face grew dark), »was very much my doing. I thought my poor
friend had gone so far that retreat from his engagement would have been
dishonour to him and death to Mrs. Osborne; and I could do no less, when she was
left without resources, than give what money I could spare to maintain her.«
    »Major D.,« Mr. Osborne said, looking hard at him, and turning very red too,
»you did me a great injury; but give me leave to tell you, sir, you are an
honest feller. There's my hand, sir, though I little thought that my flesh and
blood was living on you.« And the pair shook hands, with great confusion on
Major Dobbin's part, thus found out in his act of charitable hypocrisy.
    He strove to soften the old man reconcile him towards his son's memory. »He
was such a noble fellow,« he said, »that all of us loved him, and would have
done anything for him. I, as a young man in those days, was flattered beyond
measure by his preference for me, and was more pleased to be seen in his company
than in that of the Commander-in-Chief. I never saw his equal for pluck and
daring and all the qualities of a soldier;« and Dobbin told the old father as
many stories as he could remember regarding the gallantry and achievements of
his son. »And Georgy is so like him,« the Major added.
    »He's so like him that he makes me tremble sometimes,« the grandfather said.
    On one or two evenings the Major came to dine with Mr. Osborne (it was
during the time of the sickness of Mr. Sedley), and as the two sate together in
the evening after dinner all their talk was about the departed hero. The father
boasted about him according to his wont, glorifying himself in recounting his
son's feats and gallantry, but his mood was at any rate better and more
charitable than that in which he had been disposed until now to regard the poor
fellow; and the Christian heart of the kind Major was pleased at these symptoms
of returning peace and goodwill. On the second evening old Osborne called Dobbin
William, just as he used to do the time when Dobbin and George were boys
together; and the honest gentleman was pleased by that mark of reconciliation.
    On the next day at breakfast, when Miss Osborne, with the asperity of her
age and character, ventured to make some remark reflecting slightingly upon the
Major's appearance or behaviour, the master of the house interrupted her. »You'd
have been glad enough to git him for yourself, Miss O. But them grapes are sour.
Ha! ha! Major William is a fine feller.«
    »That he is, Grandpapa,« said Georgy approvingly; and going up close to the
old gentleman, he took a hold of his large grey whiskers, and laughed in his
face good-humouredly and kissed him. And he told the story at night to his
mother, who fully agreed with the boy. »Indeed he is,« she said. »Your dear
father always said so. He is one of the best and most upright of men.« Dobbin
happened to drop in very soon after this conversation, which made Amelia blush
perhaps; and the young scapegrace increased the confusion by telling Dobbin the
other part of the story. »I say, Dob,« he said, »there's such an uncommon nice
girl wants to marry you. She's plenty of tin, she wears a front, and she scolds
the servants from morning till night.«
    »Who is it?« asked Dobbin.
    »It's Aunt O.,« the boy answered; »Grandpapa said so. And I say, Dob, how
prime it would be to have you for my uncle!« Old Sedley's quavering voice from
the next room at this moment weakly called for Amelia, and the laughing ended.
    The old Osborne's mind was changing was pretty clear. He asked George about
his uncle sometimes, and laughed at the boy's imitation of the way in which Jos
said, »God-bless-my-soul,« and gobbled his soup. Then he said, »It's not
respectful, sir, of you younkers to be imitating of your relations. - Miss O.,
when you go out a-driving to-day, leave my card upon Mr. Sedley, do you hear?
There's no quarrel betwigst me and him anyhow.«
    The card was returned, and Jos and the Major were asked to dinner - to a
dinner the most splendid and stupid that perhaps ever Mr. Osborne gave: every
inch of the family plate was exhibited, and the best company was asked. Mr.
Sedley took down Miss O. to dinner, and she was very gracious to him; whereas
she hardly spoke to the Major, who sat apart from her, and by the side of Mr.
Osborne, very timid. Jos said, with great solemnity, it was the best turtle soup
he had ever tasted in his life, and asked Mr. Osborne where he got his Madeira.
    »It is some of Sedley's wine,« whispered the butler to his master. - »I've
had it a long time, and paid a good figure for it, too,« Mr. Osborne said aloud
to his guest; and then whispered to his right-hand neighbour how he had got it
»at the old chap's sale.«
    More than once he asked the Major about - about Mrs. George Osborne - a
theme on which the Major could be very eloquent when he chose. He told Mr.
Osborne of her sufferings; of her passionate attachment to her husband, whose
memory she worshipped still; of the tender and dutiful manner in which she had
supported her parents, and given up her boy when it seemed to her duty to do so.
»You don't know what she endured, sir,« said honest Dobbin, with a tremor in his
voice; »and I hope and trust you will be reconciled to her. If she took your son
away from you, she gave hers to you; and however much you loved your George,
depend on it she loved hers ten times more.«
    »By God, you are a good feller, sir,« was all Mr. Osborne said. It had never
struck him that the widow would feel any pain at parting from the boy, or that
his having a fine fortune could grieve her. A reconciliation was announced as
speedy and inevitable, and Amelia's heart already began to beat at the notion of
the awful meeting with George's father.
    It was never, however, destined to take place. Old Sedley's lingering
illness and death supervened, after which a meeting was for some time
impossible. That catastrophe and other events may have worked upon Mr. Osborne.
He was much shaken of late, and aged, and his mind was working inwardly. He had
sent for his lawyers, and probably changed something in his will. The medical
man who looked in pronounced him shaky, agitated, and talked of a little blood
and the seaside; but he took neither of these remedies.
    One day when he should have come down to breakfast, his servant missing him
went into his dressing-room, and found him lying at the foot of the
dressing-table in a fit. Miss Osborne was apprised; the doctors were sent for;
Georgy stopped away from school; the bleeders and cuppers came. Osborne
partially regained cognizance, but never could speak again, though he tried
dreadfully once or twice, and in four days he died. The doctors went down, and
the undertaker's men went up the stairs; and all the shutters were shut towards
the garden in Russell Square. Bullock rushed from the City in a hurry. »How much
money had he left to that boy? not half, surely? Surely share and share alike
between the three!« It was an agitating moment.
    What was it that poor old man tried once or twice in vain to say? I hope it
was that he wanted to see Amelia, and be reconciled before he left the world to
the dear and faithful wife of his son. It was most likely that, for his will
showed that the hatred which he had so long cherished had gone out of his heart.
    They found in the pocket of his dressing-gown the letter with the great red
seal which George had written him from Waterloo. He had looked at the other
papers too, relative to his son; for the key of the box in which he kept them
was also in his pocket, and it was found the seals and envelopes had been broken
- very likely on the night before the seizure - when the butler had taken him
tea into his study, and found him reading in the great red family Bible.
    When the will was opened, it was found that half the property was left to
George, and the remainder between the two sisters; Mr. Bullock to continue, for
their joint benefit, the affairs of the commercial house, or to go out, as he
thought fit. An annuity of five hundred pounds, chargeable on George's property,
was left to his mother, »the widow of my beloved son, George Osborne,« who was
to resume the guardianship of the boy.
    »Major William Dobbin, my beloved son's friend,« was appointed executor;
»and as out of his kindness and bounty, and with his own private funds, he
maintained my grandson and my son's widow, when they were otherwise without
means of support« (the testator went on to say), »I hereby thank him heartily
for his love and regard for them, and beseech him to accept such a sum as may be
sufficient to purchase his commission as a Lieutenant-Colonel, or to be disposed
of in any way he may think fit.«
    When Amelia heard that her father-in-law was reconciled to her, her heart
melted, and she was grateful for the fortune left to her. But when she heard how
Georgy was restored to her, and knew how and by whom, and how it was William's
bounty that supported her in poverty, how it was William who gave her her
husband and her son - oh, then she sank on her knees, and prayed for blessings
on that constant and kind heart; she bowed down and humbled herself, and kissed
the feet, as it were, of that beautiful and generous affection.
    And gratitude was all that she had to pay back for such admirable devotion
and benefits - only gratitude! If she thought of any other return, the image of
George stood up out of the grave, and said, »You are mine, and mine only, now
and for ever.«
    William knew her feelings; had he not passed his whole life in divining
them?
    When the nature of Mr. Osborne's will became known to the world, it was
edifying to remark how Mrs. George Osborne rose in the estimation of the people
forming her circle of acquaintance. The servants of Jos's establishment, who
used to question her humble orders, and say they would »ask Master« whether or
not they could obey, never thought now of that sort of appeal. The cook forgot
to sneer at her shabby old gowns (which, indeed were quite eclipsed by that
lady's finery when she was dressed to go to church of a Sunday evening); the
others no longer grumbled at the sound of her bell, or delayed to answer that
summons. The coachman, who grumbled that his 'osses should be brought out, and
his carriage made into a hospital for that old feller and Mrs. O., drove her
with the utmost alacrity now; and trembling lest he should be superseded by Mr.
Osborne's coachman, asked »what them there Russell Square coachmen knew about
town, and whether they was fit to sit on a box before a lady?« Jos's friends,
male and female, suddenly became interested about Emmy, and cards of condolence
multiplied on her hall table. Jos himself, who had looked on her as a
good-natured, harmless pauper, to whom it was his duty to give victuals and
shelter, paid her and the rich little boy, his nephew, the greatest respect; was
anxious that she should have change and amusement after her troubles and trials,
poor dear girl; and began to appear at the breakfast-table, and most
particularly to ask how she would like to dispose of the day.
    In her capacity of guardian to Georgy, she, with the consent of the Major,
her fellow-trustee, begged Miss Osborne to live in the Russell Square house as
long as ever she chose to dwell there; but that lady, with thanks, declared that
she never could think of remaining alone in that melancholy mansion, and
departed in deep mourning to Cheltenham, with a couple of her domestics. The
rest were liberally paid and dismissed - the faithful old butler, whom Mrs.
Osborne proposed to retain, resigning, and preferring to invest his savings in a
public-house, where, let us hope, he was not unprosperous. Miss Osborne not
choosing to live in Russell Square, Mrs. Osborne also, after consultation,
declined to occupy the gloomy old mansion there. The house was dismantled; the
rich furniture and effects, the awful chandeliers and dreary blank mirrors
packed away and hidden, the rich rosewood drawing-room suite was muffled in
straw, the carpets were rolled up and corded, the small select library of
well-bound books was stowed into two wine-chests, and the whole paraphernalia
rolled away in several enormous vans to the Pantechnicon, where they were to lie
until George's majority. And the great heavy dark plate-chests went off to
Messrs. Stumpy &amp; Rowdy, to lie in the cellars of those eminent bankers until
the same period should arrive.
    One day Emmy, with George in her hand and clad in deep sables, went to visit
the deserted mansion which she had not entered since she was a girl. The place
in front was littered with straw where the vans had been laden and rolled off.
They went into the great blank rooms, the walls of which bore the marks where
the pictures and mirrors had hung. Then they went up the great blank stone
staircases into the upper rooms, into that where grandpapa died, as George said
in a whisper, and then higher still into George's own room. The boy was still
clinging by her side, but she thought of another besides him. She knew that it
had been his father's room as well as his own.
    She went up to one the open windows (one of those at which she used to gaze
with a sick heart when the child was first taken from her), and thence as she
looked out she could see, over the trees of Russell Square, the old house in
which she herself was born, and where she had passed so many happy days of
sacred youth. They all came back to her - the pleasant holidays, the kind faces,
the careless, joyful past times; and the long pains and trials that had since
cast her down. She thought of these and of the man who had been her constant
protector, her good genius, her sole benefactor, her tender and generous friend.
    »Look here, mother,« said Georgy, »here's a G.O. scratched on the glass with
a diamond; I never saw it before - I never did it.«
    »It was your father's room long before you were born, George,« she said, and
she blushed as she kissed the boy.
    She was very silent as they drove back to Richmond, where they had taken a
temporary house; where the smiling lawyers used to come bustling over to see her
(and we may be sure noted the visit in the bill); and where, of course, there
was a room for Major Dobbin too, who rode over frequently, having much business
to transact on behalf of his little ward.
    Georgy at this time was removed from Mr. Veal's on an unlimited holiday, and
that gentleman was engaged to prepare an inscription for a fine marble slab, to
be placed up in the Foundling under the monument of Captain George Osborne.
 
The female Bullock, aunt of Georgy, although despoiled by that little monster of
one-half of the sum which she expected from her father, nevertheless showed her
charitableness of spirit by being reconciled to the mother and the boy.
Roehampton is not far from Richmond, and one day the chariot, with the golden
bullocks emblazoned on the panels, and the flaccid children within, drove to
Amelia's house at Richmond; and the Bullock family made an irruption into the
garden, where Amelia was reading a book, Jos was in an arbour placidly dipping
strawberries into wine, and the Major in one of his Indian jackets was giving a
back to Georgy, who chose to jump over him. He went over his head, and bounded
into the little advance of Bullocks, with immense black bows in their hats, and
huge black sashes, accompanying their mourning mamma. »He is just of the age for
Rosa,« the fond parent thought, and glanced towards that dear child, an
unwholesome little Miss of seven years of age.
    »Rosa, go and kiss your dear cousin,« Mrs. Frederick said. - »Don't you know
me, George? I am your aunt.«
    »I know you well enough,« George said; »but I don't like kissing, please,«
and he retreated from the obedient caresses of his cousin.
    »Take me to your dear mamma, you droll child,« Mrs. Frederick said; and
those ladies accordingly met, after an absence of more than fifteen years.
During Emmy's cares and poverty the other had never once thought about coming to
see her; but now that she was decently prosperous in the world, her sister-in-
came to her as a matter of course.
    So did numbers more. Our old friend Miss Swartz and her husband came
thundering over from Hampton Court, with flaming yellow liveries, and was as
impetuously fond of Amelia as ever. Miss Swartz would have liked her always if
she could have seen her; one must do her that justice. But, que voulez-vous? -
in this vast town one has not the time to go and seek one's friends; if they
drop out of the rank they disappear, and we march on without them. Who is ever
missed in Vanity Fair?
    But so, in a word, and before the period of grief for Mr. Osborne's death
had subsided, Emmy found herself in the centre of a very genteel circle indeed,
the members of which could not conceive that anybody belonging to it was not
very lucky. There was scarce one of the ladies that hadn't a relation a peer,
though the husband might be a drysalter in the City. Some of the ladies were
very blue and well-informed, reading Mrs. Somerville and frequenting the Royal
Institution; others were severe and Evangelical, and held by Exeter Hall. Emmy,
it must be owned, found herself entirely at a loss in the midst of their
clavers, and suffered woefully on the one or two occasions on which she was
compelled to accept Mrs. Frederick Bullock's hospitalities. That lady persisted
in patronizing her, and determined most graciously to form her. She found
Amelia's milliners for her, and regulated her household and her manners. She
drove over constantly from Roehampton, and entertained her friend with faint
fashionable fiddle-faddle and feeble Court slipslop. Jos liked to hear it, but
the Major used to go off growling at the appearance of this woman with her
twopenny gentility. He went to sleep under Frederick Bullock's bald head, after
dinner, at one of the banker's best parties (Fred was still anxious that the
balance of the Osborne property should be transferred from Stumpy &amp; Rowdy's
to them), and whilst Amelia, who did not know Latin, or who wrote the last crack
article in the Edinburgh, and did not in the least deplore or otherwise Mr.
Peel's late extraordinary tergiversation on the fatal Catholic Relief Bill, sate
dumb amongst the ladies in the grand drawing-room, looking out upon velvet
lawns, trim gravel walks, and glistening hot-houses.
    »She seems good-natured but insipid,« said Mrs. Rowdy; »that Major seems to
be particularly épris.«
    »She wants ton sadly,« said Mrs. Hollyock. »My dear creature, you never will
be able to form her.«
    »She is dreadfully ignorant or indifferent,« said Mrs. Glowry, with a voice
as if from the grave, and a sad shake of the head and turban. »I asked her if
she thought that it was in 1836, according to Mr. Jowls, or in 1839, according
to Mr. Wapshot, that the Pope was to fall; and she said, Poor Pope! I hope not.
What has he done?«
    »She is my brother's widow, my dear friends,« Mrs. Frederick replied, »and
as such I think we're all bound to give her every attention and instruction on
entering into the world. You may fancy there can be no mercenary motives in
those whose disappointments are well known.«
    »That poor dear Mrs. Bullock,« said Rowdy to Hollyock, as they drove away
together - »she is always scheming and managing. She wants Mrs. Osborne's
account to be taken from our house to hers; and the way in which she coaxes that
boy, and makes him sit by that blear-eyed little Rosa, is perfectly ridiculous.«
    »I wish Glowry was choked with her Man of Sin and her Battle of Armageddon,«
cried the other; and the carriage rolled away over Putney Bridge.
    But this sort of society was too cruelly genteel for Emmy, and all jumped
for joy when a foreign tour was proposed.
 

                                  Chapter LXII

                                   Am Rhein.

The above everyday events had occurred, and a few weeks had passed, when on one
fine morning, Parliament being over, the summer advanced, and all the good
company in London about to quit that city for their annual tour in search of
pleasure or health, the Batavier steamboat left the Tower stairs laden with a
goodly company of English fugitives. The quarter-deck awnings were up, and the
benches and gangways crowded with scores of rosy children, bustling nursemaids,
ladies in the prettiest pink bonnets and summer dresses, gentlemen in travelling
caps and linen jackets, whose mustachios had just begun to sprout for the
ensuing tour; and stout, trim old veterans with starched neckcloths and
neat-brushed hats, such as have invaded Europe any time since the conclusion of
the war, and carry the national Goddem into every city of the Continent. The
congregation of hat-boxes and Bramah desks and dressing-cases was prodigious.
There were jaunty young Cambridge men travelling with their tutor, and going for
a reading excursion to Nonnenwerth or Königswinter; there were Irish gentlemen,
with the most dashing whiskers and jewellery, talking about horses incessantly,
and prodigiously polite to the young ladies on board, whom, on the contrary, the
Cambridge lads and their pale-faced tutor avoided with maiden coyness; there
were old Pall Mall loungers bound for Ems and Wiesbaden, and a course of waters
to clear off the dinners of the season, and a little roulette and
trente-et-quarante to keep the excitement going; there was old Methuselah, who
had married his young wife, with Captain Papillon of the Guards holding her
parasol and guide-books! there was young May, who was carrying off his bride on
a pleasure tour (Mrs. Winter that was, and who had been at school with May's
grandmother); there was Sir John and my Lady with a dozen children, and
corresponding nursemaids; and the great grandee Bareacres' family that sate by
themselves near the wheel, stared at everybody, and spoke to no one. Their
carriages, emblazoned with coronets, and heaped with shining imperials, were on
the fore-deck, locked in with a dozen more such vehicles - it was difficult to
pass in and out amongst them; and the poor inmates of the fore-cabin had
scarcely any space for locomotion. These consisted of a few
magnificently-attired gentlemen from Houndsditch who brought their own
provisions, and could have bought half the gay people in the grand saloon; a few
honest fellows with mustachios and portfolios, who set to sketching before they
had been half an hour on board; one or two French femmes de chamber, who began
to be dreadfully ill by the time the boat had passed Greenwich; a groom or two
who lounged in the neighbourhood of the horse-boxes under their charge, or
leaned over the side by the paddle-wheels, and talked about who was good for the
Leger, and what they stood to win or lose for the Goodwood Cup.
    All the couriers, when they had done plunging about the ship, and had
settled their various masters in the cabins or on the deck, congregated together
and began to chatter and smoke - the Hebrew gentlemen joining them and looking
at the carriages. There was Sir John's great carriage, that would hold thirteen
people; my Lord Methuselah's carriage; my Lord Bareacres' chariot, britzka, and
fourgon, that anybody might pay for who liked. It was a wonder how my Lord got
the ready money to pay for the expenses of the journey. The Hebrew gentlemen
knew how he got it. They knew what money his Lordship had in his pocket at that
instant, and what interest he paid for it, and who gave it him. Finally, there
was a very neat, handsome travelling carriage, about which the gentlemen
speculated.
    »À qui cette voiture là?« said one gentleman-courier with a large morocco
money-bag and earrings to another with earrings and a large morocco money-bag.
    »C'est à Kirsch je bense - je l'ai vu toute à l'heure - qui brenoit des
sangviches dans la voiture,« said the courier, in as fine German-French. Kirsch,
emerging presently from the neighbourhood of the hold, where he had been
bellowing instructions intermingled with polyglot oaths to the ship's men
engaged in secreting the passengers' luggage, came to give an account of himself
to his brother interpreters. He informed them that the carriage belonged to a
Nabob from Calcutta and Jamaica, enormously rich, and with whom he was engaged
to travel; and at this moment a young gentleman who had been warned off the
bridge between the paddle-boxes, and who had dropped thence on to the roof of
Lord Methuselah's carriage, from which he made his way over other carriages and
imperials until he had clambered on to his own, descended thence and through the
window into the body of the carriage, to the applause of the couriers looking
on.
    »Nous allons avoir une belle traversée, Monsieur George,« said the courier,
with a grin, as he lifted his gold-laced cap.
    »D-- your French,« said the young gentleman, »where's the biscuits, ay?«
Whereupon Kirsch answered him in the English language, or in such an imitation
of it as he could command; for though he was familiar with all languages, Mr.
Kirsch was not acquainted with a single one, and spoke all with indifferent
volubility and incorrectness.
    The imperious young gentleman who gobbled the biscuits (and indeed it was
time to refresh himself, for he had breakfasted at Richmond full three hours
before) was our young friend George Osborne. Uncle Jos and his mamma were on the
quarter-deck with a gentleman of whom they used to see a good deal, and the four
were about to make a summer tour.
    Jos was seated at that moment on deck under the awning, and pretty nearly
opposite to the Earl of Bareacres and his family, whose proceedings absorbed the
Bengalee almost entirely. Both the noble couple looked rather younger than in
the eventful year '15, when Jos remembered to have seen them at Brussels
(indeed, he always out in India that he was intimately acquainted with them).
Lady Bareacre's hair, which was then dark, was now a beautiful golden auburn;
whereas Lord Bareacres' whiskers, formerly red, were at present of a rich black,
with purple and green reflections in the light. But changed as they were, the
movements of the noble pair occupied Jos's mind entirely. The presence of a lord
fascinated him, and he could look at nothing else.
    »Those people seem to interest you a great deal,« said Dobbin, laughing and
watching him. Amelia too laughed. She was in a straw bonnet with black ribbons,
and otherwise dressed in mourning; but the little bustle and holiday of the
journey pleased and excited her, and she looked particularly happy.
    »What a heavenly day!« Emmy said; and added, with great originality, »I hope
we shall have a calm passage.«
    Jos waved his hand, scornfully glancing at the same time under his eyelids
at the great folks opposite. »If you had made the voyages we have,« he said,
»you wouldn't much care about the weather.« But nevertheless, traveller as he
was, he passed the night direfully sick in his carriage, where his courier
tended him with brandy-and-water and every luxury.
    In due time this happy party landed at the quays of Rotterdam, whence they
were transported by another steamer to the city of Cologne. Here the carriage
and the family took to the shore, and Jos was not a little gratified to see his
arrival announced in the Cologne newspapers as »Herr Graf Lord von Sedley nebst
Begleitung aus London.« He had his court dress with him; he had insisted that
Dobbin should bring his regimental paraphernalia; he announced that it was his
intention to be presented at some foreign courts, and pay his respects to the
sovereigns of the countries which he honoured with a visit.
    Wherever the party stopped and an opportunity was offered, Mr. Jos left his
own card and the Major's upon Our Minister. It was with great difficulty that he
could be restrained from putting on his cocked hat and tights to wait upon the
English Consul at the Free City of Judenstadt, when that hospitable functionary
asked our travellers to dinner. He kept a journal of his voyage, and noted
elaborately the defects or excellences of the various inns at which he put up,
and of the wines and dishes of which he partook.
    As for Emmy, she was very happy and pleased. Dobbin used to carry about for
her her stool and sketch-book, and admired the drawings of the good-natured
little artist as they never had been admired before. She sate upon steamers'
decks and drew crags and castles; or she mounted upon donkeys and ascended to
ancient robber-towers, attended by her two aides-de-camp, Georgy and Dobbin. She
laughed, and the Major did too, at his droll figure on donkey-back, with his
long legs touching the ground. He was the interpreter for the party, having a
good military knowledge of the German language; and he and the delighted George
fought the campaigns of the Rhine and the Palatinate. In the course of a few
weeks, and by assiduously conversing with Herr Kirsch on the box of the
carriage, Georgy made prodigious advance in the knowledge of High Dutch, and
could talk to hotel waiters and postilions in a way that charmed his mother and
amused his guardian.
    Mr. Jos did not much engage in the afternoon excursions of his
fellow-travellers. He slept a good deal after dinner, or basked in the arbours
of the pleasant inn-gardens. Pleasant Rhine gardens! Fair scenes of peace and
sunshine, noble purple mountains whose crests are reflected in the magnificent
stream, who has ever seen you that has not a grateful memory of those scenes of
friendly repose and beauty? To lay down the pen and even to think of that
beautiful Rhine-land makes one happy. At this time of summer evening the cows
are trooping down from the hills, lowing, and with their bells tinkling, to the
old town, with its old moats, and gates, and spires, and chestnut-trees, with
long blue shadows stretching over the grass; the sky and the river below flame
in crimson and gold; and the moon is already out, looking pale towards the
sunset. The sun sinks behind the great castle-crested mountains, the night falls
suddenly, the river grows darker and darker, lights quiver in it from the
windows in the old ramparts, and twinkle peacefully in the village under the
hills on the opposite shore.
    So Jos used to go to sleep a good deal with his bandanna over his face, and
be very comfortable, and read all the English news, and every word of
Galignani's admirable newspaper (may the blessings of all Englishmen who have
ever been abroad rest on the founders and proprietors of that piratical print!),
and whether he woke or slept his friends did not very much miss him. Yes, they
were very happy. They went to the Opera often of evenings - to those snug,
unassuming, dear old operas in the German towns, where the noblesse sits and
cries and knits stockings on the one side, over against the bourgeoisie on the
other; and His Transparency the Duke and his Transparent family, all very fat
and good-natured, come and occupy the great box in the middle; and the pit is
full of the most elegant slim-waisted officers with straw-coloured mustachios,
and twopence a day on full pay. Here it was that Emmy found her delight, and was
introduced for the first time to the wonders of Mozart and Cimarosa. The Major's
musical taste has been before alluded to, and his performances on the flute
commended. But perhaps the chief pleasure he had in these operas was in watching
Emmy's rapture while listening to them. A new world of love and beauty broke
upon her when she was introduced to those divine compositions: this lady had the
keenest and finest sensibility, and how could she be indifferent when she heard
Mozart? The tender parts of »Don Juan« awakened in her raptures so exquisite
that she would ask herself, when she went to say her prayers of a night, whether
it was not wicked to feel so much delight as that with which »Vedrai Carino« and
»Batti Batti« filled her gentle little bosom? But the Major, whom she consulted
upon this head as her theological adviser (and who himself had a pious and
reverent soul), said that, for his part, every beauty of art or nature made him
thankful as well as happy; and that the pleasure to be had in listening to fine
music, as in looking at the stars in the sky, or at a beautiful landscape or
picture, was a benefit for which we might thank Heaven as sincerely as for any
other worldly blessing. And in reply to some faint objections of Mrs. Amelia's
(taken from certain theological works like the »Washerwoman of Finchley Common«
and others of that school, with which Mrs. Osborne had been furnished during her
life at Brompton) he told her an Eastern fable of the Owl who thought that the
sunshine was unbearable for the eyes, and that the Nightingale was a most
overrated bird. »It is one's nature to sing and the other's to hoot,« he said,
laughing, »and with such a sweet voice as you have yourself, you must belong to
the Bulbul faction.«
    I like to dwell upon this period of her life, and to think that she was
cheerful and happy. You see she has not had too much of that sort of existence
as yet, and has not fallen in the way of means to educate her tastes or her
intelligence. She has been domineered over hitherto by vulgar intellects. It is
the lot of many a woman. And as every one of the dear sex is the rival of the
rest of her kind, timidity passes for folly in their charitable judgments, and
gentleness for dullness, and silence - which is but timid denial of the
unwelcome assertion of ruling folks, and tacit protestantism - above all, finds
no mercy at the hands of the female Inquisition. Thus, my dear and civilized
reader, if you and I were to find ourselves this evening in a society of
greengrocers, let us say, it is probable that our conversation would not be
brilliant; if, on the other hand, a greengrocer should find himself at your
refined and polite tea-table, where everybody was saying witty things, and
everybody of fashion and repute tearing her friends to pieces in the most
delightful manner, it is possible that the stranger would not be very talkative,
and by no means interesting or interested.
    And it must be remembered that this poor lady had never met a gentleman in
her life until this present moment. Perhaps these are rarer personages than some
of us think. For which of us can point out many such in his circle - men whose
aims are generous, whose truth is constant, and not only constant in its kind
but elevated in its degree; whose want of meanness makes them simple; who can
look the world honestly in the face with an equal manly sympathy for the great
and the small? We all know a hundred whose coats are very well made, and a score
who have excellent manners, and one or two happy beings who are what they call
in the inner circles, and have shot into the very centre and bull's-eye of the
fashion; but of gentlemen how many? Let us take a little scrap of paper and each
make out his list.
    My friend the Major I write, without any doubt, in mine. He had very long
legs, a yellow face, and a slight lisp, which at first was rather ridiculous.
But his thoughts were just, his brains were fairly good, his life was honest and
pure, and his heart warm and humble. He certainly had very large hands and feet,
which the two George Osbornes used to caricature and laugh at, and their jeers
and laughter perhaps led poor little Emmy astray as to his worth. But have we
not all been misled about our heroes, and changed our opinions a hundred times?
Emmy, in this happy time, found that hers underwent a very great change in
respect of the merits of the Major.
    Perhaps it was the happiest time of both their lives indeed, if they did but
know it; and who does? Which of us can point out and say that was the
culmination, that was the summit of human joy? But at all events this couple
were very decently contented, and enjoyed as pleasant a summer tour as any pair
that left England that year. Georgy was always present at the play, but it was
the Major who put Emmy's shawl on after the entertainment; and in the walks and
excursions the young lad would be on ahead, and up a tower-stair or a tree,
whilst the soberer couple were below - the Major smoking his cigar with great
placidity and constancy, whilst Emmy sketched the sight or the ruin. It was on
this very tour that I, the present writer of a history of which every word is
true, had the pleasure to see them first, and to make their acquaintance.
 
It was at the little comfortable Ducal town of Pumpernickel (that very place
where Sir Pitt Crawley had been so distinguished as an attaché; but that was in
early, early days, and before the news of the battle of Austerlitz sent all the
English diplomatists in Germany to the right about) that I first saw Colonel
Dobbin and his party. They had arrived with the carriage and courier at the
Erbprinz Hotel, the best of the town, and the whole party dined at the table
d'hôte. Everybody remarked the majesty of Jos, and the knowing way in which he
sipped or rather sucked the Johannisberger, which he ordered for dinner. The
little boy, too, we observed, had a famous appetite, and consumed schinken, and
braten, and kartoffeln, and cranberry jam, and salad, and pudding, and roast
fowls, and sweetmeats, with a gallantry that did honour to his nation. After
about fifteen dishes, he concluded the repast with dessert, some of which he
even carried out of doors; for some young gentlemen at table, amused with his
coolness and gallant free-and-easy manner, induced him to pocket a handful of
macaroons, which he discussed on his way to the theatre, whither everybody went
in the cheery, social little German place. The lady in black, the boy's mamma,
laughed and blushed, and looked exceedingly pleased and shy as the dinner went
on, and at the various feats and instances of espièglerie on the part of her
son. The Colonel - for so he became very soon afterwards - I remember, joked the
boy, with a great deal of grave fun pointing out dishes which he hadn't tried,
and entreating him not to balk his appetite, but to have a second supply of this
or that.
    It was what they call a gastrolle night at the Royal Grand Ducal
Pumpernickelisch Hof, or Court theatre, and Madame Schroeder Devrient, then in
the bloom of her beauty and genius, performed the part of the heroine in the
wonderful opera of »Fidelio.« From our places in the stalls we could see our
four friends of the table d'hôte, in the loge which Schwendler of the Erbprinz
kept for his best guests; and I could not help remarking the effect which the
magnificent actress and music produced upon Mrs. Osborne - for so we heard the
stout gentleman in the mustachios call her. During the astonishing Chorus of the
Prisoners, over which the delightful voice of the actress rose and soared in the
most ravishing harmony, the English lady's face wore such an expression of
wonder and delight that it struck even little Fipps, the blasé attaché, who
drawled out, as he fixed his glass upon her, »Gayd, it really does one good to
see a woman caypable of that stayt of excaytement«. And in the Prison scene,
where Fidelio, rushing to her husband, cries, »Nichts, nichts, mein Florestan,«
she fairly lost herself, and covered her face with her handkerchief. Every woman
in the house was snivelling at the time; but I suppose it was because it was
predestined that I was to write this particular lady's memoirs that I remarked
her.
    The next day they gave another piece of Beethoven, »Die Schlacht bei
Vittoria.« Malbrook is introduced at the beginning of the performance, as
indicative of the brisk advance of the French army. Then come drums, trumpets,
thunders of artillery, and groans of the dying, and at last, in a grand
triumphal swell, »God save the King« is performed.
    There may have been a score of Englishmen in the house, but at the burst of
that beloved and well-known music every one of them - we young fellows in the
stalls, Sir John and Lady Bullminster (who had taken a house at Pumpernickel for
the education of their nine children), the fat gentleman with the mustachios,
the long Major in white duck trousers, and the lady with the little boy upon
whom he was so sweet; even Kirsch, the courier in the gallery - stood bolt
upright in their places, and proclaimed themselves to be members of the dear old
British nation. As for Tapeworm, the Chargé d'Affaires, he rose up in his box
and bowed and simpered as if he would represent the whole empire. Tapeworm was
nephew and heir of old Marshal Tiptoff, who has been introduced in this story as
General Tiptoff, just before Waterloo, who was Colonel of the -th regiment, in
which Major Dobbin served, and who died in this year full of honours, and of an
aspic of plovers' eggs; when the regiment was graciously given by his Majesty to
Colonel Sir Michael O'Dowd, K.C.B., who had commanded it in many glorious
fields.
    Tapeworm must have met with Colonel Dobbin at the house of the Colonel's
Colonel, the Marshal, for he recognized him on this night at the theatre; and
with the utmost condescension, his Majesty's Minister came over from his own
box, and publicly shook hands with his new-found friend.
    »Look at that infernal slyboots of a Tapeworm,« Fipps whispered, examining
his chief from the stalls. »Wherever there's a pretty woman he always twists
himself in.« And I wonder what were diplomatists made for but for that?
    »Have I the honour of addressing myself to Mrs. Dobbin?« asked the
Secretary, with a most insinuating grin.
    Georgy burst out laughing, and said, »By Jove, that is a good 'un!« Emmy and
the Major blushed; we saw them from the stalls.
    »This lady is Mrs. George Osborne,« said the Major, »and this is her
brother, Mr. Sedley, a distinguished officer of the Bengal Civil Service; permit
me to introduce him to your Lordship.«
    My lord nearly sent Jos off his legs with the most fascinating smile. »Are
you going to stop in Pumpernickel?« he said. »It is a dull place; but we want
some nice people, and we would try and make it, so agreeable to you. Mr. - Ahum
- Mrs. - Oho. I shall do myself the honour of calling upon you to-morrow at your
inn.« And he went away with a Parthian grin and glance which he thought must
finish Mrs. Osborne completely.
    The performance over, the young fellows lounged about the lobbies, and we
saw the society take its departure. The Duchess Dowager went off in her jingling
old coach, attended by two faithful and withered old maids of honour, and a
little snuffy spindle-shanked gentleman in waiting, in a brown jasey and a green
coat covered with orders, of which the star and the grand yellow cordon of the
Order of St. Michael of Pumpernickel were most conspicuous. The drums rolled,
the guards saluted, and the old carriage drove away.
    Then came His Transparency the Duke and Transparent family, with his great
officers of state and household. He bowed serenely to everybody. And amid the
saluting of the guards and the flaring of the torches of the running footmen,
clad in scarlet, the Transparent carriages drove away to the old Ducal Schloss,
with its towers and pinnacles standing on the Schlossberg. Everybody in
Pumpernickel knew everybody. No sooner was a foreigner seen there than the
Minister of Foreign Affairs, or some other great or small officer of state, went
round to the Erbprinz, and found out the name of the new arrival.
    We watched them, too, out of the theatre. Tapeworm had just walked off,
enveloped in his cloak, with which his gigantic chasseur was always in
attendance, and looking as much as possible like Don Juan. The Prime Minister's
lady had just squeezed herself into her sedan, and her daughter, the charming
Ida, had put on her calash and clogs, when the English party came out, the boy
yawning drearily, the Major taking great pains in keeping the shawl over Mrs.
Osborne's head, and Mr. Sedley looking grand, with a crush opera-hat on one side
of his head, and his hand in the stomach of a voluminous white waistcoat. We
took off our hats to our acquaintances of the table d'hôte, and the lady, in
return, presented us with a little smile and a curtsy, for which everybody might
be thankful.
    The carriage from the inn, under the superintendence of the bustling Mr.
Kirsch, was in waiting to convey the party. But the fat man said he would walk,
and smoke his cigar on his way homewards; so the other three, with nods and
smiles to us, went without Mr. Sedley - Kirsch, with the cigar-case, following
in his master's wake.
    We all walked together, and talked to the stout gentleman about the
agréments of the place. It was very agreeable for the English. There were
shooting-parties and battues; there was a plenty of balls and entertainments at
the hospitable Court; the society was generally good, the theatre excellent, and
the living cheap. »And our Minister seems a most delightful and affable person,«
our new friend said. »With such a representative, and - and a good medical man,
I can fancy the place to be most eligible. Good-night, gentlemen.« And Jos
creaked up the stairs to bedward, followed by Kirsch with a flambeau. We rather
hoped that nice-looking woman would be induced to stay some time in the town.
 

                                 Chapter LXIII

                     In which We Meet an Old Acquaintance.

Such polite behaviour as that of Lord Tapeworm did not fail to have the most
favourable effect upon Mr. Sedley's mind, and the very next morning, at
breakfast, he pronounced his opinion that Pumpernickel was the pleasantest
little place of any which he had visited on their tour. Jos's motives and
artifices were not very difficult of comprehension; and Dobbin laughed in his
sleeve, like a hypocrite as he was, when he found, by the knowing air of the
Civilian and the off-hand manner in which the latter talked about Tapeworm
Castle, and the other members of the family, that Jos had been up already in the
morning consulting his travelling Peerage. Yes, he had seen the Right Honourable
the Earl of Bagwig, his Lordship's father, he was sure he had; he had met him at
- at the Levee - didn't Dob remember? and when the Diplomatist called on the
party, faithful to his promise, Jos received him with such a salute and honours
as were seldom accorded to the little Envoy. He winked at Kirsch on His
Excellency's arrival, and that emissary, instructed beforehand, went out and
superintended an entertainment of cold meats, jellies, and other delicacies,
brought in upon trays, and of which Mr. Jos absolutely insisted that his noble
guest should partake.
    Tapeworm, so long as he could have an opportunity of admiring the bright
eyes of Mrs. Osborne (whose freshness of complexion bore daylight remarkably
well), was not ill pleased to accept any invitation to stay in Mr. Sedley's
lodgings. He put one or two dexterous questions to him about India and the
dancing-girls there; asked Amelia about that beautiful boy who had been with
her, and complimented the astonished little woman upon the prodigious sensation
which she had made in the house; and tried to fascinate Dobbin by talking of the
late war, and the exploits of the Pumpernickel contingent under the command of
the Hereditary Prince, now Duke of Pumpernickel.
    Lord Tapeworm inherited no little portion of the family gallantry, and it
was his happy belief that almost every woman upon whom he himself cast friendly
eyes was in love with him. He left Emmy under the persuasion that she was stain
by his wit and attractions, and went home to his lodgings to write a pretty
little note to her. She was not fascinated; only puzzled by his grinning, his
simpering, his scented cambric handkerchief, and his high-heeled lacquered
boots. She did not understand one-half the compliments which he paid; she had
never, in her small experience of mankind, met a professional ladies' man as
yet, and looked upon my lord as something curious rather than pleasant; and if
she did not admire, certainly wondered at him. Jos, on the contrary, was
delighted. »How very affable His Lordship is!« he said; »how very kind of His
Lordship to say he would send his medical man! - Kirsch, you will carry our
cards to the Count de Schlüsselback directly; the Major and I will have the
greatest pleasure in paying our respects at Court as soon as possible. Put out
my uniform, Kirsch - both our uniforms. It is a mark of politeness which every
English gentleman ought to show to the countries which he visits, to pay his
respects to the sovereigns of those countries as to the representatives of his
own.«
    When Tapeworm's doctor came - Doctor von Glauber, Body Physician to H.S.H.
the Duke - he speedily convinced Jos that the Pumpernickel mineral springs and
the Doctor's particular treatment would infallibly restore the Bengalee to youth
and slimness. »Dere came here last year,« he said, »Sheneral Bulkeley, an
English Sheneral, tvice so pic as you, sir. I sent him back qvite tin after tree
months, and he danced vid Baroness Glauber at the end of two.«
    Jos's mind was made up; the springs, the Doctor, the Court, and the Chargé
d'Affaires convinced him, and he proposed to spend the autumn in these
delightful quarters. And punctual to his word, on the next day the Chargé
d'Affaires presented Jos and the Major to Victor Aurelius XVII., being conducted
to their audience with that sovereign by the Count de Schlüsselback, Marshal of
the Court.
    They were straightway invited to dinner at Court, and their intention of
staying in the town being announced, the politest ladies of the whole town
instantly called upon Mrs. Osborne; and as not one of these, however poor they
might be, was under the rank of a Baroness, Jos's delight was beyond expression.
He wrote off to Chutney at the Club to say that the Service was highly
appreciated in Germany; that he was going to show his friend, the Count de
Schlüsselback, how to stick a pig in the Indian fashion; and that his august
friends, the Duke and Duchess, were everything that was kind and civil.
    Emmy, too, was presented to the august family; and as mourning is not
admitted in Court on certain days, she appeared in a pink crape dress, with a
diamond ornament in the corsage, presented to her by her brother, and she looked
so pretty in this costume that the Duke and Court (putting out of the question
the Major, who had scarcely ever seen her before in an evening dress, and vowed
that she did not look five-and-twenty) all admired her excessively.
    In this dress she walked a Polonaise with Major Dobbin at a Court ball, in
which easy dance Mr. Jos had the honour of leading out the Countess of
Schlüsselback, an old lady with a hump-back, but with sixteen good quarters of
nobility, and related to half the royal houses of Germany.
    Pumpernickel stands in the midst of a happy valley, through which sparkles -
to mingle with the Rhine somewhere, but I have not the map at hand to say
exactly at what point - the fertilizing stream of the Pump. In some places the
river is big enough to support a ferry boat, in others to turn a mill. In
Pumpernickel itself the last Transparency but three, the great and renowned
Victor Aurelius XIV., built a magnificent bridge, on which his own statue rises,
surrounded by water-nymphs and emblems of victory, peace, and plenty. He has his
foot on the neck of a prostrate Turk - history says he engaged and ran a
Janissary through the body at the relief of Vienna by Sobieski; but, quite
undisturbed by the agonies of that prostrate Mahometan, who writhes at his feet
in the most ghastly manner, the Prince smiles blandly, and points with his
truncheon in the direction of the Aurelius Platz, where he began to erect a new
palace that would have been the wonder of his age, had the great-souled Prince
but had funds to complete it. But the completion of Mon-plaisir (Monblaisir, the
honest German folk call it) was stopped for lack of ready money, and it and its
park and garden are now in rather a faded condition, and not more than ten times
big enough to accommodate the Court of the reigning Sovereign.
    The gardens were arranged to emulate those of Versailles, and amidst the
terraces and groves there are some huge allegorical waterworks still, which
spout and froth stupendously upon fête days, and frighten one with their
enormous aquatic insurrections. There is the Trophonius' cave, in which by some
artifice the leaden Tritons are made not only to spout water, but to play the
most dreadful groans out of their lead conchs; there is the Nymph-bath and the
Niagara cataract, which the people of the neighbourhood admire beyond expression
when they come to the yearly fair at the opening of the Chamber, or to the fêtes
with which the happy little nation still celebrates the birthdays and
marriage-days of its princely governors.
    Then from all the towns of the Duchy, which stretches for nearly ten miles -
from Bolkum, which lies on its western frontier bidding defiance to Prussia;
from Grogwitz, where the Prince has a hunting-lodge, and where his dominions are
separated by the Pump river from those of the neighbouring Prince of Potzenthal
- from all the little villages which, besides these three great cities, dot over
the happy Principality; from the farms and the mills along the Pump, come troops
of people in red petticoats and velvet headdresses, or with three-cornered hats,
and pipes in their mouths, who flock to the Rezidenz, and share in the pleasures
of the fair and the festivities there. Then the theatre is open for nothing;
then the waters of Monblaisir begin to play (it is lucky that three is company
to behold them, for one would be afraid to see them alone); then there come
mountebanks and riding troops (the way in which the Transparency was fascinated
by one of the horse-riders is well known, and it is believed that La Petite
Vivandière, as she was called, was a spy in the French interest), and the
delighted people are permitted to march through room after room of the Grand
Ducal palace, and admire the slippery floor, the rich hangings, and the
spittoons at the doors of all the innumerable chambers. There is one Pavilion at
Monblaisir which Aurelius Victor XV. had arranged - a great Prince, but too fond
of pleasure - and which I am told is a perfect wonder of licentious elegance. It
is painted with the story of Bacchus and Ariadne, and the table works in and out
of the room by means of a windlass, so that the company was served without any
intervention of domestics. But the place was shut up by Barbara, Aurelius the
Fifteenth's widow, a severe and devout Princess of the House of Bolkum and
Regent of the Duchy during her son's glorious minority, and after the death of
her husband, cut off in the pride of his pleasures.
    The theatre of Pumpernickel is known and famous in that quarter of Germany.
It languished a little when the present Duke in his youth insisted upon having
his own operas played there, and it is said one day, in a fury, from his place
in the orchestra, when he attended a rehearsal, broke a bassoon on the head of
the Chapel Master, who was conducting, and led too slow; and during which time
the Duchess Sophia wrote domestic comedies which must have been very dreary to
witness. But the Prince executes his music in private now, and the Duchess only
gives away her plays to the foreigners of distinction who visit her kind little
Court.
    It is conducted with no small comfort and splendour. When there are balls,
though there may be four hundred people at supper, there is a servant in scarlet
and lace to attend upon every four, and every one is served on silver. There are
festivals and entertainments going continually on; and the Duke has his
chamberlains and equerries, and the Duchess her mistress of the wardrobe and
ladies of honour, just like any other and more potent potentates.
    The Constitution is or was a moderate despotism, tempered by a Chamber that
might or might not be elected. I never certainly could hear of its sitting in my
time at Pumpernickel. The Prime Minister had lodgings in a second floor, and the
Foreign Secretary occupied the comfortable lodgings over Zwieback's Conditory.
The army consisted of a magnificent band that also did duty on the stage, where
it was quite pleasant to see the worthy fellows marching in Turkish dresses with
rouge on and wooden scimitars, or as Roman warriors with ophicleides and
trombones - to see them again, I say, at night, after one had listened to them
all the morning in the Aurelius Platz, where they performed opposite the Café
where we breakfasted. Besides the band, there was a rich and numerous staff of
officers, and, I believe, a few men. Besides the regular sentries, three or four
men, habited as hussars, used to do duty at the Palace, but I never saw them on
horseback; and au fait, what was the use of cavalry in a time of profound peace?
and whither the deuce should the hussars ride?
    Everybody - everybody that was noble, of course; for as for the bourgeois,
we could not quite be expected to take notice of them - visited his neighbour.
H.E. Madame de Burst received once a week, H.E. Madame de Schnurrbart had her
night, the theatre was open twice a week, the Court graciously received once; so
that a man's life might, in fact, be a perfect round of pleasure in the
unpretending Pumpernickel way.
    That there were feuds in the place, no one can deny. Politics ran very high
at Pumpernickel, and parties were very bitter. There was the Strumpff faction
and the Lederlung party - the one supported by our Envoy and the other by the
French Chargé d'Affaires, M. de Macabau. Indeed it sufficed for our Minister to
stand up for Madame Strumpff, who was clearly the greater singer of the two, and
had three more notes in her voice than Madame Lederlung her rival - it sufficed,
I say, for our Minister to advance any opinion to have it instantly contradicted
by the French diplomatist.
    Everybody in the town was ranged in one or other of these factions. The
Lederlung was a prettyish little creature certainly, and her voice (what there
was of it) was very sweet; and there is no doubt that the Strumpff was not in
her first youth and beauty, and certainly too stout. When she came on in the
last scene of the »Sonnambula,« for instance, in her night-chemise, with a lamp
in her hand, and had to go out of the window, and pass over the plank of the
mill, it was all she could do to squeeze out of the window, and the plank used
to bend and creak again under her weight. But how she poured out the finale of
the opera! and with what a burst of feeling she rushed into Elvino's arms -
almost fit to smother him! Whereas the little Lederlung - but a truce to this
gossip; the fact is, that these two women were the two flags of the French and
the English party at Pumpernickel, and the society was divided in its allegiance
to those two great nations. We had on our side the Home Minister, the Master of
the Horse, the Duke's Private Secretary, and the Prince's Tutor; whereas of the
French party were the Foreign Minister, the Commander-in-Chief's Lady, who had
served under Napoleon, and the Hof-Marschall and his wife, who was glad enough
to get the fashions from Paris, and always had them and her caps by M. de
Macabau's courier. The Secretary of his Chancery was little Grignac, a young
fellow, as malicious as Satan, and who made caricatures of Tapeworm in all the
albums of the place.
    Their headquarters and table d'hôte were established at the Pariser Hof, the
other inn of the town; and though, of course, these gentlemen were obliged to be
civil in public, yet they cut at each other with epigrams that were as sharp as
razors, as I have seen a couple of wrestlers in Devonshire lashing at each
other's shins, and never showing their agony upon a muscle of their faces.
Neither Tapeworm nor Macabau ever sent home a dispatch to his government without
a most savage series of attacks upon his rival. For instance, on our side we
would write: »The interests of Great Britain in this place, and throughout the
whole of Germany, are perilled by the continuance in office of the present
French envoy; this man is of a character so infamous that he will stick at no
falsehood, or hesitate at no crime, to attain his ends. He poisons the mind of
the Court against the English Minister, represents the conduct of Great Britain
in the most odious and atrocious light, and is, unhappily, backed by a Minister
whose ignorance and necessities are as notorious as his influence is fatal.« On
their side they would say: »M. de Tapeworm continues his system of stupid
insular arrogance and vulgar falsehood against the greatest nation in the world.
Yesterday he was heard to speak lightly of Her Royal Highness Madame the Duchess
of Berri; on a former occasion he insulted the heroic Duke of Angoulême, and
dared to insinuate that H.R.H. the Duke of Orleans was conspiring against the
august throne of the lilies. His gold is prodigated in every direction which his
stupid menaces fail to frighten. By one and the other he has won over creatures
of the Court here; and, in fine, Pumpernickel will not be quiet, Germany
tranquil, France respected, or Europe content, until this poisonous viper be
crushed under heel,« and so on. When one side or the other had written any
particularly spicy dispatch, news of it was sure to slip out.
    Before the winter was far advanced it is actually on record that Emmy took a
night and received company with great propriety and modesty. She had a French
master who complimented her upon the purity of her accent and her facility of
learning; the fact is, she had learned long ago, and grounded herself
subsequently in the grammar so as to be able to teach it to George. And Madame
Strumpff came to give her lessons on singing, which she performed so well and
with such a true voice that the Major's windows, who had lodgings opposite under
the Prime Minister, were always open to hear the lesson. Some of the German
ladies, who are very sentimental and simple in their tastes, fell in love with
her, and began to call her du at once. These are trivial details, but they
relate to happy times. The Major made himself George's tutor, and read Cæsar and
mathematics with him; and they had a German master, and rode out of evenings by
the side of Emmy's carriage - she was always too timid, and made a dreadful
outcry at the slightest disturbance on horseback. So she drove about with one of
her dear German friends, and Jos asleep on the back seat of the barouche.
    He was becoming very sweet upon the Gräfinn Fanny de Butterbrod, a very
gentle, tender-hearted, and unassuming young creature, a Canoness and Countess
in her own right, but with scarcely ten pounds per year to her fortune; and
Fanny, for her part, declared that to be Amelia's sister was the greatest
delight that Heaven could bestow on her; and Jos might have put a Countess's
shield and coronet by the side of his own arms on his carriage and forks; when -
when events occurred, and those grand fêtes given upon the marriage of the
Hereditary Prince of Pumpernickel with the lovely Princess Amelia of
Humbourg-Schlippenschloppen took place.
    At this festival the magnificence displayed was such as had not been known
in the little German place since the days of the prodigal Victor XIV. All the
neighbouring Princes, Princesses, and Grandees were invited to the feast. Beds
rose to half a crown per night in Pumpernickel, and the army was exhausted in
providing guards of honour for the Highnesses, Serenities, and Excellencies who
arrived from all quarters. The Princess was married by proxy, at her father's
residence, by the Count de Schlüsselback. Snuff-boxes were given away in
profusion (as we learned from the Court jeweller, who sold and afterwards bought
them again), and bushels of the Order of Saint Michael of Pumpernickel were sent
to the nobles of the Court, while hampers of the cordons and decorations of the
Wheel of St. Catherine of Schlippenschloppen were brought to ours. The French
envoy got both. »He is covered with ribbons like a prize cart-horse,« Tapeworm
said, who was not allowed by the rules of his service to take any decorations.
»Let him have the cordons; but with whom is the victory?« The fact is, it was a
triumph of British diplomacy - the French party having proposed and tried their
utmost to marriage with a Princess of the House of Potztausend Donnerwetter,
whom, as a matter of course, we opposed.
    Everybody was asked to the fêtes of the marriage. Garlands and triumphal
arches were hung across the road to welcome the young bride. The great St.
Michael's Fountain ran with uncommonly sour wine, while that in the Artillery
Place frothed with beer. The great waters played; and poles were put up in the
park and gardens for the happy peasantry, which they might climb at their
leisure, carrying off watches, silver forks, prize sausages hung with pink
ribbon, etc., at the top. Georgy got one, wrenching it off, having swarmed up
the pole to the delight of the spectators, and sliding down with the rapidity of
a fall of water. But it was for the glory's sake merely. The boy gave the
sausage to a peasant who had very nearly seized it, and stood at the foot of the
mast, blubbering, because he was unsuccessful.
    At the French Chancellerie they had six more lampions in their illuminations
than ours had; but our transparency, which represented the young couple
advancing, and Discord flying away, with the most ludicrous likeness to the
French ambassador, beat the French picture hollow, and I have no doubt got
Tapeworm the advancement and the Cross of the Bath which he subsequently
attained.
    Crowds of foreigners arrived for the fêtes; and of English, of course.
Besides the Court balls, public balls were given at the Town Hall and the
Redoute; and in the former place there was a room for trente-et-quarante and
roulette established, for the week of the festivities only, and by one of the
great German companies from Ems or Aix-la-Chapelle. The officers or inhabitants
of the town were not allowed to play at these games, but strangers, peasants,
ladies were admitted, and any one who chose to lose or win money.
    That little scapegrace Georgy Osborne amongst others, whose pockets were
always full of dollars, and whose relations were away at the grand festival of
the Court, came to the Stadthaus ball in company of his uncle's courier, Mr.
Kirsch; and having only peeped into a playroom at Baden Baden when he hung on
Dobbin's arm, and where, of course, he was not permitted to gamble, came eagerly
to this part of the entertainment, and hankered round the tables where the
croupiers and the punters were at work. Women were playing; they were masked,
some of them; this licence was allowed in these wild times of carnival.
    A woman with light hair, in a low dress, by no means so fresh as it had
been, and with a black mask on, through the eyelets of which her eyes twinkled
strangely, was seated at one of the roulette-tables with a card and a pin, and a
couple of florins before her. As the croupier called out the colour and number,
she pricked on the card with great care and regularity, and only ventured her
money on the colours after the red or black had come up a certain number of
times. It was strange to look at her.
    But in spite of her care and assiduity she guessed wrong, and the last two
florins followed each other under the croupier's rake as he cried out with his
inexorable voice the winning colour and number. She gave a sigh, a shrug with
her shoulders, which were already too much out of her gown, and dashing the pin
through the card on to the table, sat thrumming it for a while. Then she looked
round her, and saw Georgy's honest face staring at the scene. The little scamp!
what business had he to be there?
    When she saw the boy, at whose face she looked hard through her shining eyes
and mask, she said, »Monsieur n'est pas joueur?«
    »Non, Madame,« said the boy; but she must have known, from his accent, of
what country he was, for she answered him, with a slight foreign tone, »You have
nevare played; will you do me a littl' favour?«
    »What is it?« said Georgy, blushing again. Mr. Kirsch was at work for his
part at the rouge et noir, and did not see his young Master.
    »Play this for me, if you please; put it on any number - any number.« And
she took from her bosom a purse, and out of it a gold piece, the only coin
there, and she put it into Georgy's hand. The boy laughed, and did as he was
bid.
    The number came up sure enough. There is a power that arranges that, they
say, for beginners.
    »Thank you,« said she, pulling the money towards her; »thank you. What is
your name?«
    »My name's Osborne,« said Georgy, and was fingering in his own pockets for
dollars, and just about to make a trial, when the Major, in his uniform, and
Jos, en Marquis, from the Court ball, made their appearance. Other people
finding the entertainment stupid, and preferring the fun at the Stadthaus, had
quitted the Palace ball earlier; but it is probable the Major and Jos had gone
home and found the boy's absence, for the former instantly went up to him, and
taking him by the shoulder, pulled him briskly back from the place of
temptation. Then looking round the room, he saw Kirsch employed as we have said,
and going up to him, asked how he dared to bring Mr. George to such a place.
    »Laissez-moi tranquille,« said Mr. Kirsch, very much excited by play and
wine. »It faut s'amuser, parbleu. Je ne suis pas au service de Monsieur.«
    Seeing his condition, the Major did not choose to argue with the man, but
contented himself with drawing away George and asking Jos if he would come away.
He was standing close by the lady in the mask, who was playing with pretty good
luck now; and looking on much interested at the game.
    »Hadn't you better come, Jos,« the Major said, »with George and me?«
    »I'll stop and go home with that rascal Kirsch,« Jos said; and for the same
reason of modesty which he thought ought to be preserved before the boy, Dobbin
did not care to remonstrate with Jos, but left him and walked home with Georgy.
    »Did you play?« asked the Major, when they were out and on their way home.
    The boy said »No.«
    »Give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you never will.«
    »Why?« said the boy; »it seems very good fun.« And in a very eloquent and
impressive manner the Major showed him why he shouldn't, and would have enforced
his precepts by the example of Georgy's own father, had he liked to say anything
that should reflect on the other's memory. When he had housed him he went to
bed, and saw his light, in the little room outside of Amelia's, presently
disappear. Amelia's followed half an hour afterwards. I don't know what made the
Major note it so accurately.
    Jos, however, remained behind over the play-table; he was no gambler, but
not averse to the little excitement of the sport now and then, and he had some
napoleons chinking in the embroidered pockets of his Court waistcoat. He put
down one over the fair shoulder of the little gambler before him, and they won.
She made a little movement to make room for him by her side, and just took the
skirt of her gown from a vacant chair there.
    »Come and give me good luck,« she said, still in a foreign accent, quite
different from that frank and perfectly English »Thank you« with which she had
saluted Georgy's coup in her favour. The portly gentleman, looking round to see
that nobody of rank observed him, sat down; he muttered, »Ah, really, well now,
God bless my soul. I'm very fortunate; I'm sure to give you good fortune,« and
other words of compliment and confusion.
    »Do you play much?« the foreign mask said.
    »I put a nap or two down,« said Jos, with a superb air, flinging down a gold
piece.
    »Yes; ay, nap after dinner,« said the mask archly. But Jos looking
frightened, she continued, in her pretty French accent, »You do not play to win.
No more do I. I play to forget, but I cannot. I cannot forget old times,
Monsieur. Your little nephew is the image of his father; and you - you are not
changed - but yes, you are. Everybody changes, everybody forgets; nobody has any
heart.«
    »Good God, who is it?« asked Jos, in a flutter.
    »Can't you guess, Joseph Sedley?« said the little woman, in a sad voice; and
undoing her mask, she looked at him. »You have forgotten me.«
    »Good heavens! Mrs. Crawley!« gasped out Jos.
    »Rebecca,« said the other, putting her hand on his; but she followed the
game still, all the time she was looking at him.
    »I am stopping at the Elephant,« she continued. »Ask for Madame de Raudon. I
saw my dear Amelia to-day; how pretty she looked, and how happy! So do you!
Everybody but me, who am wretched, Joseph Sedley.« And she put her money over
from the red to the black, as if by a chance movement of her hand, and while she
was wiping her eyes with a pocket-handkerchief fringed with torn lace. The red
came up again, and she lost the whole of that stake. »Come away,« she said -
»come with me a little; we are old friends, are we not, dear Mr. Sedley?«
    And Mr. Kirsch, having lost all his money by this time, followed his master
out into the moonlight, where the illuminations were winking out, and the
transparency over our mission was scarcely visible.
 

                                  Chapter LXIV

                              A Vagabond Chapter.

We must pass over a part of Mrs. Rebecca Crawley's biography with that lightness
and delicacy which the world demands - the moral world, that has, perhaps, no
particular objection to vice, but an insuperable repugnance to hearing vice
called by its proper name. There are things we do and know perfectly well in
Vanity Fair, though we never speak of them - as the Ahrimanians worship the
devil, but don't mention him; and a polite public will no more bear to read an
authentic description of vice than a truly refined English or American female
will permit the word breeches to be pronounced in her chaste hearing. And yet,
Madam, both are walking the world before our faces every day, without much
shocking us. If you were to blush every time they went by, what complexions you
would have! It is only when their naughty names are called out that your modesty
has any occasion to show alarm or sense of outrage, and it has been the wish of
the present writer, all through this story, deferentially to submit to the
fashion at present prevailing, and only to hint at the existence of wickedness,
in a light, easy, and agreeable manner, so that nobody's fine feelings may be
offended. I defy any one to say that our Becky, who has certainly some vices,
has not been presented to the public in a perfectly genteel and inoffensive
manner. In describing this siren, singing and smiling, coaxing and cajoling, the
author, with modest pride, asks his readers all round, has he once forgotten the
laws of politeness, and showed the monster's hideous tail above water? No! Those
who like may peep down under waves that are pretty transparent, and see it
writhing and twirling, diabolically hideous and slimy, flapping amongst bones,
or curling round corpses; but above the water-line, I ask, has not everything
been proper, agreeable, and decorous, and has any the most squeamish immoralist
in Vanity Fair a right to cry fie? When, however, the siren disappears and dives
below, down among the dead men, the water, of course, grows turbid over her, and
it is labour lost to look into it ever so curiously. They look pretty enough
when they sit upon a rock, twangling their harps and combing their hair, and
sing, and beckon to you to come and hold the looking-glass; but when they sink
into their native element, depend on it those mermaids are about no good, and we
had best not examine the fiendish marine cannibals, revelling and feasting on
their wretched pickled victims. And so, when Becky is out of the way, be sure
that she is not particularly well employed, and that the less that is said about
her doings is in fact the better.
    If we were to give a full account of her proceedings during a couple of
years that followed after the Curzon Street catastrophe, there might be some
reason for people to say this book was improper. The actions of very vain,
heartless, pleasure-seeking people are very often improper (as are many of
yours, my friend with the grave face and spotless reputation; but that is
merely, by the way); and what are those of a woman without faith, or love, or
character? And I am inclined to think that there was a period in Mrs. Becky's
life when she was seized, not by remorse, but by a kind of despair, and
absolutely neglected her person, and did not even care for her reputation.
    This abattement and degradation did not take place all at once; it was
brought about by degrees after her calamity, and after many struggles to keep up
- as a man who goes overboard hangs on to a spar whilst any hope is left, and
then flings it away and goes down when he finds that struggling is in vain.
    She lingered about London whilst her husband was making preparations for his
departure to his seat of government, and it is believed made more than one
attempt to see her brother-in-law, Sir Pitt Crawley, and to work upon his
feelings, which she had almost enlisted in her favour. As Sir Pitt and Mr.
Wenham were walking down to the House of Commons, the latter spied Mrs. Rawdon
in a black veil, and lurking near the palace of the legislature. She sneaked
away when her eyes met those of Wenham, and indeed never succeeded in her
designs upon the Baronet.
    Probably Lady Jane interposed. I have heard that she quite astonished her
husband by the spirit which she exhibited in this quarrel, and her determination
to disown Mrs. Becky. Of her own movement, she invited Rawdon to come and stop
in Gaunt Street until his departure for Coventry Island, knowing that with him
for a guard Mrs. Becky would not try to force her door; and she looked curiously
at the superscriptions of all the letters which arrived for Sir Pitt, lest he
and his sister-in-law should be corresponding. Not but that Rebecca could have
written had she a mind; but she did not try to see or to write to Pitt at his
own house, and after one or two attempts consented to his demand that the
correspondence regarding her conjugal differences should be carried on by
lawyers only.
    The fact was that Pitt's mind had been poisoned against her. A short time
after Lord Steyne's accident, Wenham had been with the Baronet, and given him
such a biography of Mrs. Becky as had astonished the member for Queen's Crawley.
He knew everything regarding her - who her father was, in what year her mother
danced at the Opera; what had been her previous history, and what her conduct
during her married life. As I have no doubt that the greater part of the story
was false and dictated by interested malevolence, it shall not be repeated here.
But Becky was left with a sad, sad reputation in the esteem of a country
gentleman and relative who had been once rather partial to her.
    The revenues of the Governor of Coventry Island are not large. A part of
them were set aside by His Excellency for the payment of certain outstanding
debts and liabilities; the charges incident on his high situation required
considerable expense. Finally, it was found that he could not spare to his wife
more than three hundred pounds a year, which he proposed to pay to her on an
undertaking that she would never trouble him. Otherwise - scandal, separation,
Doctors' Commons would ensue. But it was Mr. Wenham's business, Lord Steyne's
business, Rawdon's, everybody's, to get her out of the country, and hush up a
most disagreeable affair.
    She was probably so much occupied in arranging these affairs of business
with her husband's lawyers, that she forgot to take any step whatever about her
son, the little Rawdon, and did not even once propose to go and see him. That
young gentleman was consigned to the entire guardianship of his aunt and uncle,
the former of whom had always possessed a great share of the child's affection.
His mamma wrote him a neat letter from Boulogne when she quitted England, in
which she requested him to mind his book, and said she was going to take a
Continental tour, during which she would have the pleasure of writing to him
again. But she never did for a year afterwards, and not, indeed, until Sir
Pitt's only boy, always sickly, died of whooping-cough and measles; then
Rawdon's mamma wrote the most affectionate composition to her darling son, who
was made heir of Queen's Crawley by this accident, and drawn more closely than
ever to the kind lady whose tender heart had already adopted him. Rawdon
Crawley, then grown a tall, fine lad, blushed when he got the letter. »O Aunt
Jane, you are my mother!« he said; »and not - and not that one.« But he wrote
back a kind and respectful letter to Mrs. Rebecca, then living at a
boarding-house at Florence. But we are advancing matters.
    Our darling Becky's first flight was not very far. She perched upon the
French coast at Boulogne, that refuge of so much exiled English innocence, and
there lived in rather a genteel, widowed manner, with a femme de chamber and a
couple of rooms, at a hotel. She dined at the table d'hôte, where people thought
her very pleasant, and where she entertained her neighbours by stories of her
brother, Sir Pitt, and her great London acquaintance - talking that easy,
fashionable slipslop which has so much effect upon certain folks of small
breeding. She passed with many of them for a person of importance; she gave
little tea-parties in her private room, and shared in the innocent amusements of
the place - in sea-bathing, and in jaunts in open carriages, in strolls on the
sands, and in visits to the play. Mrs. Burjoice, the printer's lady, who was
boarding with her family at the hotel for the summer, and to whom her Burjoice
came of a Saturday and Sunday, voted her charming, until that little rogue of a
Burjoice began to pay her too much attention. But there was nothing in the
story, only, that Becky was always affable, easy, and good-natured - and with
men especially.
    Numbers of people were going abroad as usual at the end of the season, and
Becky had plenty of opportunities of finding out by the behaviour of her
acquaintances of the great London world the opinion of society as regarded her
conduct. One day it was Lady Partlet an her daughters whom Becky confronted as
she was walking modestly on Boulogne pier, the cliffs of Albion shining in the
distance across the deep blue sea. Lady Partlet marshalled all her daughters
round her with a sweep of her parasol, and retreated from the pier darting
savage glances at poor little Becky, who stood alone there.
    On another day the packet came in. It had been blowing fresh, and it always
suited Becky's humour to see the droll woebegone faces of the people as they
emerged from the boat. Lady Slingstone happened to be on board this day. Her
Ladyship had been exceedingly ill in her carriage, and was greatly exhausted,
and scarcely fit to walk up the plank from the ship to the pier. But all her
energies rallied the instant she saw Becky smiling roguishly under a pink
bonnet; and giving her a glance of scorn, such as would have shrivelled up most
women, she walked into the Custom-house quite unsupported. Becky only laughed;
but I don't think she liked it. She felt she was alone, quite alone; and the
far-off shining cliffs of England were impassable to her.
    The behaviour of the men had undergone, too, I don't know what change.
Grinstone showed his teeth and laughed in her face with a familiarity that was
not pleasant. Little Bob Suckling, who was cap in hand to her three months
before, and would walk a mile in the rain to see for her carriage in the line at
Gaunt House, was talking to Fitzoof of the Guards (Lord Heehaw's son) one day
upon the jetty as Becky took her walk there. Little Bobby nodded to her over his
shoulder without moving his hat, and continued his conversation with the heir of
Heehaw. Tom Raikes tried to walk into her sitting-room at the inn with a cigar
in his mouth; but she closed the door upon him, and would have locked it only
that his fingers were inside. She began to feel that she was very lonely indeed.
»If he'd been here,« she said, »those cowards would never have dared to insult
me.« She thought about him with great sadness and perhaps longing - about his
honest, stupid, constant kindness and fidelity, his never-ceasing obedience, his
good-humour, his bravery and courage. Very likely she cried, for she was
particularly lively, and had put on a little extra rouge when she came down to
dinner.
    She rouged regularly now, and - and her maid got Cognac for her besides that
which was charged in the hotel bill.
    Perhaps the insults of the men were not, however, so intolerable to her as
the sympathy of certain women. Mrs. Crackenbury and Mrs. Washington White passed
through Boulogne on their way to Switzerland. (The party were protected by
Colonel Horner, young Beaumoris, and of course old Crackenbury, and Mrs. White's
little girl.) They did not avoid her. They giggled, cackled, tattled, condoled,
consoled, and patronized her until they drove her almost wild with rage. To be
patronized by them! she thought as they went away simpering after kissing her.
And she heard Beaumoris's laugh ringing on the stair, and knew quite well how to
interpret his hilarity.
    It was after this visit that Becky, who had paid her weekly bills, Becky who
had made herself agreeable to everybody in the house, who smiled at the
landlady, called the waiters Monsieur, and paid the chambermaids in politeness
and apologies what far more than compensated for a little niggardliness in point
of money (of which Becky never was free) - that Becky, we say, received a notice
to quit from the landlord, who had been told by some one that she was quite an
unfit person to have at his hotel, where English ladies would not sit down with
her. And she was forced to fly into lodgings, of which the dullness and solitude
were most wearisome to her.
    Still she held up, in spite of these rebuffs, and tried to make a character
for herself, and conquer scandal. She went to church very regularly, and sang
louder than anybody there. She took up the cause of the widows of the
shipwrecked fishermen, and gave work and drawings for the Quashyboo Mission; she
subscribed to the Assembly, and wouldn't waltz. In a word, she did everything
that was respectable, and that is why we dwell upon this part of her career with
more fondness than upon subsequent parts of her history, which are not so
pleasant. She saw people avoiding her, and still laboriously smiled upon them;
you never could suppose from her countenance what pangs of humiliation she might
be enduring inwardly.
    Her history was after all a mystery. Parties were divided about her. Some
people, who took the trouble to busy themselves in the matter, said that she was
the criminal; whilst others vowed that she was as innocent as a lamb, and that
her odious husband was in fault. She won over a good many by bursting into tears
about her boy, and exhibiting the most frantic grief when his name was mentioned
or she saw anybody like him. She gained good Mrs. Alderney's heart in that way,
who was rather the Queen of British Boulogne, and gave the most dinners and
balls of all the residents there, by weeping when Master Alderney came from Dr.
Swishtail's academy to pass his holidays with his mother. »He and her Rawdon
were of the same age, and so like,« Becky said, in a voice choking with agony;
whereas there was five years' difference between the boys' ages, and no more
likeness between them than between my respected reader and his humble servant.
Wenham, when he was going abroad, on his way to Kissingen to join Lord Steyne,
enlightened Mrs. Alderney on this point, and told her how he was much more able
to describe little Rawdon than his mamma, who notoriously hated him, and never
saw him; how he was thirteen years old, while little Alderney was but nine;
fair, while the other darling was dark - in a word, caused the lady in question
to repent of her good-humour.
    Whenever Becky made a little circle for herself with incredible toils and
labour, somebody came and swept it down rudely, and she had all her work to
begin over again. It was very hard - very hard - lonely and disheartening.
    There was Mrs. Newbright, who took her up for some time, attracted by the
sweetness of her singing at church, and by her proper views upon serious
subjects, concerning which in former days, at Queen's Crawley, Mrs. Becky had
had a good deal of instruction. Well, she not only took tracts, but she read
them. She worked flannel petticoats for the Quashyboos, cotton nightcaps for the
Cocoanut Indians; painted hand-screens for the conversion of the Pope and the
Jews; sate under Mr. Rowls on Wednesdays, Mr. Huggleton on Thursdays; attended
two Sunday services at church, besides, Mr. Bawler, the Darbyite, in the
evening, and all in vain. Mrs. Newbright had occasion to correspond with the
Countess of Southdown about the Warmingpan Fund for the Feejee Islanders (for
the management of which admirable charity both these ladies formed part of a
female committee), and having mentioned her sweet friend Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,
the Dowager Countess wrote bask such a letter regarding Becky, with such
particulars, hints, facts, falsehoods, and general comminations, that intimacy
between Mrs. New-bright and Mrs. Crawley ceased forthwith, and all the serious
world of Tours, where this misfortune took place, immediately parted company
with the reprobate. Those who know the English colonies abroad know that we
carry with us our pride, pills, prejudices, Harvey sauces, cayenne peppers, and
other Lares, making a little Britain wherever we settle down.
    From one colony to another Becky fled uneasily - from Boulogne to Dieppe,
from Dieppe to Caen, from Caen to Tours - trying with all her might to be
respectable, and alas! always found out some day or other, and pecked out of the
cage by the real daws.
    Mrs. Hook Eagles took her up at one of these places; a woman without a
blemish in her character, and a house in Portman Square. She was staying at the
hotel at Dieppe, whither Becky fled, and they made each other's acquaintance
first at sea, where they were swimming together, and subsequently at the table
d'hôte of the hotel. Mrs. Eagles had heard - who indeed had not? - some of the
scandal of the Steyne affair; but after a conversation with Becky, she
pronounced that Mrs. Crawley was an angel, her husband a ruffian, Lord Steyne an
unprincipled wretch, as everybody knew, and the whole case against Mrs. Crawley
an infamous and wicked conspiracy of that rascal Wenham. »If you were a man of
any spirit, Mr. Eagles, you would box the wretch's ears the next time you see
him at the Club,« she said to her husband. But Eagles was only a quiet old
gentleman, husband to Mrs. Eagles, with a taste for geology, and not tall enough
to reach anybody's ears.
    Mrs. Eagles then patronized Mrs. Rawdon, took her to live with her at her
own house at Paris, quarrelled with the Ambassador's wife because she would not
receive her protégée, and did all that lay in woman's power to keep Becky
straight in the paths of virtue and good repute.
    Becky was very respectable and orderly at first, but the life of humdrum
virtue grew utterly tedious to her before long. It was the same routine every
day, the same dullness and comfort, the same drive over the same stupid Bois de
Boulogne, the same company of an evening, the same Blair's Sermon of a Sunday
night - the same opera always being acted over and over again. Becky was dying
of weariness, when, luckily for her, young Mr. Eagles came from Cambridge, and
his mother, seeing the impression which her little friend made upon him,
straightway gave Becky warning.
    Then she tried keeping house with a female friend; then the double ménage
began to quarrel and get into debt. Then she determined upon a boarding-house
existence, and lived for some time at that famous mansion kept by Madame de
Saint Amour in the Rue Royale, at Paris, where she began exercising her graces
and fascinations upon the shabby dandies and fly-blown beauties who frequented
her landlady's salons. Becky loved society, and, indeed, could no more exist
without it than an opium-eater without his dram, and she was happy enough at the
period of her boarding-house life. »The women here are as amusing as those in
Mayfair,« she told an old London friend who met her, »only their dresses are not
quite so fresh. The men wear cleaned gloves, and are sad rogues, certainly, but
they are not worse than Jack This and Tom That. The mistress of the house is a
little vulgar, but I don't think she is so vulgar as Lady --« and here she named
the name of a great leader of fashion that I would die rather than reveal. In
fact, when you saw Madame de Saint Amour's rooms lighted up of a night, men with
plaques and cordons at the écarté tables, and the women at a little distance,
you might fancy yourself for a while in good society, and that Madame was a real
Countess. Many people did so fancy, and Becky was for a while one of the most
dashing ladies of the Countess's salons.
    But it is probable that her old creditors of 1815 found her out, and caused
her to leave Paris; for the poor little woman was forced to fly from the city
rather suddenly; and went thence to Brussels.
    How well she remembered the place! She grinned as she looked up at the
little entresol which she had occupied, and thought of the Bareacres family,
bawling for horses and flight as their carriage stood in the porte-cochère of
the hotel. She went to Waterloo and to Laeken, where George Osborne's monument
much struck her. She made a little sketch of it. »That poor Cupid!« she said;
»how dreadfully he was in love with me, and what a fool he was! I wonder whether
little Emmy is alive. It was a good little creature. And that fat brother of
hers - I have his funny fat picture still among my papers. They were kind,
simple people.«
    At Brussels Becky arrived, recommended by Madame de Saint Amour to her
friend Madame la Comtesse de Borodino, widow of Napoleon's General the famous
Count de Borodino, who was left with no resource by the deceased hero but that
of a table d'hôte and an écarté table. Second-rate dandies and roués, widow
ladies who always have a law-suit, and very simple English folk, who fancy they
see Continental society at these houses, put down their money or ate their meals
at Madame de Borodino's tables. The gallant young fellows treated the company
round to champagne at the table d'hôte, rode out with the women, or hired horses
on country excursions, clubbed money to take boxes at the play or the Opera,
betted over the fair shoulders of the ladies at the écarté tables, and wrote
home to their parents, in Devonshire, about their felicitous introduction to
foreign society.
    Here, as at Paris, Becky was a boarding-house queen, and ruled in select
pensions. She never refused the champagne, or the bouquets, or the drives into
the country, or the private boxes; but what she preferred was the écarté at
night, and she played audaciously. First she played only for a little, then for
five-franc pieces, then for napoleons, then for notes; then she would not be
able to pay her month's pension; then she borrowed from the young gentlemen;
then she got into cash again, and bullied Madame de Borodino, whom she had
coaxed and wheedled before; then she was playing for ten sous at a time, and in
a dire state of poverty; then her quarter's allowance would come in, and she
would pay off Madame de Borodino's score, and would once more take the cards
against Monsieur de Rossignol or the Chevalier de Raff.
    When Becky left Brussels, the sad truth is that she owed three months'
pension to Madame de Borodino, of which fact, and of the gambling, and of the
drinking, and of the going down on her knees to the Reverend Mr. Muff, Ministre
Anglican, and borrowing money of him, and of her coaxing and flirting with Milor
Noodle, son of Sir Noodle, pupil of the Rev. Mr. Muff, whom she used to take
into her private room, and of whom she won large sums at écarté - of which fact,
I say, and of a hundred of her other knaveries, the Countess de Borodino informs
every English person who stops at her establishment, and announces that Madame
Rawdon was no better than a vipére.
    So our little wanderer went about, setting up her tent in various cities of
Europe, as restless as Ulysses or Bampfylde Moore Carew. Her taste for
disrespectability grew more and more remarkable. She became a perfect Bohemian
ere long, herding with people whom it would make your hair stand on end to meet.
    There is no town of any mark in Europe but it has its little colony of
English raffs - men whose names Mr. Hemp the officer reads out periodically at
the Sheriff's Court - young gentlemen of very good family often, only that the
latter disowns them; frequenters of billiard-rooms and estaminets, patrons of
foreign races and gaming-tables. They people the debtors' prisons; they drink
and swagger; they fight and brawl; they run away without paying; they have duels
with French and German officers; they cheat Mr. Spooney at écarté; they get the
money, and drive off to Baden in magnificent britzkas; they try their infallible
martingale, and lurk about the tables with empty pockets, shabby bullies,
penniless bucks, until they can swindle a Jew banker with a sham bill of
exchange, or find another Mr. Spooney to rob. The alternations of splendour and
misery which these people undergo are very queer to view. Their life must be one
of great excitement. Becky - must it be owned? - took to this life, and took to
it not unkindly. She went about from town to town among these Bohemians. The
lucky Mrs. Rawdon was known at every play-table in Germany. She and Madame de
Cruchecassée kept house at Florence together. It is said she was ordered out of
Munich; and my friend Mrs. Frederick Pigeon avers that it was at her house at
Lausanne that he was hocussed at supper and lost eight hundred pounds to Major
Loder and the Honourable Mr. Deuceace. We are bound, you see, to give some
account of Becky's biography; but of this part the less, perhaps, that is said
the better.
    They say that when Mrs. Crawley was particularly down on her luck she gave
concerts and lessons in music here and there. There was a Madame de Raudon who
certainly had a matinée musicale at Wildbad, accompanied by Herr Spoff, premier
pianist to the Hospodar of Wallachia; and my little friend Mr. Eaves, who knew
everybody, and had travelled everywhere, always used to declare that he was at
Strasburg in the year 1830, when a certain Madame Rebecque made her appearance
in the opera of the »Dame Blanche,« giving occasion to a furious row in the
theatre there. She was hissed off the stage by the audience, partly from her own
incompetency, but chiefly from the ill-advised sympathy of some persons in the
parquet (where the officers of the garrison had their admissions); and Eaves was
certain that the unfortunate débutante in question was no other than Mrs. Rawdon
Crawley.
    She was, in fact, no better than a vagabond upon this earth. When she got
her money, she gambled; when she had gambled it, she was put to shifts to live;
who knows how or by what means she succeeded? It is said that she was once seen
at St. Petersburg, but was summarily dismissed from that capital by the police,
so that there cannot be any possibility of truth in the report that she was a
Russian spy at Töplitz and Vienna afterwards. I have even been informed that at
Paris she discovered a relation of her own, no less a person than her maternal
grandmother, who was not by any means a Montmorency, but a hideous old
box-opener at a theatre on the Boulevards. The meeting between them, of which
other persons, as it is hinted elsewhere, seem to have been acquainted, must
have been a very affecting interview. The present historian can give no certain
details regarding the event.
    It happened at Rome once that Mrs. de Rawdon's half-year's salary had just
been paid into the principal banker's there; and as everybody who had a balance
of about five hundred scudi was invited to the balls which this prince of
merchants gave during the winter, Becky had the honour of a card, and appeared
at one of the Prince and Princess Polonia's splendid evening entertainments. The
Princess was of the family of Pompili, lineally descended from the second king
of Rome, and Egeria of the house of Olympus, while the Prince's grandfather,
Alessandro Polonia, sold wash-balls, essences, tobacco, and
pocket-handkerchiefs, ran errands for gentlemen, and lent money in a small way.
All the great company in Rome thronged to his saloons - Princes, Dukes,
Ambassadors, artists, fiddlers, monsignori, young bears with their leaders -
every rank and condition of man. His halls blazed with light and magnificence;
were resplendent with gilt frames (containing pictures) and dubious antiques;
and the enormous gilt crown and arms of the princely owner, a gold mushroom on a
crimson field (the colour of the pocket-handkerchiefs which he sold), and the
silver fountain of the Pompili family shone all over the roof, doors, and panels
of the house, and over the grand velvet baldaquins prepared to receive Popes and
Emperors.
    So Becky, who had arrived in the diligence from Florence, and was lodged at
an inn in a very modest way, got a card for Prince Polonia's entertainment; and
her maid dressed her with unusual care, and she went to this fine ball leaning
on the arm of Major Loder, with whom she happened to be travelling at the time
(the same man who shot Prince Ravoli at Naples the next year, and was caned by
Sir John Buckskin for carrying four kings in his hat besides those which he used
in playing at écarté); and this pair went into the rooms together, and Becky saw
a number of old faces which she remembered in happier days, when she was not
innocent, but not found out. Major Loder knew a great number of foreigners -
keen-looking whiskered men with dirty striped ribbons in their button-holes, and
a very small display of linen; but his own countrymen, it might be remarked,
eschewed the Major. Becky, too, knew some ladies here and there - French widows,
dubious Italian countesses, whose husbands had treated them ill - faugh! what
shall we say, we who have moved among some of the finest company of Vanity Fair,
of this refuse and sediment of rascals? If we play, let it be with clean cards,
and not with this dirty pack. But every man who has formed one of the
innumerable army of travellers has seen these marauding irregulars hanging on,
like Nym and Pistol, to the main force - wearing the king's colours, and
boasting of his commission, but pillaging for themselves, and occasionally
gibbeted by the roadside.
    Well, she was hanging on the arm of Major Loder, and they went through the
rooms together, and drank a great quantity of champagne at the buffet, where the
people, and especially the Major's irregular corps, struggled furiously for
refreshments, of which when the pair had had enough they pushed on until they
reached the Duchess's own pink velvet saloon, at the end of the suite of
apartments, where the statue of the Venus is, and the great Venice
looking-glasses, framed in silver, and where the princely family were
entertaining their most distinguished guests at a round table at supper. It was
just such a little select banquet as that of which Becky recollected that she
had partaken at Lord Steyne's - and there he sat at Polonia's table, and she saw
him.
    The scar cut by the diamond on his white, bald, shining forehead made a
burning red mark; his red whiskers were dyed of a purple hue, which made his
pale face look still paler. He wore his collar and orders, his blue ribbon and
garter. He was a greater prince than any there, though there was a reigning duke
and a royal highness, with their princesses; and near his Lordship was seated
the beautiful Countess of Belladonna, née de Glandier, whose husband (the Count
Paolo della Belladonna), so well known for his brilliant entomological
collections, had been long absent on a mission to the Emperor of Morocco.
    When Becky beheld that familiar and illustrious face, how vulgar all of a
sudden did Major Loder appear to her, and how that odious Captain Rook did smell
of tobacco! In one instant she reassumed her fine-ladyship, and tried to look
and feel as if she were in Mayfair once more. »That woman looks stupid and
ill-humoured,« she thought; »I am sure she can't amuse him. No, he must be bored
by her; he never was by me.« A hundred such touching hopes, fears, and memories
palpitated in her little heart as she looked with her brightest eyes (the rouge
which she wore up to her eyelids made them twinkle) towards the great nobleman.
Of a Star and Garter night Lord Steyne used also to put on his grandest manner,
and to look and speak like a great prince, as he was. Becky admired him smiling
sumptuously, easy, lofty, and stately. Ah, bon Dieu, what a pleasant companion
he was, what a brilliant wit, what a rich fund of talk, what a grand manner! And
she had exchanged this for Major Loder, reeking of cigars and brandy-and-water,
and Captain Rook, with his horse-jockey jokes and prize-ring slang, and their
like. »I wonder whether he will know me,« she thought. Lord Steyne was talking
and laughing with a great and illustrious lady at his side, when he looked up
and saw Becky.
    She was all over in a flutter as their eyes met, and she put on the very
best smile she could muster, and dropped him a little timid, imploring curtsy.
He stared aghast at her for a minute, as Macbeth might on beholding Banquo's
sudden appearance at his ball-supper, and remained looking at her with open
mouth, when that horrid Major Loder pulled her away.
    »Come away into the supper-room, Mrs. R.,« was that gentleman's remark;
»seeing these nobs grubbing away has made me peckish too. Let's go and try the
old governor's champagne.« Becky thought the Major had had a great deal too much
already.
    The day after she went to walk on the Pincian Hill - the Hyde Park of the
Roman idlers - possibly in hopes to have another sight of Lord Steyne. But she
met another acquaintance there: it was Mr. Fiche, his Lordship's confidential
man, who came up nodding to her rather familiarly, and putting a finger to his
hat. »I knew that Madame was here,« he said; »I followed her from her hotel. I
have some advice to give Madame.«
    »From the Marquis of Steyne?« Becky asked, resuming as much of her dignity
as she could muster, and not a little agitated by hope and expectation.
    »No,« said the valet; »it is from me. Rome is very unwholesome.«
    »Not at this season, Monsieur Fiche - not till after Easter.«
    »I tell Madame it is unwholesome now. There is always malaria for some
people. That cursed marsh wind kills many at all seasons. Look here, Madame
Crawley, you were always bon enfant, and I have an interest in you, parole
d'honneur. Be warned. Go away from Rome, I tell you - or you will be ill and
die.«
    Becky laughed, though in rage and fury. »What! assassinate poor little me!«
she said. »How romantic! Does my lord carry bravos for couriers, and stilettos
in the fourgons? Bah! I will stay, if but to plague him. I have those who will
defend me whilst I am here.«
    It was Monsieur Fiche's turn to laugh now. »Defend you,« he said, »and who?
The Major, the Captain, any one of those gambling men whom Madame sees, would
take her life for a hundred louis. We know things about Major Loder (he is no
more a Major than I am my Lord the Marquis) which would send him to the galleys,
or worse. We know everything, and have friends everywhere. We know whom you saw
at Paris, and what relations you found there. Yes, Madame may stare, but we do.
How was it that no Minister on the Continent would receive Madame? She has
offended somebody who never forgives - whose rage redoubled when he saw you. He
was like a madman last night when he came home. Madame de Belladonna made him a
scene about you, and fired off in one of her furies.«
    »Oh, it was Madame de Belladonna, was it?« Becky said, relieved a little,
for the information she had just got had scared her.
    »No: she does not matter; she is always jealous. I tell you it was
Monseigneur. You did wrong to show yourself to him. And if you stay here you
will repent it. Mark my words. Go. Here is my lord's carriage« - and seizing
Becky's arm, he rushed down an alley of the garden as Lord Steyne's barouche,
blazing with heraldic devices, came whirling along the avenue borne by the
almost priceless horses, and bearing Madame de Belladonna lolling on the
cushions, dark, sulky, and blooming, a King Charles in her lap, a white parasol
swaying over her head, and old Steyne stretched at her side with a livid face
and ghastly eyes. Hate or anger or desire caused them to brighten now and then
still; but ordinarily they gave no light, and seemed tired of looking out on a
world of which almost all the pleasure and all the best beauty had palled upon
the worn-out wicked old man.
    »Monseigneur has never recovered the shock of that night - never,« Monsieur
Fiche whispered to Mrs. Crawley as the carriage flashed by, and she peeped out
at it from behind the shrubs that hid her. »That was a consolation, at any
rate,« Becky thought. Whether my lord really had murderous intentions towards
Mrs. Becky, as Monsieur Fiche said (since Monseigneur's death he has returned to
his native country, where he lives much respected, and has purchased from his
prince the title of Baron Ficci), and the factorum objected to have to do with
assassination; or whether he simply had a commission to frighten Mrs. Crawley
out of a city where his Lordship proposed to pass the winter, and the sight of
her would be eminently disagreeable to the great nobleman, is a point which has
never been ascertained: but the threat had its effect upon the little woman, and
she sought no more to intrude herself upon the presence of her old patron.
    Everybody knows the melancholy end of that nobleman, which befell at Naples
two months after the French Revolution of 1830: when the Most Honourable George
Gustavus, Marquis of Steyne, Earl of Gaunt and of Gaunt Castle, in the Peerage
of Ireland, Viscount Hellborough, Baron Pitchley and Grillsby, a Knight of the
Most Noble Order of the Garter, of the Golden Fleece of Spain, of the Russian
Order of Saint Nicholas of the First Class, of the Turkish Order of the
Crescent, First Lord of the Powder Closet and Groom of the Back Stairs, Colonel
of the Gaunt or Regent's Own Regiment of Militia, a Trustee of the British
Museum, an Elder Brother of the Trinity House, a Governor of the White Friars,
and D.C.L., died after a series of fits, brought on, as the papers said, by the
shock occasioned to his Lordship's sensibilities by the downfall of the ancient
French Monarchy.
    An eloquent catalogue appeared in a weekly print, describing his virtues,
his magnificence, his talents, and his good actions. His sensibility, his
attachment to the illustrious House of Bourbon, with which he claimed an
alliance, were such that he could not survive the misfortunes of his august
kinsmen. His body was buried at Naples, and his heart - that heart which always
beat with every generous and noble emotion - was brought back to Castle Gaunt in
a silver urn. »In him,« Mr. Wagg said, »the poor and the Fine Arts have lost a
beneficent patron, society one of its most brilliant ornaments, and England one
of her loftiest patriots and statesmen,« etc., etc.
    His will was a good deal disputed, and an attempt was made to force from
Madame de Belladonna the celebrated jewel called the Jew's-eye diamond, which
his Lordship always wore on his forefinger, and which it was said that she
removed from it after his lamented demise. But his confidential friend and
attendant, Monsieur Fiche, proved that the ring had been presented to the said
Madame de Belladonna two days before the Marquis's death; as were the
bank-notes, jewels, Neapolitan and French bonds, etc., found in his Lordship's
secretaire, and claimed by his heirs from that injured woman.
 

                                  Chapter LXV

                         Full of Business and Pleasure.

The day after the meeting at the play-table, Jos had himself arrayed with
unusual care and splendour; and without thinking it necessary to say a word to
any member of his family regarding the occurrences of the previous night, or
asking for their company in his walk, he sallied forth at an early hour, and was
presently seen making inquiries at the door of the Elephant Hotel. In
consequence of the fêtes the house was full of company, the tables in the street
were already surrounded by persons smoking and drinking the national small-beer,
the public rooms were in a cloud of smoke, and Mr. Jos having, in his pompous
way and with his clumsy German, made inquiries for the person of whom he was in
search, was directed to the very top of the house, above the first-floor rooms,
where some travelling pedlars had lived, and were exhibiting their jewellery and
brocades; above the second-floor apartments, occupied by the état major of the
gambling firm; above the third-floor rooms, tenanted by the band of renowned
Bohemian vaulters and tumblers; and so on to the little cabins of the roof,
where, among students, bagmen, small tradesmen, and country-folk, come in for
the festival, Becky had found a little nest - as dirty a little refuge as ever
beauty lay hid in.
    Becky liked the life. She was at home with everybody in the place - pedlars,
punters, tumblers, students, and all. She was of a wild, roving nature,
inherited from father and mother, who were both Bohemians, by taste and
circumstance. If a lord was not by, she would talk to his courier with the
greatest pleasure; the din, the stir, the drink, the smoke, the tattle of the
Hebrew pedlars, the solemn, braggart ways of the poor tumblers, the sournois
talk of the gambling-table officials, the songs and swagger of the students, and
the general buzz and hum of the place had pleased and tickled the little woman,
even when her luck was down, and she had not wherewithal to pay her bill. How
pleasant was all the bustle to her now that her purse was full of the money
which little Georgy had won for her the night before!
    As Jos came creaking and puffing up the final stairs, and was speechless
when he got to the landing, and began to wipe his face and to look for No. 92,
the room where he was directed to seek for the person he wanted, the door of the
opposite chamber, No. 90, was open, and a student, in jackboots and a dirty
schlafrock, was lying on the bed smoking a long pipe, whilst another student, in
long yellow hair and a braided coat, exceeding smart and dirty too, was actually
on his knees at No. 92, bawling through the keyhole supplications to the person
within.
    »Go away,« said a well-known voice, which made Jos thrill; »I expect
somebody - I expect my grandpapa. He mustn't see you there.«
    »Angel Engländerinn!« bellowed the kneeling student with the whity-brown
ringlets and the large finger-ring, »do take compassion upon us. Make an
appointment. Dine with me and Fritz at the inn in the park. We will have roast
pheasants and porter, plum-pudding and French wine. We shall die if you don't.«
    »That we will,« said the young nobleman on the bed. And this colloquy Jos
overheard, though he did not comprehend it, for the reason that he had never
studied the language in which it was carried on.
    »Newmero kattervang dooze, si vous plait,« Jos said, in his grandest manner,
when he was able to speak.
    »Quater fang tooce!« said the student, starting up, and he bounced into his
own room, where he locked the door, and where Jos heard him laughing with his
comrade on the bed.
    The gentleman from Bengal was standing disconcerted by this incident, when
the door of the 92 opened of itself, and Becky's little head peeped out full of
archness and mischief. She lighted on Jos. »It's you,« she said, coming out.
»How I have been waiting for you! Stop! not yet; in one minute you shall come
in.« In that instant she put a rouge-pot, a brandy-bottle, and a plate of broken
meat into the bed, gave one smooth to her hair, and finally let in her visitor.
    She had, by way of morning robe, a pink domino, a trifle faded and soiled,
and marked here and there with pomatum; but her arms shone out from the loose
sleeves of the dress very white and fair, and it was tied round her little waist
so as not ill to set off the trim little figure of the wearer. She led Jos by
the hand into her garret. »Come in,« she said - »come, and talk to me; sit
yonder on the chair,« and she gave the Civilian's hand a little squeeze, and
laughingly placed him upon it. As for herself, she placed herself on the bed -
not on the bottle and plate, you may be sure - on which Jos might have reposed,
had he chosen that seat; and so there she sate and talked with her old admirer.
    »How little years have changed you!« she said, with a look of tender
interest. »I should have known you anywhere. What a comfort it is amongst
strangers to see once more the frank, honest face of an old friend!«
    The frank, honest face, to tell the truth, at this moment bore any
expression but one of openness and honesty; it was, on the contrary, much
perturbed and puzzled in look. Jos was surveying the queer little apartment in
which he found his old flame. One of her gowns hung over the bed, another
depending from a hook of the door; her bonnet obscured half the looking-glass,
on which, too, lay the prettiest little pair of bronze boots; a French novel was
on the table by the bedside, with a candle not of wax. Becky thought of popping
that into the bed too, but she only put in the little paper nightcap with which
she had put the candle out on going to sleep. »I should have known you
anywhere,« she continued; »a woman never forgets some things. And you were the
first man I ever - I ever saw.«
    »Was I, really?« said Jos. »God bless my soul, you - you don't say so.«
    »When I came with your sister from Chiswick, I was scarcely more than a
child,« Becky said. »How is that, dear love? Oh, her husband was a sad, wicked
man, and of course it was of me that the poor dear was jealous. As if I cared
about him, heigh-ho! when there was somebody - but no - don't let us talk of old
times;« and she passed her handkerchief with the tattered lace across her
eyelids.
    »Is not this a strange place,« she continued, »for a woman, who has lived in
a very different world too, to be found in? I have had so many griefs and
wrongs, Joseph Sedley, I have been made to suffer so cruelly, that I am almost
made mad sometimes. I can't stay still in any place, but wander about always
restless and unhappy. All my friends have been false to me - all. There is no
such thing as an honest man in the world. I was the truest wife that ever lived,
though I married my husband out of pique, because somebody else - but never mind
that. I was true, and he trampled upon me and deserted me. I was the fondest
mother. I had but one child, one darling, one hope, one joy, which I held to my
heart with a mother's affection, which was my life, my prayer, my - my blessing;
and they - they tore it from me - tore it from me;« and she put her hand to her
heart with a passionate gesture of despair, burying her face for a moment on the
bed.
    The brandy-bottle inside clinked up against the plate which held the cold
sausage. Both were moved, no doubt, by the exhibition of so much grief. Max and
Fritz were at the door, listening with wonder to Mrs. Becky's sobs and cries.
Jos, too, was a good deal frightened and affected at seeing his old flame in
this condition. And she began forthwith to tell her story - a tale so neat,
simple, and artless, that it was quite evident from hearing her that if ever
there was a white-robed angel escaped from heaven to be subject to the infernal
machinations and villainy of fiends here below, that spotless being, that
miserable unsullied martyr, was present on the bed before Jos - on the bed,
sitting on the brandy-bottle.
    They had a very long, amicable, and confidential talk there, in the course
of which Jos Sedley was somehow made aware (but in a manner that did not in the
least scare or offend him) that Becky's heart had first learned to beat at his
enchanting presence; that George Osborne had certainly paid an unjustifiable
court to her, which might account for Amelia's jealousy and their little
rupture; but that Becky never gave the least encouragement to the unfortunate
officer, and that she had never ceased to think about Jos from the very first
day she had seen him, though, of course, her duties as a married woman were
paramount - duties which she had always preserved, and would to her dying day,
or until the proverbially bad climate in which Colonel Crawley was living should
release her from a yoke which his cruelty had rendered odious to her.
    Jos went away, convinced that she was the most virtuous as she was one of
the most fascinating of women, and revolving in his mind all sorts of benevolent
schemes for her welfare. Her persecutions ought to be ended; she ought to return
to the society of which she was an ornament. He would see what ought to be done.
She must quit that place, and take a quiet lodging. Amelia must come and see
her, and befriend her. He would go and settle about it, and consult with the
Major. She wept tears of heartfelt gratitude as she parted from him, and pressed
his hand as the gallant stout gentleman stooped down to kiss hers.
    So Becky bowed Jos out of her little garret with as much grace as if it was
a palace of which she did the honours; and that heavy gentleman having
disappeared down the stairs, Max and Fritz came out of their hole, pipe in
mouth, and she amused herself by mimicking Jos to them as she munched her cold
bread and sausage and took draughts of her favourite brandy-and-water.
    Jos walked over to Dobbin's lodgings with great solemnity, and there
imparted to him the affecting history with which he had just been made
acquainted, without, however, mentioning the play business of the night before.
And the two gentlemen were laying their heads together, and consulting as to the
best means of being useful to Mrs. Becky, while she was finishing her
interrupted déjeuner à la fourchette.
    How was it that she had come to that little town? How was it that she had no
friends, and was wandering about alone? Little boys at school are taught in
their earliest Latin book that the path of Avernus is very easy of descent. Let
us skip over the interval in the history of her downward progress. She was not
worse now than she had been in the days of her prosperity - only a little down
on her luck.
    As for Mrs. Amelia, she was a woman of such a soft and foolish disposition,
that when she heard of anybody unhappy her heart straightway melted towards the
sufferer; and as she had never thought or done anything mortally guilty herself,
she had not that abhorrence for wickedness which distinguishes moralists much
more knowing. If she spoiled everybody who came near her with kindness and
compliments; if she begged pardon of all her servants for troubling them to
answer the bell; if she apologized to a shop-boy who showed her a piece of silk,
or made a curtsy to a street-sweeper, with a complimentary remark upon the
elegant state of his crossing - and she was almost capable of every one of these
follies - the notion that an old acquaintance was miserable was sure to soften
her heard; nor would she hear of anybody's being deservedly unhappy. A world
under such legislation as hers would not be a very orderly place of abode; but
there are not many women, at least not of the rulers, who are of her sort. This
lady, I believe, would have abolished all jails, punishments, handcuffs,
whippings, poverty, sickness, hunger, in the world; and was such a mean-spirited
creature that - we are obliged to confess it - she could even forget a mortal
injury.
    When the Major heard from Jos of the sentimental adventure which had just
befallen the latter, he was not, it must be owned, nearly as much interested as
the gentleman from Bengal. On the contrary, his excitement was quite the reverse
from a pleasurable one; he made use of a brief but improper expression regarding
a poor woman in distress, saying, in fact, »The little minx, has she come to
light again?« He never had had the slightest liking for her, but had heartily
mistrusted her from the very first moment when her green eyes had looked at and
turned away from his own.
    »That little devil brings mischief wherever she goes,« the Major said
disrespectfully. »Who knows what sort of a life she has been leading? and what
business has she here abroad and alone? Don't tell me about persecutors and
enemies; an honest woman always has friends, and never is separated from her
family. Why has she left her husband? He may have been disreputable and wicked,
as you say. He always was. I remember the confounded blackleg, and the way in
which he used to cheat and hoodwink poor George. Wasn't there a scandal about
their separation? I think I heard something,« cried out Major Dobbin, who did
not care much about gossip, and whom Jos tried in vain to convince that Mrs.
Becky was in all respects a most injured and virtuous female.
    »Well, well, let's ask Mrs. George,« said that arch-diplomatist of at Major.
»Only let us go and consult her. I suppose you will allow that she is a good
judge, at any rate, and knows what is right in such matters.«
    »Hm! Emmy is very well,« said Jos, who did not happen to be in love with his
sister.
    »Very well? by Gad, sir, she's the finest lady I ever met in my life,«
bounced out the Major. »I say at once, let us go and ask her if this woman ought
to be visited or not; I will be content with her verdict.« Now this odious,
artful rogue of a Major was thinking in his own mind that he was sure of his
case. Emmy, he remembered, was at one time cruelly and deservedly jealous of
Rebecca, never mentioning her name but with a shrinking and terror - a jealous
woman never forgives, thought Dobbin; and so the pair went across the street to
Mrs. George's house, where she was contentedly warbling at a music-lesson with
Madame Strumpff.
    When that lady took her leave, Jos opened the business with his usual pomp
of words. »Amelia, my dear,« said he, »I have just had the most extraordinary -
yes, God bless my soul! the most extraordinary adventure. An old friend - yes, a
most interesting old friend of yours, and I may say in old times - has just
arrived here, and I should like you to see her.«
    »Her!« said Amelia. »Who is it? - Major Dobbin, if you please not to break
my scissors.« The Major was twirling them round by the little chain from which
they sometimes hung to their lady's waist, and was thereby endangering his own
eye.
    »It is a woman whom I dislike very much,« said the Major doggedly, »and whom
you have no cause to love.«
    »It is Rebecca, I'm sure it is Rebecca,« Amelia said, blushing, and being
very much agitated.
    »You are right - you always are,« Dobbin answered. Brussels, Waterloo, old,
old times, griefs, pangs, remembrances, rushed back into Amelia's gentle heart,
and caused a cruel agitation there.
    »Don't let me see her,« Emmy continued; »I couldn't see her.«
    »I told you so,« Dobbin said to Jos.
    »She is very unhappy, and - and that sort of thing,« Jos urged. »She is very
poor and unprotected, and has been ill - exceedingly ill - and that scoundrel of
a husband has deserted her.«
    »Ah!« said Amelia.
    »She hasn't a friend in the world,« Jos went on, not undexterously, »and she
said she thought she might trust in you. She's so miserable, Emmy. She has been
almost mad with grief. Her story quite affected me - 'pon my word and honour it
did; never was such a cruel persecution borne so angelically, I may say. Her
family has been most cruel to her.«
    »Poor creature!« Amelia said.
    »And if she can get no friend, she says she thinks she'll die,« Jos
proceeded, in a low, tremulous voice. »God bless my soul! do you know that she
tried to kill herself? She carries laudanum with her - I saw the bottle in her
room - such a miserable little room - at a third-rate house, the Elephant, up in
the roof at the top of all. I went there.«
    This did not seem to affect Emmy. She even smiled a little. Perhaps she
figured Jos to herself panting up the stair.
    »She's beside herself with grief,« he resumed. »The agonies that woman has
endured are quite frightful to hear of. She had a little boy, of the same age as
Georgy.«
    »Yes, yes, I think I remember,« Emmy remarked. »Well?«
    »The most beautiful child ever seen,« Jos said, who was very fat, and easily
moved, and had been touched by the story Becky told - »a perfect angel, who
adored his mother. The ruffians tore him shrieking out of her arms, and have
never allowed him to see her.«
    »Dear Joseph,« Emmy cried out, starting up at once, »let us go and see her
this minute.« And she ran into her adjoining bedchamber, tied on her bonnet in a
flutter, came out with her shawl on her arm, and ordered Dobbin to follow.
    He went and put her shawl - it was a white Cashmere, consigned to her by the
Major himself from India - over her shoulders. He saw there was nothing for it
but to obey; and she put her hand into his arm, and they went away.
    »It is No. 92, up four pair of stairs,« Jos said, perhaps not very willing
to ascend the steps again; but he placed himself in the window of his
drawing-room, which commands the place on which the Elephant stands, and saw the
pair marching through the market.
    It was as well that Becky saw them too from her garret; for she and the two
students were chattering and laughing there. They had been joking about the
appearance of Becky's grandpapa, whose arrival and departure they had witnessed;
but she had time to dismiss them, and have her little room clear before the
landlord of the Elephant, who knew that Mrs. Osborne was a great favourite at
the Serene Court, and respected her accordingly, led the way up the stairs to
the roof-story, encouraging Miladi and the Herr Major as they achieved the
ascent.
    »Gracious lady, gracious lady!« said the landlord, knocking at Becky's door;
he had called her Madame the day before, and was by no means courteous to her.
    »Who is it?« Becky said, putting out her head, and she gave a little scream.
There stood Emmy in a tremble, and Dobbin, the tall Major, with his cane.
    He stood still watching, and very much interested at the scene; but Emmy
sprang forward with open arms towards Rebecca, and forgave her at that moment,
and embraced her and kissed her with all her heart. Ah, poor wretch, when was
your lip pressed before by such pure kisses?
 

                                  Chapter LXVI

                                 Amantium Iræ.

Frankness and kindness like Amelia's were likely to touch even such a hardened
little reprobate as Becky. She returned Emmy's caresses and kind speeches with
something very like gratitude, and an emotion which, if it was not lasting, for
a moment was almost genuine. That was a lucky stroke of hers about the child
»torn from her arms shrieking.« It was by that harrowing misfortune that Becky
had won her friend back, and it was one of the very first points, we may be
certain, upon which our poor simple little Emmy began to talk to her new-found
acquaintance.
    »And so they took your darling child from you?« our simple- ton cried out.
»O Rebecca, my poor dear suffering friend, I know what it is to lose a boy, and
to feel for those who have lost one. But please Heaven yours will be restored to
you, as a merciful, merciful Providence has brought me back mine.«
    »The child - my child? Oh yes, my agonies were frightful,« Becky owned, not
perhaps without a twinge of conscience. It jarred upon her to be obliged to
commence instantly to tell lies in reply to so much confidence and simplicity.
But that is the misfortune of beginning with this kind of forgery. When one fib
becomes due as it were, you must forge another to take up the old acceptance;
and so the stock of your lies in circulation inevitably multiplies, and the
danger of detection increases every day.
    »My agonies,« Becky continued, »were terrible (I hope she won't sit down on
the bottle) when they took him away from me; I thought I should die. But I
fortunately had a brain fever, during which my doctor gave me up, and - and I
recovered, and - and here I am, poor and friendless.«
    »How old is he?« Emmy asked.
    »Eleven,« said Becky.
    »Eleven!« cried the other. »Why, he was born the same year with Georgy, who
is -«
    »I know, I know,« Becky cried out, who had in fact quite forgotten all about
little Rawdon's age. »Grief has made me forget so many things, dearest Amelia. I
am very much changed - half wild sometimes. He was eleven when they took him
away from me. Bless his sweet face; I have never seen it again.«
    »Was he fair or dark?« went on that absurd little Emmy. »Show me his hair.«
    Becky almost laughed at her simplicity. »Not to-day, love - some other time,
when my trunks arrive from Leipsic, whence I came to this place; and a little
drawing of him, which I made in happy days.«
    »Poor Becky, poor Becky!« said Emmy. »How thankful, how thankful I ought to
be!« (though I doubt whether that practice of piety inculcated upon us by our
womankind in early youth - namely, to be thankful because we are better off than
somebody else - be a very rational religious exercise;) and then she began to
think, as usual, how her son was the handsomest, the best, and the cleverest boy
in the whole world.
    »You will see my Georgy,« was the best thing Emmy could think of to console
Becky. If anything could make her comfortable, that would.
    And so the two women continued talking for an hour or more, during which
Becky had the opportunity of giving her new friend a full and complete version
of her private history. She showed how her marriage with Rawdon Crawley had
always been viewed by the family with feelings of the utmost hostility; how her
sister-in-law (an artful woman) had poisoned her husband's mind against her; how
he had formed odious connections, which had estranged his affections from her;
how she had borne everything - poverty, neglect, coldness - from the being whom
she most loved, and all for the sake of her child; how, finally, and by the most
flagrant outrage, she had been driven into demanding a separation from her
husband, when the wretch did not scruple to ask that she should sacrifice her
own fair fame so that he might procure advancement through the means of a very
great and powerful but unprincipled man - the Marquis of Steyne, indeed. The
atrocious monster!
    This part of her eventful history Becky gave with the utmost feminine
delicacy and the most indignant virtue.
    Forced to fly her husband's roof by this insult, the coward had pursued his
revenge by taking her child from her. And thus Becky said she was a wanderer,
poor, unprotected, friendless, and wretched.
    Emmy received this story, which was told at some length, as those persons
who are acquainted with her character may imagine that she would. She quivered
with indignation at the account of the conduct of the miserable Rawdon and the
unprincipled Steyne. Her eyes made notes of admiration for every one of the
sentences in which Becky described the persecution of her aristocratic relatives
and the falling away of her husband. (Becky did not abuse him. She spoke rather
in sorrow than in anger. She had loved him only too fondly; and was he not the
father of her boy?) And as for the separation-scene from the child, while Becky
was reciting it, Emmy retired altogether behind her pocket-handkerchief, so that
the consummate little tragedian must have been charmed to see the effect which
her performance produced on her audience.
    Whilst the ladies were carrying on their conversation, Amelia's constant
escort, the Major (who, of course, did not wish to interrupt their conference,
and found himself rather tired of creaking about the narrow stair passage of
which the roof brushed the nap from his hat) descended to the ground-floor of
the house and into the great room common to all the frequenters of the Elephant,
out of which the stair led. This apartment is always in a fume of smoke, and
liberally sprinkled with beer. On a dirty table stand scores of corresponding
brass candlesticks with tallow candles for the lodgers, whose keys hang up in
rows over the candles. Emmy had passed blushing through the room anon, where all
sorts of people were collected: Tyrolese glove-sellers and Danubian
linen-merchants, with their packs; students, recruiting themselves with
butterbrods and meat; idlers, playing cards or dominoes on the sloppy, beery
tables; tumblers, refreshing during the cessation of their performances - in a
word, all the fumum and strepitus of a German inn in fair-time. The waiter
brought the Major a mug of beer, as a matter of course; and he took out a cigar,
and amused himself with that pernicious vegetable and a newspaper until his
charge should come down to claim him.
    Max and Fritz came presently downstairs, their caps on one side, their spurs
jingling, their pipes splendid with coats-of-arms and full-blown tassels, and
they hung up the key of No. 90 on the board, and called for the ration of
butterbrod and beer. The pair sate down by the Major, and fell into a
conversation of which he could not help hearing somewhat. It was mainly about
Fuchs and Philister, and duels and drinking-bouts at the neighbouring University
of Schoppenhausen, from which renowned seat of learning they had just come in
the Eilwagen, with Becky, as it appeared, by their side, and in order to be
present at the bridal fêtes at Pumpernickel. »The little Engländerinn seems to
be en bays de gonnoisance,« said Max, who knew the French language, to Fritz,
his comrade. »After the fat grandfather went away, there came a pretty little
compatriot. I heard them chattering and whimpering together in the little
woman's chamber.«
    »We must take the tickets for her concert,« Fritz said. »Hast thou any
money, Max?«
    »Bah!« said the other; »the concert is a concert in nubibus. Hans said that
she advertised one at Leipsic; and the Burschen took many tickets. But she went
off without singing. She said in the coach yesterday that her pianist had fallen
ill at Dresden. She cannot sing, it is my belief; her voice is as cracked as
thine, O thou beer-soaking Renowner!«
    »It is cracked; I hear her trying out of her window a schrecklich English
ballad, called De Rose upon de Balgony.«
    »Saufen and singen go not together,« observed Fritz with the red nose, who
evidently preferred the former amusement. »No, thou shalt take none of her
tickets. She won money at the trente and quarante last night. I saw her: she
made a little English boy play for her. We will spend thy money there or at the
theatre, or we will treat her to French wine or Cognac in the Aurelius Garden,
but the tickets we will not buy. What sayest thou? Yet another mug of beer?« and
one and another successively having buried their blond whiskers in the mawkish
draught, curled them and swaggered off into the fair.
    The Major, who had seen the key of No. 90 put up on its hook, and had heard
the conversation of the two young University bloods, was not at a loss to
understand that their talk related to Becky. »The little devil is at her old
tricks,« he thought, and he smiled as he recalled old days, when he had
witnessed the desperate flirtation with Jos and the ludicrous end of that
adventure. He and George had often laughed over it subsequently, and until a few
weeks after George's marriage, when he also was caught in the little Circe's
toils, and had an understanding with her which his comrade certainly suspected,
but preferred to ignore. William was too much hurt or ashamed to ask to fathom
that disgraceful mystery, although once, and evidently with remorse on his mind,
George had alluded to it. It was on the morning of Waterloo, as the young men
stood together in front of their line, surveying the black masses of Frenchmen
who crowned the opposite heights, and as the rain was coming down. »I have been
mixing in a foolish intrigue with a woman,« George said. »I am glad we were
marched away. If I drop, I hope Emmy will never know of that business. I wish to
God it had never been begun!« And William was pleased to think, and had more
than once soothed poor George's widow with the narrative, that Osborne, after
quitting his wife, and after the action of Quatre Bras, on the first day, spoke
gravely and affectionately to his comrade of his father and his wife. On these
facts, too, William had insisted very strongly in his conversations with the
elder Osborne, and had thus been the means of reconciling the old gentleman to
his son's memory just at the close of the elder man's life.
    »And so this devil is still going on with her intrigues,« thought William.
»I wish she were a hundred miles from here. She brings mischief wherever she
goes.« And he was pursuing these forebodings and this uncomfortable train of
thought, with his head between his hands and the Pumpernickel Gazette of last
week unread under his nose, when somebody tapped his shoulder with a parasol,
and he looked up and saw Mrs. Amelia.
    This woman had a way of tyrannizing over Major Dobbin (for the weakest of
all people will domineer over somebody), and she ordered him about, and patted
him, and made him fetch and carry just as if he was a great Newfoundland dog. He
liked, so to speak, to jump into the water if she said, »High, Dobbin!« and to
trot behind her with her reticule in his mouth. This history has been written to
very little purpose if the reader has not perceived that the Major was a
spooney.
    »Why did you not wait for me, sir, to escort me down-stairs?« she said,
giving a little toss of her head and a most sarcastic curtsy.
    »I couldn't stand up in the passage,« he answered, with a comical
deprecatory look; and, delighted to give her his arm, and to take her out of the
horrid smoky place, he would have walked off without even so much as remembering
the waiter, had not the young fellow run after him and stopped him on the
threshold of the Elephant, to make him pay for the beer which he had not
consumed. Emmy laughed; she called him a naughty man, who wanted to run away in
debt; and, in fact, made some jokes suitable to the occasion and the small-beer.
She was in high spirits and good humour, and tripped across the market- very
briskly. She wanted to see Jos that instant. The Major laughed at the impetuous
affection Mrs. Amelia exhibited; for, in truth, it was not very often that she
wanted her brother that instant.
    They found the Civilian in his saloon on the first floor. He had been pacing
the room, and biting his nails, and looking over the market-place towards the
Elephant a hundred times at least during the past hour, whilst Emmy was closeted
with her friend in the garret, and the Major was beating the tattoo on the
sloppy tables of the public room below; and he was, on his side too, very
anxious to see Mrs. Osborne. »Well?« said he.
    »The poor dear creature, how she has suffered!« Emmy said.
    »God bless my soul, yes,« Jos said, wagging his head, so that his cheeks
quivered like jellies.
    »She may have Payne's room; whom can go upstairs,« Emmy continued. Payne was
a staid English maid and personal attendant upon Mrs. Osborne, to whom the
courier, as in duty bound, paid court, and whom Georgy used to lark dreadfully
with accounts of German robbers and ghosts. She passed her time chiefly in
grumbling, in ordering about her mistress, and in stating her intention to
return the next morning to her native village of Claphan. »She may have Payne's
room,« Emmy said.
    »Why, you don't mean to say you are going to have that woman into the house?
« bounced out the Major, jumping up.
    »Of course we are,« said Amelia, in the most innocent way in the world.
»Don't be angry and break the furniture, Major Dobbin. Of course we are going to
have her here.«
    »Of course, my dear,« Jos said.
    »The poor creature, after all her sufferings,« Emmy continued: »her horrid
banker broken and run away, her husband - wicked wretch - having deserted her
and taken her child away from her« (here she doubled her two little fists and
held them in a most menacing attitude before her, so that the Major was charmed
to see such a dauntless virago); »the poor dear thing! quite alone and
absolutely forced to give lessons in singing to get her bread - and not have her
here!«
    »Take lessons, my dear Mrs. George,« cried the Major, »but don't have her in
the house. I implore you don't.«
    »Pooh,« said Jos.
    »You who are always good and kind - always used to be, at any rate - I'm
astonished at you, Major William,« Amelia cried. »Why, what is the moment to
help her but when she is so miserable? Now is the time to be of service to her.
The oldest friend I ever had, and not -«
    »She was not always your friend, Amelia,« the Major said, for he was quite
angry. This allusion was too much for Emmy, who, looking the Major almost
fiercely in the face, said, »For shame, Major Dobbin!« and after having fired
this shot, she walked out of the room with a most majestic air, and shut her own
door briskly on herself and her outraged dignity.
    »To allude to that!« she said when the door was closed. »Oh, it was cruel of
him to remind me of it,« and she looked up at George's picture, which hung there
as usual, with the portrait of the boy underneath - »it was cruel of him. If I
had forgiven it, ought he to have spoken? No. And it is from his own lips that I
know how wicked and groundless my jealousy was; and that you were pure - oh yes,
you were pure, my saint in heaven!«
    She paced the room trembling and indignant. She went and leaned on the chest
of drawers over which the picture hung, and gazed and gazed at it. Its eyes
seemed to look down on her with a reproach that deepened as she looked. The
early dear dear memories of that brief prime of love rushed back upon her. The
wound which years had scarcely cicatrized bled afresh, and oh, how bitterly! She
could not bear the reproaches of the husband there before her. It couldn't be -
never, never.
    Poor Dobbin! poor old William! That unlucky word had undone the work of many
a year - the long, laborious edifice of a life of love and constancy, raised too
upon what secret and hidden foundations, wherein lay buried passions, uncounted
struggles, unknown sacrifices. A little word was spoken, and down fell the fair
palace of hope; one word, and away flew the bird which he had been trying all
his life to lure!
    William, though he saw by Amelia's looks that a great crisis had come,
nevertheless continued to implore Sedley in the most energetic terms to beware
of Rebecca; and he eagerly, almost frantically, adjured Jos not to receive her.
He besought Mr. Sedley to inquire at least regarding her, told him how he had
heard that she was in the company of gamblers and people of ill repute, pointed
out what evil she had done in former days - how she and Crawley had misled poor
George into ruin; how she was now parted from her husband, by her own
confession, and, perhaps, for good reason. What a dangerous companion she would
be for his sister, who knew nothing of the affairs of the world! William
implored Jos, with all the eloquence which he could bring to bear, and a great
deal more energy than this quiet gentleman was ordinarily in the habit of
showing, to keep Rebecca out of his household.
    Had he been less violent, or more dexterous, he might have succeeded in his
supplications to Jos; but the Civilian was not a little jealous of the airs of
superiority which the Major constantly exhibited towards him, as he fancied
(indeed, he had imparted his opinions to Mr. Kirsch, the courier, whose bills
Major Dobbin checked on this journey, and who sided with his master), and he
began a blustering speech about his competency to defend his own honour, his
desire not to have his affairs meddled with - his intention, in fine, to rebel
against the Major - when the colloquy, rather a long and stormy one, was put an
end to in the simplest way possible - namely, by the arrival of Mrs. Becky, with
a porter from the Elephant Hotel, in charge of her very meagre baggage.
    She greeted her host with affectionate respect, and made a shrinking but
amicable salutation to Major Dobbin, who, as her instinct assured her at once,
was her enemy, and had been speaking against her; and the bustle and clatter
consequent upon her arrival brought Amelia out of her room. Emmy went up and
embraced her guest with the greatest warmth, and took no notice of the Major,
except to fling him an angry look - the most unjust and scornful glance that had
perhaps ever appeared in that poor little woman's face since she was born. But
she had private reasons of her own, and was bent upon being angry with him. And
Dobbin, indignant at the injustice, not at the defeat, went off, making her a
bow quite as haughty as the killing curtsy with which the little woman chose to
bid him farewell.
    He being gone, Emmy was particularly lively and affectionate to Rebecca, and
bustled about the apartments and installed her guest it her room with an
eagerness and activity seldom exhibited by our placid little friend. But when an
act of injustice is to be done, especially by weak people, it is best that it
should be done quickly; and Emmy thought she was displaying a great deal of
firmness and proper feeling and veneration for the late Captain Osborne in her
present behaviour.
    Georgy came in from the fêtes for dinner-time, and found four covers laid as
usual; but one of the places was occupied by a lady, instead of by Major Dobbin.
»Hallo! where's Dob?« the young gentleman asked, with his usual simplicity of
language. »Major Dobbin is dining out, I suppose,« his mother said, and drawing
the boy to her, kissed him a great deal, and put his hair off his forehead, and
introduced him to Mrs. Crawley. »This is my boy, Rebecca,« Mrs. Osborne said -
as much as to say, Can the world produce anything like that? Becky looked at him
with rapture, and pressed his hand fondly. »Dear boy!« she said; »he is just
like my -« Emotion choked her further utterance; but Amelia understood, as well
as if she had spoken, that Becky was thinking of her own blessed child. However,
the company of her friend consoled Mrs. Crawley, and she ate a very good dinner.
    During the repast she had occasion to speak several times, when Georgy eyed
her and listened to her. At the dessert Emmy was gone out to superintend further
domestic arrangements; Jos was in his great chair, dozing over Galignani. Georgy
and the new arrival sat close to each other; he had continued to look at her
knowingly more than once, and at last he laid down the nutcrackers.
    »I say,« said Georgy.
    »What do you say?« Becky said, laughing.
    »You're the lady I saw in the mask at the Rouge et Noir.«
    »Hush! you little sly creature,« Becky said, taking up his hand and kissing
it. »Your uncle was there too, and mamma mustn't know.«
    »Oh no, not by no means,« answered the little fellow.
    »You see we are quite good friends already,« Becky said to Emmy, who now
re-entered; and it must be owned that Mrs. Osborne had introduced a most
judicious and amiable companion into her house.
 
William, in a state of great indignation, though still unaware of all the
treason that was in store for him, walked about the town wildly until he fell
upon the Secretary of Legation, Tapeworm, who invited him to dinner. As they
were discussing that meal, he took occasion to ask the Secretary whether he knew
anything about a certain Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who had, he believed, made some
noise in London; and then Tapeworm, who of course knew all the London gossip,
and was besides a relative of Lady Gaunt, poured out into the astonished Major's
ears such a history about Becky and her husband as astonished the querist, and
supplied all the points of this narrative - for it was at that very table years
ago that the present writer had the pleasure of hearing the tale. Tufto, Steyne,
the Crawleys, and their history - everything connected with Becky and her
previous life - passed under the record of the bitter diplomatist. He knew
everything, and a great deal besides, about all the world - in a word, he made
the most astounding revelations to the simple-hearted Major. When Dobbin said
that Mrs. Osborne and Mr. Sedley had taken her into their house, Tapeworm burst
into a peal of laughter which shocked the Major, and asked if they had not
better send into the prison, and take in one or two of the gentlemen in shaved
heads and yellow jackets who swept the streets of Pumpernickel, chained in
pairs, to board and lodge, and act as tutor to that little scapegrace Georgy.
    This information astonished and horrified the Major not a little. It had
been agreed in the morning (before meeting with Rebecca) that Amelia should go
to the Court ball that night. There would be the place where he should tell her.
The Major went home and dressed himself in his uniform, and repaired to Court,
in hopes to see Mrs. Osborne. She never came. When he returned to his lodgings,
all the lights in the Sedley tenement were put out. He could not see her till
the morning. I don't know what sort of a night's rest he had with this frightful
secret in bed with him.
    At the earliest convenient hour in the morning he sent his servant across
the way with a note, saying that he wished very particularly to speak with her.
A message came back to say that Mrs. Osborne was exceedingly unwell, and was
keeping her room.
    She, too, had been awake all that night. She had been thinking of a thing
which had agitated her mind a hundred times before. A hundred times on the point
of yielding, she had shrunk back from a sacrifice which she felt was too much
for her. She couldn't, in spite of his love and constancy, and her own
acknowledged regard, respect, and gratitude. What are benefits, what is
constancy, or merit? One curl of a girl's ringlet, one hair of a whisker, will
turn the scale against them all in a minute. They did not weigh with Emmy more
than with other women. She had tried them - wanted to make them pass - could not
- and the pitiless little woman had found a pretext, and determined to be free.
    When at length, in the afternoon, the Major gained admission to Amelia,
instead of the cordial and affectionate greeting to which he had been accustomed
now for many a long day, he received the salutation of a curtsy, and of a little
gloved hand, retracted the moment after it was accorded to him.
    Rebecca, too, was in the room, and advanced to meet him with a smile and an
extended hand. Dobbin drew back rather confusedly. »I - I beg your pardon,
ma'am,« he said, »but I am bound to tell you that it is not as your friend that
I am come here now.«
    »Pooh! damn! don't let us have this sort of thing!« Jos cried out, alarmed,
and anxious to get rid of a scene.
    »I wonder what Major Dobbin has to say against Rebecca?« Amelia said, in a
low, clear voice, with a slight quiver in it, and a very determined look about
the eyes.
    »I will not have this sort of thing in my house,« Jos again interposed - »I
say I will not have it; and, Dobbin, I beg, sir, you'll stop it.« And he looked
round trembling and turning very red, and gave a great puff, and made for his
door.
    »Dear friend!« Rebecca said, with angelic sweetness, »do hear what Major
Dobbin has to say against me.«
    »I will not hear it, I say,« squeaked out Jos, at the top of his voice, and
gathering up his dressing-gown he was gone.
    »We are only two women,« Amelia said. »You can speak now, sir.«
    »This manner towards me is one which scarcely becomes you, Amelia,« the
Major answered haughtily; »nor, I believe, am I guilty of habitual harshness to
women. It is not a pleasure to me to do the duty which I am come to do.«
    »Pray proceed with it quickly, if you please, Major Dobbin,« said Amelia,
who was more and more in a pet. The expression of Dobbin's face, as she spoke in
this imperious manner, was not pleasant.
    »I came to say - and as you stay, Mrs. Crawley, I must say it in your
presence - that I think you - you ought not to form a member of the family of my
friends. A lady who is separated from her husband, who travels not under her own
name, who frequents public gaming-tables -«
    »It was to the ball I went,« cried out Becky.
    »- is not a fit companion for Mrs. Osborne and her son,« Dobbin went on;
»and I may add that there are people here who know you, and who profess to know
that regarding your conduct about which I don't even wish to speak before -
before Mrs. Osborne.«
    »Yours is a very modest and convenient sort of calumny, Major Dobbin,«
Rebecca said. »You leave me under the weight of an accusation which, after all,
is unsaid. What is it? Is it unfaithfulness to my husband? I scorn it, and defy
anybody to prove it; I defy you, I say. My honour is as untouched as that of the
bitterest enemy who ever maligned me. Is it of being poor, forsaken, wretched,
that you accuse me? Yes, I am guilty of those faults, and punished for them
every day. - Let me go, Emmy. It is only to suppose that I have not met you, and
I am no worse to-day than I was yesterday. It is only to suppose that the night
is over and the poor wanderer is on her way. Don't you remember the song we used
to sing in old, dear old days? I have been wandering ever since then - a poor
castaway, scorned for being miserable, and insulted because I am alone. Let me
go; my stay here interferes with the plans of this gentleman.«
    »Indeed it does, madam,« said the Major. »If I have any authority in this
house -«
    »Authority, none!« broke out Amelia. - »Rebecca, you stay with me. I won't
desert you because you have been persecuted, or insult you because - because
Major Dobbin chooses to do so. Come away, dear.« And the two women made towards
the door.
    William opened it. As they were going out, however, he took Amelia's hand,
and said, »Will you stay a moment and speak to me?«
    »He wishes to speak to you away from me,« said Becky, looking like a martyr.
Amelia gripped her hand in reply.
    »Upon my honour, it is not about you that I am going to speak,« Dobbin said.
- »Come back, Amelia,« and she came. Dobbin bowed to Mrs. Crawley as he shut the
door upon her. Amelia looked at him, leaning against the glass; her face and her
lips were quite white.
    »I was confused when I spoke just now,« the Major said, after a pause, »and
I misused the word authority.«
    »You did,« said Amelia, with her teeth chattering.
    »At least I have claims to be heard,« Dobbin continued.
    »It is generous to remind me of our obligations to you,« the woman answered.
    »The claims I mean are those left me by George's father,« William said.
    »Yes, and you insulted his memory. You did yesterday. You know you did. And
I will never forgive you - never!« said Amelia She shot out each little sentence
in a tremor of anger and emotion.
    »You don't mean that, Amelia?« William said sadly. »You don't mean that
these words, uttered in a hurried moment, are to weigh against a whole life's
devotion? I think that George's memory has not been injured by the way in which
I have dealt with it; and if we are come to bandying reproaches, I at least
merit none from his widow and the mother of his son. Reflect afterwards, when -
when you are at leisure, and your conscience will withdraw this accusation. It
does even now.« Amelia held down her head.
    »It is not that speech of yesterday,« he continued, »which moves you. That
is but the pretext, Amelia, or I have loved you and watched you for fifteen
years in vain. Have I not learned in that time to read all your feelings and
look into your thoughts? I know what your heart is capable of: it can cling
faithfully to a recollection, and cherish a fancy; but it can't feel such an
attachment as mine deserves to mate with, and such as I would have won from a
woman more generous than you. No, you are not worthy of the love which I have
devoted to you. I knew all along that the prize I had set my life on was not
worth the winning; that I was a fool, with fond fancies, too, bartering away my
all of truth and ardour against your little feeble remnant of love. I will
bargain no more; I withdraw. I find no fault with you. You are very
good-natured, and have done your best; but you couldn't - you couldn't reach up
to the height of the attachment which I bore you, and which a loftier soul than
yours might have been proud to share. Good-bye, Amelia! I have watched your
struggle. Let it end; we are both weary of it.«
    Amelia stood scared and silent as William thus suddenly broke the chain by
which she held him, and declared his independence and superiority. He had placed
himself at her feet so long that the poor little woman had been accustomed to
trample upon him. She didn't wish to marry him, but she wished to keep him. She
wished to give him nothing, but that he should give her all. It is a bargain not
unfrequently levied in love.
    William's sally had quite broken and cast her down. Her assault was long
since over and beaten back.
    »Am I to understand then - that you are going - away - William?« she said.
    He gave a sad laugh. »I went once before,« he said, »and came back after
twelve years. We were young then, Amelia. Good-bye. I have spent enough of my
life at this play.«
    Whilst they had been talking, the door into Mrs. Osborne's room had opened
ever so little; indeed, Becky had kept a hold of the handle, and had turned it
on the instant when Dobbin quitted it, and she heard every word of the
conversation that had passed between these two. »What a noble heart that man
has,« she thought, »and how shamefully that woman plays with it!« She admired
Dobbin; she bore him no rancour for the part he had taken against her. It was an
open move in the game, and played fairly. »Ah!« she thought, »if I could have
had such a husband as that - a man with a heart and brains too! I would not have
minded his large feet;« and running into her room, she absolutely bethought
herself of something, and wrote him a note beseeching him to stop for a few days
- not to think of going - and that she could serve him with A.
    The parting was over. Once more poor William walked to the door, and was
gone; and the little widow, the author of all this work, had her will, and had
won her victory, and was left to enjoy it as she best might. Let the ladies envy
her triumph.
    At the romantic hour of dinner Mr. Georgy made his appearance, and again
remarked the absence of Old Dob. The meal was eaten in silence by the party -
Jos's appetite not being diminished, but Emmy taking nothing at all.
    After the meal Georgy was lolling in the cushions of the old window, a large
window, with three sides of glass, abutting from the gable, and commanding on
one side the Market Place, where the Elephant is, his mother being busy hard by,
when he remarked symptoms of movement at the Major's house on the other side of
the street.
    »Hallo!« said he, »there's Dob's trap; they are bringing it out of the
courtyard.« The trap in question was a carriage which the Major had bought for
six pounds sterling, and about which they used to rally him a good deal.
    Emmy gave a little start, but said nothing.
    »Hallo!« Georgy continued, »there's Francis coming out with the
portmanteaus, and Kunz, the one-eyed postilion, coming down the market with
three schimmels. Look at his boots and yellow jacket! ain't he a rum one? Why,
they're putting the horses to Dob's carriage. Is he going anywhere?«
    »Yes,« said Emmy, »he is going on a journey.«
    »Going on a journey! and when is he coming back?«
    »He is - not coming back,« answered Emmy.
    »Not coming back!« cried out Georgy, jumping up. »Stay here, sir!« roared
out Jos. »Stay, Georgy,« said his mother, with a very sad face. The boy stopped,
kicked about the room, jumped up and down from the window-seat with his knees,
and showed every symptom of uneasiness and curiosity.
    The horses were put to. The baggage was strapped on. Francis came out with
his master's sword, cane, and umbrella tied up together, and laid them in the
well, and his desk and old tin cocked-hat case, which he placed under the seat.
Francis brought out the stained old blue cloak lined with red camlet which had
wrapped the owner up any time these fifteen years, and had manchen Sturm erlebt,
as a favourite song of those days said. It had been new for the campaign of
Waterloo, and had covered George and William after the night of Quatre Bras.
    Old Burcke, the landlord of the lodgings, came out, then Francis, with more
packages - final packages - then Major William. Burcke wanted to kiss him. The
Major was adored by all people with whom he had to do. It was with difficulty he
could escape from this demonstration of attachment.
    »By Jove, I will go!« screamed out George. »Give him this,« said Becky,
quite interested, and put a paper into the boy's hand. He had rushed down the
stairs and flung across the street in a minute; the yellow postilion was
cracking his whip gently. William had got into the carriage, released from the
embraces of his landlord. George bounded in afterwards and flung his arms round
the Major's neck (as they saw from the window), and began asking him multiplied
questions. Then he felt in his waistcoat pocket and gave him a note. William
seized at it rather eagerly, he opened it trembling, but instantly his
countenance changed, and he tore the paper in two, and dropped it out of the
carriage. He kissed Georgy on the head, and the boy got out, doubling his fists
into his eyes, and with the aid of Francis. He lingered with his hand on the
panel. Fort, Schwager! The yellow postilion cracked his whip prodigiously, up
sprang Francis to the box, away went the schimmels, and Dobbin with his head on
his breast. He never looked up as they passed under Amelia's window; and Georgy,
left alone in the street, burst out crying in the face of all the crowd.
    Emmy's maid heard him howling again during the night, and brought him some
preserved apricots to console him. She mingled her lamentations with his. All
the poor, all the humble, all honest folks, all good men who knew him, loved
that kind-hearted and simple gentleman.
    As for Emmy, had she not done her duty? She had her picture of George for a
consolation.
 

                                 Chapter LXVII

                 Which Contains Births, Marriages, and Deaths.

Whatever Becky's private plan might be by which Dobbin's true love was to be
crowned with success, the little woman thought that the secret might keep; and
indeed, being by no means so much interested about anybody's welfare as about
her own, she had a great number of things pertaining to herself to consider, and
which concerned her a great deal more than Major Dobbin's happiness in this
life.
    She found herself suddenly and unexpectedly in snug, comfortable quarters -
surrounded by friends, kindness, and good-natured simple people, such as she had
not met with for many a long day; and, wanderer as she was by force and
inclination, there were moments when rest was pleasant to her. As the most
hardened Arab that ever careered across the desert over the hump of a dromedary,
likes to repose sometimes under the date-trees by the water, or to come into the
cities, walk into the bazaars, refresh himself in the baths, and say his prayers
in the mosques, before he goes out again marauding, so Jos's tents and pilau
were pleasant to this little Ishmaelite. She picketed her steed, hung up her
weapons, and warmed herself comfortably by his fire. The halt in that roving,
restless life was inexpressibly soothing and pleasant to her.
    So, pleased herself, she tried with all her might to please everybody; and
we know that she was eminent and successful as a practitioner in the art of
giving pleasure. As for Jos, even in that little interview in the garret at the
Elephant Inn she had found means to win back a great deal of his good-will. In
the course of a week, the Civilian was her sworn slave and frantic admirer. He
didn't go to sleep after dinner, as his custom was in the much less lively
society of Amelia. He drove out with Becky in his open carriage. He asked little
parties and invented festivities to do her honour.
    Tapeworm, the Chargé d'Affaires, who had abused her so cruelly, came to dine
with Jos, and then came every day to pay his respects to Becky. Poor Emmy, who
was never very talkative, and more glum and silent than ever after Dobbin's
departure, was quite forgotten when this superior genius made her appearance.
The French Minister was as much charmed with her as his English rival. The
German ladies, never particularly squeamish as regards morals, especially in
English people, were delighted with the cleverness and wit of Mrs. Osborne's
charming friend; and though she did not ask to go to Court, yet the most august
and Transparent Personages there heard of her fascinations, and were quite
curious to know her. When it became know that she was noble, of an ancient
English family, that her husband was a Colonel of the Guard, Excellenz and
Governor of an island, only separated from his lady by one of those trifling
differences which are of little account in a country where »Werther« is still
read, and the »Wahlverwandtschaften« of Goethe is considered an edifying moral
book, nobody thought of refusing to receive her in the very highest society of
the little Duchy; and the ladies were even more ready to call her du, and to
swear eternal friendship for her, than they had been to bestow the same
inestimable benefits upon Amelia. Love and Liberty are interpreted by those
simple Germans in a way which honest folks in Yorkshire and Somersetshire little
understand; and a lady might, in some philosophic and civilized towns, be
divorced ever so many times from her respective husbands, and keep her character
in society. Jos's house never was so pleasant since he had a house of his own,
as Rebecca caused it to be. She sang, she played, she laughed, she talked in two
or three languages; she brought everybody to the house; and she made Jos believe
that it was his own great social talents and wit which gathered the society of
the place round about him.
    As for Emmy, who found herself not in the least mistress of her own house,
except when the bills were to be paid, Becky soon discovered the way to soothe
and please her. She talked to her perpetually about Major Dobbin sent about his
business, and made no scruple of declaring her admiration for that excellent,
high-minded gentleman, and of telling Emmy that she had behaved most cruelly
regarding him. Emmy defended her conduct, and showed that it was dictated only
by the purest religious principles - that a woman once, etc., and to such an
angel as him whom she had had the good fortune to marry, was married for ever;
but she had no objection to hear the Major praised as much as ever Becky chose
to praise him, and indeed brought the conversation round to the Dobbin subject a
score of times every day.
    Means were easily found to win the favour of Georgy and the servants.
Amelia's maid, it has been said, was heart and soul in favour of the generous
Major. Having at first disliked Becky for being the means of dismissing him from
the presence of her mistress, she was reconciled to Mrs. Crawley subsequently,
because the latter became William's most ardent admirer and champion. And in
those nightly conclaves in which the two ladies indulged after their parties,
and while Miss Payne was »brushing their 'airs,« as she called the yellow locks
of the one and the soft brown tresses of the other, this girl always put in her
word for that dear good gentleman, Major Dobbin. Her advocacy did not make
Amelia angry any more than Rebecca's admiration of him. She made George write to
him constantly, and persisted in sending Mamma's kind love in a postscript. And
as she looked at her husband's portrait of nights, it no longer reproached her -
perhaps she reproached it, now William was gone.
    Emmy was not very happy after her heroic sacrifice. She was very distraite,
nervous, silent, and ill to please. The family had never known her so peevish.
She grew pale and ill. She used to try to sing certain songs (»Einsam bin ich
nicht alleine,« was one of them; that tender love-song of Weber's, which, in
old-fashioned days, young ladies, and when you were scarcely born, showed that
those who lived before you knew too how to love and to sing) - certain songs, I
say, to which the Major was partial; and as she warbled them in the twilight in
the drawing-room, she would break off in the midst of the song, and walk into
her neighbouring apartment, and there, no doubt, take refuge in the miniature of
her husband.
    Some books still subsisted, after Dobbin's departure, with his name written
in them: a German Dictionary, for instance, with »William Dobbin, -th Reg.,« in
the fly-leaf; a guide-book with his initials, and one or two other volumes which
belonged to the Major. Emmy cleared these away, and put them on the drawers,
where she placed her workbox, her desk, her Bible, and Prayer-book, under the
pictures of the two Georges. And the Major, on going away, having left his
gloves behind him, it is a fact that Georgy, rummaging his mother's desk some
time afterwards, found the gloves neatly folded up, and put away in what they
call the secret drawers of the desk.
    Not caring for society, and moping there a great deal, Emmy's chief pleasure
in the summer evenings was to take long walks with Georgy (during which Rebecca
was left to the society of Mr. Joseph), and then the mother and son used to talk
about the Major in a way which even made the boy smile. She told him that she
thought Major William was the best man in all the world - the gentlest and the
kindest, the bravest and the humblest. Over and over again, she told him how
they owed everything which they possessed in the world to that kind friend's
benevolent care of them; how he had befriended them all through their poverty
and misfortunes - watched over them when nobody cared for them; how all his
comrades admired him, though he never spoke of his own gallant actions; how
Georgy's father trusted him beyond all other men, and had been constantly
befriended by the good William. »Why, when your papa was a little boy,« she said
»he often told me that it was William who defended him against a tyrant at the
school where they were; and their friendship never ceased from that day until
the last, when your dear father fell.«
    »Did Dobbin kill the man who killed papa?« Georgy said. »I'm sure he did, or
he would if he could have caught him; wouldn't he, mother? When I'm in the army,
won't I hate the French! - that's all.«
    In such colloquies the mother and the child passed a great deal of their
time together. The artless woman had made a confidant of the boy. He was as much
William's friend as everybody else who knew him well.
 
By the way, Mrs. Becky, not to be behindhand in sentiment, had got a miniature
too hanging up in her room, to the surprise and amusement of most people, and
the delight of the original, who was no other than our friend Jos. On her first
coming to favour the Sedleys with a visit, the little woman, who had arrived
with a remarkably small shabby kit, was perhaps ashamed of the meanness of her
trunks and band-boxes, and often spoke with great respect about her baggage left
behind at Leipsic, which she must have from that city. When a traveller talks to
you perpetually about the splendour of his luggage, which he does not happen to
have with him - my son, beware of that traveller! He is, ten to one, an
impostor.
    Neither Jos nor Emmy knew this important maxim. It seemed to them of no
consequence whether Becky had a quantity of very fine clothes in invisible
trunks; but as her present supply was exceedingly shabby, Emmy supplied her out
of her own stores, or took her to the best milliner in the town and there fitted
her out. It was no more torn collars now, I promise you, and faded silks
trailing off at the shoulder. Becky changed her habits with her situation in
life: the rouge-pot was suspended; another excitement to which she had
accustomed herself was also put aside, or at least only indulged in in privacy -
as when she was prevailed on by Jos of a summer evening, Emmy and the boy being
absent on their walks, to take a little spirit-and-water. But if she did not
indulge - the courier did: that rascal Kirsch could not be kept from the bottle;
nor could he tell how much he took when he applied to it. He was sometimes
surprised himself at the way in which Mr. Sedley's Cognac diminished. Well,
well; this is a painful subject. Becky did not very likely indulge so much as
she used before she entered a decorous family.
    At last the much-bragged-about boxes arrived from Leipsic - three of them,
not by any means large or splendid; nor did Becky appear to take out any sort of
dresses or ornaments from the boxes when they did arrive. But out of one, which
contained a mass of her papers (it was that very box which Rawdon Crawley had
ransacked in his furious hunt for Becky's concealed money), she took a picture
with great glee, which she pinned up in her room, and to which she introduced
Jos. It was the portrait of a gentleman in pencil, his face having the advantage
of being painted up in pink. He was riding on an elephant away from some
cocoa-nut trees, and a pagoda: it was an Eastern scene.
    »God bless my soul, it is my portrait!« Jos cried out. It was he indeed,
blooming in youth and beauty, in a nankeen jacket of the cut of 1804. It was the
old picture that used to hang up in Russell Square.
    »I bought it,« said Becky, in a voice trembling with emotion. »I went to see
if I could be of any use to my kind friends. I have never parted with that
picture - I never will.«
    »Won't you?« Jos cried, with a look of unutterable rapture and satisfaction.
»Did you really now value it for my sake?«
    »You know I did, well enough,« said Becky; »but why speak - why think - why
look back? It is too late now!«
    That evening's conversation was delicious for Jos. Emmy only came in to go
to bed very tired and unwell. Jos and his fair guest had a charming tête-à-tête,
and his sister could hear, as she lay awake in her adjoining chamber, Rebecca
singing over to Jos the old songs of 1815. He did not sleep, for a wonder, that
night any more than Amelia.
    It was June, and, by consequence, high season in London. Jos, who read the
incomparable Galignani (the exile's best friend) through every day, used to
favour the ladies with extracts from his paper during their breakfast. Every
week in this paper there is a full account of military movements, in which Jos,
as a man who had seen service, was especially interested. On one occasion he
read out: »Arrival of the -th Regiment. - Gravesend, June 20. - The Ramchunder,
East Indiaman, came into the river this morning, having on board 14 officers and
132 rank and file of this gallant corps. They have been absent from England
fourteen years, having been embarked the year after Waterloo, in which glorious
conflict they took an active part, and having subsequently distinguished
themselves in the Burmese War. The veteran colonel, Sir Michael O'Dowd, K.C.B.,
with his lady and sister, landed here yesterday, with Captains Posky, Stubble,
Macraw, Malony; Lieutenants Smith, Jones, Thompson, F. Thomson; Ensigns Hicks
and Grady; the band on the pier playing the national anthem, and the crowd
loudly cheering the gallant veterans as they went into Wayte's Hotel, where a
sumptuous banquet was provided for the defenders of Old England. During the
repast, which we need not say was served up in Wayte's best style, the cheering
continued so enthusiastically, that Lady O'Dowd and the Colonel came forward to
the balcony and drank the healths of their fellow-countrymen in a bumper of
Wayte's best claret.«
    On a second occasion Jos read a brief announcement: Major Dobbin had joined
the -th regiment at Chatham; and subsequently he promulgated accounts of the
presentations at the Drawing-room, of Colonel Sir Michael O'Dowd, K.C.B., Lady
O'Dowd (by Mrs. Molloy Malony of Ballymalony), and Miss Glorvina O'Dowd (by Lady
O'Dowd). Almost directly after this, Dobbin's name appeared among the
Lieutenant-Colonels; for old Marshal Tiptoff had died during the passage of the
-th from Madras, and the Sovereign was pleased to advance Colonel Sir Michael
O'Dowd to the rank of Major-General on his return to England, with an intimation
that he should be Colonel of the distinguished regiment which he had so long
commanded.
    Amelia had been made aware of some of these movements. The correspondence
between George and his guardian had not ceased by any means; William had even
written once or twice to her since his departure, but in a manner so
unconstrainedly cold, that the poor woman felt now in her turn that she had lost
her power over him, and that, as he had said, he was free. He had left her, and
she was wretched. The memory of his almost countless services, and lofty and
affectionate regard, now presented itself to her, and rebuked her day and night.
She brooded over those recollections according to her wont; saw the purity and
beauty of the affection with which she had trifled, and reproached herself for
having flung away such a treasure.
    It was gone indeed. William had spent it all out. He loved her no more, he
thought, as he had loved her. He never could again. That sort of regard, which
he had proffered to her for so many faithful years, can't be flung down and
shattered and mended so as to show no scars. The little heedless tyrant had so
destroyed it. »No,« William thought again and again, »it was myself I deluded,
and persisted in cajoling; had she been worthy of the love I gave her, she would
have returned it long ago. It was a fond mistake. Isn't the whole course of life
made up of such? and suppose I had won her, should I not have been disenchanted
the day after my victory? Why pine, or be ashamed of my defeat?« The more he
thought of this long passage of his life, the more clearly he saw his deception.
»I'll go into harness again,« he said, »and do my duty in that state of life in
which it has pleased Heaven to place me. I will see that the buttons of the
recruits are properly bright, and that the sergeants make no mistakes in their
accounts. I will dine at mess, and listen to the Scotch surgeon telling his
stories. When I am old and broken, I will go on half-pay, and my old sisters
shall scold me. I have geliebt und gelebet, as the girl in Wallenstein says. I
am done. - Pay the bills and get me a cigar. Find out what there is at the play
to-night, Francis; to-morrow we cross by the Batavier.« He made the above
speech, whereof Francis only heard the last two lines, pacing up and down the
Boompjes at Rotterdam. The Batavier was lying in the basin. He could see the
place on the quarterdeck where he and Emmy had sate on the happy voyage out.
What had that little Mrs. Crawley to say to him? Psha! to-morrow we will put to
sea, and return to England, home, and duty!
 
After June all the little Court society of Pumpernickel used to separate,
according to the German plan, and make for a hundred watering-places, where they
drank at the wells, rode upon donkeys, gambled at the redoutes if they had money
and a mind, rushed with hundreds of their kind to gourmandize at the tables
d'hôte, and idled away the summer. The English diplomatists went off to Töplitz
and Kissingen; their French rivals shut up their chancellerie and whisked away
to their darling Boulevard de Gand. The Transparent reigning family took too to
the waters, or retired to their hunting-lodges. Everybody went away having any
pretensions to politeness, and of course, with them, Doctor von Glauber, the
Court Doctor, and, his Baroness. The seasons for the baths were the most
productive periods of the Doctor's practice - he united business with pleasure;
and his chief place of resort was Ostend, which is much frequented by Germans,
and where the Doctor treated himself and his spouse to what he called a dib in
the sea.
    His interesting patient, Jos, was a regular milch cow to the Doctor, and he
easily persuaded the Civilian, both for his own health's sake and that of his
charming sister, which was really very much shattered, to pass the summer at
that hideous seaport town. Emmy did not care where she went much. Georgy jumped
at the idea of a move. As for Becky, she came as a matter of course in the
fourth place inside of the fine barouche Mr. Jos had bought, the two domestics
being on the box in front. She might have some misgivings about the friends whom
she should meet at Ostend, and who might be likely to tell ugly stories - but
bah! she was strong enough to hold her own. She had cast such an anchor in Jos
now as would require a strong storm to shake. That incident of the picture had
finished him. Becky took down her elephant, and put it into the little box which
she had had from Amelia ever so many years ago. Emmy also came off with her
Lares - her two pictures - and the party, finally, were lodged in an exceedingly
dear and uncomfortable house at Ostend. There Amelia began to take baths, and
get what good she could from them; and though scores of people of Becky's
acquaintance passed her and cut her, yet Mrs. Osborne, who walked about with
her, and who knew nobody, was not aware of the treatment experienced by the
friend whom she had chosen so judiciously as a companion; indeed, Becky never
thought fit to tell her what was passing under her innocent eyes.
    Some of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's acquaintances, however, acknowledged her
readily enough - perhaps more readily than she would have desired. Among those
were Major Loder (unattached) and Captain Rook (late of the Rifles), who might
be seen any day on the Dyke, smoking and star- ing at the women, and who
speedily got an introduction to the hospitable board and select circle of Mr.
Joseph Sedley. In fact they would take no denial; they burst into the house
whether Becky was at home or not, walked into Mrs. Osborne's drawing-room, which
they perfumed with their coats and mustachios, called Jos Old buck, and invaded
his dinner-table, and laughed and drank for long hours there.
    »What can they mean?« asked Georgy, who did not like these gentlemen. »I
heard the Major say to Mrs. Crawley yesterday, No, no, Becky, you shan't keep
the old buck to yourself. We must have the bones in, or, dammy, I'll split. What
could the Major mean, mamma?«
    »Major! don't call him Major!« Emmy said. »I'm sure I can't tell what he
meant.« His presence and that of his friend inspired the little lady with
intolerable terror and aversion. They paid her tipsy compliments; they leered at
her over the dinner-table. And the Captain made her advances that filled her
with sickening dismay, nor would she ever see him unless she had George by her
side.
    Rebecca, to do her justice, never would let either of these men remain alone
with Amelia; the Major was disengaged too, and swore he would be the winner of
her. A couple of ruffians were fighting for this innocent creature, gambling for
her at her own table; and though she was not aware of the rascals' designs upon
her, yet she felt a horror and uneasiness in their presence, and longed to fly.
    She besought, she entreated Jos to go. Not he. He was slow of movement, tied
to his Doctor, and perhaps to some other leading-strings - at least Becky was
not anxious to go to England.
    At last she took a great resolution - made the great plunge. She wrote off a
letter to a friend whom she had on the other side of the water; a letter about
which she did not speak a word to anybody, which she carried herself to the post
under her shawl, nor was any remark made about it, only that she looked very
much flushed and agitated when Georgy met her, and she kissed him, and hung over
him a great deal that night. She did not come out of her room after her return
from her walk. Becky thought it was Major Loder and the Captain who frightened
her.
    »She mustn't stop here,« Becky reasoned with herself. »She must go away, the
silly little fool. She is still whimpering after that gaby of a husband - dead
(and served right!) these fifteen years. She shan't marry either of these men.
It's too bad of Loder. No; she shall marry the bamboo cane; I'll settle it this
very night.«
    So Becky took a cup of tea to Amelia in her private apartment, and found
that lady in the company of her miniatures, and in a most melancholy and nervous
condition. She laid down the cup of tea.
    »Thank you,« said Amelia.
    »Listen to me, Amelia,« said Becky, marching up and down the room before the
other, and surveying her with a sort of contemptuous kindness. »I want to talk
to you. You must go away from here and from the impertinences of these men. I
won't have you harassed by them; and they will insult you if you stay. I tell
you they are rascals - men fit to send to the hulks. Never mind how I know them.
I know everybody. Jos can't protect you; he is too weak, and wants a protector
himself. You are no more fit to live in the world than a baby in arms. You must
marry, or you and your precious boy will go to ruin. You must have a husband,
you fool; and one of the best gentlemen I ever saw has offered you a hundred
times, and you have rejected him, you silly, heartless, ungrateful little
creature!«
    »I tried - I tried my best, indeed I did, Rebecca,« said Amelia
deprecatingly, »but I couldn't forget -« and she finished the sentence by
looking up at the portrait.
    »Couldn't forget him!« cried out Becky; »that selfish humbug, that low-bred
cockney dandy, that padded booby, who had neither wit, nor manners, nor heart,
and was no more to be compared to your friend with the bamboo cane than you are
to Queen Elizabeth. Why, the man was weary of you, and would have jilted you,
but that Dobbin forced him to keep his word. He owned it to me. He never cared
for you. He used to sneer about you to me, time after time; and made love to me
the week after he married you.«
    »It's false! it's false, Rebecca!« cried out Amelia, starting up.
    »Look there, you fool,« Becky said, still with provoking good-humour, and
taking a little paper our of her belt, she opened it, and flung it into Emmy's
lap.
    »You know his handwriting. He wrote that to me - wanted me to run away with
him - gave it me under your nose, the day before he was shot - and served him
right!« Becky repeated.
    Emmy did not hear her; she was looking at the letter. It was that which
George had put into the bouquet and given to Becky on the night of the Duchess
of Richmond's ball. It was as she said: the foolish young man had asked her to
fly.
    Emmy's head sank down, and for almost the last time in which she shall be
called upon to weep in this history, she commenced that work. Her head fell to
her bosom, and her hands went up to her eyes; and there for a while she gave way
to her emotions, as Becky stood on and regarded her. Who shall analyse those
tears, and say whether they were sweet or bitter? Was she most grieved because
the idol of her life was tumbled down and shivered at her feet, or indignant
that her love had been so despised, or glad because the barrier was removed
which modesty had placed between her and a new, a real affection? »There is
nothing to forbid me now,« she thought. »I may love him with all my heart now.
Oh, I will, I will, if he will but let me and forgive me.« I believe it was this
feeling rushed over all the others which agitated that gentle little bosom.
    Indeed, she did not cry so much as Becky expected; the other soothed and
kissed her - a rare mark of sympathy with Mrs. Becky. She treated Emmy like a
child, and patted her head. »And now let us get pen and ink, and write to him to
come this minute,« she said.
    »I - I wrote to him this morning,« Emmy said, blushing exceedingly. Becky
screamed with laughter. »Un biglietto,« she sang out with Rosina, »eccolo quà!«
- the whole house echoed with her shrill singing.
 
Two mornings after this little scene, althought the day was rainly and gusty,
and Amelia had had an exceedingly wakeful night, listening to the wind roaring,
and pitying all travellers by land and by water, yet she got up early, and
insisted upon talking a walk on the Dyke with Georgy; and there she paced as the
rain beat into her face, and she looked out westward across the dark sea line,
and over the swollen billows which came tumbling and frothing to the shore.
Neither spoke much, except now and then, when the boy said a few words to his
timid companion indicative of sympathy and protection.
    »I hope he won't cross in such weather,« Emmy said.
    »I bet ten to one he does,« the boy answered. »Look, mother, there's the
smoke of the steamer.« It was that signal, sure enough.
    But though the steamer was under weigh, he might not be on board - he might
not have got the letter - he might not choose to come. A hundred fears poured
one over the other into the little heart, as fast as the waves on to the Dyke.
    The boat followed the smoke into sight. Georgy had a dandy telescope, and
got the vessel under view in the most skilful manner. And he made appropriate
nautical comments upon the manner of the approach of the steamer as she came
nearer and nearer, dipping and rising in the water. The signal of an English
steamer in sight went fluttering up to the mast on the pier. I daresay Mrs.
Amelia's heart was in a similar flutter.
    Emmy tried to look through the telescope over George's shoulder, but she
could make nothing of it. She only saw a black eclipse bobbing up and down
before her eyes.
    George took the glass again and raked the vessel. »How she does pitch!« he
said. »There goes a wave slept over her bows. There's only two people on desk
besides the steersman. There's a man lying down, and a - chap in a - cloak with
a - Hooray! - It's Dob, by jingo!« He clapped to the telescope, and flung his
arms round his mother. As for that lady, let us say what she did in the words of
a favourite poet - Dakryoen gelasasa. She was sure it was William. It could be
no other. What she had said about hoping that he would not come was all
hypocrisy. Of course he would come; what could he do else but come? She knew he
would come.
    The ship came swiftly nearer and nearer. As they went in to meet her at the
landing-place at the Quay, Emmy's knees trembled so that she scarcely could run.
She would have liked to kneel down and say her prayers of thanks there. Oh, she
thought, she would be all her life saying them! It was such a bad day that as
the vessel came alongside of the Quay there were no idlers abroad; scarcely even
a commissioner on the look-out for the few passengers in the steamer. That young
scapegrace George had fled too; and as the gentleman in the old cloak lined with
red stuff stepped on to the shore, there was scarcely any one present to see
what took place, which was briefly this -
    A lady in a dripping white bonnet and shawl, with her two little hands out
before her, went up to him, and in the next minute she had altogether
disappeared under the folds of the old cloak, and was kissing one of his hands
with all her might; whilst the other, I suppose, was engaged in holding her to
his heart (which her head just about reached), and in preventing her from
tumbling down. She was murmuring something about - forgive - dear William -
dear, dear, dearest friend - kiss, kiss, kiss, and so forth - and in fact went
on under the cloak in an absurd manner.
    When Emmy emerged from it, she still kept tight hold of one of William's
hands, and looked up in his face. It was full of sadness and tender love and
pity. She understood its reproach, and hung down her head.
    »It was time you sent for me, dear Amelia,« he said.
    »You will never go again, William?«
    »No, never,« he answered; and pressed the dear little soul once more to his
heart.
    A they issued out of the Custom-house precincts, Georgy broke out on them,
with his telescope up to his eye, and a loud laugh of welcome. He danced round
the couple, and performed many facetious antics as he led them up to the house.
Jos wasn't't up yet; Becky not visible (though she looked at them through the
blinds). Georgy ran off to see about breakfast. Emmy, whose shawl and bonnet
were off in the passage in the hands of Miss Payne, now went to undo the clasp
of William's cloak, and - we will, if you please, go with George, and look after
breakfast for the Colonel. The vessel is in port. He has got the prize he has
been trying for all his life. The bird has come in at last. There it is with its
head on his shoulder, billing and cooing close up to his heart, with soft
outstretched fluttering wings. This is what he has asked for every day and hour
for eighteen years. This is what he pined after. Here it is - the summit, the
end - the last page of the third volume. Good-bye, Colonel. God bless you,
honest William! - Farewell, dear Amelia. Grow green again, tender little
parasite, round the rugged old oak to which you cling!
 
Perhaps it was compunction towards the kind and simple creature who had been the
first in life to defend her, perhaps it was a dislike to all such sentimental
scenes, but Rebecca, satisfied with her part in the transaction, never presented
herself before Colonel Dobbin and the lady whom he married. »Particular
business,« she said, took her to Bruges, whither she went; and only Georgy and
his uncle were present at the marriage ceremony. When it was over, and Georgy
had rejoined his parents, Mrs. Becky returned (just for a few days), to comfort
the solitary bachelor, Joseph Sedley. He preferred a Continental life, he said,
and declined to join in housekeeping with his sister and her husband.
    Emmy was very glad in her heart to think that she had written to her husband
before she read or knew of that letter of George's. »I knew it all along,«
William said; »but could I use that weapon against the poor fellow's memory? It
was that which made me suffer so when you -«
    »Never speak of that day again,« Emmy cried out, so contrite and humble that
William turned off the conversation by his account of Glorvina and dear old
Peggy O'Dowd, with whom he was sitting when the letter of recall reached him.
»If you hadn't sent for me,« he added with a laugh, »who knows what Glorvina's
name might be now?«
    At present it is Glorvina Posky (now Mrs. Major Posky). She took him on the
death of his first wife, having resolved never to marry out of the regiment.
Lady O'Dowd is also so attached to it that, she says, if anything were to happen
to Mick, bedad she'd come back and marry some of 'em. But the Major-General is
quite well, and lives in great splendour at O'Dowdstown, with a pack of beagles,
and (with the exception of perhaps their neighbour, Hoggarty of Castle Hoggarty)
he is the first man of his county. Her Ladyship still dances jigs, and insisted
on standing up with the Master of the Horse at the Lord Lieutenant's last ball.
Both she and Glorvina declared that Dobbin had used the latter sheamfully; but
Posky falling in, Glorvina was consoled, and a beautiful turban from Paris
appeased the wrath of Lady O'Dowd.
    When Colonel Dobbin quitted the service, which he did immediately after his
marriage, he rented a pretty little country place in Hampshire, not far from
Queen's Crawley, where, after the passing of the Reform Bill, Sir Pitt and his
family constantly resided now. All idea of a Peerage was out of the question,
the Baronet's two seats in Parliament being lost. He was botch out of pocket and
out of spirits by that catastrophe, failed in his health, and prophesied the
speedy ruin of the Empire.
    Lady Jane and Mrs. Dobbin became great friends; there was a perpetual
crossing, of pony-chaises between the Hall and the Evergreens, the Colonel's
place (rented of his friend Major Ponto, who was abroad with his family). Her
Ladyship was godmother to Mrs. Dobbin's child, which bore her name, and was
christened by the Rev. James Crawley, who succeeded his father in the living;
and a pretty close friendship subsisted between the two lads George and Rawdon,
who hunted and shot together in the vacations, were both entered of the same
college at Cambridge, and quarrelled with each other about Lady Jane's daughter,
with whom they were both, of course, in love. A match between George and that
young lady was long a favourite scheme of both the matrons, though I have heard
that Miss Crawley herself inclined towards her cousin.
    Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's name was never mentioned by either family. There were
reasons why all should be silent regarding her. For wherever Mr. Joseph Sedley
went, she travelled likewise, and that infatuated man seemed to be entirely, her
slave. The Colonel's lawyers informed him that his brother-in-law had effected a
heavy insurance upon his life, whence it was probable that he had been raising
money to discharge debts. He procured prolonged leave of absence from the East
India House, and indeed his infirmities were daily increasing.
    On hearing the news about the insurance, Amelia, in a good deal of alarm,
entreated her husband to go to Brussels, where Jos then was, and inquire into
the state of his affairs. The Colonel quitted home with reluctance (for he was
deeply immersed in his »History of the Punjaub,« which still occupies him, and
much alarmed about his little daughter, whom he idolizes, and who was just
recovering from the chicken-pox), and went to Brussels, and found Jos living at
one of the enormous hotels in that city. Mrs. Crawley, who had her carriage,
gave entertainments, and lived in a very genteel manner, occupied another suite
of apartments in the same hotel.
    The Colonel, of course, did not desire to see that lady, or even think
proper to notify his arrival at Brussels, except privately to Jos by a message
through his valet. Jos begged the Colonel to come and see him that night, when
Mrs. Crawley would be at a soirée, and when they could meet alone. He found his
brother-in-law in a condition of pitiable infirmity, and dreadfully afraid of
Rebecca, though eager in his praises of her. She tended him through a series of
unheard-of illnesses, with a fidelity most admirable. She had been a daughter to
him. »But - but - oh, for God's sake, do come and live near me, and - and - see
me sometimes,« whimpered out the unfortunate man.
    The Colonel's brow darkened at this. »We can't, Jos,« he said. »Considering
the circumstances, Amelia, can't visit you.«
    »I swear to you - I swear to you on the Bible,« gasped out Joseph, wanting
to kiss the book, »that she is as innocent as a child, as spotless as your own
wife.«
    »It may be so,« said the Colonel, gloomily; »but Emmy can't come to you. Be
a man, Jos; break off this disreputable connection. Come home to your family. We
hear your affairs are involved.«
    »Involved!« cried Jos. »Who has told such calumnies? All my money is placed
out most advantageously. Mrs. Crawley - that is - I mean, - it is laid out to
the best interest.«
    »You are not in debt then? Why did you insure your life?«
    »I through - a little present to her - in case anything happened; and you
know my health is so delicate - common gratitude, you know - and I intend to
leave all my money to you - and I can spare it out of my income, indeed I can,«
cried out William's weak brother-in-law.
    The Colonel besought Jos to fly at once - to go back to India, whither Mrs.
Crawley could not follow him; to do anything to break off a connection which
might have the most fatal consequences to him.
    Jos clasped his hands, and cried, »He would go back to India. He would do
anything; only he must have time. They mustn't say anything to Mrs. Crawley;
she'd - she'd kill me if she knew it. You don't know what a terrible woman she
is,« the poor wretch said.
    »Then why not come away with me?« said Dobbin in reply; but Jos had not the
courage. »He would see Dobbin again in the morning; he must on no account say
that he had been there. He must go now. Becky might come in.« And Dobbin quitted
him full of forebodings.
    He never saw Jos more. Three months afterwards Joseph Sedley died at
Aix-la-Chapelle. It was found that all his property had been muddled away in
speculations, and was represented by valueless shares in different bubble
companies. All his available assets were the two thousand pounds for which his
life was insured, and which were left equally between his beloved »sister
Amelia, wife of, etc., and his friend and invaluable attendant during sickness,
Rebecca, wife of Lieutenant-Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B.,« who was appointed
administratrix.
    The solicitor of the Insurance Company swore it was the blackest case that
ever had come before him; talked of sending a commission to Aix to examine into
the death; and the Company refused payment of the policy. But Mrs., or Lady
Crawley, as she styled herself, came to town at once (attended with her
solicitors, Messrs. Burke, Thurtell, &amp; Hayes, of Thavies Inn), and dared the
Company to refuse the payment. They invited examination; they declared that she
was the object of an infamous conspiracy, which had been pursuing her all
through life; and triumphed finally. The money was paid, and her character
established; but Colonel Dobbin sent back his share of the legacy to the
Insurance Office, and rigidly declined to hold any communication with Rebecca.
    She never was Lady Crawley, though she continued so to call herself. His
Excellency Colonel Rawdon Crawley died of yellow fever at Coventry Island, most
deeply beloved and deplored, and six weeks before the demise of his brother, Sir
Pitt. The estate consequently devolved upon the present Sir Rawdon Crawley,
Bart.
    He, too, has declined to see his mother, to whom he makes a liberal
allowance, and who, besides, appears to be very wealthy. The Baronet lives
entirely at Queen's Crawley, with Lady Jane and her daughter; whilst Rebecca,
Lady Crawley, chiefly hangs about Bath and Cheltenham, where a very strong party
of excellent people consider her to be a most injured woman. She has her
enemies. Who has not? Her life is her answer to them. She busies herself in
works of piety. She goes to church, and never without a footman. Her name is in
all the Charity Lists. The Destitute Orange-girl, the Neglected Washerwoman, the
Distressed Muffin-man, find in her a fast and generous friend. She is always
having stalls at Fancy Fairs for the benefit of these hapless beings. Emmy, her
children, and the Colonel, coming to London some time back, found themselves
suddenly before her at one of these fairs. She cast down her eyes demurely and
smiled as they started away from her; Emmy skurrying off on the arm of George
(now grown a dashing young gentleman), and the Colonel seizing up his little
Janey, of whom he is fonder than of anything in the world - fonder even than of
his »History of the Punjaub.«
    »Fonder than he is of me,« Emmy thinks, with a sigh. But he never said a
word to Amelia that was not kind and gentle, or thought of a want of hers that
he did not try to gratify.
 
Ah! Vanitas Vanitatum! which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his
desire? or, having it, is satisfied? - Come, children, let us shut up the box
and the puppets, for our play is played out.
 
1 This incident is mentioned in Mr. Gleig's »Story of the Battle of Waterloo.«
