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Vanity Fair

by William Makepeace Thackary

July, 1996  [Etext #577]


The Project Gutenberg Etext of Vanity Fair, by William Thackary
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etext of Vanity Fair
Contact: Juli Rew, juliana@ncar.ucar.edu




Vanity Fair
by William Makepeace Thackeray



BEFORE THE CURTAIN

As the manager of the Performance sits before the curtain
on the boards and looks into the Fair, a feeling of profound
melancholy comes over him in his survey of the bustling place.
There is a great quantity of eating and drinking, making love
and jilting, laughing and the contrary, smoking, cheating,
fighting, dancing and fiddling; there are bullies pushing about,
bucks ogling the women, knaves picking pockets, policemen
on the look-out, quacks (OTHER quacks, plague take them!)
bawling in front of their booths, and yokels looking up at
the tinselled dancers and poor old rouged tumblers, while the
light-fingered folk are operating upon their pockets behind.
Yes, this is VANITY FAIR; not a moral place certainly; nor a
merry one, though very noisy.  Look at the faces of the actors
and buffoons when they come off from their business; and
Tom Fool washing the paint off his cheeks before he sits down
to dinner with his wife and the little Jack Puddings behind
the canvas.   The curtain will be up presently, and he will be
turning over head and heels, and crying, "How are you?"

A man with a reflective turn of mind, walking through an
exhibition of this sort, will not be oppressed, I take it, by his
own or other people's hilarity.   An episode of humour or kindness
touches and amuses him here and there--a pretty child
looking at a gingerbread stall; a pretty girl blushing whilst her
lover talks to her and chooses her fairing; poor Tom Fool,
yonder behind the waggon, mumbling his bone with the honest
family which lives by his tumbling; but the general impression
is one more melancholy than mirthful.  When you come home
you sit down in a sober, contemplative, not uncharitable frame
of mind, and apply yourself to your books or your business.

I have no other moral than this to tag to the present story
of "Vanity Fair." Some people consider Fairs immoral altogether,
and eschew such, with their servants and families: very
likely they are right.  But persons who think otherwise, and are
of a lazy, or a benevolent, or a sarcastic mood, may perhaps
like to step in for half an hour, and look at the performances.
There are scenes of all sorts; some dreadful combats, some
grand and lofty horse-riding, some scenes of high life, and
some of very middling indeed; some love-making for the
sentimental, and some light comic business; the whole
accompanied by appropriate scenery and brilliantly illuminated
with the Author's own candles.

What more has the Manager of the Performance to say?--
To acknowledge the kindness with which it has been received
in all the principal towns of England through which the Show
has passed, and where it has been most favourably noticed by
the respected conductors of the public Press, and by the Nobility
and Gentry.  He is proud to think that his Puppets have given
satisfaction to the very best company in this empire.  The
famous little Becky Puppet has been pronounced to be uncommonly
flexible in the joints, and lively on the wire; the Amelia
Doll, though it has had a smaller circle of admirers, has yet
been carved and dressed with the greatest care by the artist; the
Dobbin Figure, though apparently clumsy, yet dances in a very
amusing and natural manner; the Little Boys' Dance has been
liked by some; and please to remark the richly dressed figure
of the Wicked Nobleman, on which no expense has been
spared, and which Old Nick will fetch away at the end of this
singular performance.

And with this, and a profound bow to his patrons, the
Manager retires, and the curtain rises.

LONDON, June 28, 1848




Chapter 1


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 Doctor 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 stone cutter 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 granddaughter)
allowed that her figure was genteel; and as for Miss
Swartz, the rich woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitt's, 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 salvolatile.  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. Kitt's.  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," &c., 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 philosophise, 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-by 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 bandbox.

"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 friend--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-by.  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.  O 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 it? She doesn'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 river side) 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 ingenue; 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 intrusted, 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 happinessthe 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 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," 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 curtsey 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?"

"O 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 posts 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 farther; 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-vivan; 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 standing
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
apologised 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--"

"0 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 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."

"O, 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 someone 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 double with calico of a
tender rose-colour; in the interior of which species of
marquee was a featherbed, 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 woman, 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
despatched, 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 thunder-storm 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, tete-a-tete, 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 thunder-storm 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 tete-a-tete 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, patronised; 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
Joseph Sedley tete-a-tete 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, patronised; 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 bean-stalk, 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 farther, 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 felicita
of the eternal Donizettian music with which we are
favoured now-a-days.

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 shelter'd sure,
The cottage hearth was bright and warm--
An orphan boy the lattice pass'd,
And, as he mark'd its cheerful glow,
Felt doubly keen the midnight blast,
And doubly cold the fallen snow.

They mark'd 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
distinguee 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 farther, 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 up
stairs 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
now-a-days, 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 tete-a-tete 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--most 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 & 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.  "Hullo, Dobbin," one
wag would say, "here's good news in the paper.  Sugars
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 Doctor
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 mis-spelt, 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 con-
tempt 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 praesenti 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 slipt,
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
rencontre 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 underlip 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'--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 ascendancy 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 & 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 & Rudge, Thames St., City--I think as
he fought for me you ought to buy your Tea & 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 Telemaque
(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 naivete; 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 chambre 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 chambre 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 night-dress, 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 stock-broker's 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 burthen); 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 tete-a-tete 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 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?" 0sborne
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 up stairs, 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 dare say 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, &c., and &c., and &c., and &c.

Oh, 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 door, 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 mesalliance 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 performer, 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 bed-
room 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,
persisted 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? O 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 any way 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 dropt 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 spenser 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 connexions, 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
hear 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 milk-boy 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 neckcloth 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 connexion 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
nothink? 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 mantelpiece: 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 fire-place, 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 pint-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 despatched 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?" said 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 great-coats 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 Turnhamgreen,
Brentwood, 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 stable-men 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



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 great coats.
  
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 anybody, they said (and this meanness I hate); and
the young gentleman made 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 sarve 'em right, Master
Jack," said the guard.  When I comprehended the
meaning of this phrase, and that Master Jack intended to
drive the rest of 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--NOTHINK, 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 he ever 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 forward and seized my candle.  "No
candles after eleven o'clock, Miss Becky," said he.  "Go to
bed in the dark, you pretty little hussy" (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
killed 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; 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."

"0!" 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 a l'Ecossaise.  The side-dishes
contain pommes de terre au naturel, and choufleur a 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 overdressed,
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
hot-house 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? Oh, dear! Oh, 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 infames 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 ever 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, as 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.  0 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 dulness 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
insured 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 Attache to the
Legation at Pumpernickel, which post he filled with
perfect honour, and brought home despatches, consisting of
Strasburg pie, to the Foreign Minister of the day.  After
remaining ten years Attache (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 patronised 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 beloved 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 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 consumption 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 formed visions of the future for herself--
nor must we be scandalised 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 defeat, 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 eldest 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 book-shelves
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 Crebillon 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, however, adding that it was the
history of Mr. Humphrey Clinker.  On another occasion
he was rather scandalised 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 would 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 familiarise 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 emigres 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 Abbe 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 Harrowgate 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 (apropos 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 best
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 McTavish, and she and her mother played for
Bute and won him at Harrowgate), 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
incumbrances, 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 gaol--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, Cambridge), 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 on 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-fourthe
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 Hall visits the Rectory, and
vice versa--the parson and the Baronet talk about the
pigs and the poachers, and 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
arrives, 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 any thing 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 curacao 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 un-Christian.  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 pound? 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 impudent 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 crible de dettes--he must repair his
fortunes, and succeed in the 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 dulness 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 curtsey, 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 depot 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."
  
"O--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 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 friends' 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 chiffonne, 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 patronised
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 & 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 he
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, viz., that he had been calling at Mr. Sedley's
house already, on the pretence of seeing George, of
course, and George wasn'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
disorganised.  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-belI 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 & 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 &
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 m 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. Kitt's.  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 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 Chatham; 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 a heroine.  Her 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 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 sermonised 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 catechising 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; I will 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 accommodated Mr. Osborne with a
few pound notes, which the latter took after a little faint
scruple.
  
And I dare say he would have bought something very
handsome for Amelia; only, getting off 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.  Oh, 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, dulness 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 dulness 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."
  
"O 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 with 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
repertoire, 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 that 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 ringing 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 is 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 feared his
father might have been informed of certain transactions
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,

 
"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 positions 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 & Bullock are looking shy at him.  He's been
dabbling on his own account I fear.  They say the Jeune
Amelie 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 & Bullock's for a whole pocketful 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 & Co.
closed upon Mr. Sedley, Mr. Quill, the cashier (whose
benevolent occupation it is to hand out crisp bank-notes
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 winked 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 an 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 crimped 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 invalid aunt's 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 chambre, 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 downstairs into that now desolate dining-
parlour, where so many a good dinner had been
celebrated.
  
Here these two talked 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 keyhole 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 blackguard 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--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 being 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.  "Oh, 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. Oh, Miss B., I never thought to have seen this
day!"  And the water-works 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.
Bute at the Rectory jist 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 somethink 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. Briggs' 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 attendant 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 antechamber.  (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 hyena 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 depot 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, oh 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 victimised 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 sha'n'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 dare say."
  
"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 despatched 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 patronised 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
sympathised with Briggs as with all neglected or gentle
people: she wasn't what you call a woman of spirit.
  
George came to dinner--a repast en garcon 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, &c., &c.  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 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-bye?" 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 patronising, 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
patronised him and persiffled 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 months 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 talebearing or revenge upon a
lady--only he could not help cleverly confiding to
Captain Crawley, next day, some notions of his regarding
Miss Rebecca--that she was a sharp one, a dangerous
one, a desperate flirt, &c.; 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 form
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
Hatchments, Resurgam.--Here is an opportunity for
moralising!
  
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 despatch
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
engoument 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 agin, 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 agin.
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?"
  
"Oh, 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 'ave it all your own way.  I'll make
you a zettlement.  I'll do everything reglar.  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.
  
"Oh, Sir Pitt!" she said.  "Oh, 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.  "0
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.  Any ways 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."
   
"Oh, 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
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-cheeked 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 Bishopand 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 O! love me always--promise you will
love me always." And in the midst of 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 protege, 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 confidante 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 hard-working, 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 eclaircissement 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--O, 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, and 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 wherefore? 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
pincushionthe 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 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 sympathise
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.

"Oh, 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 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 proposal 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."
  
"O 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 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' 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 XV'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
menage (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-tables, 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 farther 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, and 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, &c. (polyandria polygynia); whence you
hear the sound of jingling spinets and women singing;
where little porter pots hang on the railings 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 and
Cutts, the eminent cornfactors) 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 lodgment 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 steeplechase.  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 dulness 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 menage 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."
  
"O 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."
  
"What-d'-ye-call'em--'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 over-burdened 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
jeopardised.  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 a 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 them.

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 curtsey 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
sate 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 of society are served and
rendered palatable with no other sauce.  As the immortal
Alexis Soyer can make more delicious soup for a half-
penny 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 farther 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 twopenny-halfpenny present, accompanied
it with so many compliments, that the twopence-half-
penny was transmuted into 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--Mr. 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
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,
&c. &c. 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 smallpox, 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 the 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. Clump 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 in 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 homewards.

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 ravaged 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 shoulder 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 recognised 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
tete-a-tete 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 and 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 tete-a-tete 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
Dobbin, 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 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
count.  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."

"O, 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 pigeons'
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 dare say 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, and 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 cornet."

"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 Goldmore, 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 Kitt's.  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
an 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 & 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 temporised 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 dare say 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 ear-rings 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
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.

"O, '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 comer.

"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,
"Gentlemen 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 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 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 tea-spoon dexterously on the
milk jug: upset it, &c., &c.; 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 curacao.  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 watertight.  Come along, my mother and Emmy 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 farther
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 yearning 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 nurse-
maid, 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, &c., &c.  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,"
and 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 Cheltonham, 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 sea-side 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 apologise
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 stand-still.

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.

"Hullo! 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 friendships, the modest
man becomes 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 Bass,
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 ticktock
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--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."
"O, how delightful! O, 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, &c.--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 himbut 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 farther 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
to 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 despatched 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 farther 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 pockets
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."

"O, 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 book-cases 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 court-yard, 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.," &c.--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 depot 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 levee, when all Saint 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 book-case, 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 names 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 & 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 inclosure 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 la, 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 chambre 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 pigtailed head; and the door being closed
upon Dobbin, sate down to pen a poulet (he was
exceedingly vain of his French) to Mademoiselle
Amenaide 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
farther, he hoped, to bring about a reconciliation with
George.

This note, despatched by the same messenger who had
carried the invitation to Chopper on the previous day,
alarmed the worthy clerk not a little.  It was inclosed 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 inclosed 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 under-bred City man.  Jos
patronised 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 monies 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 2,0001., 4 per cent. annuities, at the
value of the day (being your one-third share of the sum
of 6,0001.), 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 call 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 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 waggon?"

"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 0. 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
ecarte of a night when he would drop in to Rawdon's
quarters for a half-hour before bed-time.

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, distinguee, 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 couched 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 into 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, viz., 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 agonised 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.  O, 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 had 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 naivete; 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 fetes 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 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 tonight,
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 at 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, whilst 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 lodging for a week.  Our friends here are
very stupid, but Mr. Jos and Captain Cupid are better
companions than Mr. Moses's men, Rawdon, my love."

"I wonder the writs haven't followed me down here,"
Rawdon continued, still desponding.

"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 with 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 fulness 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 to 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 recognise my style in that," said Becky.  "I
made the sentences short and brisk on purpose." And
this authentic missive was despatched 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 what-dy'e-call-'em, 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 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
vulgarised 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 lawyer's
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 learnt 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 and 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 slep 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.  "Ar'n'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 curtsey 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 and 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 grandmothers 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 it 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 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 awhile 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 she had 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 she had 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 pekin 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 families 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 gaol 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 and 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
friends' arrival.  The Captain, with shells on his frockcoat,
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 the
regiment embroidered on the Ensign's cap, replied with a
blushing smile, and a curtsey 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 recognised 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

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, Doblin," said the lady with calm
superiority.

"And Muryan Square, 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, sheep-faced
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 gray 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 Oystherstown,
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 a 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, viz., the "Howling
Wilderness," the "Washerwoman 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 naive
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 l50th 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 soiree, 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 XVIII


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 bete"--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
chaussees swarmed with brilliant English equipages:
when its great canal-boats, gliding by rich pastures and
pleasant quaint old villages, by old chateaux 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, billeted in the Flemish farm-house,
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
characterises 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 Parks--those who know the present Sir George Tufto
would hardly recognise 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 Hotel 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 hot-houses,
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 taykettles."

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 taykettles, 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.

"Devlish 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 black cock'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 Hotel 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
learnt 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 damn'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, "Hm, 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 tete-a-tete.  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?  O, 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 sermonising?"
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 scandalised 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
0sborne 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 procure 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
debut 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 distingue.  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 patronise her.
She found fault with her friend's dress, and her
hairdresser, and wondered how she could be so chaussee,
and vowed that she must send her corsetiere 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 ball-room, 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 dare say he is tres 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 sat 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 curtsey
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
ball-room 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 awhile, 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.

''Hullo, 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 it 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
stept 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
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 over-burdened 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
jeopardised.  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 a 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 them.

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 curtsey 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
sate 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 of society are served and
rendered palatable with no other sauce.  As the immortal
Alexis Soyer can make more delicious soup for a half-
penny 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 farther 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 twopenny-halfpenny present, accompanied
it with so many compliments, that the twopence-half-
penny was transmuted into 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--Mr. 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
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,
&c. &c. 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 smallpox, 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 the 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. Clump 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 in 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 homewards.

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 ravaged 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 shoulder 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 recognised 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
tete-a-tete 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 and 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 tete-a-tete 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
Dobbin, 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 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
count.  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."

"O, 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 pigeons'
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 dare say 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, and 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 cornet."

"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 Goldmore, 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 Kitt's.  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
an 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 & 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 temporised 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 dare say 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 ear-rings 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
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.

"O, '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 comer.

"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,
"Gentlemen 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 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 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 tea-spoon dexterously on the
milk jug: upset it, &c., &c.; 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 curacao.  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 watertight.  Come along, my mother and Emmy 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 farther
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 yearning 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 nurse-
maid, 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, &c., &c.  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,"
and 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 Cheltonham, 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 sea-side 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 apologise
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 stand-still.

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.

"Hullo! 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 friendships, the modest
man becomes 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 Bass,
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 ticktock
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--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."
"O, how delightful! O, 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, &c.--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 himbut 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 farther 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
to 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 despatched 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 farther 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 pockets
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."

"O, 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 book-cases 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 court-yard, 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.," &c.--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 depot 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 levee, when all Saint 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 book-case, 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 names 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 & 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 inclosure 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 la, 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 chambre 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 pigtailed head; and the door being closed
upon Dobbin, sate down to pen a poulet (he was
exceedingly vain of his French) to Mademoiselle
Amenaide 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
farther, he hoped, to bring about a reconciliation with
George.

This note, despatched by the same messenger who had
carried the invitation to Chopper on the previous day,
alarmed the worthy clerk not a little.  It was inclosed 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 inclosed 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 under-bred City man.  Jos
patronised 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 monies 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 2,0001., 4 per cent. annuities, at the
value of the day (being your one-third share of the sum
of 6,0001.), 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 call 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 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 waggon?"

"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 0. 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
ecarte of a night when he would drop in to Rawdon's
quarters for a half-hour before bed-time.

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, distinguee, 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 couched 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 into 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, viz., 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 agonised 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.  O, 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 had 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 naivete; 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 fetes 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 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 tonight,
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 at 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, whilst 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 lodging for a week.  Our friends here are
very stupid, but Mr. Jos and Captain Cupid are better
companions than Mr. Moses's men, Rawdon, my love."

"I wonder the writs haven't followed me down here,"
Rawdon continued, still desponding.

"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 with 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 fulness 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 to 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 recognise my style in that," said Becky.  "I
made the sentences short and brisk on purpose." And
this authentic missive was despatched 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 what-dy'e-call-'em, 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 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
vulgarised 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 lawyer's
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 learnt 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 and 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 slep 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.  "Ar'n'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 curtsey 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 and 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 grandmothers 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 it 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 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 awhile 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 she had 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 she had 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 pekin 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 families 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 gaol 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 and 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
friends' arrival.  The Captain, with shells on his frockcoat,
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 the
regiment embroidered on the Ensign's cap, replied with a
blushing smile, and a curtsey 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 recognised 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

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, Doblin," said the lady with calm
superiority.

"And Muryan Square, 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, sheep-faced
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 gray 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 Oystherstown,
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 a 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, viz., the "Howling
Wilderness," the "Washerwoman 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 naive
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 l50th 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 soiree, 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 XVIII


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 bete"--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
chaussees swarmed with brilliant English equipages:
when its great canal-boats, gliding by rich pastures and
pleasant quaint old villages, by old chateaux 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, billeted in the Flemish farm-house,
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
characterises 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 Parks--those who know the present Sir George Tufto
would hardly recognise 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 Hotel 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 hot-houses,
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 taykettles."

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 taykettles, 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.

"Devlish 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 black cock'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 Hotel 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
learnt 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 damn'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, "Hm, 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 tete-a-tete.  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?  O, 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 sermonising?"
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 scandalised 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
0sborne 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 procure 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
debut 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 distingue.  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 patronise her.
She found fault with her friend's dress, and her
hairdresser, and wondered how she could be so chaussee,
and vowed that she must send her corsetiere 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 ball-room, 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 dare say he is tres 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 sat 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 curtsey
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
ball-room 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 awhile, 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.

''Hullo, 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 it 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
stept 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
farther 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.  May be
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 to 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 by-gone 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
o'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 pounds; my duelling pistols in
rosewood case (same which I shot Captain Marker),
20 pounds; 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 moustache 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 Brequet,
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 and
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 or 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.  Our 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 the --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 ante-room," 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 toilet knicknacks 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 Allee 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 beer-house
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 or 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 dependents 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 a l'armee, mon homme a 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
everywhere 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 and 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 maitre
d'hotel.  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 today 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."

"O, 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:  heart-broken,
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 not 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 good-will 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 dare say 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 I 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 you 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, anyway." 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 stronger-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 farther and farther 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 his 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?"

"Cest le feu!" said Isidor, running to the balcony.

"God defend us; it's cannon!" Mrs. O'Dowd cried,
starting up, and followed too to 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 chaussee, 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 in 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 a 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, sacre bleu!" 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 a 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 signalised
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 take
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 head-quarters.  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 at 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 debacle.  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 bedchamber,
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 Joe; "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--bonn--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
that 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
sate in their carriage in the porte-cochere 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.  If 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 chambre?"  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 half way to Ghent by that time.  I would 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 sate 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
passed, 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 despatches 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 sometime 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 recognised 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 carcase, refreshing him-
self 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 this 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 gentleman, 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-cochere.  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 court-yard 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
Marechale, while Rawdon wrapped in his cloak, and making
his bivouac under the rain at Mount Saint 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 on 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 court-yard.  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
sarcasms 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 those 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--relics 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
chambre.  Oh!  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 burthen 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
the 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 patronised 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, &c.

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--O the naughty dear abandoned wretch!--
smoking a cigar with a bottle of Curacao 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 attache 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 a 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 the exorbitant pretensions of that part of the
family; and though he himself had held 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 proposals of her son-in-law, and was for converting
Miss Crawley off-hand.  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 simple-minded 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
McNitre, 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 pretendu, 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 McNitre, 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 refusant 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 Cannibal.' "

"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 the 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
tomorrow."

"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 temporise.

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, viz.:  "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
patronised.

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,
&c., 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 tyrannising 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 endure.  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 engoument by artless sweetness and
friendship.

In the autumn evenings (when Rebecca was flaunting
at 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:  felt 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 him 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 gaol, 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 anything.
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
piano-forte, 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 Rowland's Kalydor is said to act as
a cure; when boys are seen to shave furtively with their
sister's 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 which is gained by living in a
fast set at a small college, and contracting debts, and
being rusticated, and being plucked.

He 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 an 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?"

"O, 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.
"Reglarly 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 out-slang 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 time
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, be
came 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's 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 fellers in a
fight; aye, 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 asaying?"

"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 blest if I think you know
the difference between a dog 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 hosses, 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 Cinqbars' 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-attache 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 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 iterabimus aequor,' "
and the Bacchanalian, 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 ale-house, 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, knick-knacks, 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 delighted 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 espiegle 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 feat,hers may be seen peering over the heads of all
assemblies) when Madame, the Duchess of Angouleme,
the august daughter and companion of kings, desired
especially to be presented to Mrs. Crawley, as your dear
daughter and protegee, 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 entree 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 chere 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 Very'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 fetes, 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 recognised 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
stem 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 inclosure a letter sealed with a large
red seal.  "My son, Major Dobbin," the Alderman said,
with some hesitation, "despatched 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 those 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 patria 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 park, 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 unwounded 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 Hotel 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 16th, 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.  Further 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, hurraying 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 upon 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 looking nowhere.  They stared blank in the
face of Osborne, as the carriages crossed each other, but
she did not know him; nor did he recognise 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 his 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, pap-boats, 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
downstairs, 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
1200 pounds 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, May Fair, 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 ecarte 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 newcomers 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 continuous 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 reunions 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
young 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 IOU'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 Cafe 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 black-leg." 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, &c., 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 knick-knacks.  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 knick-knacks, 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 serred 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, tres 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 Genevieve, 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 Genevieve had left and lost
him.

And so, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley came to London:
and it is at their house in Curzon Street, May Fair, 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 montees 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 greengrocer'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, May Fair, 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 railing, 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, Sugar-cane 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 penwigs.  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 Crawlers 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 dejeuner; 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 who 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 knick-knacks from Paris, by Rebecca:
and when she sat at her piano trilling songs with a
lightsome 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 under-
stand 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
womankind 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.  Pelagie 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!
fiddlede-dee!  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 bon-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 ecarte
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 mantel
piece, in all sorts of quaint sconces, of gilt and bronze and
porcelain.  They lighted up Rebecca's figure to admiration,
as she sat 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
eyebrows, 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 curtsey.  "Yes," she said,
"I must get a watchdog.  But he won't bark at YOU.
And, going into the other drawing-room, she sat 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 ecarte 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
companionship.  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 sat 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.  Oh, 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 this 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 knick-knacks 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 pygmy 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 maitre d'hotel.  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 little 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
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 Very 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 come 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 despatches 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 sometime 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, &c., &c.  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 imprudences 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 versa, 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 ornamented 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 pennorth 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 weekdays
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 tea-spoon.

Amelia flung the bottle crashing into the fire-place.
"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 hi n.  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 to 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
hooping-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 over
much, 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 scabbards 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,
and Co., Crutched Friars, and the magnificent proprietress
of the Pineries, Fulham, who gave summer dejeuners
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 the 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, sat 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 of 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, aud who might be heard in his
apartment 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 creature!  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 dulness 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 be
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, clerklike hand.  One of these papers was sent to
Major Dobbin, --Regt., care of Messrs.  Cox and 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
and 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 and 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 Calcutta, 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 and 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 agent's 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 IOU's which the latter had given, who, to do him
justice, was always ready to give an IOU.  "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 chess-men 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
chess-men 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
judgement 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 of 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'm 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 to 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 license.  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, hay? '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, hay 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
gettin' 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 Binkie.
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, monopolising 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.  Fuddlestone, 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, &c.

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 Gaol."

"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 bookcases in the study,
where they had lain.

"Law, Betsy, how could you go for to tell such a wicked
story!" said Hester, the little kitchen-maid late on her
promotion--"and to Madame Crawley, so good and kind,
and his Rev'rince (with a curtsey), 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 agin."

"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
housekeeper's room, Mum, where she keeps heaps and
heaps of things, Mum," cried out the eager little Hester
with a profusion of curtseys.

"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 protege 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 Gaol.  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, aud Australasia, &c.,
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
curtsey, 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 curtsey.

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 incumbrances 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'
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,' " &c.

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 county 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 despatched 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 sat 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 Madam 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."

"Oh, Rebecca, how can you--" was all that Briggs could
say as she turned up her eyes.

"Oh, 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 pounds 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," &c., 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 doorsteps, 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 rencontre 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 menage.  "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 curtsey; 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 High-flyer 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
hatband.  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 imposter 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.  "Hullo!
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 Joe, 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
head-piece 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 hand-shake 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 farther
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 Alms House, 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 hatbands, and who made goodly show when the
great burying show took place--but these are mute
personages 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 May Fair, 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 the 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 May Fair.  Becky
acted the whole scene for them.  She put on a night-cap
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 May Fair.  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 the 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 Crawley, 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,
&c.:  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 green-house 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 out 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 great 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 but 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 carnage 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, were all
carefully revisited by her.  She had been young there, or
comparatively 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 husband, and an Earl's daughter 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 fond 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 snug 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 and 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 good-will.  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
loath 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 in stances 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 praying 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 sat at the head of a table loaded with the
grandest plate.  She had a cheque-book, 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 sweeperess at
the crossing, the poorest under-kitchen-maid 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, and
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 the 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 be
hanged." Fred, whose hopes had been raised when George
had been disinherited, 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 and Hulker's, went on
'Change with 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 rapture 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 and 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, and 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 McMull and Mrs. McMull
(formerly Miss Swartz); and a host of fashionables, who
have all married into Lombard Street and done a 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
mesalliance 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 to
do that.  But she was still young and incapable of hiding her
feelings; and by inviting her papa and sister 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, hay?"
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, and keeps
the Earls and the Ladies, and the Honourables to herself.
Honourables? Damn Honourables.  I am a plain British
merchant I am, and could buy the beggarly hounds over
and over.  Lords, indeed!--why, at one 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, won't 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 Reunions," 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
Sergeant 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
over-feeding 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
warm 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 stead fast 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 Wm.  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 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.  "Oh, 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.




CHAPIER 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
over much 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 ill tolerably
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 insure
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 boo 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 depots 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 palanquin--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 the
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 farther, 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 or 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--
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
likewise.  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 high road 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 dulness 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 verandas 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 and
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 ere 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 postmark 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 despatched 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
communing 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 Round-about 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 the 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 store-rooms.

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 an 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 snug 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, she coaxed 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 he went 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
incumbrances; 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 notice 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 pounds from A.  B., or 10 pounds 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
Right 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.  and 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 hooping-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 baldheaded
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 judgement in every house and knows everything--
sat 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 to 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 the 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 tho
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 kep 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 doorpost 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 invitations
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 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-humoured.
"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 onto the roof of the coach in 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 questions connected with it
and telling him who lived in the great white 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 sat 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 fire-place--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
out-house 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 Fuddlestones, 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 hearth 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
free-thinker on these points) entered into poaching and
game preserving with ardour.  He didn't hunt; he wasn'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 Huddlestone Fuddlestone, 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 Fuddlestone 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 godless 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 "county 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 Pitt 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 the 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 fond 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 chill.  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
Huddlestone Fuddlestone'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 Huddlestone Fuddlestone'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, Tom 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
Huddlestone Fuddlestone'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, spatter-dashed to the knee, and enter the house to
drink cherry-brandy and pay their respects to the 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 Huddlestone 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 Huddlestone 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 Huddlestone bringing up the rear with
Colonel Crawley, and the whole cortege disappears
down the avenue.

The Reverend Bute Crawley (who has been too modest
to appear at the public meet before his nephew's
windows), 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
Huddlestone passes; he joins the worthy Baronet.  Hounds
and horsemen disappear, and little Rawdon remains on the
doorsteps, 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, her 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 story-books, 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 attache 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 culotte 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 acquaintance 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 or 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-dependent 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 sat 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 schoolmaster'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 trowsers--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 himself, 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 apothecary 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
these 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 McMull will
disengage the whole of the Castletoddy property as soon
as poor dear Lord Castletoddy dies, who is quite
epileptic; and little Macduff McMull 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 look well, his going
to Stumpy and 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 gentleman 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 neck-cloth, 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
gray 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 had 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 that 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 slice 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 conversations 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 great-coat 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 the 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
gaol, 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.  Oh, Amelia!
you break my heart with your books and that boy of
yours, whom you are ruining, though part with him you
will not.  Oh, 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.

"Oh, 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 overflowed 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, whither 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 grass-plot 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 dowagerism--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 link-boys 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, &c.--it has
a 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
the 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 had often told 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 Egalite 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, for 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, an 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 preserved 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 the 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 perverted 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 of 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 Cruchecassee, 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 lackeys, 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 Abbe de la
Marche who was here and was employed in the
Quiberoon business with Puisaye and Tinteniac, was the
same Colonel of Mousquetaires Gris with whom Steyne
fought in the year '86--that he and the Marchioness met
again--that it was 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 Laves 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 Hal (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 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 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,
Latimer!  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 judgement 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, and Robinson, of Threadneedle Street, Bankers;
from which union sprang several sons and daughters,
whose doings do not appertain to this story.

The 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 that a pate de foie gras was
poisoned.  He went to a 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 de Janeiro
is a cottage surrounded by four walls, and George Gaunt
is accredited to a keeper, who has invested 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 caned 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 too 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 baulk his enemy.

So there was splendour and wealth, but no great
happiness perchance, behind the tall caned 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 a 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 attaches 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 curtsey 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 that 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--, oh 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 assembled 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 sat, HE sat--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 them-
selves almost to be, ready to die for him.  Yes, we saw
him.  Fate cannot deprive us of THAT.  Others have seen
Napoleon.  Some few still exist who have beheld Frederick
the Great, Doctor Johnson, Marie Antoinette, &c.--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 gentlefolks.

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, decolletee, 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 of 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 sultanas of our Vanity Fair should drive up in
closed litters, descend in a covered way, and make their
curtsey 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 house 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
sympathised 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 which 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 and 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? Oh, 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
ear-rings, 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, nee 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 sat 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
Caerylon 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 naive 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 cop-
per 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 tete-a-tete
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 sat at work, and
sitting down to 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
gray paper bearing Lord Steyne's signature and the
address of Messrs.  Jones, Brown, and 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 conge? 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 and 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 livery-man 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 and 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 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 May Fair
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 sat 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 proteges, 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 dancer-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-cochere 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 farther 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 fire-place 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,
sat 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
maidservant 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 soured 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 whitey-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 care-worn 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!"

"Oh, papal 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--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, m'am
--indeed, m'am," the housekeeper said; "and the good
old times is returning, m'am.  The dear little feller, to be
sure, m'am; how happy he will be!  But some folks in
May Fair, m'am, will owe him a grudge, m'am"; 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 an 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 awhile,
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 entree.
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 sat 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 sat 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:  aye, 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 comite.
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 Jabotiere, 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 Perigord family) and
Champignac, both attaches 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 ecarte, 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 May Fair.

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 Kingstreet 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 curtsey at the assembly
over which she presided; and not only encouraged her
son, St.  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 others'
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 waggon; 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 sat 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.  100, who
could not rest for the thunder of the knocking, and of
102, 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 reunions in the Morning Post a paragraph
to the following effect:

"Yesterday, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained a
select party at dinner at their house in May Fair.  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, &c.  After dinner Mrs. Crawley
had an assembly which was attended by the Duchess
(Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyere, 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,
Bobachy Bahawder," and an &c., 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
ingenue 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
trencher-man 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
staunch 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 gaol
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 and 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 tortoise-shell 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 reunion,
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 no 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 andron
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.

Aegisthus 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 Aegisthus'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 Aegisthus 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, hay?" 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 curtsey 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 great-coat, 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 night-caps 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'etre 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 ben 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 puts
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.  "Philomele, Philomele," cries
the old woman, and Philomele 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 curtsey.  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
beside, 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 Jabotiere's attache; 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
attache.  The delighted Prince, having less retenue than
his French diplomatic colleague, insisted upon 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 ecstacy; 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 ecrased 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.
Jabotiere 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 link-men
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
court-yard 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 link-boys 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 sixty-six, six and eight-
pence, 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, shoe-black, 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 good-will
towards his fag.  As a protege 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 May Fair, 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 protegee 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 livery-man 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, prevenances, 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



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 gim-crack 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 its kep aired, and by the best
of company, too.  It was slep in the night afore last by
the Honorable 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
--reglar tip-top swells, down from the clubs and the
West End--Capting Ragg, the Honorable Deuceace, who
lives in the Temple, and some fellers 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 smoaking, 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 court-yard and smoked his cigar
with a tolerably easy mind--in spite of the bars
overhead--for Mr. Moss's court-yard 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 doorbell 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 Genievre,
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 a terre to
Nathan's.  I saw him--I wept--I cried--I fell at hi~
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 fro
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'hote 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 sat by her own little boy's bed, she
prayed humbly for that poor way-worn 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 sat.  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 forever.  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, to 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, an 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 sat 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 tho 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
sat 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
blood-shot 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 sat 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 brought
up like a younger brother, but was always encouraged to
be extravagant and kep 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 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, hay, 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 tom-fools 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 pound 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
kep 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 drawingroom.  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 May Fair
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 night-cap 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.



CHAPIER 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 vole 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 thinkin' 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.

"Oh, M'am," 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 the 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
prefect 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.

"Lady Jane!" cried Sir Pitt, starting up, "this is really
language--"

"I have been a true and faithful wife to you, 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; and 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 habitues, 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.
Yellowjack, 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 pekin, 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 from 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 good-will 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 this
morning by my Lord Steyne, and found him in a pitiable state,
as, I need hardly inform Colonel Crawley, any man of
age and 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 the 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 I 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 h, 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 the 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 sat 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 jealousy 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 no 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 at
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 head-
aches.  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 where 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 firm belief in her innocence.

But Rawdon would not hear of it.  "She has kep 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 rencontre 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 a 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 out with Sir Huddlestone'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
gentlemanlike 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 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 contented 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 what he had been reading during the day, and
was greatly interested at the report the boy gave of his
own studies, pretending 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 plans 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
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 cake was a
compensation for the agony of parting with your mamma
and sisters, oh my friend and brother, you need not be
too confident of your own fine 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 little Georgy 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
the 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 Eli 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
windows to admire his splendour, and with great eagerness
and a look of triumph in his face, he pulled a case
out of his great-coat--it was a natty white great-coat,
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 the 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 eye; 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 ecstacy? 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. Sergeant 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 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 and 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 sat 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 night-cap.
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 dandyfied 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 sat 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 toffee into the school and ruin the health
of the Masters Bangles, who had everything they wanted
at the elegant and abundant table of Mrs. 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
Doctor Bulders--a true archaeologian, gentlemen, a true
archaeologian--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 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 Eutropis, which was interrupted by the
late arrival of Master Osborne."

To this 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 Georgy 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 AOHNH 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 had 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 tres bien,
and so forth; and everybody had prizes for everything
at the end of the year.  Even Mr. Swartz, the wooly-
headed young gentleman, and half-brother to the
Honourable Mrs. Mac Mull, and Mr. Bluck, the neglected
young pupil of three-and-twenty from the agricultural
district, 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 protegee 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, &c., 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 offhand 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 dulness 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
schoolmaster, 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 coal-man, 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
Bicetre, 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 halfpenny worth
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 h'p'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.  Oh, 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 sat 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 sat 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 gaoler,
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 farther 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 baulked 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 Saint
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 portholes 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 Brussels, 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 Georgy 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
Ramchumder, 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 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 each 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 maidservants got up, and meeting the
dark man in the passages, shrieked, and mistook him for
the devil.  He and Dobbin stumbled over their pails 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 inn, the Major thought that
the 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 jeopardy his soul if he got up
at that moment, that the Major might go and 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 mile-stone to mile-stone, 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
waggoners 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 marched from here.  He owes me three pound at this
minute.  Look here, I have it in my book.  'April 10,
1815, Captain Osborne:  '3pounds.' 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 tho'.  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
bench 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 lady 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 questions from 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 view? Polly answered all these
questions 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 curtsey 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 pound 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 rencontre he began to
walk double quick towards the place of his destination
--and yet they were too soon (for he was in a 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
fetes, 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 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 in 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 sat
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 administered 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 sat 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 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, and 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--muri Achaiois alge etheke--(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
Athene House, 24 April, 1827

"Think of him writing such a hand, and quoting Greek
too, at his age," the delighted mother said.  "Oh, 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? Oh, 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
tomorrow, 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 Anne--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 saw-mills and
sawdust consolidation project, &c., &c.  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.

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.

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 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 maidservant 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, supported 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?' Oh, M'am," Polly said, "he never kept his
eyes off you, and I'm sure he's grown grey athinking of
you."

But Amelia, looking up at her bed, over which hung
the portraits of her husband and son, told her young
protegee 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 cheeks 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 until 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.

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.
Joe 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 sat 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 judgement.  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 sat 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; sat 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, and 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
and 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 swept 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 had 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 l 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 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, and Co.,
the Bombay House, and how it was thought 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 entrees.  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 Roger Bludyer, K.C.B., Bengal
Army); Lady Huff, wife of Sir G.  Huff, Bombay ditto;
Mrs. Pice, the Lady of Pice the Director, &c.  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 herself to one as to the
other.  If Fate had ordained that she should be a Duchess,
she would even have done that 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 tete-a-tete with Amelia, and
describing the sport of pig-sticking to her with great humour and
eloquence; and he spoke afterwards of a d--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 glad 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 bought out her good qualities and how her spirits
gently rose with her prosperity.  Any 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 staunch 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 sick-room, 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, &c.  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 fake 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
sick-room, 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 from 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.  "Oh, 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 especial 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 and 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 Georgy had 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 that 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 and 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 sat 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 good-will.  On the second evening old
Osborne called Dobbin William, just as he used to do at
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.

That 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 adriving
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 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. Os-
borne 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 one
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 forever."

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 an 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 old 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 Georgy's majority.  And the great heavy
dark plate-chests went off to Messrs.  Stumpy and 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 of 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-law 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 slip-slop.  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
and 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, sat 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 epris."

"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 Konigswinter; 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 sat 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 foredeck, 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 chambre 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,
britzska, 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.

"A qui cette voiture la?" said one gentleman-courier
with a large morocco money-bag and ear-rings to another
with ear-rings and a large morocco money-bag.

"C'est a Kirsch je bense--je l'ai vu toute a l'heure--
qui brenoit des sangviches dans la voiture," said the
courier in a 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 traversee, 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 gave out in India that he was intimately
acquainted with them).  Lady Bareacres' 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 good 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 sat 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 Rhineland 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 villages 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 dulness; 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 site 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 attache; 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'hote.  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
espieglerie 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 baulk his appetite, but to have a second supply of
this or that.

It was what they call a gast-rolle 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'hote
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 blase
attache, 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 Charge 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 sly-boots 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 was
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
pinacles 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'hote, and the lady, in return, presented us
with a little smile and a curtsey, 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 agremens 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 offhand 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 before-
hand, 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 slain 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
Schlusselback 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 Charge 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
Charge d'Affaires presented Jos and the Major to Victor
Aurelius XVII, being conducted to their audience with
that sovereign by the Count de Schlusselback, 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 Schlusselback, 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 Schlusselback,
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 Monplaisir (Monblaisir the honest German folks 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 fete-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 nymphbath 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 fetes 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 mile--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 head-dresses, or with three-
cornered hats and pipes in their mouths, who flock to the
Residenz 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 there 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 his Transparency
was fascinated by one of the horse-riders is well known,
and it is believed that La Petite Vivandiere, 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 XV'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 Conditorey.  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
cafe 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 Charge 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
Pans, 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'hote 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 Angouleme 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 Madam
Strumpff came to give her lessons in 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 Caesar 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 horse-back.  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 Grafinn 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 fetes 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
Schlusselback.  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 carry a
marriage with a Princess of the House of
Potztausend-Donnerwetter, whom, as a matter of
course, we opposed.

Everybody was asked to the fetes of the marriage.
Garlands and triumphal arches were hung across the road
to welcome the young bride.  The great Saint 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, &c., 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 illumination 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 fetes, 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
play-room 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 license 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' favor?"

"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 George'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.  "ll 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 waterline,
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, twanging 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 hooping-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.  "Oh, 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
chambre and a couple of rooms, at an hotel.  She dined
at the table d'hote, 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 slip-slop 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 and 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 woe-begone 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 dulness 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 night-caps for the
Cocoanut Indians--painted handscreens for the
conversion of the Pope and the Jews--sat 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 Fiji
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 back such a
letter regarding Becky, with such particulars, hints, facts,
falsehoods, and general comminations, that intimacy
between Mrs. Newbright 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 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'hote 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.

The 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
protegee, 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
dulness 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 menage 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 May Fair," 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 ecarte 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-cochere 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'hote and an ecarte
table.  Second-rate dandies and roues, widow-ladies who
always have a lawsuit, and very simple English folks, 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'hote, 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
ecarte 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
ecarte 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 ecarte--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 vipere.

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 Sheriffs'
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 ecarte--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 Cruchecassee kept house at
Florence together.  It is said she was ordered out of
Munich, and my friend Mr. 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 matinee 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
debutante 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 Toplitz 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
Montmorenci, 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
above 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
ecarte )--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 buttonholes, 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, nee
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 May Fair
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 horsejockey 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 curtsey.  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, 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 factotum
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," &c., &c.

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, &c., 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 fetes 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 etat 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-folks 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 then 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 jack-boots 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 Englanderinn!" 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
pomaturn; 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 sat
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 night-cap 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, heigho!  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 heart-felt 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
dejeuner a 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 shopboy who showed her a piece
of silk, or made a curtsey 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 heart; 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 gaols, 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
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 a 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 mentioned 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 number 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 Irae

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
simpleton cried out.  "Oh, 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
Leipzig, 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 persecutions 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 sat 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 fetes at Pumpernickel.

"The title Englanderinn 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 Leipzig, 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
downstairs?" she said, giving a little toss of her head
and a most sarcastic curtsey.

"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-place 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, who 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
Clapham.  "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 curtsey 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 in 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 fetes 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.
"Hullo!  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
desert 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
curtsey, 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, m'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.

"Hullo!" said he, "there's Dob's trap--they are bringing
it out of the court-yard." 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.

"Hullo!" 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 Charge 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 known 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, &c., and to
such an angel as him whom she had had the good
fortune to marry, was married forever; 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
work-box, 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 behind hand 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 bandboxes, and often spoke
with great respect about her baggage left behind at
Leipzig, 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
Leipzig; 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 tete-a-tete, 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. Malloy
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 quarter-deck where he and Emmy had
sat 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 gourmandise at the tables
d'hote, and idled away the summer.  The English
diplomatists went off to Teoplitz 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 Dike,
smoking and staring 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 out 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 qua!"--the
whole house echoed with her shrill singing.

Two mornings after this little scene, although the day
was rainy 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 taking a walk on the Dike 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 way, 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
Dike.

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 slap
over her bows.  There's only two people on deck 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--"Dakruoen 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.

As 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 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
Mrs. 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 both 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 soiree, 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 thought--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, &c., 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, and 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 scurrying
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.





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Vanity Fair, by Thackary