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Title: Vanity Fair

Author: William Makepeace Thackeray

Release Date: July, 1996 [EBook #599]
[Date last updated: January 31, 2004]

Edition: 12

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VANITY FAIR ***




Produced by Juli Rew, juliana@ncar.ucar.edu


</pre>

<h1 align="center">Vanity Fair</h1>

<h2 align="center">By William Makepeace Thackeray</h2>

<h3 align="center">Before the Curtain</h3>

<p>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 (<i>other</i> 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 <i>Vanity Fair</i>; 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, &#8220;How are you?&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>I have no other moral than this to tag to the present
story of &#8220;Vanity Fair.&#8221; 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&#8217;s own candles.</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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.</p>

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

<p align="right"><i>London</i>, June 28, 1848</p>

<h3 align="center">Chapter I</h3>

<h4 align="center">Chiswick Mall</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s own drawing-room.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is Mrs. Sedley&#8217;s coach, sister,&#8221;
said Miss Jemima. &#8220;Sambo, the black servant,
has just rung the bell; and the coachman has a new
red waistcoat.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Have you completed all the necessary preparations
incident to Miss Sedley&#8217;s departure, Miss Jemima?&#8221;
asked Miss Pinkerton herself, that majestic lady;
the Semiramis of Hammersmith, the friend of Doctor
Johnson, the correspondent of Mrs. Chapone herself.</p>

<p>&#8220;The girls were up at four this morning, packing
her trunks, sister,&#8221; replied Miss Jemima; &#8220;we
have made her a bow-pot.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Say a bouquet, sister Jemima, &#8217;tis more
genteel.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s box.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy
of Miss Sedley&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>In Miss Jemima&#8217;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&#8217;s opinion that
if anything could console Mrs. Birch for her daughter&#8217;s
loss, it would be that pious and eloquent composition
in which Miss Pinkerton announced the event.</p>

<p>In the present instance Miss Pinkerton&#8217;s &#8220;billet&#8221;
was to the following effect:--</p>

<p>The Mall, Chiswick, June 15, 18</p>

<p><i>Madam</i>,--After her six years&#8217; 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 <i>industry</i>
and <i>obedience</i> have endeared her to her instructors,
and whose delightful sweetness of temper has charmed
her <i>aged</i> and her <i>youthful</i> companions.</p>

<p>In music, in dancing, in orthography, in every variety
of embroidery and needlework, she will be found to
have realized her friends&#8217; 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
<i>deportment and carriage</i>, so requisite for
every young lady of <em>fashion</em>.</p>

<p>In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley
will be found worthy of an establishment which has
been honoured by the presence of <i>The Great Lexicographer</i>, 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,</p>

<p align="center">Madam,</p>

<p>Your most obliged humble servant,

<p align="right">B<span class="smallcaps">arbara</span> P<span class="smallcaps">inkerton</span></p>

<p>P.S.--Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley.  It is particularly
requested that Miss Sharp&#8217;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.</p>

<p>This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to
write her own name, and Miss Sedley&#8217;s, in the
fly-leaf of a Johnson&#8217;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 &#8220;Lines addressed to a young
lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton&#8217;s school, at
the Mall; by the late revered Doctor Samuel Johnson.&#8221;
In fact, the Lexicographer&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Being commanded by her elder sister to get &#8220;the
Dictionary&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;For whom is this, Miss Jemima?&#8221; said
Miss Pinkerton, with awful coldness.</p>

<p>&#8220;For Becky Sharp,&#8221; answered Jemima, trembling
very much, and blushing over her withered face and
neck, as she turned her back on her sister.  &#8220;For
Becky Sharp: she&#8217;s going too.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;MISS JEMINA!&#8221; exclaimed Miss
Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. &#8220;Are you
in your senses? Replace the Dixonary in the closet,
and never venture to take such a liberty in future.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, sister, it&#8217;s only two-and-ninepence,
and poor Becky will be miserable if she don&#8217;t
get one.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Send Miss Sedley instantly to me,&#8221; said
Miss Pinkerton. And so venturing not to say another
word, poor Jemima trotted off, exceedingly flurried
and nervous.</p>

<p>Miss Sedley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Although schoolmistresses&#8217; 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 <i>is</i>
a good Christian, a good parent, child, wife, or husband;
who actually <i>does</i> 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s granddaughter)
allowed that her figure was genteel; and as for Miss
Swartz, the rich woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitt&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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:  &#8220;Send
my letters under cover to my grandpapa, the Earl of
Dexter,&#8221; said Miss Saltire (who, by the way,
was rather shabby).  &#8220;Never mind the postage,
but write every day, you dear darling,&#8221; 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&#8217;s
hand and said, looking up in her face wistfully, &#8220;Amelia,
when I write to you I shall call you Mamma.&#8221;
All which details, I have no doubt, <i>Jones</i>, 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 &#8220;foolish,
twaddling,&#8221; &#38;c., and adding to them his own remark
of &#8220;<i>Quite true</i>.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s-skin
trunk with Miss Sharp&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;ll go in and say good-by to Miss
Pinkerton, Becky!&#8221; said Miss Jemima to a young
lady of whom nobody took any notice, and who was coming
downstairs with her own bandbox.</p>

<p>&#8220;I suppose I must,&#8221; 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,
&#8220;Mademoiselle, <i>je viens vous faire mes adieux</i>.&#8221;</p>

<p>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,
&#8220;Miss Sharp, I wish you a good morning.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Heaven bless you, my child,&#8221;
said she, embracing Amelia, and scowling the while
over the girl&#8217;s shoulder at Miss Sharp.  &#8220;Come
away, Becky,&#8221; said Miss Jemima, pulling the young
woman away in great alarm, and the drawing-room door
closed upon them for ever.</p>

<p>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 <i>her</i>.</p>

<p>Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage door
on his young weeping mistress.  He sprang up behind
the carriage.  &#8220;Stop!&#8221; cried Miss Jemima,
rushing to the gate with a parcel.</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s some sandwiches, my dear,&#8221;
said she to Amelia. &#8220;You may be hungry, you
know; and Becky, Becky Sharp, here&#8217;s a book for
you that my sister--that is, I--Johnson&#8217;s Dixonary,
you know; you mustn&#8217;t leave us without that.
 Good-by.  Drive on, coachman.  God bless you!&#8221;</p>

<p>And the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome
with emotion.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>This almost caused Jemima to faint with terror.  &#8220;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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter II</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Miss Sharp and Miss Sedley Prepare to Open the Campaign</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;m out
of Chiswick.&#8221;</p>

<p>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,
&#8220;I dreamed last night that I was flogged by
Dr. Raine.&#8221; 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, &#8220;Boy, take down your
pant--&#8221;? Well, well, Miss Sedley was exceedingly
alarmed at this act of insubordination.</p>

<p>&#8220;How could you do so, Rebecca?&#8221; at last
she said, after a pause.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why, do you think Miss Pinkerton will come
out and order me back to the black-hole?&#8221; said
Rebecca, laughing.</p>

<p>&#8220;No: but--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I hate the whole house,&#8221; continued Miss
Sharp in a fury.  &#8220;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&#8217;t
pick her out, that I wouldn&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Hush!&#8221; cried Miss Sedley.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why, will the black footman tell tales?&#8221;
cried Miss Rebecca, laughing.  &#8220;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&#8217;t it? She doesn&#8217;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&#8217;Empereur! Vive Bonaparte!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O Rebecca, Rebecca, for shame!&#8221; cried
Miss Sedley; for this was the greatest blasphemy Rebecca
had as yet uttered; and in those days, in England,
to say, &#8220;Long live Bonaparte!&#8221; was as much
as to say, &#8220;Long live Lucifer!&#8221; &#8220;How
can you--how dare you have such wicked, revengeful
thoughts?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Revenge may be wicked, but it&#8217;s natural,&#8221;
answered Miss Rebecca. &#8220;I&#8217;m no angel.&#8221;
And, to say the truth, she certainly was not.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
hard-heartedness and ill-humour; and, by a thousand
kind words and offices, overcome, for once at least,
her hostility to her kind.</p>

<p>Miss Sharp&#8217;s father was an artist, and in that
quality had given lessons of drawing at Miss Pinkerton&#8217;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&#8217;s ancestors
increased in rank and splendour.</p>

<p>Rebecca&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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&#8217;s sense of ridicule was far stronger than
her gratitude, and she sacrificed Miss Jemmy quite
as pitilessly as her sister.</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>The happiness the superior advantages of the young
women round about her, gave Rebecca inexpressible
pangs of envy.  &#8220;What airs that girl gives herself,
because she is an Earl&#8217;s grand-daughter,&#8221;
she said of one.  &#8220;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&#8217;s grand-daughter, for all her
fine pedigree; and yet every one passes me by here.
 And yet, when I was at my father&#8217;s, did not
the men give up their gayest balls and parties in order
to pass the evening with me?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The girl refused; and for the first time, and to the
astonishment of the majestic mistress of the school.
 &#8220;I am here to speak French with the children,&#8221;
Rebecca said abruptly, &#8220;not to teach them music,
and save money for you.  Give me money, and I will
teach them.&#8221;</p>

<p>Minerva was obliged to yield, and, of course, disliked
her from that day.  &#8220;For five-and-thirty years,&#8221;
she said, and with great justice, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A viper--a fiddlestick,&#8221; said Miss Sharp
to the old lady, almost fainting with astonishment.
 &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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. &#8220;Give me a sum of money,&#8221; said the
girl, &#8220;and get rid of me--or, if you like better,
get me a good place as governess in a nobleman&#8217;s
family--you can do so if you please.&#8221;  And in
their further disputes she always returned to this
point, &#8220;Get me a situation--we hate each other,
and I am ready to go.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s family was in want of a governess,
she actually recommended Miss Sharp for the situation,
firebrand and serpent as she was.  &#8220;I cannot,
certainly,&#8221; she said, &#8220;find fault with
Miss Sharp&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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 ("&#8217;tis the only point in Amelia&#8217;s
behaviour,&#8221; said Minerva, &#8220;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;A dem fine gal,
egad!&#8221; 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&#8217;s
ball she knew she was to go.  And when at length home
was reached, Miss Amelia Sedley skipped out on Sambo&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>When Rebecca saw the two magnificent Cashmere shawls
which Joseph Sedley had brought home to his sister,
she said, with perfect truth, &#8220;that it must
be delightful to have a brother,&#8221; and easily
got the pity of the tender-hearted Amelia for being
alone in the world, an orphan without friends or kindred.</p>

<p>&#8220;Not alone,&#8221; said Amelia; &#8220;you know,
Rebecca, I shall always be your friend, and love you
as a sister--indeed I will.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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!&#8221;</p>

<p>Amelia laughed.</p>

<p>&#8220;What! don&#8217;t you love him? you, who say
you love everybody?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes, of course, I do--only--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Only what?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Only Joseph doesn&#8217;t seem to care much
whether I love him or not. He gave me two fingers
to shake when he arrived after ten years&#8217; 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? &#8220;He was
very kind to me as a child,&#8221; she added; &#8220;I
was but five years old when he went away.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Isn&#8217;t he very rich?&#8221; said Rebecca.
 &#8220;They say all Indian nabobs are enormously
rich.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I believe he has a very large income.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And is your sister-in-law a nice pretty woman?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;La! Joseph is not married,&#8221; said Amelia,
laughing again.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I think you must have had enough of them at
Chiswick,&#8221; said Amelia, rather wondering at
the sudden tenderness on her friend&#8217;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: &#8220;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.&#8221;
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&#8217;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.  &#8220;Feel my heart, how it beats, dear!&#8221;
said she to her friend.</p>

<p>&#8220;No, it doesn&#8217;t,&#8221; said Amelia. 
&#8220;Come in, don&#8217;t be frightened.  Papa won&#8217;t
do you any harm.&#8221;</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter III</h3>

<h4 align="center">Rebecca Is in Presence of the Enemy</h4>

<p>A <i>very</i> 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s only your sister, Joseph,&#8221;
said Amelia, laughing and shaking the two fingers
which he held out.  &#8220;I&#8217;ve come home <i>for good</i>, you know; and this is my friend, Miss Sharp,
whom you have heard me mention.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;No, never, upon my word,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;He&#8217;s very handsome,&#8221; whispered
Rebecca to Amelia, rather loud.</p>

<p>&#8220;Do you think so?&#8221; said the latter.  &#8220;I&#8217;ll
tell him.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Darling! not for worlds,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Thank you for the beautiful shawls, brother,&#8221;
said Amelia to the fire poker.  &#8220;Are they not
beautiful, Rebecca?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O heavenly!&#8221; said Miss Sharp, and her
eyes went from the carpet straight to the chandelier.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;I
can&#8217;t make you such handsome presents, Joseph,&#8221;
continued his sister, &#8220;but while I was at school,
I have embroidered for you a very beautiful pair of
braces.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Good Gad! Amelia,&#8221; cried the brother,
in serious alarm, &#8220;what do you mean?&#8221;
and plunging with all his might at the bell-rope, that
article of furniture came away in his hand, and increased
the honest fellow&#8217;s confusion.  &#8220;For heaven&#8217;s
sake see if my buggy&#8217;s at the door.  I <i>can&#8217;t</i>
wait.  I must go.  D--that groom of mine. I must go.&#8221;</p>

<p>At this minute the father of the family walked in,
rattling his seals like a true British merchant. 
&#8220;What&#8217;s the matter, Emmy?&#8221; says
he.</p>

<p>&#8220;Joseph wants me to see if his--his buggy is
at the door.  What is a buggy, Papa?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It is a one-horse palanquin,&#8221; said the
old gentleman, who was a wag in his way.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I promised Bonamy of our service, sir,&#8221;
said Joseph, &#8220;to dine with him.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O fie! didn&#8217;t you tell your mother you
would dine here?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;But in this dress it&#8217;s impossible.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Look at him, isn&#8217;t he handsome enough
to dine anywhere, Miss Sharp?&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Did you ever see a pair of buckskins like those
at Miss Pinkerton&#8217;s?&#8221; continued he, following
up his advantage.</p>

<p>&#8220;Gracious heavens! Father,&#8221; cried Joseph.</p>

<p>&#8220;There now, I have hurt his feelings.  Mrs.
Sedley, my dear, I have hurt your son&#8217;s feelings.
 I have alluded to his buckskins.  Ask Miss Sharp
if I haven&#8217;t? Come, Joseph, be friends with Miss
Sharp, and let us all go to dinner.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;There&#8217;s a pillau, Joseph, just as you
like it, and Papa has brought home the best turbot
in Billingsgate.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Come, come, sir, walk downstairs with Miss
Sharp, and I will follow with these two young women,&#8221;
said the father, and he took an arm of wife and daughter
and walked merrily off.</p>

<p>If Miss Rebecca Sharp had determined in her heart
upon making the conquest of this big beau, I don&#8217;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 &#8220;come out,&#8221; but the noble ambition
of matrimony? What sends them trooping to watering-places?
What keeps them dancing till five o&#8217;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
&#8220;desirable&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;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!</p>

<p>Joseph Sedley was twelve years older than his sister
Amelia.  He was in the East India Company&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;Is the girl making fun of me?&#8221; he thought,
and straightway he bounced towards the bell, and was
for retreating, as we have seen, when his father&#8217;s
jokes and his mother&#8217;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. &#8220;Does she really think I am handsome?&#8221;
thought he, &#8220;or is she only making game of me?&#8221;
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, &#8220;She
is as vain as a man,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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. &#8220;I must be very
quiet,&#8221; thought Rebecca, &#8220;and very much
interested about India.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;What is it?&#8221; said she, turning
an appealing look to Mr. Joseph.</p>

<p>&#8220;Capital,&#8221; said he.  His mouth was full
of it: his face quite red with the delightful exercise
of gobbling. &#8220;Mother, it&#8217;s as good as
my own curries in India.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, I must try some, if it is an Indian dish,&#8221;
said Miss Rebecca. &#8220;I am sure everything must
be good that comes from there.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Give Miss Sharp some curry, my dear,&#8221;
said Mr. Sedley, laughing.</p>

<p>Rebecca had never tasted the dish before.</p>

<p>&#8220;Do you find it as good as everything else from
India?&#8221; said Mr. Sedley.</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, excellent!&#8221; said Rebecca, who was
suffering tortures with the cayenne pepper.</p>

<p>&#8220;Try a chili with it, Miss Sharp,&#8221; said
Joseph, really interested.</p>

<p>&#8220;A chili,&#8221; said Rebecca, gasping.  &#8220;Oh
yes!&#8221;  She thought a chili was something cool,
as its name imported, and was served with some. &#8220;How
fresh and green they look,&#8221; 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.  &#8220;Water, for Heaven&#8217;s sake,
water!&#8221; she cried.  Mr. Sedley burst out laughing
(he was a coarse man, from the Stock Exchange, where
they love all sorts of practical jokes).  &#8220;They
are real Indian, I assure you,&#8221; said he.  &#8220;Sambo,
give Miss Sharp some water.&#8221;</p>

<p>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, &#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>Old Sedley began to laugh, and thought Rebecca was
a good-humoured girl.  Joseph simply said, &#8220;Cream-tarts,
Miss? Our cream is very bad in Bengal.  We generally
use goats&#8217; milk; and, &#8217;gad, do you know,
I&#8217;ve got to prefer it!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You won&#8217;t like <i>everything</i> from India
now, Miss Sharp,&#8221; said the old gentleman; but
when the ladies had retired after dinner, the wily
old fellow said to his son, &#8220;Have a care, Joe;
that girl is setting her cap at you.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Pooh! nonsense!&#8221; said Joe, highly flattered.
 &#8220;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 &#8217;4--at me and Mulligatawney,
whom I mentioned to you before dinner--a devilish
good fellow Mulligatawney--he&#8217;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&#8217;s 14th, said to me, &#8216;Sedley,&#8217;
said he, &#8217;I bet you thirteen to ten that Sophy
Cutler hooks either you or Mulligatawney before the
rains.&#8217; &#8216;Done,&#8217; says I; and egad,
sir--this claret&#8217;s very good.  Adamson&#8217;s
or Carbonell&#8217;s?&#8221;</p>

<p>A slight snore was the only reply: the honest stockbroker
was asleep, and so the rest of Joseph&#8217;s story
was lost for that day. But he was always exceedingly
communicative in a man&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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. 
&#8220;A nice, gay, merry young creature,&#8221; thought
he to himself.  &#8220;How she looked at me when I
picked up her handkerchief at dinner!  She dropped
it twice.  Who&#8217;s that singing in the drawing-room?
&#8217;Gad! shall I go up and see?&#8221;</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;I&#8217;ll go and see the Forty Thieves,&#8221;
said he, &#8220;and Miss Decamp&#8217;s dance&#8221;;
and he slipped away gently on the pointed toes of
his boots, and disappeared, without waking his worthy
parent.</p>

<p>&#8220;There goes Joseph,&#8221; said Amelia, who
was looking from the open windows of the drawing-room,
while Rebecca was singing at the piano.</p>

<p>&#8220;Miss Sharp has frightened him away,&#8221;
said Mrs. Sedley.  &#8220;Poor Joe, why <i>will</i>
he be so shy?&#8221;</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter IV</h3>

<h4 align="center">The Green Silk Purse</h4>

<p>Poor Joe&#8217;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. &#8220;What! you who
have shown the poor orphan what happiness and love
are for the first time in her life--quit <i>you</i>?
 Never!&#8221;  and the green eyes looked up to Heaven
and filled with tears; and Mrs. Sedley could not but
own that her daughter&#8217;s friend had a charming
kind heart of her own.</p>

<p>As for Mr. Sedley&#8217;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&#8217;s room; she persisted in calling
Sambo &#8220;Sir,&#8221; and &#8220;Mr. Sambo,&#8221;
to the delight of that attendant; and she apologised
to the lady&#8217;s maid for giving her trouble in
venturing to ring the bell, with such sweetness and
humility, that the Servants&#8217; Hall was almost
as charmed with her as the Drawing Room.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;You know, her father was our drawing-master,
Mamma, at Chiswick, and used to do all the best parts
of our drawings.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My love! I&#8217;m sure I always heard Miss
Pinkerton say that he did not touch them--he only
mounted them.&#8221; &#8220;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-- "</p>

<p>&#8220;The poor child is all heart,&#8221; said Mrs.
Sedley.</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish she could stay with us another week,&#8221;
said Amelia.</p>

<p>&#8220;She&#8217;s devilish like Miss Cutler that
I used to meet at Dumdum, only fairer.  She&#8217;s
married now to Lance, the Artillery Surgeon.  Do you
know, Ma&#8217;am, that once Quintin, of the 14th,
bet me--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O Joseph, we know that story,&#8221; 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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m better, now,&#8221; said the girl,
with the sweetest smile possible, taking good-natured
Mrs. Sedley&#8217;s extended hand and kissing it respectfully.
 &#8220;How kind you all are to me! All,&#8221; she
added, with a laugh, &#8220;except you, Mr. Joseph.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Me!&#8221; said Joseph, meditating an instant
departure &#8220;Gracious Heavens! Good Gad! Miss
Sharp!&#8217;</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He doesn&#8217;t know you so well,&#8221; cried
Amelia.</p>

<p>&#8220;I defy anybody not to be good to you, my dear,&#8221;
said her mother.</p>

<p>&#8220;The curry was capital; indeed it was,&#8221;
said Joe, quite gravely. &#8220;Perhaps there was
<i>not</i> enough citron juice in it--no, there was
<i>not</i>.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And the chilis?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;By Jove, how they made you cry out!&#8221;
said Joe, caught by the ridicule of the circumstance,
and exploding in a fit of laughter which ended quite
suddenly, as usual.</p>

<p>&#8220;I shall take care how I let <i>you</i> choose
for me another time,&#8221; said Rebecca, as they
went down again to dinner.  &#8220;I didn&#8217;t think
men were fond of putting poor harmless girls to pain.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;By Gad, Miss Rebecca, I wouldn&#8217;t hurt
you for the world.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;No,&#8221; said she, &#8220;I <i>know</i> you
wouldn&#8217;t&#8221;; 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&#8217;s heart did
not thump at this little involuntary, timid, gentle
motion of regard on the part of the simple girl.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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 <i>whom she likes</i>.  Only let us be
thankful that the darlings are like the beasts of
the field, and don&#8217;t know their own power.  They
would overcome us entirely if they did.</p>

<p>&#8220;Egad!&#8221; thought Joseph, entering the dining-room,
&#8220;I exactly begin to feel as I did at Dumdum
with Miss Cutler.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>As if bent upon advancing Rebecca&#8217;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,&#8221; said she, laughing--a promise
that he, Joseph, would take her to Vauxhall.  &#8220;Now,&#8221;
she said, &#8220;that Rebecca is with us, will be
the very time.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O, delightful!&#8221; said Rebecca, going to
clap her hands; but she recollected herself, and paused,
like a modest creature, as she was.</p>

<p>&#8220;To-night is not the night,&#8221; said Joe.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, to-morrow.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;To-morrow your Papa and I dine out,&#8221;
said Mrs. Sedley.</p>

<p>&#8220;You don&#8217;t suppose that I&#8217;m going,
Mrs. Sed?&#8221; said her husband, &#8220;and that
a woman of your years and size is to catch cold, in
such an abominable damp place?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8217;The children must have someone with them,&#8221;
cried Mrs. Sedley.</p>

<p>&#8220;Let Joe go,&#8221; said-his father, laughing.
 &#8220;He&#8217;s big enough.&#8221; At which speech
even Mr. Sambo at the sideboard burst out laughing,
and poor fat Joe felt inclined to become a parricide
almost.</p>

<p>&#8220;Undo his stays!&#8221; continued the pitiless
old gentleman. &#8220;Fling some water in his face,
Miss Sharp, or carry him upstairs: the dear creature&#8217;s
fainting.  Poor victim! carry him up; he&#8217;s as
light as a feather!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;If I stand this, sir, I&#8217;m d--!&#8221;
roared Joseph.</p>

<p>&#8220;Order Mr. Jos&#8217;s elephant, Sambo!&#8221;
cried the father. &#8220;Send to Exeter &#8217;Change,
Sambo&#8221;; but seeing Jos ready almost to cry with
vexation, the old joker stopped his laughter, and
said, holding out his hand to his son, &#8220;It&#8217;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&#8217;t got such
in his cellar, my boy!&#8221;</p>

<p>A goblet of Champagne restored Joseph&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;The girls must have a gentleman apiece,&#8221;
said the old gentleman. &#8220;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&#8217;ll come.&#8221;</p>

<p>At this, I don&#8217;t know in the least for what
reason, Mrs. Sedley looked at her husband and laughed.
 Mr. Sedley&#8217;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.  &#8220;Amelia had
better write a note,&#8221; said her father; &#8220;and
let George Osborne see what a beautiful handwriting
we have brought back from Miss Pinkerton&#8217;s.
 Do you remember when you wrote to him to come on
Twelfth-night, Emmy, and spelt twelfth without the
f?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That was years ago,&#8221; said Amelia.</p>

<p>&#8220;It seems like yesterday, don&#8217;t it, John?&#8221;
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 <em>double</em>
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 <i>curtain lecture</i>,
I say, Mrs. Sedley took her husband to task for his
cruel conduct to poor Joe.</p>

<p>&#8220;It was quite wicked of you, Mr. Sedley,&#8221;
said she, &#8220;to torment the poor boy so.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My dear,&#8221; said the cotton-tassel in defence
of his conduct, &#8220;Jos is a great deal vainer
than you ever were in your life, and that&#8217;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&#8217;t
say no.  But I&#8217;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&#8217;am,
we shall have some trouble with him yet.  Here is
Emmy&#8217;s little friend making love to him as hard
as she can; that&#8217;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 &#8217;Change
every day.  It&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She shall go off to-morrow, the little artful
creature,&#8221; said Mrs. Sedley, with great energy.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why not she as well as another, Mrs. Sedley?
The girl&#8217;s a white face at any rate.  I don&#8217;t
care who marries him.  Let Joe please himself.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s leave of absence
had already been despatched, and it would be difficult
to find a pretext for abruptly dismissing her.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Osborne was Sedley&#8217;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 &#8220;tipped&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>Jos remembered this remarkable circumstance perfectly
well, but vowed that he had totally forgotten it.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, do you remember coming down in a gig
to Dr. Swishtail&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;How good of Mr. Sedley to go to your school
and give you the money!&#8221; exclaimed Rebecca,
in accents of extreme delight.</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes, and after I had cut the tassels of his
boots too. Boys never forget those tips at school,
nor the givers.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I delight in Hessian boots,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Miss Sharp!&#8221; said George Osborne, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I shan&#8217;t have time to do it here,&#8221;
said Rebecca.  &#8217;I&#8217;ll do it when--when
I&#8217;m gone.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;O that you could stay longer, dear Rebecca,&#8221;
said Amelia.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why?&#8221; answered the other, still more
sadly.  &#8220;That I may be only the more unhap--unwilling
to lose you?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Let us have some music, Miss Sedley--Amelia,&#8221;
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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;There is no need to ask family secrets,&#8221;
said Miss Sharp.  &#8220;Those two have told theirs.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;As soon as he gets his company,&#8221; said
Joseph, &#8220;I believe the affair is settled.  George
Osborne is a capital fellow.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And your sister the dearest creature in the
world,&#8221; said Rebecca. &#8220;Happy the man who
wins her!&#8221; With this, Miss Sharp gave a great
sigh.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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!
&#8220;For your mother&#8217;s sake, dear Mr. Sedley,&#8221;
she said, &#8220;for the sake of all your friends,
promise <i>never</i> to go on one of those horrid expeditions.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Pooh, pooh, Miss Sharp,&#8221; said he, pulling
up his shirt-collars; &#8220;the danger makes the
sport only the pleasanter.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;For any one who wants a purse,&#8221; 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--&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Did you ever hear anything like your brother&#8217;s
eloquence?&#8221; whispered Mr. Osborne to Amelia.
 &#8220;Why, your friend has worked miracles.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;The more the better,&#8221; 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&#8217; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;You would not have listened to me,&#8221;
she said to Mr. Osborne (though she knew she was telling
a fib), &#8220;had you heard Rebecca first.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I give Miss Sharp warning, though,&#8221; said
Osborne, &#8220;that, right or wrong, I consider Miss
Amelia Sedley the first singer in the world.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You shall hear,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Among these ditties was one, the last of the concert,
and to the following effect:</p>

<p>Ah! bleak and barren was the moor, Ah! loud and piercing
was the storm, The cottage roof was shelter&#8217;d
sure, The cottage hearth was bright and warm--An orphan
boy the lattice pass&#8217;d, And, as he mark&#8217;d
its cheerful glow, Felt doubly keen the midnight blast,
And doubly cold the fallen snow.</p>

<p>They mark&#8217;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!</p>

<p>It was the sentiment of the before-mentioned words,
&#8220;When I&#8217;m gone,&#8221; over again.  As
she came to the last words, Miss Sharp&#8217;s &#8220;deep-toned
voice faltered.&#8221; 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&#8217;s proposal,
in the farther room, Joseph Sedley&#8217;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&#8217;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, &#8220;My dear
Miss Sharp, one little teaspoonful of jelly to recruit
you after your immense--your--your delightful exertions.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Bravo, Jos!&#8221; 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&#8217;s lady herself--and what a
sensation she would make at the Calcutta balls. &#8220;It&#8217;s
evident the poor devil&#8217;s in love with me,&#8221;
thought he.  &#8220;She is just as rich as most of
the girls who come out to India.  I might go farther,
and fare worse, egad!&#8221; And in these meditations
he fell asleep.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;putting out&#8221;
Amelia, who was writing to her twelve dearest friends
at Chiswick Mall), and Rebecca was employed upon her
yesterday&#8217;s work.  As Joe&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Sambo, who flung open the door and announced Mr. Joseph,
followed grinning, in the Collector&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Bravo, Jos!&#8221; cried Osborne.</p>

<p>&#8220;Thank you, dear Joseph,&#8221; 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&#8217;s  conservatories
out of hand.)</p>

<p>&#8220;O heavenly, heavenly flowers!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Do they talk the language of flowers at Boggley
Wollah, Sedley?&#8221; asked Osborne, laughing.</p>

<p>&#8220;Pooh, nonsense!&#8221; replied the sentimental
youth. &#8220;Bought &#8217;em at Nathan&#8217;s;
very glad you like &#8217;em; and eh, Amelia, my dear,
I bought a pine-apple at the same time, which I gave
to Sambo.  Let&#8217;s have it for tiffin; very cool
and nice this hot weather.&#8221; Rebecca said she
had never tasted a pine, and longed beyond everything
to taste one.</p>

<p>So the conversation went on.  I don&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What a beautiful, BYOO-OOTIFUL song that was
you sang last night, dear Miss Sharp,&#8221; said
the Collector.  &#8220;It made me cry almost; &#8217;pon
my honour it did.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Because you have a kind heart, Mr. Joseph;
all the Sedleys have, I think.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;m
a sad invalid, you know, and see Gollop every day),
and, &#8217;gad! there I was, singing away like--a
robin.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O you droll creature! Do let me hear you sing
it.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Me? No, you, Miss Sharp; my dear Miss Sharp,
do sing it.  &#8220;Not now, Mr. Sedley,&#8221; said
Rebecca, with a sigh.  &#8220;My spirits are not equal
to it; besides, I must finish the purse.  Will you
help me, Mr. Sedley?&#8221; And before he had time
to ask how, Mr. Joseph Sedley, of the East India Company&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I am sure he will to-night, dear,&#8221; Amelia
said, as she pressed Rebecca&#8217;s hand; and Sedley,
too, had communed with his soul, and said to himself,
&#8220;&#8217;Gad, I&#8217;ll pop the question at Vauxhall.&#8221;</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter V</h3>

<h4 align="center">Dobbin of Ours</h4>

<p>Cuff&#8217;s fight with Dobbin, and the unexpected
issue of that contest, will long be remembered by
every man who was educated at Dr. Swishtail&#8217;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&#8217;s young gentlemen. His parent
was a grocer in the city: and it was bruited abroad
that he was admitted into Dr. Swishtail&#8217;s academy
upon what are called &#8220;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
&#38; Rudge, Grocers and Oilmen, Thames Street, London,
at the Doctor&#8217;s door, discharging a cargo of
the wares in which the firm dealt.</p>

<p>Young Dobbin had no peace after that.  The jokes were
frightful, and merciless against him.  &#8220;Hullo,
Dobbin,&#8221; one wag would say, &#8220;here&#8217;s
good news in the paper.  Sugars is ris&#8217;, my boy.&#8221;
Another would set a sum--"If a pound of mutton-candles
cost sevenpence-halfpenny, how much must Dobbin cost?&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Your father&#8217;s only a merchant, Osborne,&#8221;
Dobbin said in private to the little boy who had brought
down the storm upon him.  At which the latter replied
haughtily, &#8220;My father&#8217;s a gentleman, and
keeps his carriage&#8221;; 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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;s scholars, and was &#8220;taken down&#8221;
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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;t
he know, or couldn&#8217;t he do? They said even the
Doctor himself was afraid of him.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Figs&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I can&#8217;t,&#8221; says Dobbin; &#8220;I
want to finish my letter.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You <i>can&#8217;t</i>?&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;s wife, and lived in a back parlour
in Thames Street).  &#8220;You <i>can&#8217;t</i>?&#8221;
says Mr. Cuff: &#8220;I should like to know why, pray?
Can&#8217;t you write to old Mother Figs to-morrow?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t call names,&#8221; Dobbin said,
getting off the bench very nervous.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, sir, will you go?&#8221; crowed the cock
of the school.</p>

<p>&#8220;Put down the letter,&#8221; Dobbin replied;
&#8220;no gentleman readth letterth.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, <i>now</i> will you go?&#8221; says the
other.</p>

<p>&#8220;No, I won&#8217;t.  Don&#8217;t strike, or
I&#8217;ll <em>thmash</em> you,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>It was the lad who had peached upon him about the
grocer&#8217;s cart; but he bore little malice, not
at least towards the young and small. &#8220;How dare
you, sir, break the bottle?&#8221; says Cuff to the
little urchin, swinging a yellow cricket-stump over
him.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;How dare you, sir, break it?&#8221; says Cuff;
&#8220;you blundering little thief.  You drank the
shrub, and now you pretend to have broken the bottle.
 Hold out your hand, sir.&#8221;</p>

<p>Down came the stump with a great heavy thump on the
child&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hold out your other hand, sir,&#8221; roars
Cuff to his little schoolfellow, whose face was distorted
with pain. Dobbin quivered, and gathered himself up
in his narrow old clothes.</p>

<p>&#8220;Take that, you little devil!&#8221; cried Mr.
Cuff, and down came the wicket again on the child&#8217;s
hand.--Don&#8217;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.</p>

<p>I can&#8217;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&#8217;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, &#8220;Hold
off, Cuff; don&#8217;t bully that child any more;
or I&#8217;ll--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Or you&#8217;ll what?&#8221; Cuff asked in
amazement at this interruption. &#8220;Hold out your
hand, you little beast.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ll give you the worst thrashing you
ever had in your life,&#8221; Dobbin said, in reply
to the first part of Cuff&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;After school,&#8221; says he, of course; after
a pause and a look, as much as to say, &#8220;Make
your will, and communicate your last wishes to your
friends between this time and that.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;As you please,&#8221; Dobbin said.  &#8220;You
must be my bottle holder, Osborne.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, if you like,&#8221; little Osborne replied;
for you see his papa kept a carriage, and he was rather
ashamed of his champion.</p>

<p>Yes, when the hour of battle came, he was almost ashamed
to say, &#8220;Go it, Figs&#8221;; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What a licking I shall get when it&#8217;s
over,&#8221; young Osborne thought, picking up his
man.  &#8220;You&#8217;d best give in,&#8221; he said
to Dobbin; &#8220;it&#8217;s only a thrashing, Figs,
and you know I&#8217;m used to it.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
left eye, and once on his beautiful Roman nose.</p>

<p>Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of the
assembly. &#8220;Well hit, by Jove,&#8221; says little
Osborne, with the air of a connoisseur, clapping his
man on the back. &#8220;Give it him with the left,
Figs my boy.&#8221;</p>

<p>Figs&#8217;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, &#8220;Go it, Figs,&#8221; as there were
youths exclaiming, &#8220;Go it, Cuff.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>If I had the pen of a Napier, or a Bell&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s nose, and sent him
down for the last time.</p>

<p>&#8220;I think that will do for him,&#8221; Figs said,
as his opponent dropped as neatly on the green as
I have seen Jack Spot&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;It&#8217;s my fault, sir--not
Figs&#8217;--not Dobbin&#8217;s.  I was bullying a
little boy; and he served me right.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an account
of the transaction.</p>

<p>Sugarcane House, Richmond, March, 18--</p>

<p><i>Dear</i> 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
&#38; 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&#8217;t stand it.  We call him
Figs because his father is a Grocer--Figs &#38; Rudge,
Thames St., City--I think as he fought for me you
ought to buy your Tea &#38; Sugar at his father&#8217;s.
 Cuff goes home every Saturday, but can&#8217;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</p>

<p>Your dutiful Son, <i>George Sedley Osborne</i></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>In consequence of Dobbin&#8217;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.  &#8220;After all, it&#8217;s
not his fault that his father&#8217;s a grocer,&#8221;
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. &#8220;Old Figs&#8221; grew to be a name
of kindness and endearment; and the sneak of an usher
jeered at him no longer.</p>

<p>And Dobbin&#8217;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; &#8220;coached&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>So that Lieutenant Osborne, when coming to Russell
Square on the day of the Vauxhall party, said to the
ladies, &#8220;Mrs. Sedley, Ma&#8217;am, I hope you
have room; I&#8217;ve asked Dobbin of ours to come
and dine here, and go with us to Vauxhall.  He&#8217;s
almost as modest as Jos.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Modesty! pooh,&#8221; said the stout gentleman,
casting a vainqueur look at Miss Sharp.</p>

<p>&#8220;He is--but you are incomparably more graceful,
Sedley,&#8221; Osborne added, laughing.  &#8220;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&#8217;s
pleasuring; and that Mrs. Sedley had forgiven his
breaking the punch-bowl at the child&#8217;s party.
Don&#8217;t you remember the catastrophe, Ma&#8217;am,
seven years ago?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Over Mrs. Flamingo&#8217;s crimson silk gown,&#8221;
said good-natured Mrs. Sedley.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;The Alderman&#8217;s very rich, isn&#8217;t
he?&#8221; Osborne said archly.  &#8220;Don&#8217;t
you think one of the daughters would be a good spec
for me, Ma&#8217;am?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You foolish creature! Who would take you, I
should like to know, with your yellow face?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, well; yours is quite yellow enough for
us.  Isn&#8217;t it, Emmy?&#8221; Mrs. Sedley said:
at which speech Miss Amelia only made a smile and
a blush; and looking at Mr. George Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;s
army, or in the wide world, there never was such a
face or such a hero.  &#8220;I don&#8217;t care about
Captain Dobbin&#8217;s complexion,&#8221; she said,
&#8220;or about his awkwardness. I shall always like
him, I know,&#8221; her little reason being, that
he was the friend and champion of George.</p>

<p>&#8220;There&#8217;s not a finer fellow in the service,&#8221;
Osborne said, &#8220;nor a better officer, though
he is not an Adonis, certainly.&#8221; And he looked
towards the glass himself with much naivete; and in
so doing, caught Miss Sharp&#8217;s eye fixed keenly
upon him, at which he blushed a little, and Rebecca
thought in her heart, &#8220;Ah, mon beau Monsieur!
I think I have <i>your</i> gauge"--the little artful
minx!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>This was no other than Captain William Dobbin, of
His Majesty&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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!&#8221; All this he thought, before
he took Amelia&#8217;s hand into his own, and as he
let his cocked hat fall.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;He&#8217;s priming himself,&#8221; Osborne
whispered to Dobbin, and at length the hour and the
carriage arrived for Vauxhall.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter VI</h3>

<h4 align="center">Vauxhall</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;life.&#8221; 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&#8217;s life, that seem to be
nothing, and yet affect all the rest of the history?</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;I
shall leave the fellow half my property,&#8221; he
said; &#8220;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
&#8216;Good Gad!&#8217; 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&#8217;s
no affair of mine.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
disappointment he only rid himself of a large sigh
and turned away.</p>

<p>This mystery served to keep Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s marriage was now talked of by a very
considerable number of persons in the Russell Square
world.</p>

<p>It was, of course, Mrs. Sedley&#8217;s opinion that
her son would demean himself by a marriage with an
artist&#8217;s daughter.  &#8220;But, lor&#8217;,
Ma&#8217;am,&#8221; ejaculated Mrs. Blenkinsop, &#8220;we
was only grocers when we married Mr. S., who was a
stock-broker&#8217;s clerk, and we hadn&#8217;t five
hundred pounds among us, and we&#8217;re rich enough
now.&#8221; And Amelia was entirely of this opinion,
to which, gradually, the good-natured Mrs. Sedley
was brought.</p>

<p>Mr. Sedley was neutral.  &#8220;Let Jos marry whom
he likes,&#8221; he said; &#8220;it&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>So that everything seemed to smile upon Rebecca&#8217;s
fortunes.  She took Jos&#8217;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 &#8220;buck&#8221;
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!</p>

<p>Such was the state of affairs as the carriage crossed
Westminster bridge.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I say, Dobbin,&#8221; says George, &#8220;just
look to the shawls and things, there&#8217;s a good
fellow.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>He carried about Amelia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>He burst out laughing at himself; for the truth is,
he could sing no better than an owl.</p>

<p>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 &#8217;twas
only to meet again at supper-time, when they could
talk of their mutual adventures in the interval.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;How I should like to see India!&#8221; said
Rebecca.</p>

<p>&#8220;<i>Should</i> you?&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I should only be de trop,&#8221; said the Captain,
looking at them rather wistfully.  &#8220;I&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;Waiter, rack punch.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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 &#8220;Novel without a Hero,&#8221; which we
are now relating.  It influenced their life, although
most of them did not taste a drop of it.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Brayvo, Fat un!&#8221; said one; &#8220;Angcore,
Daniel Lambert!&#8221; said another; &#8220;What a
figure for the tight-rope!&#8221; exclaimed another
wag, to the inexpressible alarm of the ladies, and
the great anger of Mr. Osborne.</p>

<p>&#8220;For Heaven&#8217;s sake, Jos, let us get up
and go,&#8221; cried that gentleman, and the young
women rose.</p>

<p>&#8220;Stop, my dearest diddle-diddle-darling,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Be off, you fools!&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Good Heavens! Dobbin, where have you been?&#8221;
Osborne said, seizing the white cashmere shawl from
his friend&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>Jos was for rising to interfere--but a single push
from Osborne&#8217;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 &#8220;Bless
you! Bless you!&#8221; Then, seizing Captain Dobbin&#8217;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&#8217;s, Hanover Square;
he&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;He must propose to-morrow,&#8221; thought Rebecca.
 &#8220;He called me his soul&#8217;s darling, four
times; he squeezed my hand in Amelia&#8217;s presence.
 He must propose to-morrow.&#8221; 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, &#38;c., and &#38;c., and &#38;c., and &#38;c.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mr. Sedley was uncommon wild last night, sir,&#8221;
he whispered in confidence to Osborne, as the latter
mounted the stair.  &#8220;He wanted to fight the
&#8217;ackney-coachman, sir. The Capting was obliged
to bring him upstairs in his harms like a babby.&#8221;
A momentary smile flickered over Mr. Brush&#8217;s
features as he spoke; instantly, however, they relapsed
into their usual unfathomable calm, as he flung open
the drawing-room door, and announced &#8220;Mr. Hosbin.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;How are you, Sedley?&#8221; that young wag
began, after surveying his victim.  &#8220;No bones
broke? There&#8217;s a hackney-coachman downstairs
with a black eye, and a tied-up head, vowing he&#8217;ll
have the law of you.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What do you mean--law?&#8221; Sedley faintly
asked.</p>

<p>&#8220;For thrashing him last night--didn&#8217;t
he, Dobbin? You hit out, sir, like Molyneux.  The
watchman says he never saw a fellow go down so straight.
 Ask Dobbin.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You <i>did</i> have a round with the coachman,&#8221;
Captain Dobbin said, &#8220;and showed plenty of fight
too.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;ll never get in
your way when you are in your cups, Jos.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I believe I&#8217;m very terrible, when I&#8217;m
roused,&#8221; ejaculated Jos from the sofa, and made
a grimace so dreary and ludicrous, that the Captain&#8217;s
politeness could restrain him no longer, and he and
Osborne fired off a ringing volley of laughter.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;You hit,
you poor old fellow!&#8221; said Osborne. &#8220;You
terrible! Why, man, you couldn&#8217;t stand--you made
everybody laugh in the Gardens, though you were crying
yourself.  You were maudlin, Jos.  Don&#8217;t you
remember singing a song?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A what?&#8221; Jos asked.</p>

<p>&#8220;A sentimental song, and calling Rosa, Rebecca,
what&#8217;s her name, Amelia&#8217;s little friend--your
dearest diddle-diddle-darling?&#8221; And this ruthless
young fellow, seizing hold of Dobbin&#8217;s hand,
acted over the scene, to the horror of the original
performer, and in spite of Dobbin&#8217;s good-natured
entreaties to him to have mercy.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why should I spare him?&#8221; Osborne said
to his friend&#8217;s remonstrances, when they quitted
the invalid, leaving him under the hands of Doctor
Gollop.  &#8220;What the deuce right has he to give
himself his patronizing airs, and make fools of us
at Vauxhall? Who&#8217;s this little schoolgirl that
is ogling and making love to him? Hang it, the family&#8217;s
low enough already, without <i>her</i>.  A governess
is all very well, but I&#8217;d rather have a lady
for my sister-in-law. I&#8217;m a liberal man; but
I&#8217;ve proper pride, and know my own station:
let her know hers.  And I&#8217;ll take down that great
hectoring Nabob, and prevent him from being made a
greater fool than he is.  That&#8217;s why I told
him to look out, lest she brought an action against
him.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I suppose you know best,&#8221; Dobbin said,
though rather dubiously. &#8220;You always were a
Tory, and your family&#8217;s one of the oldest in
England.  But--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Come and see the girls, and make love to Miss
Sharp yourself,&#8221; the lieutenant here interrupted
his friend; but Captain Dobbin declined to join Osborne
in his daily visit to the young ladies in Russell
Square.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s great form should heave in
sight.</p>

<p>&#8220;Sister Anne is on the watch-tower,&#8221; said
he to Amelia, &#8220;but there&#8217;s nobody coming&#8221;;
and laughing and enjoying the joke hugely, he described
in the most ludicrous terms to Miss Sedley, the dismal
condition of her brother.</p>

<p>&#8220;I think it&#8217;s very cruel of you to laugh,
George,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;O Miss Sharp! if you could but see him this
morning,&#8221; he said-- &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;See whom?&#8221; said Miss Sharp.</p>

<p>&#8220;Whom? O whom?  Captain Dobbin, of course, to
whom we were all so attentive, by the way, last night.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;We were very unkind to him,&#8221; Emmy said,
blushing very much.  &#8220;I--I quite forgot him.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Of course you did,&#8221; cried Osborne, still
on the laugh.</p>

<p>&#8220;One can&#8217;t be <i>always</i> thinking about
Dobbin, you know, Amelia.  Can one, Miss Sharp?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Except when he overset the glass of wine at
dinner,&#8221; Miss Sharp said, with a haughty air
and a toss of the head, &#8220;I never gave the existence
of Captain Dobbin one single moment&#8217;s consideration.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Very good, Miss Sharp, I&#8217;ll tell him,&#8221;
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.  &#8220;He is to make fun of me, is he?&#8221;
thought Rebecca.  &#8220;Has he been laughing about
me to Joseph?  Has he frightened him? Perhaps he won&#8217;t
come."--A film passed over her eyes, and her heart
beat quite quick.</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;re always joking,&#8221; said she,
smiling as innocently as she could.  &#8220;Joke away,
Mr. George; there&#8217;s nobody to defend <i>me</i>.&#8221;
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.  &#8220;My dearest Amelia,&#8221;
said he, &#8220;you are too good--too kind.  You don&#8217;t
know the world.  I do.  And your little friend Miss
Sharp must learn her station.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t you think Jos will--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Upon my word, my dear, I don&#8217;t know.
 He may, or may not.  I&#8217;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!&#8221;
He was off laughing again, and he did it so drolly
that Emmy laughed too.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s aide-de-camp, to
Mr. Joseph&#8217;s lodgings, to ask for some book he
had promised, and how he was; and the reply through
Jos&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Note from Mr. Jos, Miss,&#8221;
says Sambo.</p>

<p>How Amelia trembled as she opened it!</p>

<p>So it ran:</p>

<p>Dear Amelia,--I send you the &#8220;Orphan of the
Forest.&#8221; 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</p>

<p>Truly yours,<br>
Jos Sedley</p>

<p>It was the death-warrant.  All was over.  Amelia did
not dare to look at Rebecca&#8217;s pale face and
burning eyes, but she dropt the letter into her friend&#8217;s
lap; and got up, and went upstairs to her room, and
cried her little heart out.</p>

<p>Blenkinsop, the housekeeper, there sought her presently
with consolation, on whose shoulder Amelia wept confidentially,
and relieved herself a good deal.  &#8220;Don&#8217;t
take on, Miss.  I didn&#8217;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&#8217;s
letters.  Pinner says she&#8217;s always about your
trinket-box and drawers, and everybody&#8217;s drawers,
and she&#8217;s sure she&#8217;s put your white ribbing
into her box.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I gave it her, I gave it her,&#8221; Amelia
said.</p>

<p>But this did not alter Mrs. Blenkinsop&#8217;s opinion
of Miss Sharp.  &#8220;I don&#8217;t trust them governesses,
Pinner,&#8221; she remarked to the maid. &#8220;They
give themselves the hairs and hupstarts of ladies,
and their wages is no better than you nor me.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;That&#8217;s George&#8217;s present to you,
Rebecca, dear,&#8221; said Amelia, quite proud of
the bandbox conveying these gifts.  &#8220;What a taste
he has! There&#8217;s nobody like him.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Nobody,&#8221; Rebecca answered.  &#8220;How
thankful I am to him!&#8221; She was thinking in her
heart, &#8220;It was George Osborne who prevented my
marriage."--And she loved George Osborne accordingly.</p>

<p>She made her preparations for departure with great
equanimity; and accepted all the kind little Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;God bless you, my dear, always
come here when you come to town, you know.--Drive
to the Mansion House, James.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter VII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Crawley of Queen&#8217;s Crawley</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>It is related, with regard to the borough of Queen&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s Crawley was no
longer so populous a place as it had been in Queen
Bess&#8217;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, &#8220;Rotten! be hanged--it produces
me a good fifteen hundred a year.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Crawley)
furthermore mentions Charles Stuart, afterwards called
Barebones Crawley, son of the Crawley of James the
First&#8217;s time; and finally, Queen Elizabeth&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
friend, whom his Majesty George IV forgot so completely.
Many years after her ladyship&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>Sir Pitt Crawley begs Miss Sharp and baggidge may
be hear on Tuesday, as I leaf for Queen&#8217;s Crawley
to-morrow morning ERLY.</p>

<p>Great Gaunt Street.</p>

<p>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. &#8220;I wonder,
does he wear a star?&#8221; thought she, &#8220;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 <i>gentlefolks</i>, and not
with vulgar city people&#8221;: 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
mansion were closed--those of the dining-room were
partially open, and the blinds neatly covered up in
old newspapers.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;This Sir Pitt Crawley&#8217;s?&#8221; says
John, from the box.</p>

<p>&#8220;Ees,&#8221; says the man at the door, with
a nod.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hand down these &#8217;ere trunks then,&#8221;
said John.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hand &#8217;n down yourself,&#8221; said the
porter.</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t you see I can&#8217;t leave my
hosses? Come, bear a hand, my fine feller, and Miss
will give you some beer,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>The bald-headed man, taking his hands out of his breeches
pockets, advanced on this summons, and throwing Miss
Sharp&#8217;s trunk over his shoulder, carried it
into the house.</p>

<p>&#8220;Take this basket and shawl, if you please,
and open the door,&#8221; said Miss Sharp, and descended
from the carriage in much indignation.  &#8220;I shall
write to Mr. Sedley and inform him of your conduct,&#8221;
said she to the groom.</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t,&#8221; replied that functionary.
 &#8220;I hope you&#8217;ve forgot nothink? Miss &#8217;Melia&#8217;s
gownds--have you got them--as the lady&#8217;s maid
was to have &#8217;ad? I hope they&#8217;ll fit you.
Shut the door, Jim, you&#8217;ll get no good out of
&#8217;ER,&#8221; continued John, pointing with his
thumb towards Miss Sharp: &#8220;a bad lot, I tell
you, a bad lot,&#8221; and so saying, Mr. Sedley&#8217;s
groom drove away.  The truth is, he was attached to
the lady&#8217;s maid in question, and indignant that
she should have been robbed of her perquisites.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Had your dinner, I suppose? It is not too warm
for you? Like a drop of beer?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Where is Sir Pitt Crawley?&#8221; said Miss
Sharp majestically.</p>

<p>&#8220;He, he! I&#8217;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!&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s arrival; and she handed the articles
over to Sir Pitt, who had taken his seat by the fire.</p>

<p>&#8220;Where&#8217;s the farden?&#8221; said he. 
&#8220;I gave you three halfpence. Where&#8217;s the
change, old Tinker?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;There!&#8221; replied Mrs. Tinker, flinging
down the coin; it&#8217;s only baronets as cares about
farthings.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A farthing a day is seven shillings a year,&#8221;
answered the M.P.; &#8220;seven shillings a year is
the interest of seven guineas.  Take care of your
farthings, old Tinker, and your guineas will come quite
nat&#8217;ral.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You may be sure it&#8217;s Sir Pitt Crawley,
young woman,&#8221; said Mrs. Tinker, surlily; &#8220;because
he looks to his farthings.  You&#8217;ll know him
better afore long.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And like me none the worse, Miss Sharp,&#8221;
said the old gentleman, with an air almost of politeness.
 &#8220;I must be just before I&#8217;m generous.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He never gave away a farthing in his life,&#8221;
growled Tinker.</p>

<p>&#8220;Never, and never will: it&#8217;s against my
principle.  Go and get another chair from the kitchen,
Tinker, if you want to sit down; and then we&#8217;ll
have a bit of supper.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;You see, Miss Sharp, when I&#8217;m not here
Tinker&#8217;s on board wages: when I&#8217;m in town
she dines with the family. Haw! haw! I&#8217;m glad
Miss Sharp&#8217;s not hungry, ain&#8217;t you, Tink?&#8221;
And they fell to upon their frugal supper.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m here on law business, my dear, and
that&#8217;s how it happens that I shall have the
pleasure of such a pretty travelling companion to-morrow.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He&#8217;s always at law business,&#8221; said
Mrs. Tinker, taking up the pot of porter.</p>

<p>&#8220;Drink and drink about,&#8221; said the Baronet.
 &#8220;Yes; my dear, Tinker is quite right: I&#8217;ve
lost and won more lawsuits than any man in England.
 Look here at Crawley, Bart. v. Snaffle.  I&#8217;ll
throw him  over, or my name&#8217;s not Pitt Crawley.
 Podder and another versus Crawley, Bart. Overseers
of Snaily parish against Crawley, Bart. They can&#8217;t
prove it&#8217;s common: I&#8217;ll defy &#8217;em;
the land&#8217;s mine. It no more belongs to the parish
than it does to you or Tinker here.  I&#8217;ll beat
&#8217;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&#8217;ll make you useful when we&#8217;re
at Queen&#8217;s Crawley, depend on it, Miss Sharp.
Now the dowager&#8217;s dead I want some one.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She was as bad as he,&#8221; said Tinker. 
&#8220;She took the law of every one of her tradesmen;
and turned away forty-eight footmen in four year.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She was close--very close,&#8221; said the
Baronet, simply; &#8220;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&#8217;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. &#8220;You&#8217;ll
sleep with Tinker to-night,&#8221; he said; &#8220;it&#8217;s
a big bed, and there&#8217;s room for two. Lady Crawley
died in it.  Good night.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;I
shouldn&#8217;t like to sleep in this yeer bed without
a good conscience, Miss,&#8221; said the old woman.
 &#8220;There&#8217;s room for us and a half-dozen
of ghosts in it,&#8221; says Rebecca.  &#8220;Tell
me all about Lady Crawley and Sir Pitt Crawley, and
everybody, my <i>dear</i> Mrs. Tinker.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>At four o&#8217;clock, on such a roseate summer&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
bandboxes in the gutter at the &#8217;Necks, and swore
he would take the law of his fare.</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;d better not,&#8221; said one of
the ostlers; &#8220;it&#8217;s Sir Pitt Crawley.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;So it is, Joe,&#8221; cried the Baronet, approvingly;
&#8220;and I&#8217;d like to see the man can do me.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;So should oi,&#8221; said Joe, grinning sulkily,
and mounting the Baronet&#8217;s baggage on the roof
of the coach.</p>

<p>&#8220;Keep the box for me, Leader,&#8221; exclaims
the Member of Parliament to the coachman; who replied,
&#8220;Yes, Sir Pitt,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s, jingling rapidly by the
strangers&#8217; entry of Fleet-Market, which, with
Exeter &#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s Crawley without
further divagation, and see how Miss Rebecca Sharp
speeds there.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter VIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Private and Confidential</h4>

<p>Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedley, Russell Square, London.
(Free.--Pitt Crawley.)</p>

 <p><i>My dearest, sweetest Amelia</i>,</p>

<p>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!</p>

<p>I will not tell you in what tears and sadness I passed
the fatal night in which I separated from you.  <i>You</i>
went on Tuesday to joy and happiness, with your mother
and <i>your devoted young soldier</i>
by your side; and I thought of you all night, dancing
at the Perkins&#8217;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&#8217;s
town house, where, after John the groom had behaved
most rudely and insolently to me (alas! &#8217;twas
safe to insult poverty and misfortune!), I was given
over to Sir P.&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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 <i>outside for the greater part of the way</i>.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;But won&#8217;t I flog &#8217;em
on to Squashmore, when I take the ribbons?&#8221; said
the young Cantab.  &#8220;And sarve &#8217;em right,
Master Jack,&#8221; 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&#8217;s horses, of course I laughed too.</p>

<p>A carriage and four splendid horses, covered with
armorial bearings, however, awaited us at Mudbury,
four miles from Queen&#8217;s Crawley, and we made
our entrance to the baronet&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;There&#8217;s an avenue,&#8221; said Sir Pitt,
&#8220;a mile long. There&#8217;s six thousand pound
of timber in them there trees.  Do you call that nothing?&#8221;
He pronounced avenue--EVENUE, and nothing--<i>nothink</i>,
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. &#8220;Serve him right,&#8221; said Sir Pitt;
&#8220;him and his family has been cheating me on
that farm these hundred and fifty years.&#8221; Some
old tenant, I suppose, who could not pay his rent.
Sir Pitt might have said &#8220;he and his family,&#8221;
to be sure; but rich baronets do not need to be careful
about grammar, as poor governesses must be.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Is that
your church, sir?&#8221; I said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes, hang it,&#8221; (said Sir Pitt, only he
used, dear, A <i>much</i> WICKEDER <i>word</i>); &#8220;how&#8217;s
Buty, Hodson? Buty&#8217;s my brother Bute, my dear--my
brother the parson.  Buty and the Beast I call him,
ha, ha!&#8221;</p>

<p>Hodson laughed too, and then looking more grave and
nodding his head, said, &#8220;I&#8217;m afraid he&#8217;s
better, Sir Pitt.  He was out on his pony yesterday,
looking at our corn.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Looking after his tithes, hang&#8217;un (only
he used the same wicked word).  Will brandy and water
never kill him? He&#8217;s as tough as old whatdyecallum--old
Methusalem.&#8221;</p>

<p>Mr. Hodson laughed again.  &#8220;The young men is
home from college. They&#8217;ve whopped John Scroggins
till he&#8217;s well nigh dead.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Whop my second keeper!&#8221; roared out Sir
Pitt.</p>

<p>&#8220;He was on the parson&#8217;s ground, sir,&#8221;
replied Mr. Hodson; and Sir Pitt in a fury swore that
if he ever caught &#8217;em poaching on his ground,
he&#8217;d transport &#8217;em, by the lord he would.
 However, he said, &#8220;I&#8217;ve sold the presentation
of the living, Hodson; none of that breed shall get
it, I war&#8217;nt&#8221;; 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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>Presently, seeing two little boys gathering sticks
in the wood, Mr. Hodson jumped out of the carriage,
at Sir Pitt&#8217;s order, and rushed upon them with
his whip.  &#8220;Pitch into &#8217;em, Hodson,&#8221;
roared the baronet; &#8220;flog their little souls
out, and bring &#8217;em up to the house, the vagabonds;
I&#8217;ll commit &#8217;em as sure as my name&#8217;s
Pitt.&#8221; And presently we heard Mr. Hodson&#8217;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.</p>

<p>All the servants were ready to meet us, and ...</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;No candles
after eleven o&#8217;clock, Miss Becky,&#8221; said
he.  &#8220;Go to bed in the dark, you pretty little
hussy&#8221; (that is what he called me), &#8220;and
unless you wish me to come for the candle every night,
mind and be in bed at eleven.&#8221; 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.  &#8220;I call the dog Gorer,&#8221;
said Sir Pitt; &#8220;he&#8217;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&#8217;s too old to bite.  Haw, haw!&#8221;</p>

<p>Before the house of Queen&#8217;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&#8217;s school, and the grate is big
enough to roast an ox at the very least.  Round the
room hang I don&#8217;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&#8217; 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&#8217;s
apartments--Mr. Crawley, he is called--the eldest son,
and Mr. Rawdon Crawley&#8217;s rooms--he is an officer
like <i>somebody</i>, 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;This is the new governess, Mr. Crawley,&#8221;
said Lady Crawley, coming forward and taking my hand.
 &#8220;Miss Sharp.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O!&#8221; said Mr. Crawley, and pushed his
head once forward and began again to read a great
pamphlet with which he was busy.</p>

<p>&#8220;I hope you will be kind to my girls,&#8221;
said Lady Crawley, with her pink eyes always full
of tears.</p>

<p>&#8220;Law, Ma, of course she will,&#8221; said the
eldest: and I saw at a glance that I need not be afraid
of <i>that</i> woman. &#8220;My lady is served,&#8221;
says the butler in black, in an immense white shirt-frill,
that looked as if it had been one of the Queen Elizabeth&#8217;s
ruffs depicted in the hall; and so, taking Mr. Crawley&#8217;s
arm, she led the way to the dining-room, whither I
followed with my little pupils in each hand.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Mr. Crawley said a long grace, and Sir Pitt said amen,
and the great silver dish-covers were removed.</p>

<p>&#8220;What have we for dinner, Betsy?&#8217; said
the Baronet.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mutton broth, I believe, Sir Pitt,&#8221; answered
Lady Crawley.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mouton aux navets,&#8221; added the butler
gravely (pronounce, if you please, moutongonavvy);
&#8220;and the soup is potage de mouton a l&#8217;Ecossaise.
 The side-dishes contain pommes de terre au naturel,
and choufleur a l&#8217;eau.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Mutton&#8217;s mutton,&#8221; said the Baronet,
&#8220;and a devilish good thing. What <i>ship</i> was
it, Horrocks, and when did you kill?&#8221;  &#8220;One
of the black-faced Scotch, Sir Pitt: we killed on
Thursday.</p>

<p>&#8220;Who took any?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Steel, of Mudbury, took the saddle and two
legs, Sir Pitt; but he says the last was too young
and confounded woolly, Sir Pitt.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Will you take some potage, Miss ah--Miss Blunt?
said Mr. Crawley.</p>

<p>&#8220;Capital Scotch broth, my dear,&#8221; said
Sir Pitt, &#8220;though they call it by a French name.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I believe it is the custom, sir, in decent
society,&#8221; said Mr. Crawley, haughtily, &#8220;to
call the dish as I have called it&#8221;; and it was
served to us on silver soup plates by the footmen
in the canary coats, with the mouton aux navets.  Then
&#8220;ale and water&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>While we were enjoying our repast, Sir Pitt took occasion
to ask what had become of the shoulders of the mutton.</p>

<p>&#8220;I believe they were eaten in the servants&#8217;
hall,&#8221; said my lady, humbly.</p>

<p>&#8220;They was, my lady,&#8221; said Horrocks, &#8220;and
precious little else we get there neither.&#8221;</p>

<p>Sir Pitt burst into a horse-laugh, and continued his
conversation with Mr. Horrocks.  &#8220;That there
little black pig of the Kent sow&#8217;s breed must
be uncommon fat now.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s not quite busting, Sir Pitt,&#8221;
said the butler with the gravest air, at which Sir
Pitt, and with him the young ladies, this time, began
to laugh violently.</p>

<p>&#8220;Miss Crawley, Miss Rose Crawley,&#8221; said
Mr. Crawley, &#8220;your laughter strikes me as being
exceedingly out of place.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Never mind, my lord,&#8221; said the Baronet,
&#8220;we&#8217;ll try the porker on Saturday.  Kill
un on Saturday morning, John Horrocks.  Miss Sharp
adores pork, don&#8217;t you, Miss Sharp?&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>So we sat for an hour until steps were heard.</p>

<p>&#8220;Put away the cards, girls,&#8221; cried my
lady, in a great tremor; &#8220;put down Mr. Crawley&#8217;s
books, Miss Sharp&#8221;; and these orders had been
scarcely obeyed, when Mr. Crawley entered the room.</p>

<p>&#8220;We will resume yesterday&#8217;s discourse,
young ladies,&#8221; said he, &#8220;and you shall
each read a page by turns; so that Miss a--Miss Short
may have an opportunity of hearing you&#8221;; 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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Good night.  A thousand, thousand, thousand kisses!</p>

<p>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 &#8220;Man Jack&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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!</p>

<p>Ever and ever thine own <i>Rebecca</i></p>

<p>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 &#8220;with hay-coloured whiskers
and straw-coloured hair,&#8221; 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&#8217;s ribbons, has possibly
struck both of us.  But my kind reader will please
to remember that this history has &#8220;Vanity Fair&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>At the little Paris theatres, on the other hand, you
will not only hear the people yelling out &#8220;Ah
gredin! Ah monstre:&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>I warn my &#8220;kyind friends,&#8221; 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&#8217;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 <i>those</i>.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
sleeve: if they are wicked and heartless, to abuse
them in the strongest terms which politeness admits
of.</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter IX</h3>

<h4 align="center">Family Portraits</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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!</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s misalliance.  Never mind the
commoners, whom we will leave to grumble anonymously.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s wife, refused to visit her, as
she said she would never give the pas to a tradesman&#8217;s
daughter.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s
house of no more use than the late Lady Crawley&#8217;s
grand piano. Being a light-complexioned woman, she
wore light clothes, as most blondes will, and appeared,
in preference, in draggled sea-green, or slatternly
sky-blue.  She worked that worsted day and night, or
other pieces like it.  She had counterpanes in the
course of a few years to all the beds in Crawley.
 She had a small flower-garden, for which she had
rather an affection; but beyond this no other like
or disliking.  When her husband was rude to her she
was apathetic: whenever he struck her she cried. 
She had not character enough to take to drinking,
and moaned about, slipshod and in curl-papers all
day.  O Vanity Fair--Vanity Fair! This might have been,
but for you, a cheery lass--Peter Butt and Rose a
happy man and wife, in a snug farm, with a hearty
family; and an honest portion of pleasures, cares,
hopes and struggles--but a title and a coach and four
are toys more precious than happiness in Vanity Fair:
and if Harry the Eighth or Bluebeard were alive now,
and wanted a tenth wife, do you suppose he could not
get the prettiest girl that shall be presented this
season?</p>

<p>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&#8217;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s curl-papers came off earlier
when he was at home: Sir Pitt&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>It was he who taught the butler to say, &#8220;My
lady is served,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s demise),
and finding the advancement slow, he at length gave
up the diplomatic service in some disgust, and began
to turn country gentleman.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s third daughter, and whose sister,
Lady Emily, wrote those sweet tracts, &#8220;The Sailor&#8217;s
True Binnacle,&#8221; and &#8220;The Applewoman of
Finchley Common.&#8221;</p>

<p>Miss Sharp&#8217;s accounts of his employment at Queen&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Crawley.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Crawley. The cellars
were filled with burgundy then, the kennels with hounds,
and the stables with gallant hunters; now, such horses
as Queen&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;
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&#8217;s would be in anybody&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Sir Pitt had an unmarried half-sister who inherited
her mother&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s Crawley, for she had a balance
at her banker&#8217;s which would have made her beloved
anywhere.</p>

<p>What a dignity it gives an old lady, that balance
at the banker&#8217;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&#8217;s signature to a cheque
for five thousand pounds.  She wouldn&#8217;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&#8217;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!</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter X</h3>

<h4 align="center">Miss Sharp Begins to Make Friends</h4>

<p>And now, being received as a member of the amiable
family whose portraits we have sketched in the foregoing
pages, it became naturally Rebecca&#8217;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?
 &#8220;I am alone in the world,&#8221; said the friendless
girl.  &#8220;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?&#8221; 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?  &#8220;I
must be my own mamma,&#8221; said Rebecca; not without
a tingling consciousness of defeat, as she thought
over her little misadventure with Jos Sedley.</p>

<p>So she wisely determined to render her position with
the Queen&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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
&#8220;poor mamma&#8221;; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;Smollett.&#8221;
&#8220;Oh, Smollett,&#8221; said Mr. Crawley, quite
satisfied.  &#8220;His history is more dull, but by
no means so dangerous as that of Mr. Hume.  It is
history you are reading?&#8221; &#8220;Yes,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>Miss Violet&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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,&#8221;
with a sigh, and a look up to heaven, that made him
occasionally condescend to shake hands with her.  &#8220;Blood
is everything, after all,&#8221; would that aristocratic
religionist say. &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>Indeed it was from this famous family, as it appears,
that Miss Sharp, by the mother&#8217;s side, was descended.
Of course she did not say that her mother had been
on the stage; it would have shocked Mr. Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;Hozier&#8217;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?</p>

<p>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 &#8220;Thrump&#8217;s
Legacy,&#8221; or &#8220;The Blind Washerwoman of Moorfields,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s Crawley she had quite
won the Baronet&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s chance
in the next world was not a whit better.  &#8220;She
is a godless woman of the world,&#8221; would Mr.
Crawley say; &#8220;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.&#8221; In fact, the old lady declined altogether
to hear his hour&#8217;s lecture of an evening; and
when she came to Queen&#8217;s Crawley alone, he was
obliged to pretermit his usual devotional exercises.</p>

<p>&#8220;Shut up your sarmons, Pitt, when Miss Crawley
comes down,&#8221; said his father; &#8220;she has
written to say that she won&#8217;t stand the preachifying.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O, sir! consider the servants.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;The servants be hanged,&#8221; said Sir Pitt;
and his son thought even worse would happen were they
deprived of the benefit of his instruction.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why, hang it, Pitt!&#8221; said the father
to his remonstrance. &#8220;You wouldn&#8217;t be
such a flat as to let three thousand a year go out
of the family?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What is money compared to our souls, sir?&#8221;
continued Mr. Crawley.</p>

<p>&#8220;You mean that the old lady won&#8217;t leave
the money to you?"--and who knows but it was Mr. Crawley&#8217;s
meaning?</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Crawley,
although Sir Pitt would have come over himself, without
any trouble on the honest lady&#8217;s part.  It is
needless to say that Sir Pitt was brought to change
his views after the death of the great Whig statesman.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>A perfect and celebrated &#8220;blood,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;And for what follows after death,&#8221; would
Mr. Crawley observe, throwing his gooseberry-coloured
eyes up to the ceiling.  He was always thinking of
his brother&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;He
will sow his wild oats,&#8221; she would say, &#8220;and
is worth far more than that puling hypocrite of a
brother of his.&#8221;</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XI</h3>

<h4 align="center">Arcadian Simplicity</h4>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;town.&#8221; 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 &#8220;A southerly wind and a cloudy sky&#8221;;
and gave the &#8220;whoop&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Mrs. Crawley, the rector&#8217;s wife, was a smart
little body, who wrote this worthy divine&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;hang it&#8221; (as he would say),
&#8220;Matilda must leave me half her money.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s very nose. Rawdon, it was known, was
to come in for the bulk of Miss Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;s attachment between
two brethren; and can&#8217;t but admire, as I think
what a fine and durable thing Love is among worldly
people.</p>

<p>It cannot be supposed that the arrival of such a personage
as Rebecca at Queen&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Very soon then after her arrival, Rebecca began to
take a regular place in Mrs. Crawley&#8217;s bulletin
from the Hall. It was to this effect: &#8220;The black
porker&#8217;s killed--weighed x stone--salted the
sides--pig&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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!&#8221; said little, eager, active, black-faced
Mrs. Bute Crawley.</p>

<p>Finally, the reports were that the governess had &#8220;come
round&#8221; everybody, wrote Sir Pitt&#8217;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&#8217;s
bright eyes spied out everything that took place in
the enemy&#8217;s camp--everything and a great deal
besides.</p>

<p>Mrs. Bute Crawley to Miss Pinkerton, The Mall, Chiswick.</p>

<p>Rectory, Queen&#8217;s Crawley, December--.</p>

<p>My Dear Madam,--Although it is so many years since
I profited by your delightful and invaluable instructions,
yet I have ever retained the <i>fondest</i> and most
reverential regard for Miss Pinkerton, and <i>dear</i>
Chiswick.  I hope your health is <i>good</i>.  The world
and the cause of education cannot afford to lose Miss
Pinkerton for <i>many many years</i>.  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,&#8221;
I exclaimed, &#8220;can we consult but the excellent,
the incomparable Miss Pinkerton?&#8221; 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
<i>but of your choosing</i>.</p>

<p>My dear husband is pleased to say that he likes <i>everything which comes from miss Pinkerton&#8217;s school</i>.  How I wish I could present him and my
beloved girls to the friend of my youth, and the <i>admired</i>
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 <i>rural Rectory</i>
with your presence.  &#8217;Tis the humble but happy
home of</p>

<p>Your affectionate Martha Crawley</p>

<p>P.S.  Mr. Crawley&#8217;s brother, the baronet, with
whom we are not, alas! upon those terms of UNITY in
which it <i>becomes brethren to dwell</i>,
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 <i>any pupil of yours</i>-- do, my dear Miss Pinkerton,
tell me the history of this young lady, whom, for
<i>your sake</i>, I am most anxious to befriend.--M.
C.</p>

<p>Miss Pinkerton to Mrs. Bute Crawley.</p>

<p>Johnson House, Chiswick, Dec. 18--.</p>

<p>Dear Madam,--I have the honour to acknowledge your
polite communication, to which I promptly reply. &#8217;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!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Either of these young ladies is <i>perfectly</i> 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&#8217;s family.</p>

<p>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 <i>every moral and religious virtue</i>.  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,</p>

<p>Dear Madam,</p>

<p>Your most faithful and obedient servant, Barbara Pinkerton.</p>

<p>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 <i>out of charity</i>.  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 <i>hereditary</i>
in the unhappy young woman whom I took as <i>an</i>
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.</p>

<p>Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedley.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s discourses on the
baronet&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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 <i>which</i>, 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! &#8220;When I come into the country,&#8221;
she says (for she has a great deal of humour), &#8220;I
leave my toady, Miss Briggs, at home.  My brothers
are my toadies here, my dear, and a pretty pair they
are!&#8221;</p>

<p>When she comes into the country our hall is thrown
open, and for a month, at least, you would fancy old
Sir Walpole was come to life again.  We have dinner-parties,
and drive out in the coach-and-four the footmen put
on their newest canary-coloured liveries; we drink
claret and champagne as if we were accustomed to it
every day.  We have wax candles in the schoolroom,
and fires to warm ourselves with.  Lady Crawley is
made to put on the brightest pea-green in her wardrobe,
and my pupils leave off their thick shoes and tight
old tartan pelisses, and wear silk stockings and muslin
frocks, as fashionable baronets&#8217; 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&#8217;s
ears, and put her upon bread and water for a month.
 All he said was, &#8220;I&#8217;ll serve you out,
Miss, when your aunt&#8217;s gone,&#8221; and laughed
off the accident as quite trivial.  Let us hope his
wrath will have passed away before Miss Crawley&#8217;s
departure.  I hope so, for Miss Rose&#8217;s sake,
I am sure. What a charming reconciler and peacemaker
money is!</p>

<p>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 <i>our</i> 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The Captain has a hearty contempt for his father,
I can see, and calls him an old <i>put</i>, an old <i>Snob</i>,
an old CHAW-BACON, and numberless other pretty names.
 He has a <i>dreadful reputation</i> 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&#8217;t know how many more.
 Well, I heard him say--"By Jove, she&#8217;s a neat
little filly!&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ll go and play a country-dance,&#8221;
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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Mrs. Bute has all of a sudden taken a great fancy
to me.  &#8220;My dear Miss Sharp,&#8221; she says,
&#8220;why not bring over your girls to the Rectory?--their
cousins will be so happy to see them.&#8221; 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&#8217;s duty, who has not
a friend or protector in the world? The Rector&#8217;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!</p>

<p>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&#8217;t
afford des fraiches toilettes.  Happy, happy you!
who have but to drive to St. James&#8217;s Street,
and a dear mother who will give you any thing you
ask.  Farewell, dearest girl,</p>

<p>Your affectionate Rebecca.</p>

<p>P.S.--I wish you could have seen the faces of the
Miss Blackbrooks (Admiral Blackbrook&#8217;s daughters,
my dear), fine young ladies, with dresses from London,
when Captain Rawdon selected poor me for a partner!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why did you ask that scoundrel, Rawdon Crawley,
to dine?&#8221; said the Rector to his lady, as they
were walking home through the park.  &#8220;I don&#8217;t
want the fellow.  He looks down upon us country people
as so many blackamoors. He&#8217;s never content unless
he gets my yellow-sealed wine, which costs me ten
shillings a bottle, hang him! Besides, he&#8217;s
such an infernal character--he&#8217;s a gambler--he&#8217;s
a drunkard--he&#8217;s a profligate in every way.
 He shot a man in a duel--he&#8217;s over head and
ears in debt, and he&#8217;s robbed me and mine of
the best part of Miss Crawley&#8217;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, &#8220;--, down in
her will for fifty thousand; and there won&#8217;t
be above thirty to divide.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I think she&#8217;s going,&#8221; said the
Rector&#8217;s wife.  &#8220;She was very red in the
face when we left dinner.  I was obliged to unlace
her.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She drank seven glasses of champagne,&#8221;
said the reverend gentleman, in a low voice; &#8220;and
filthy champagne it is, too, that my brother poisons
us with--but you women never know what&#8217;s what.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;We know nothing,&#8221; said Mrs. Bute Crawley.</p>

<p>&#8220;She drank cherry-brandy after dinner,&#8221;
continued his Reverence, &#8220;and took curacao with
her coffee.  I wouldn&#8217;t take a glass for a five-pound
note: it kills me with heartburn.  She can&#8217;t
stand it, Mrs. Crawley--she must go--flesh and blood
won&#8217;t bear it! and I lay five to two, Matilda
drops in a year.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s expected legacy, the Rector
and his lady walked on for a while.</p>

<p>&#8220;Pitt can&#8217;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,&#8221;
continued Mr. Crawley, after a pause.</p>

<p>&#8220;Sir Pitt Crawley will do anything,&#8221; said
the Rector&#8217;s wife.  &#8220;We must get Miss
Crawley to make him promise it to James.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Pitt will promise anything,&#8221; replied
the brother.  &#8220;He promised he&#8217;d pay my
college bills, when my father died; he promised he&#8217;d
build the new wing to the Rectory; he promised he&#8217;d
let me have Jibb&#8217;s field and the Six-acre Meadow--and
much he executed his promises! And it&#8217;s to this
man&#8217;s son--this scoundrel, gambler, swindler,
murderer of a Rawdon Crawley, that Matilda leaves the
bulk of her money.  I say it&#8217;s un-Christian.
 By Jove, it is. The infamous dog has got every vice
except hypocrisy, and that belongs to his brother.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Hush, my dearest love! we&#8217;re in Sir Pitt&#8217;s
grounds,&#8221; interposed his wife.</p>

<p>&#8220;I say he has got every vice, Mrs. Crawley.
 Don&#8217;t Ma&#8217;am, bully me. Didn&#8217;t he
shoot Captain Marker? Didn&#8217;t he rob young Lord
Dovedale at the Cocoa-Tree? Didn&#8217;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&#8217;s room.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;For heaven&#8217;s sake, Mr. Crawley,&#8221;
said the lady, &#8220;spare me the details.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And you ask this villain into your house!&#8221;
continued the exasperated Rector.  &#8220;You, the
mother of a young family--the wife of a clergyman
of the Church of England.  By Jove!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Bute Crawley, you are a fool,&#8221; said the
Rector&#8217;s wife scornfully.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, Ma&#8217;am, fool or not--and I don&#8217;t
say, Martha, I&#8217;m so clever as you are, I never
did.  But I won&#8217;t meet Rawdon Crawley, that&#8217;s
flat. I&#8217;ll go over to Huddleston, that I will,
and see his black greyhound, Mrs. Crawley; and I&#8217;ll
run Lancelot against him for fifty.  By Jove, I will;
or against any dog in England.  But I won&#8217;t
meet that beast Rawdon Crawley.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Mr. Crawley, you are intoxicated, as usual,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>Miss Crawley had not long been established at the
Hall before Rebecca&#8217;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 &#8220;that little governess&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Not let Miss Sharp dine at table!&#8221; said
she to Sir Pitt, who had arranged a dinner of ceremony,
and asked all the neighbouring baronets.  &#8220;My
dear creature, do you suppose I can talk about the
nursery with Lady Fuddleston, or discuss justices&#8217;
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&#8217;s the only person fit to talk
to in the county!&#8221;</p>

<p>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, &#8220;Becky Sharp!  Miss
Sharp!  Come you and sit by me and amuse me; and let
Sir Huddleston sit by Lady Wapshot.&#8221;</p>

<p>When the parties were over, and the carriages had
rolled away, the insatiable Miss Crawley would say,
&#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;s toilettes and Lady
Fuddleston&#8217;s famous yellow hat, Miss Sharp tore
them to tatters, to the infinite amusement of her
audience.</p>

<p>&#8220;My dear, you are a perfect trouvaille,&#8221;
Miss Crawley would say.  &#8220;I wish you could come
to me in London, but I couldn&#8217;t make a butt of
you as I do of poor Briggs no, no, you little sly creature;
you are too clever--Isn&#8217;t she, Firkin?&#8221;</p>

<p>Mrs. Firkin (who was dressing the very small remnant
of hair which remained on Miss Crawley&#8217;s pate),
flung up her head and said, &#8220;I think Miss is
very clever,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
arm and Rawdon with the pillow.  &#8220;We must sit
together,&#8221; she said. &#8220;We&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What is birth, my dear!&#8221; 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?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;That was the most beautiful part of dear Lord
Nelson&#8217;s character,&#8221; Miss Crawley said.
 &#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;m
sure you&#8217;re pretty enough.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Two post-boys!--Oh, it would be delightful!&#8221;
Rebecca owned.</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A rich some one, or a poor some one?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Is he very clever?&#8221; Rebecca asked.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s so
delightfully wicked.  Don&#8217;t you know he has hit
a man, and shot an injured father through the hat
only? He&#8217;s adored in his regiment; and all the
young men at Wattier&#8217;s and the Cocoa-Tree swear
by him.&#8221;</p>

<p>When Miss Rebecca Sharp wrote to her beloved friend
the account of the little ball at Queen&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What&#8217;s that?&#8221; said Miss Crawley,
interrupted in her after-dinner doze by the stoppage
of the music.</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s a false note,&#8221; Miss Sharp
said with a laugh; and Rawdon Crawley fumed with rage
and mortification.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s rival in the Old Maid&#8217;s five
per cents! They became very fond of each other&#8217;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&#8217;s Crawley, was charming
in the moonlight to two such lovers of the picturesque
as the Captain and Miss Rebecca.</p>

<p>&#8220;O those stars, those stars!&#8221; Miss Rebecca
would say, turning her twinkling green eyes up towards
them.  &#8220;I feel myself almost a spirit when I
gaze upon them.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O--ah--Gad--yes, so do I exactly, Miss Sharp,&#8221;
the other enthusiast replied.  &#8220;You don&#8217;t
mind my cigar, do you, Miss Sharp?&#8221;  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&#8217;s
the finest segaw I ever smoked in the world aw,&#8221;
for his intellect and conversation were alike brilliant
and becoming to a heavy young dragoon.</p>

<p>Old Sir Pitt, who was taking his pipe and beer, and
talking to John Horrocks about a &#8220;ship&#8221;
that was to be killed, espied the pair so occupied
from his study-window, and with dreadful oaths swore
that if it wasn&#8217;t for Miss Crawley, he&#8217;d
take Rawdon and bundle un out of doors, like a rogue
as he was.</p>

<p>&#8220;He be a bad&#8217;n, sure enough,&#8221; Mr.
Horrocks remarked; &#8220;and his man Flethers is
wuss, and have made such a row in the housekeeper&#8217;s
room about the dinners and hale, as no lord would
make--but I think Miss Sharp&#8217;s a match for&#8217;n,
Sir Pitt,&#8221; he added, after a pause.</p>

<p>And so, in truth, she was--for father and son too.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Quite a Sentimental Chapter</h4>

<p>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 &#8220;We don&#8217;t care a fig for her,&#8221;
writes some unknown correspondent with a pretty little
handwriting and a pink seal to her note.  &#8220;She
is fade and insipid,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Has the beloved reader, in his experience of society,
never heard similar remarks by good-natured female
friends; who always wonder what you <i>can</i> see in
Miss Smith that is so fascinating; or what <i>could</i>
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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>The young ladies in Amelia&#8217;s society did this
for her very satisfactorily.  For instance, there
was scarcely any point upon which the Misses Osborne,
George&#8217;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.  &#8220;We are kind to her,&#8221;
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 &#8220;long
mornings&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;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, &#8220;What
could George find in that creature?&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
establishment except the old dancing-master; and you
would not have had the girls fall out about <i>him</i>?
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 &#38; 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.  &#8220;I&#8217;m so delighted
you like dear Amelia,&#8221; she said quite eagerly
to Mr. Bullock after the dance.  &#8220;She&#8217;s
engaged to my brother George; there&#8217;s not much
in her, but she&#8217;s the best-natured and most
unaffected young creature: at home we&#8217;re all
so fond of her.&#8221; Dear girl! who can calculate
the depth of affection expressed in that enthusiastic
<i>so</i>?</p>

<p>Miss Wirt and these two affectionate young women so
earnestly and frequently impressed upon George Osborne&#8217;s
mind the enormity of the sacrifice he was making,
and his romantic generosity in throwing himself away
upon Amelia, that I&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s apron-strings: he was <i>not</i>
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,
&#8220;Oh, you must go to the Sedleys&#8217; to ask
for George; <i>we</i> never see him from morning till
night.&#8221; 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&#8217;s last ball at Carlton
House, or the weather--that blessing to society.</p>

<p>&#8220;What an innocent it is, that pet of yours,&#8221;
Miss Maria would then say to Miss Jane, upon the Captain&#8217;s
departure.  &#8220;Did you see how he blushed at the
mention of poor George on duty?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s a pity Frederick Bullock hadn&#8217;t
some of his modesty, Maria,&#8221; replies the elder
sister, with a toss of he head.</p>

<p>&#8220;Modesty!  Awkwardness you mean, Jane.  I don&#8217;t
want Frederick to trample a hole in my muslin frock,
as Captain Dobbin did in yours at Mrs. Perkins&#8217;.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;In <i>your</i> frock, he, he!  How could he?
Wasn&#8217;t he dancing with Amelia?&#8221;</p>

<p>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, <i>viz</i>., that he had been calling at Mr.
Sedley&#8217;s house already, on the pretence of seeing
George, of course, and George wasn&#8217;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?</p>

<p>The regiment was not ordered abroad as yet; and Captain
Dobbin had not seen George.  &#8220;He was with his
sister, most likely,&#8221; the Captain said.  &#8220;Should
he go and fetch the truant?&#8221;  So she gave him
her hand kindly and gratefully: and he crossed the
square; and she waited and waited, but George never
came.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Once, after three days of absence, Miss Amelia put
on her bonnet, and actually invaded the Osborne house.
&#8220;What! leave our brother to come to us?&#8221;
said the young ladies.  &#8220;Have you had a quarrel,
Amelia? Do tell us!&#8221; No, indeed, there had been
no quarrel.  &#8220;Who could quarrel with him?&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>No, indeed; the life of a good young girl who is in
the paternal nest as yet, can&#8217;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 &#8220;Courier&#8221; newspaper
had tens of thousands of subscribers; when one day
brought you a battle of Vittoria, another a burning
of Moscow, or a newsman&#8217;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;
hall; the allies poured into France, and the dinner-bell
rang at five o&#8217;clock just as usual.  I don&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217; 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 &#8220;attached&#8221;
to Mr. Frederick Augustus Bullock, of the firm of
Hulker, Bullock &#38; 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 &#38; 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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>This was not the sort of love that finished Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s bow! what was
it to George&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;t bring her mind to tell Miss Swartz,
the woolly-haired young heiress from St. Kitt&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>But if Osborne&#8217;s were short and soldierlike
letters, it must be confessed, that were Miss Sedley&#8217;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&#8217;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!</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Sentimental and Otherwise</h4>

<p>I fear the gentleman to whom Miss Amelia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>For some time George strove to keep the liaison a
secret.  There was a woman in the case, that he admitted.
&#8220;And not the first either,&#8221; said Ensign
Spooney to Ensign Stubble.  &#8220;That Osborne&#8217;s
a devil of a fellow.  There was a judge&#8217;s daughter
at Demerara went almost mad about him; then there
was that beautiful quadroon girl, Miss Pye, at St.
Vincent&#8217;s, you know; and since he&#8217;s been
home, they say he&#8217;s a regular Don Giovanni,
by Jove.&#8221;</p>

<p>Stubble and Spooney thought that to be a &#8220;regular
Don Giovanni, by Jove&#8221; was one of the finest
qualities a man could possess, and Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd
acknowledged he was an elegant young fellow, and put
her in mind of Fitzjurld Fogarty, Lord Castlefogarty&#8217;s
second son.</p>

<p>Well, Stubble and Spooney and the rest indulged in
most romantic conjectures regarding this female correspondent
of Osborne&#8217;s-- opining that it was a Duchess
in London who was in love with him--or that it was
a General&#8217;s daughter, who was engaged to somebody
else, and madly attached to him--or that it was a
Member of Parliament&#8217;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.</p>

<p>And the real state of the case would never have been
known at all in the regiment but for Captain Dobbin&#8217;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&#8217;s intrigue--Stubble holding out
that the lady was a Duchess about Queen Charlotte&#8217;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&#8217;t help blurting out, &#8220;Cackle,
you&#8217;re a stupid fool. You&#8217;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&#8217;s been engaged to her ever so long;
and the man who calls her names had better not do so
in my hearing.&#8221; 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&#8217;Dowd wrote off to her sister Glorvina at O&#8217;Dowdstown
not to hurry from Dublin--young Osborne being prematurely
engaged already.</p>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Who the deuce asked you to talk about my affairs?&#8221;
Osborne shouted indignantly.  &#8220;Why the devil
is all the regiment to know that I am going to be
married? Why is that tattling old harridan, Peggy
O&#8217;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It seems to me,&#8221; Captain Dobbin began.</p>

<p>&#8220;Seems be hanged, Dobbin,&#8221; his junior
interrupted him.  &#8220;I am under obligations to
you, I know it, a d--d deal too well too; but I won&#8217;t
be always sermonised by you because you&#8217;re five
years my senior. I&#8217;m hanged if I&#8217;ll stand
your airs of superiority and infernal pity and patronage.
 Pity and patronage! I should like to know in what
I&#8217;m your inferior?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Are you engaged?&#8221; Captain Dobbin interposed.</p>

<p>&#8220;What the devil&#8217;s that to you or any one
here if I am?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Are you ashamed of it?&#8221; Dobbin resumed.</p>

<p>&#8220;What right have you to ask me that question,
sir? I should like to know,&#8221; George said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Good God, you don&#8217;t mean to say you want
to break off?&#8221; asked Dobbin, starting up.</p>

<p>&#8220;In other words, you ask me if I&#8217;m a man
of honour,&#8221; said Osborne, fiercely; &#8220;is
that what you mean? You&#8217;ve adopted such a tone
regarding me lately that I&#8217;m--if I&#8217;ll bear
it any more.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What have I done? I&#8217;ve told you you were
neglecting a sweet girl, George.  I&#8217;ve told
you that when you go to town you ought to go to her,
and not to the gambling-houses about St. James&#8217;s.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You want your money back, I suppose,&#8221;
said George, with a sneer.</p>

<p>&#8220;Of course I do--I always did, didn&#8217;t
I?&#8221; says Dobbin. &#8220;You speak like a generous
fellow.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;No, hang it, William, I beg your pardon"--here
George interposed in a fit of remorse; &#8220;you
have been my friend in a hundred ways, Heaven knows.
 You&#8217;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&#8217;t deal so hardly with me; you
shouldn&#8217;t be always catechising me. I am very
fond of Amelia; I adore her, and that sort of thing.
 Don&#8217;t look angry.  She&#8217;s faultless; I
know she is. But you see there&#8217;s no fun in winning
a thing unless you play for it.  Hang it: the regiment&#8217;s
just back from the West Indies, I must have a little
fling, and then when I&#8217;m married I&#8217;ll
reform; I will upon my honour, now.  And--I say--Dob--
don&#8217;t be angry with me, and I&#8217;ll give you
a hundred next month, when I know my father will stand
something handsome; and I&#8217;ll ask Heavytop for
leave, and I&#8217;ll go to town, and see Amelia to-morrow--
there now, will that satisfy you?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It is impossible to be long angry with you,
George,&#8221; said the good-natured Captain; &#8220;and
as for the money, old boy, you know if I wanted it
you&#8217;d share your last shilling with me.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That I would, by Jove, Dobbin,&#8221; George
said, with the greatest generosity, though by the
way he never had any money to spare.</p>

<p>&#8220;Only I wish you had sown those wild oats of
yours, George.  If you could have seen poor little
Miss Emmy&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I believe she&#8217;s d--d fond of me,&#8221;
the Lieutenant said, with a self-satisfied air; and
went off to finish the evening with some jolly fellows
in the mess-room.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s applause.  &#8220;I should
have liked to make her a little present,&#8221; Osborne
said to his friend in confidence, &#8220;only I am
quite out of cash until my father tips up.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;t know how many days and nights, were
forgotten, under one moment&#8217;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&#8217;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!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The observant reader, who has marked our young Lieutenant&#8217;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&#8217;s side; perhaps on
the lady&#8217;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.</p>

<p>He was a little wild: how many young men are; and
don&#8217;t girls like a rake better than a milksop?
 He hadn&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd! Amelia died
with laughing at Osborne&#8217;s stories about Mrs.
Major O&#8217;Dowd.  He loved her much too fondly to
subject her to that horrid woman and her vulgarities,
and the rough treatment of a soldier&#8217;s wife.
 He didn&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>In a word, he went out and ate ices at a pastry-cook&#8217;s
shop in Charing Cross; tried a new coat in Pall Mall;
dropped in at the Old Slaughters&#8217;, 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.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;Why
the devil is she here?&#8221; said at once:</p>

<p>&#8220;George is in town, Papa; and has gone to the
Horse Guards, and will be back to dinner.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O he is, is he? I won&#8217;t have the dinner
kept waiting for him, Jane&#8221;; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Dinner!&#8221; roared Mr. Osborne.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mr. George isn&#8217;t come in, sir,&#8221;
interposed the man.</p>

<p>&#8220;Damn Mr. George, sir.  Am I master of the house?
<i>Dinner</i>!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What&#8217;s the matter now, my dear?&#8221;
asked one of the other, as they rose and tripped gingerly
behind the sire.    &#8220;I suppose the funds are
falling,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Soup?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Take Miss Sedley&#8217;s plate away,&#8221;
at last he said.  &#8220;She can&#8217;t eat the soup--no
more can I.  It&#8217;s beastly.  Take away the soup,
Hicks, and to-morrow turn the cook out of the house,
Jane.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s arrival
when everybody began to rally.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;t
care what.  Capital mutton--capital everything.&#8221;
His good humour contrasted with his father&#8217;s
severity; and he rattled on unceasingly during dinner,
to the delight of all--of one especially, who need
not be mentioned.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
wine.  That was generally a successful means of cajoling
the old  gentleman.</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Did he?&#8221; said the old gentleman.  &#8220;It
stands me in eight shillings a bottle.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Will you take six guineas a dozen for it, sir?&#8221;
said George, with a laugh.  &#8220;There&#8217;s one
of the greatest men in the kingdom wants some.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Does he?&#8221; growled the senior.  &#8220;Wish
he may get it.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s his
Royal Highness&#8217;s right-hand man.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It is devilish fine wine,&#8221; 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.  &#8220;And
we&#8217;ll see if that&#8217;s as good as the Madeira,
George, to which his Royal Highness is welcome, I&#8217;m
sure.  And as we are drinking it, I&#8217;ll talk to
you about a matter of importance.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What I want to know, George,&#8221; 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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I think, sir, it is not hard to see,&#8221;
George said, with a self-satisfied grin.  &#8220;Pretty
clear, sir.--What capital wine!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What d&#8217;you mean, pretty clear, sir?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Why, hang it, sir, don&#8217;t push me too
hard.  I&#8217;m a modest man.  I-- ah--I don&#8217;t
set up to be a lady-killer; but I do own that she&#8217;s
as devilish fond of me as she can be.  Anybody can
see that with half an eye.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And you yourself?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Why, sir, didn&#8217;t you order me to marry
her, and ain&#8217;t I a good boy? Haven&#8217;t our
Papas settled it ever so long?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A pretty boy, indeed.  Haven&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>&#8220;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--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Thank you, sir,&#8221; says George, making
his point at once.  &#8220;One can&#8217;t live with
these great folks for nothing; and my purse, sir, look
at it&#8221;; and he held up a little token which
had been netted by Amelia, and contained the very
last of Dobbin&#8217;s pound notes.</p>

<p>&#8220;You shan&#8217;t want, sir.  The British merchant&#8217;s
son shan&#8217;t want, sir. My guineas are as good
as theirs, George, my boy; and I don&#8217;t grudge
&#8217;em.  Call on Mr. Chopper as you go through the
City to-morrow; he&#8217;ll have something for you.
 I don&#8217;t grudge money when I know you&#8217;re
in good society, because I know that good society can
never go wrong.  There&#8217;s no pride in me.  I
was a humbly born man--but you have had advantages.
Make a good use of &#8217;em.  Mix with the young
nobility. There&#8217;s many of &#8217;em who can&#8217;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&#8217;s one thing I
order you to avoid, which, if you do not, I&#8217;ll
cut you off with a shilling, by Jove; and that&#8217;s
gambling.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, of course, sir,&#8221; said George.</p>

<p>&#8220;But to return to the other business about Amelia:
why shouldn&#8217;t you marry higher than a stockbroker&#8217;s
daughter, George--that&#8217;s what I want to know?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s a family business, sir,".says George,
cracking filberts.  &#8220;You and Mr. Sedley made
the match a hundred years ago.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I don&#8217;t deny it; but people&#8217;s positions
alter, sir.  I don&#8217;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&#8217;ve shown my gratitude
to Sedley; and he&#8217;s tried it of late, sir, as
my cheque-book can show.  George!  I tell you in confidence
I don&#8217;t like the looks of Mr. Sedley&#8217;s
affairs.  My chief clerk, Mr. Chopper, does not like
the looks of &#8217;em, and he&#8217;s an old file,
and knows &#8217;Change as well as any man in London.
 Hulker &#38; Bullock are looking shy at him.  He&#8217;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&#8217;s flat--unless
I see Amelia&#8217;s ten thousand down you don&#8217;t
marry her.  I&#8217;ll have no lame duck&#8217;s daughter
in my family.  Pass the wine, sir--or ring for coffee.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s head man,
and received from that gentleman a document which
he exchanged at Hulker &#38; Bullock&#8217;s for a whole
pocketful of money. As George entered the house, old
John Sedley was passing out of the banker&#8217;s
parlour, looking very dismal.  But his godson was much
too elated to mark the worthy stockbroker&#8217;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.</p>

<p>And as the swinging doors of Hulker, Bullock &#38; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;No go,&#8221; Mr. D. whispered.</p>

<p>&#8220;Not at no price,&#8221; Mr. Q. said.  &#8220;Mr.
George Osborne,  sir, how will you take it?&#8221;
George crammed eagerly a quantity of notes into his
pockets, and paid Dobbin fifty pounds that very evening
at mess.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Poor little Emmy--dear little Emmy.  How fond
she is of me,&#8221; George said, as he perused the
missive--"and Gad, what a headache that mixed punch
has given me!&#8221; Poor little Emmy, indeed.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XIV</h3>

<h4 align="center">Miss Crawley at Home</h4>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Captain Crawley of the Life Guards rode up from Knightsbridge
Barracks the next day; his black charger pawed the
straw before his invalid aunt&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Rawdon Crawley sent up his name by the sulky femme
de chambre, and Miss Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s maid, pushed into her
mistress&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Had you not better give Miss Briggs a glass
of wine?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I think we shall be able to help each other,&#8221;
said the person with great suavity: &#8220;and shall
have no need of Mr. Bowls&#8217;s kind services. Mr.
Bowls, if you please, we will ring when we want you.&#8221;
He went downstairs, where, by the way, he vented the
most horrid curses upon the unoffending footman, his
subordinate.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is a pity you take on so, Miss Briggs,&#8221;
the young lady said, with a cool, slightly sarcastic,
air.</p>

<p>&#8220;My dearest friend is so ill, and wo--o--on&#8217;t
see me,&#8221; gurgled out Briggs in an agony of renewed
grief.</p>

<p>&#8220;She&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;But why, why won&#8217;t she see me again?&#8221;
Miss Briggs bleated out. &#8220;Oh, Matilda, Matilda,
after three-and-twenty years&#8217; tenderness! is
this the return to your poor, poor Arabella?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t cry too much, poor Arabella,&#8221;
the other said (with ever so little of a grin); &#8220;she
only won&#8217;t see you, because she says you don&#8217;t
nurse her as well as I do. It&#8217;s no pleasure to
me to sit up all night.  I wish you might do it instead.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Have I not tended that dear couch for years?&#8221;
Arabella said, &#8220;and now--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Now she prefers somebody else.  Well, sick
people have these fancies, and must be humoured. 
When she&#8217;s well I shall go.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Never, never,&#8221; Arabella exclaimed, madly
inhaling her salts-bottle.</p>

<p>&#8220;Never be well or never go, Miss Briggs?&#8221;
the other said, with the same provoking good-nature.
 &#8220;Pooh--she will be well in a fortnight, when
I shall go back to my little pupils at Queen&#8217;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&#8217;t
want to supplant you in Miss Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;m sure I want
friends.&#8221;</p>

<p>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 &#8220;the
person&#8221; hitherto), went upstairs again to her
patient&#8217;s rooms, from which, with the most engaging
politeness, she eliminated poor Firkin. &#8220;Thank
you, Mrs. Firkin, that will quite do; how nicely you
make it! I will ring when anything is wanted.&#8221;
&#8220;Thank you&#8221;; and Firkin came downstairs
in a tempest of jealousy, only the more dangerous
because she was forced to confine it in her own bosom.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, Firkin?&#8221; says she, as the other
entered the apartment. &#8220;Well, Jane?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Wuss and wuss, Miss B.,&#8221; Firkin said,
wagging her head.</p>

<p>&#8220;Is she not better then?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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!&#8221;  And the water-works again
began to play.</p>

<p>&#8220;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!&#8221;  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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Miss B., they are all infatyated about that
young woman,&#8221; Firkin replied. &#8220;Sir Pitt
wouldn&#8217;t have let her go, but he daredn&#8217;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&#8217;t have nobody
near her but Miss Sharp, I can&#8217;t tell for where
nor for why; and I think somethink has bewidged everybody.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;
comfortable repose herself on the sofa, at the foot
of her patroness&#8217;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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>Captain Crawley came every day, and received bulletins
from Miss Rebecca respecting his aunt&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The causes which had led to the deplorable illness
of Miss Crawley, and her departure from her brother&#8217;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 &#8220;off
the hooks&#8221;; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The young ladies, too, lost much of the inestimable
benefit of their governess&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Captain Rawdon got an extension of leave on his aunt&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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!</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s feelings.</p>

<p>Many and many a time this good-natured lady, compassionating
the forlorn life-guardsman&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mark my words, Rawdon,&#8221; she said.  &#8220;You
will have Miss Sharp one day for your relation.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What relation--my cousin, hey, Mrs. Bute? James
sweet on her, hey?&#8221; inquired the waggish officer.</p>

<p>&#8220;More than that,&#8221; Mrs. Bute said, with
a flash from her black eyes.</p>

<p>&#8220;Not Pitt?  He sha&#8217;n&#8217;t have her.
 The sneak a&#8217;n&#8217;t worthy of her. He&#8217;s
booked to Lady Jane Sheepshanks.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You men perceive nothing.  You silly, blind
creature--if anything happens to Lady Crawley, Miss
Sharp will be your mother-in-law; and that&#8217;s
what will happen.&#8221;</p>

<p>Rawdon Crawley, Esquire, gave vent to a prodigious
whistle, in token of astonishment at this announcement.
He couldn&#8217;t deny it.  His father&#8217;s evident
liking for Miss Sharp had not escaped him.  He knew
the old gentleman&#8217;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&#8217;s
mystery.</p>

<p>&#8220;By Jove, it&#8217;s too bad,&#8221; thought
Rawdon, &#8220;too bad, by Jove! I do believe the
woman wants the poor girl to be ruined, in order that
she shouldn&#8217;t come into the family as Lady Crawley.&#8221;</p>

<p>When he saw Rebecca alone, he rallied her about his
father&#8217;s attachment in his graceful way.  She
flung up her head scornfully, looked him full in the
face, and said,</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, suppose he is fond of me.  I know he
is, and others too.  You don&#8217;t think I am afraid
of him, Captain Crawley?  You don&#8217;t suppose
I can&#8217;t defend my own honour,&#8221; said the
little woman, looking as stately as a queen.</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, ah, why--give you fair warning--look out,
you know--that&#8217;s all,&#8221; said the mustachio-twiddler.</p>

<p>&#8220;You hint at something not honourable, then?&#8221;
said she, flashing out.</p>

<p>&#8220;O Gad--really--Miss Rebecca,&#8221; the heavy
dragoon interposed.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;m a Montmorency.
Do you suppose a Montmorency is not as good as a Crawley?&#8221;</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;No,&#8221; she continued, kindling as
she spoke to the Captain; &#8220;I can endure poverty,
but not shame-- neglect, but not insult; and insult
from--from you.&#8221;</p>

<p>Her feelings gave way, and she burst into tears.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hang it, Miss Sharp--Rebecca--by Jove--upon
my soul, I wouldn&#8217;t for a thousand pounds. 
Stop, Rebecca!&#8221;</p>

<p>She was gone.  She drove out with Miss Crawley that
day.  It was before the latter&#8217;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.</p>

<p>If the Baronet of Queen&#8217;s Crawley had not had
the fear of losing his sister&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217; education; of which documents
Miss Crawley took very little heed.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
closet.  Nor though the old lady would by no means
hear of Rebecca&#8217;s departure, was the latter regularly
installed in office in Park Lane.  Like many wealthy
people, it was Miss Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>And I am not sure that, in spite of Rebecca&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s Crawley when she had done
with her, and the full London season had begun.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s admirable good-nature and friendship
actually induce her to penetrate, but to Russell Square,
Bloomsbury, and the house of John Sedley, Esquire.</p>

<p>Ere that event, many notes had passed, as may be imagined,
between the two dear friends.  During the months of
Rebecca&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What a complexion, my dear! What a sweet voice!&#8221;
Miss Crawley said, as they drove away westward after
the little interview.  &#8220;My dear Sharp, your
young friend is charming.  Send for her to Park Lane,
do you hear?&#8221; 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&#8217;s chicken.</p>

<p>Of course, on this Rebecca instantly stated that Amelia
was engaged to be married--to a Lieutenant Osborne--a
very old flame.</p>

<p>&#8220;Is he a man in a line-regiment?&#8221; Captain
Crawley asked, remembering after an effort, as became
a guardsman, the number of the regiment, the --th.</p>

<p>Rebecca thought that was the regiment.  &#8220;The
Captain&#8217;s name,&#8221; she said, &#8220;was
Captain Dobbin.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A lanky gawky fellow,&#8221; said Crawley,
&#8220;tumbles over everybody.  I know him; and Osborne&#8217;s
a goodish-looking fellow, with large black whiskers?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Enormous,&#8221; Miss Rebecca Sharp said, &#8220;and
enormously proud of them, I assure you.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;He
fancies he can play at billiards,&#8221; said he.
&#8220;I won two hundred of him at the Cocoa-Tree.
 <i>He</i> play, the young flat!  He&#8217;d have played
for anything that day, but his friend Captain Dobbin
carried him off, hang him!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Rawdon, Rawdon, don&#8217;t be so wicked,&#8221;
Miss Crawley remarked, highly pleased.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why, ma&#8217;am, of all the young fellows
I&#8217;ve seen out of the line, I think this fellow&#8217;s
the greenest.  Tarquin and Deuceace get what money
they like out of him.  He&#8217;d go to the deuce to
be seen with a lord.  He pays their dinners at Greenwich,
and they invite the company.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And very pretty company too, I dare say.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Quite right, Miss Sharp.  Right, as usual,
Miss Sharp. Uncommon pretty company--haw, haw!&#8221;
and the Captain laughed more and more, thinking he
had made a good joke.</p>

<p>&#8220;Rawdon, don&#8217;t be naughty!&#8221; his
aunt exclaimed.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, his father&#8217;s a City man--immensely
rich, they say.  Hang those City fellows, they must
bleed; and I&#8217;ve not done with him yet, I can
tell you.  Haw, haw!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Fie, Captain Crawley; I shall warn Amelia.
 A gambling husband!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Horrid, ain&#8217;t he, hey?&#8221; the Captain
said with great solemnity; and then added, a sudden
thought having struck him: &#8220;Gad, I say, ma&#8217;am,
we&#8217;ll have him here.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Is he a presentable sort of a person?&#8221;
the aunt inquired.</p>

<p>&#8220;Presentable?--oh, very well.  You wouldn&#8217;t
see any difference,&#8221; Captain Crawley answered.
 &#8220;Do let&#8217;s have him, when you begin to
see a few people; and his whatdyecallem--his inamorato--eh,
Miss Sharp; that&#8217;s what you call it--comes.
 Gad, I&#8217;ll write him a note, and have him; and
I&#8217;ll try if he can play piquet as well as billiards.
Where does he live, Miss Sharp?&#8221;</p>

<p>Miss Sharp told Crawley the Lieutenant&#8217;s town
address; and a few days after this conversation, Lieutenant
Osborne received a letter, in Captain Rawdon&#8217;s
schoolboy hand, and enclosing a note of invitation
from Miss Crawley.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s orders with perfect meekness
and good humour. Miss Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;t what you call a woman of spirit.</p>

<p>George came to dinner--a repast en garcon with Captain
Crawley.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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, &#38;c., &#38;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.  &#8220;That is, if you&#8217;re not on duty
to that pretty Miss Sedley,&#8221; Crawley said, with
a knowing wink. &#8220;Monstrous nice girl, &#8217;pon
my honour, though, Osborne,&#8221; he was good enough
to add.  &#8220;Lots of tin, I suppose, eh?&#8221;</p>

<p>Osborne wasn&#8217;t on duty; he would join Crawley
with pleasure: and the latter, when they met the next
day, praised his new friend&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;How&#8217;s little Miss Sharp, by-the-bye?&#8221;
Osborne inquired of his friend over their wine, with
a dandified air. &#8220;Good-natured little girl that.
 Does she suit you well at Queen&#8217;s Crawley? Miss
Sedley liked her a good deal last year.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>When the young men went upstairs, and after Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;s; and
saying, &#8220;Ah, Miss Sharp! how-dy-doo?&#8221;
held out his left hand towards her, expecting that
she would be quite confounded at the honour.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;She&#8217;d beat the devil, by Jove!&#8221;
the Captain said, in a rapture; and the Lieutenant,
by way of beginning the conversation, agreeably asked
Rebecca how she liked her new place.</p>

<p>&#8220;My place?&#8221; said Miss Sharp, coolly, &#8220;how
kind of you to remind me of it!  It&#8217;s a tolerably
good place: the wages are pretty good--not so good
as Miss Wirt&#8217;s, I believe, with your sisters
in Russell Square.  How are those young ladies?--not
that I ought to ask.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Why not?&#8221; Mr. Osborne said, amazed.</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My dear Miss Sharp!&#8221; Osborne ejaculated.</p>

<p>&#8220;At least in some families,&#8221; Rebecca continued.
 &#8220;You can&#8217;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&#8217;s
family--good old English stock.  I suppose you know
Sir Pitt&#8217;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!&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I thought you liked the City families pretty
well,&#8221; he said, haughtily.</p>

<p>&#8220;Last year you mean, when I was fresh from that
horrid vulgar school?  Of course I did.  Doesn&#8217;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&#8217; 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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It seems to me you didn&#8217;t dislike that
wonderful Mr. Joseph last year,&#8221; Osborne said
kindly.</p>

<p>&#8220;How severe of you!  Well, entre nous, I didn&#8217;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&#8217;t have said
no.&#8221;</p>

<p>Mr. Osborne gave a look as much as to say, &#8220;Indeed,
how very obliging!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;t
be angry.  You can&#8217;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&#8217;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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, &#38;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&#8217;s instinct
had told her that it was George who had interrupted
the success of her first love-passage, and she esteemed
him accordingly.</p>

<p>&#8220;I only just warn you,&#8221; he said to Rawdon
Crawley, with a knowing look--he had bought the horse,
and lost some score of guineas after dinner, &#8220;I
just warn you--I know women, and counsel you to be
on the look-out.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Thank you, my boy,&#8221; said Crawley, with
a look of peculiar gratitude.  &#8220;You&#8217;re
wide awake, I see.&#8221; And George went off, thinking
Crawley was quite right.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Against whom?&#8221; Amelia cried.</p>

<p>&#8220;Your friend the governess.--Don&#8217;t look
so astonished.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O George, what have you done?&#8221; Amelia
said.  For her woman&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;Rebecca,
I see it all.&#8221;</p>

<p>Rebecca kissed her.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Some short period after the above events, and Miss
Rebecca Sharp still remaining at her patroness&#8217;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&#8217;s house; but it
did not indicate the worthy baronet&#8217;s demise.
 It was a feminine hatchment, and indeed a few years
back had served as a funeral compliment to Sir Pitt&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s.
She had no arms.  But the cherubs painted on the scutcheon
answered as well for her as for Sir Pitt&#8217;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!</p>

<p>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&#8217;s wife.
 Mothers and daughters are making the same bargain
every day in Vanity Fair.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>The news of Lady Crawley&#8217;s death provoked no
more grief or comment than might have been expected
in Miss Crawley&#8217;s family circle.  &#8220;I suppose
I must put off my party for the 3rd,&#8221; Miss Crawley
said; and added, after a pause, &#8220;I hope my brother
will have the decency not to marry again.&#8221; &#8220;What
a confounded rage Pitt will be in if he does,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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,
&#8220;Here&#8217;s Sir Pitt, Ma&#8217;am!&#8221; and
the Baronet&#8217;s knock followed this announcement.</p>

<p>&#8220;My dear, I can&#8217;t see him.  I won&#8217;t
see him.  Tell Bowls not at home, or go downstairs
and say I&#8217;m too ill to receive any one.  My
nerves really won&#8217;t bear my brother at this moment,&#8221;
cried out Miss Crawley, and resumed the novel.</p>

<p>&#8220;She&#8217;s too ill to see you, sir,&#8221;
Rebecca said, tripping down to Sir Pitt, who was preparing
to ascend.</p>

<p>&#8220;So much the better,&#8221; Sir Pitt answered.
 &#8220;I want to see <i>you</i>, Miss Becky.  Come
along a me into the parlour,&#8221; and they entered
that apartment together.</p>

<p>&#8220;I wawnt you back at Queen&#8217;s Crawley,
Miss,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I hope to come soon,&#8221; she said in a low
voice, &#8220;as soon as Miss Crawley is better--and
return to--to the dear children.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;ve said so these three months, Becky,&#8221;
replied Sir Pitt, &#8220;and still you go hanging
on to my sister, who&#8217;ll fling you off like an
old shoe, when she&#8217;s wore you out. I tell you
I want you.  I&#8217;m going back to the Vuneral.
Will you come back?  Yes or no?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I daren&#8217;t--I don&#8217;t think--it would
be right--to be alone--with you, sir,&#8221; Becky
said, seemingly in great agitation.</p>

<p>&#8220;I say agin, I want you,&#8221; Sir Pitt said,
thumping the table.  &#8220;I can&#8217;t git on without
you.  I didn&#8217;t see what it was till you went
away.  The house all goes wrong.  It&#8217;s not the
same place.  All my accounts has got muddled agin.
You <i>must</i> come back.  Do come back. Dear Becky,
do come.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Come--as what, sir?&#8221; Rebecca gasped out.</p>

<p>&#8220;Come as Lady Crawley, if you like,&#8221; the
Baronet said, grasping his crape hat.  &#8220;There!
will that zatusfy you? Come back and be my wife. Your
vit vor&#8217;t.  Birth be hanged.  You&#8217;re as
good a lady as ever I see.  You&#8217;ve got more
brains in your little vinger than any  baronet&#8217;s
wife in the county.  Will you come? Yes or no?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, Sir Pitt!&#8221; Rebecca said, very much
moved.</p>

<p>&#8220;Say yes, Becky,&#8221; Sir Pitt continued.
 &#8220;I&#8217;m an old man, but a good&#8217;n.
 I&#8217;m good for twenty years.  I&#8217;ll make
you happy, zee if I don&#8217;t.  You shall do what
you like; spend what you like; and &#8217;ave it all
your own way.  I&#8217;ll make you a zettlement.  I&#8217;ll
do everything reglar.  Look year!&#8221; and the old
man fell down on his knees and leered at her like
a satyr.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, Sir Pitt!&#8221; she said.  &#8220;Oh,
sir--I--I&#8217;m married <i>already</i>.&#8221;</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XV</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Rebecca&#8217;s Husband Appears for a Short</h4>
Time

<p>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?</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Married;
you&#8217;re joking,&#8221; the Baronet cried, after
the first explosion of rage and wonder.  &#8220;You&#8217;re
making vun of me, Becky.  Who&#8217;d ever go to marry
you without a shilling to your vortune?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Married! married!&#8221; 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.  &#8220;O Sir Pitt, dear Sir Pitt,
do not think me ungrateful for all your goodness to
me.  It is only your generosity that has extorted
my secret.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Generosity be hanged!&#8221; Sir Pitt roared
out.  &#8220;Who is it tu, then, you&#8217;re married?
Where was it?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Let me come back with you to the country, sir!
 Let me watch over you as faithfully as ever!  Don&#8217;t,
don&#8217;t separate me from dear Queen&#8217;s Crawley!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;The feller has left you, has he?&#8221; the
Baronet said, beginning, as he fancied, to comprehend.
 &#8220;Well, Becky--come back if you like. You can&#8217;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;So the rascal ran off, eh?&#8221;  Sir Pitt
said, with a hideous attempt at consolation.  &#8220;Never
mind, Becky, <i>I&#8217;ll</i> take care of &#8217;ee.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, sir! it would be the pride of my life to
go back to Queen&#8217;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&#8217;t
be your wife, sir; let me--let me be your daughter.&#8221;
 Saying which, Rebecca went down on <i>her</i> knees
in a most tragical way, and, taking Sir Pitt&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is the lady on the ground, and not the gentleman,&#8221;
Miss Crawley said, with a look and voice of great
scorn. &#8220;They told me that <i>you</i> were on your
knees, Sir Pitt: do kneel once more, and let me see
this pretty couple!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I have thanked Sir Pitt Crawley, Ma&#8217;am,&#8221;
Rebecca said, rising, &#8220;and have told him that--that
I never can become Lady Crawley.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Refused him!&#8221;  Miss Crawley said, more
bewildered than ever. Briggs and Firkin at the door
opened the eyes of astonishment and the lips of wonder.</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes--refused,&#8221; Rebecca continued, with
a sad, tearful voice.</p>

<p>&#8220;And am I to credit my ears that you absolutely
proposed to her, Sir Pitt?&#8221; the old lady asked.</p>

<p>&#8220;Ees,&#8221; said the Baronet, &#8220;I did.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And she refused you as she says?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Ees,&#8221; Sir Pitt said, his features on
a broad grin.</p>

<p>&#8220;It does not seem to break your heart at any
rate,&#8221; Miss Crawley remarked.</p>

<p>&#8220;Nawt a bit,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m glad you think it good sport, brother,&#8221;
she continued, groping wildly through this amazement.</p>

<p>&#8220;Vamous,&#8221; said Sir Pitt.  &#8220;Who&#8217;d
ha&#8217; thought it! what a sly little devil! what
a little fox it waws!&#8221; he muttered to himself,
chuckling with pleasure.</p>

<p>&#8220;Who&#8217;d have thought what?&#8221; cries
Miss Crawley, stamping with her foot.  &#8220;Pray,
Miss Sharp, are you waiting for the Prince Regent&#8217;s
divorce, that you don&#8217;t think our family good
enough for you?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My attitude,&#8221; Rebecca said, &#8220;when
you came in, ma&#8217;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&#8221;; and she sank down in a chair so
pathetically, that most of the audience present were
perfectly melted with her sadness.</p>

<p>&#8220;Whether you marry me or not, you&#8217;re a
good little girl, Becky, and I&#8217;m your vriend,
mind,&#8221; said Sir Pitt, and putting on his crape-bound
hat, he walked away--greatly to Rebecca&#8217;s relief;
for it was evident that her secret was unrevealed
to Miss Crawley, and she had the advantage of a brief
reprieve.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
post, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217; content at Sir Pitt&#8217;s offer, and
Rebecca&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You would have accepted it yourself, wouldn&#8217;t
you, Briggs?&#8221; Miss Crawley said, kindly.</p>

<p>&#8220;Would it not be a privilege to be Miss Crawley&#8217;s
sister?&#8221; Briggs replied, with meek evasion.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, Becky would have made a good Lady Crawley,
after all,&#8221; Miss Crawley remarked (who was mollified
by the girl&#8217;s refusal, and very liberal and
generous now there was no call for her sacrifices).
&#8220;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&#8217;s daughter.&#8221;</p>

<p>Briggs coincided as usual, and the &#8220;previous
attachment&#8221; was then discussed in conjectures.
 &#8220;You poor friendless creatures are always having
some foolish tendre,&#8221; Miss Crawley said.  &#8220;You
yourself, you know, were in love with a writing-master
(don&#8217;t cry, Briggs--you&#8217;re always crying,
and it won&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Poor thing! poor thing!&#8221; 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).  &#8220;Poor
thing, poor thing!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;After such conduct on Rebecca&#8217;s part,&#8221;
Miss Crawley said enthusiastically, &#8220;our family
should do something. Find out who is the objet, Briggs.
 I&#8217;ll set him up in a shop; or order my portrait
of him, you know; or speak to my cousin, the Bishop
and I&#8217;ll doter Becky, and we&#8217;ll have a
wedding, Briggs, and you shall make the  breakfast,
and be a bridesmaid.&#8221;</p>

<p>Briggs declared that it would be delightful, and vowed
that her dear Miss Crawley was always kind and generous,
and went up to Rebecca&#8217;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&#8217;s
heart.</p>

<p>Rebecca was very kind, very affectionate and affected--responded
to Briggs&#8217;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&#8217;s arrival in Rebecca&#8217;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&#8217;s
conduct, she asked particulars of the interview, and
the previous transactions which had brought about
the astonishing offer of Sir Pitt.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s deceased wife
had not actually taken place?</p>

<p>&#8220;Nonsense, my dear, you would never have refused
him had there not been some one else in the case,&#8221;
Miss Crawley said, coming to her point at once.  &#8220;Tell
me the private reasons; what are the private reasons?
 There is some one; who is it that has touched your
heart?&#8221;</p>

<p>Rebecca cast down her eyes, and owned there was. &#8220;You
have guessed right, dear lady,&#8221; she said, with
a sweet simple faltering voice. &#8220;You wonder
at one so poor and friendless having an attachment,
don&#8217;t you? I have never heard that poverty was
any safeguard against it.  I wish it were.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My poor dear child,&#8221; cried Miss Crawley,
who was always quite ready to be sentimental, &#8220;is
our passion unrequited, then?  Are we pining in secret?
Tell me all, and let me console you.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish you could, dear Madam,&#8221; Rebecca
said in the same tearful tone.  &#8220;Indeed, indeed,
I need it.&#8221; And she laid her head upon Miss
Crawley&#8217;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.  &#8220;And
now who is it, my dear?  Is it that pretty Miss Sedley&#8217;s
brother?  You said something about an affair with
him. I&#8217;ll ask him here, my dear.  And you shall
have him: indeed you shall.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t ask me now,&#8221; Rebecca said.
 &#8220;You shall know all soon.  Indeed you shall.
 Dear kind Miss Crawley--dear friend, may I say so?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That you may, my child,&#8221; the old lady
replied, kissing her.</p>

<p>&#8220;I can&#8217;t tell you now,&#8221; sobbed out
Rebecca, &#8220;I am very miserable. But O! love me
always--promise you will love me always.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s
confidante too, master of her secrets, and seal-keeper
of that young woman&#8217;s conscience?</p>

<p>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&#8217;s disappointment deserves and will command
every sympathy.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
wife, who is of a good family certainly, but, as we
all know, is as poor as poor can be.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;You know,&#8221;
she said, &#8220;Mrs Briefless is granddaughter of
Sir John Redhand, who is so ill at Cheltenham that
he can&#8217;t last six months.  Mrs. Briefless&#8217;s
papa succeeds; so you see she will be a baronet&#8217;s
daughter.&#8221; And Toady asked Briefless and his
wife to dinner the very next week.</p>

<p>If the mere chance of becoming a baronet&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>In the first place, she was <i>married</i>--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&#8217;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&#8217;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:</p>

<p>Dearest Friend,</p>

<p>The great crisis which we have debated about so often
is <i>come</i>.  Half of my secret is known, and I have
thought and thought, until I am quite sure that now
is the time to reveal <i>the whole of the mystery</i>. Sir Pitt came to me this morning, and
made--what do you think?--A <i>declaration in form</i>.  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&#8217;s mamma,
instead of--O, I tremble, I tremble, when I think how
soon we must tell all!</p>

<p>Sir Pitt knows I am married, and not knowing to whom,
is not very much displeased as yet.  Ma tante is <i>actually angry</i> 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 <i>am sure</i> not.  She dotes upon
you so (you naughty, good-for-nothing man), that she
would pardon you <i>anything</i>: and, indeed, I believe,
the next place in her heart is mine: and that she
would be miserable without me. Dearest! something
<i>tells me</i> we shall conquer.  You shall leave
that odious regiment: quit gaming, racing, and <i>be</i>
A <i>good boy</i>; and we shall all live in Park
Lane, and ma tante shall leave us all her money.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Sermons.  But, at all events, come
to your own</p>

<p>R.</p>

<p>To Miss Eliza Styles, At Mr. Barnet&#8217;s, Saddler,
Knightsbridge.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s), wore brass spurs, and large curling
mustachios, and was indeed no other than Captain Rawdon
Crawley.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XVI</h3>

<h4 align="center">The Letter on the Pincushion</h4>

<p>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&#8217;s interval, escorted her
back to the hackney-coach in waiting, and that this
was a quiet bridal party.</p>

<p>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!</p>

<p>It seems to me, for my part, that Mr. Rawdon&#8217;s
marriage was one of the honestest actions which we
shall have to record in any portion of that gentleman&#8217;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. &#8220;How she sings,--how she paints,&#8221;
thought he.  &#8220;How she rode that kicking mare
at Queen&#8217;s Crawley!&#8221;  And he would say
to her in confidential moments, &#8220;By Jove, Beck,
you&#8217;re fit to be Commander-in-Chief, or Archbishop
of Canterbury, by Jove.&#8221;  Is his case a rare
one? and don&#8217;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&#8217;s
lap?</p>

<p>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 &#8220;the usual place&#8221;
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 &#8220;come round,&#8221; as he said, after
a time.  Had Rebecca&#8217;s resolutions been entirely
different, he would have followed them as implicitly.
 &#8220;You have head enough for both of us, Beck,&#8221;
said he.  &#8220;You&#8217;re sure to get us out of
the scrape.  I never saw your equal, and I&#8217;ve
met with some clippers in my time too.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s, Hanover Square, during the genteel
marriage season; and though I have never seen the
bridegroom&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
proposal, ridiculed it as the foolish fancy of an old
man; and her eyes filled with tears, and Briggs&#8217;s
heart with unutterable pangs of defeat, as she said
she desired no other lot than to remain for ever with
her dear benefactress.  &#8220;My dear little creature,&#8221;
the old lady said, &#8220;I don&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Under Mrs. Firkin&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>On the second day after Sir Pitt Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;s bedchamber.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The little white dimity bed was as smooth and trim
as on the day previous, when Betty&#8217;s own hands
had helped to make it.  Two little trunks were corded
in one end of the room; and on the table before the
window--on the pincushion the great fat pincushion
lined with pink inside, and twilled like a lady&#8217;s
nightcap--lay a letter.  It had been reposing there
probably all night.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s room below.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Sunday
school, and she could no more read writing than Hebrew.</p>

<p>&#8220;La, Miss Briggs,&#8221; the girl exclaimed,
&#8220;O, Miss, something must have happened--there&#8217;s
nobody in Miss Sharp&#8217;s room; the bed ain&#8217;t
been slep in, and she&#8217;ve run away, and left
this letter for you, Miss.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;<i>What</i>!&#8221; cries Briggs, dropping her
comb, the thin wisp of faded hair falling over her
shoulders; &#8220;an elopement! Miss Sharp a fugitive!
What, what is this?&#8221; and she eagerly broke the
neat seal, and, as they say, &#8220;devoured the contents&#8221;
of the letter addressed to her.</p>

<p>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 <i>husband</i>.  Yes, I am
married.  My husband <i>commands</i> me to seek the
<i>humble home</i> 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 <i>again</i> to watch--Oh,
with what joy shall I return to dear Park Lane! How
I tremble for the answer which is to <i>seal my fate</i>! When Sir Pitt deigned to offer me his hand,
an honour of which my beloved Miss Crawley said I
was <i>deserving</i> (my blessings go with her for judging
the poor orphan worthy to be <i>her sister</i>!)
I told Sir Pitt that I was already A <i>wife</i>.  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 <i>was his daughter</i>!  I am wedded to
the best and most generous of men--Miss Crawley&#8217;s
Rawdon is <i>my</i> Rawdon. At his <i>command</i> I open
my lips, and follow him to our humble home, as I would
<i>through the world</i>.  O, my excellent
and kind friend, intercede with my Rawdon&#8217;s
beloved aunt for him and the poor girl to whom all
<i>his noble race</i> have shown such UNPARALLELED
<i>affection</i>.  Ask Miss Crawley to receive <i>her children</i>.  I can say no more, but blessings,
blessings on all in the dear house I leave, prays</p>

<p>Your affectionate and <i>grateful</i><br>
Rebecca Crawley.<br>
Midnight.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Here&#8217;s
Mrs. Bute Crawley just arrived by the mail from Hampshire,
and wants some tea; will you come down and make breakfast,
Miss?&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, Mrs. Firkin,&#8221; gasped Betty, &#8220;sech
a business.  Miss Sharp have a gone and run away with
the Capting, and they&#8217;re off to Gretney Green!&#8221;
 We would devote a chapter to describe the emotions
of Mrs. Firkin, did not the passions of her mistresses
occupy our genteeler muse.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s aide-de-camp
the footman to bring away her trunks.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s
abrupt proposal to Rebecca.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;prepare&#8221; their friends
for bad news?  Miss Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;And she refused Sir Pitt, my dear, dear Miss
Crawley, prepare yourself for it,&#8221; Mrs. Bute
said, &#8220;because--because she couldn&#8217;t help
herself.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Of course there was a reason,&#8221; Miss Crawley
answered. &#8220;She liked somebody else.  I told
Briggs so yesterday.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;LIKES somebody else!&#8221; Briggs gasped.
 &#8220;O my dear friend, she is married already.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Married already,&#8221; Mrs. Bute chimed in;
and both sate with clasped hands looking from each
other at their victim.</p>

<p>&#8220;Send her to me, the instant she comes in. 
The little sly wretch: how dared she not tell me?&#8221;
cried out Miss Crawley.</p>

<p>&#8220;She won&#8217;t come in soon.  Prepare yourself,
dear friend--she&#8217;s gone out for a long time--she&#8217;s--she&#8217;s
gone altogether.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Gracious goodness, and who&#8217;s to make
my chocolate? Send for her and have her back; I desire
that she come back,&#8221; the old lady said.</p>

<p>&#8220;She decamped last night, Ma&#8217;am,&#8221;
cried Mrs. Bute.</p>

<p>&#8220;She left a letter for me,&#8221; Briggs exclaimed.
 &#8220;She&#8217;s married to--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Prepare her, for heaven&#8217;s sake.  Don&#8217;t
torture her, my dear Miss Briggs.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She&#8217;s married to whom?&#8221; cries the
spinster in a nervous fury.</p>

<p>&#8220;To--to a relation of--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She refused Sir Pitt,&#8221; cried the victim.
 &#8220;Speak at once. Don&#8217;t drive me mad.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O Ma&#8217;am--prepare her, Miss Briggs--she&#8217;s
married to Rawdon Crawley.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Rawdon married Rebecca--governess--nobod--Get
out of my house, you fool, you idiot--you stupid old
Briggs how dare you? You&#8217;re in the plot--you
made him marry, thinking that I&#8217;d leave my money
from him--you did, Martha,&#8221; the poor old lady
screamed in hysteric sentences.</p>

<p>&#8220;I, Ma&#8217;am, ask a member of this family
to marry a drawing-master&#8217;s daughter?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Her mother was a Montmorency,&#8221; cried
out the old lady, pulling at the bell with all her
might.</p>

<p>&#8220;Her mother was an opera girl, and she has been
on the stage or worse herself,&#8221; said Mrs. Bute.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Her relations ought to be
round about her,&#8221; that amiable woman said.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Where&#8217;s
Becky?&#8221; he said, coming in.  &#8220;Where&#8217;s
her traps? She&#8217;s coming with me to Queen&#8217;s
Crawley.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Have you not heard the astonishing intelligence
regarding her surreptitious union?&#8221; Briggs asked.</p>

<p>&#8220;What&#8217;s that to me?&#8221; Sir Pitt asked.
 &#8220;I know she&#8217;s married.  That makes no
odds.  Tell her to come down at once, and not keep
me.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Are you not aware, sir,&#8221; Miss Briggs
asked, &#8220;that she has left our roof, to the dismay
of Miss Crawley, who is nearly killed by the intelligence
of Captain Rawdon&#8217;s union with her?&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>One day after he went to Queen&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Suppose the old lady doesn&#8217;t come to,&#8221;
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; &#8220;suppose she
don&#8217;t come round, eh, Becky?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;<i>I&#8217;ll</i> make your fortune,&#8221; she
said; and Delilah patted Samson&#8217;s cheek.</p>

<p>&#8220;You can do anything,&#8221; he said, kissing
the little hand. &#8220;By Jove you can; and we&#8217;ll
drive down to the Star and Garter, and dine, by Jove.&#8221;</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XVII</h3>

<h4 align="center">How Captain Dobbin Bought a Piano</h4>

<p>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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>Even with the most selfish disposition, the Vanity
Fairian, as he witnesses this sordid part of the obsequies
of a departed friend, can&#8217;t but feel some sympathies
and regret. My Lord Dives&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.  &#8220;I got this box at old Dives&#8217;s
sale,&#8221; Pincher says, handing it round, &#8220;one
of Louis XV&#8217;s mistresses-- pretty thing, is
it not?--sweet miniature,&#8221; and they talk of the
way in which young Dives is dissipating his fortune.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;No. 369,&#8221; roared Mr. Hammerdown.  &#8220;Portrait
of a gentleman on an elephant.  Who&#8217;ll bid for
the gentleman on the elephant?  Lift up the picture,
Blowman, and let the company examine this lot.&#8221;
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.  &#8220;Turn
the elephant to the Captain, Blowman.  What shall we
say, sir, for the elephant?&#8221; but the Captain,
blushing in a very hurried and discomfited manner,
turned away his head.</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I wonder it ain&#8217;t come down with him,&#8221;
said a professional wag, &#8220;he&#8217;s anyhow
a precious big one&#8221;; at which (for the elephant-rider
was represented as of a very stout figure) there was
a general giggle in the room.</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t be trying to deprecate the value
of the lot, Mr. Moss,&#8221; Mr. Hammerdown said;
&#8220;let the company examine it as a work of art--the
attitude of the gallant animal quite according to natur&#8217;;
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&#8217;t
keep me here all day.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&#8221; and Mr. Lewis&#8217;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,</p>

<p>&#8220;Why, Rawdon, it&#8217;s Captain Dobbin.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s pinafores, little red socks, caps,
&#38;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;He&#8217;s a very agreeable
acquaintance, Beck,&#8221; the wag added.  &#8220;I&#8217;d
like to sell him another horse, Beck.  I&#8217;d like
to play a few more games at billiards with him.  He&#8217;d
be what I call useful just now, Mrs. C.--ha, ha!&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>The old aunt was long in &#8220;coming-to.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Gad, I begin to perceive now why she was always
bringing us together at Queen&#8217;s Crawley,&#8221;
Rawdon said.</p>

<p>&#8220;What an artful little woman!&#8221; ejaculated
Rebecca.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, I don&#8217;t regret it, if you don&#8217;t,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;If he had but a little more brains,&#8221;
she thought to herself, &#8220;I might make something
of him&#8221;; 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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s husband was hoodwinked,
as Potiphar was--only in a different way.</p>

<p>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. &#8220;My relations won&#8217;t
cry fie upon me,&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;s reputation as a fire-eating
and jealous warrior was a further and complete defence
to his little wife.</p>

<p>There are gentlemen of very good blood and fashion
in this city, who never have entered a lady&#8217;s
drawing-room; so that though Rawdon Crawley&#8217;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.  &#8220;How did this begin,&#8221; we say, &#8220;or
where will it end?&#8221; &#8220;My dear fellow,&#8221;
I heard Jack once say, &#8220;I owe money in every
capital in Europe.&#8221;  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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;Lieutenant
G. Osborne to be Captain by purchase, vice Smith,
who exchanges,&#8221; Rawdon uttered that sentiment
regarding Amelia&#8217;s lover, which ended in the
visit to Russell Square.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
old acquaintances, the Captain had vanished; and such
information as they got was from a stray porter or
broker at the auction.</p>

<p>&#8220;Look at them with their hooked beaks,&#8221;
Becky said, getting into the buggy, her picture under
her arm, in great glee.  &#8220;They&#8217;re like
vultures after a battle.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t know.  Never was in action, my
dear.  Ask Martingale; he was in Spain, aide-de-camp
to General Blazes.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He was a very kind old man, Mr. Sedley,&#8221;
Rebecca said; &#8220;I&#8217;m really sorry he&#8217;s
gone wrong.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O stockbrokers--bankrupts--used to it, you
know,&#8221; Rawdon replied, cutting a fly off the
horse&#8217;s ear.</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish we could have afforded some of the plate,
Rawdon,&#8221; the wife continued sentimentally. 
&#8220;Five-and-twenty guineas was monstrously dear
for that little piano. We chose it at Broadwood&#8217;s
for Amelia, when she came from school.  It only cost
five-and-thirty then.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What-d&#8217;-ye-call&#8217;em--&#8217;Osborne,&#8217;
will cry off now, I suppose, since the family is smashed.
 How cut up your pretty little friend will be; hey,
Becky?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I daresay she&#8217;ll recover it,&#8221; Becky
said with a smile--and they drove on and talked about
something else.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XVIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Who Played on the Piano Captain Dobbin Bought</h4>

<p>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?</p>

<p>&#8220;Napoleon has landed at Cannes.&#8221;  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&#8217;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&#8217;s
happiness forms, somehow, part of it.</p>

<p>In the first place, her father&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;She&#8217;s not happy,&#8221;
the mother went on. &#8220;George Osborne neglects
her.  I&#8217;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&#8217;m sure: and there&#8217;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&#8217;re as good as they.  Only give Edward
Dale any encouragement, and you&#8217;ll see.  We must
have a party, Mr. S.  Why don&#8217;t you speak, John?
 Shall I say Tuesday fortnight? Why don&#8217;t you
answer? Good God, John, what has happened?&#8221;</p>

<p>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, &#8220;We&#8217;re ruined,
Mary.  We&#8217;ve got the world to begin over again,
dear.  It&#8217;s best that you should know all, and
at once.&#8221;  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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;My God, my God, it will break Emmy&#8217;s
heart,&#8221; she said.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Of all Sedley&#8217;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&#8217;s daughter. Any one of these circumstances
would account for the bitterness of Osborne&#8217;s
opposition.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.
&#8220;Down with such dishonesty,&#8221; says the creditor
in triumph, and reviles his sinking enemy.  &#8220;You
fool, why do you catch at a straw?&#8221; calm good
sense says to the man that is drowning.  &#8220;You
villain, why do you shrink from plunging into the
irretrievable Gazette?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s daughter and
his son; and as it had gone very far indeed, and as
the poor girl&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>If Amelia could have heard the comments regarding
her which were made in the circle from which her father&#8217;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 <i>her</i> daughters. &#8220;Captain Osborne, of
course, could not marry a bankrupt&#8217;s daughter,&#8221;
the Misses Dobbin said.  &#8220;It was quite enough
to have been swindled by the father.  As for that
little Amelia, her folly had really passed all--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;All what?&#8221; Captain Dobbin roared out.
 &#8220;Haven&#8217;t they been engaged ever since
they were children?  Wasn&#8217;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;La, William, don&#8217;t be so highty-tighty
with <i>us</i>.  We&#8217;re not men.  We can&#8217;t
fight you,&#8221; Miss Jane said.  &#8220;We&#8217;ve
said nothing against Miss Sedley: but that her conduct
throughout was <i>most imprudent</i>, not to call
it by any worse name; and that her parents are people
who certainly merit their misfortunes.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Hadn&#8217;t you better, now that Miss Sedley
is free, propose for her yourself, William?&#8221;
Miss Ann asked sarcastically.  &#8220;It would be a
most eligible family connection.  He!  he!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I marry her!&#8221; Dobbin said, blushing very
much, and talking quick. &#8220;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&#8217;t
hear it; and she&#8217;s miserable and unfortunate,
and deserves to be laughed at.  Go on joking, Ann.
 You&#8217;re the wit of the family, and the others
like to hear it.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I must tell you again we&#8217;re not in a
barrack, William,&#8221; Miss Ann remarked.</p>

<p>&#8220;In a barrack, by Jove--I wish anybody in a
barrack would say what you do,&#8221; cried out this
uproused British lion.  &#8220;I should like to hear
a man breathe a word against her, by Jupiter.  But
men don&#8217;t talk in this way, Ann: it&#8217;s
only women, who get together and hiss, and shriek,
and cackle.  There, get away--don&#8217;t begin to
cry.  I only said you were a couple of geese,&#8221;
Will Dobbin said, perceiving Miss Ann&#8217;s pink
eyes were beginning to moisten as usual.  &#8220;Well,
you&#8217;re not geese, you&#8217;re swans--anything
you like, only do, do leave Miss Sedley alone.&#8221;</p>

<p>Anything like William&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is a mercy, Mamma, that the regiment is
ordered abroad,&#8221; the girls said.  &#8220;<i>This</i>
danger, at any rate, is spared our brother.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;aigle; and one of these
was a British army, of which two heroes of ours, Captain
Dobbin and Captain Osborne, formed a portion.</p>

<p>The news of Napoleon&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd hoped
to write herself Mrs. Colonel O&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;, 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&#8217;;
and drank a good deal, as his comrades remarked there.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;She--she&#8217;s
sent me back some things I gave her--some damned trinkets.
 Look here!&#8221; 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.  &#8220;It&#8217;s
all over,&#8221; said he, with a groan of sickening
remorse. &#8220;Look, Will, you may read it if you
like.&#8221;</p>

<p>There was a little letter of a few lines, to which
he pointed, which said:</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>I shall often play upon the piano--your piano.  It
was like you to send it.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Where are they?&#8221; 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.  &#8220;Where are they? There&#8217;s
no address to the note.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,
<i>must</i> 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.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;Take this to Captain Osborne, if you
please, and--and I hope he&#8217;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&#8217;ll
go upstairs, Mamma, for I&#8217;m not very strong.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;George, she&#8217;s dying,&#8221; William Dobbin
said--and could speak no more.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne,
this servant-maid came into Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;s attention, who, however, took no
heed of her.</p>

<p>&#8220;Miss Emmy,&#8221; said the girl.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m coming,&#8221; Emmy said, not looking
round.</p>

<p>&#8220;There&#8217;s a message,&#8221; the maid went
on.  &#8220;There&#8217;s something-- somebody--sure,
here&#8217;s a new letter for you--don&#8217;t be reading
them old ones any more.&#8221; And she gave her a
letter, which Emmy took, and read.</p>

<p>&#8220;I must see you,&#8221; the letter said.  &#8220;Dearest
Emmy--dearest love-- dearest wife, come to me.&#8221;</p>

<p>George and her mother were outside, waiting until
she had read the letter.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XIX</h3>

<h4 align="center">Miss Crawley at Nurse</h4>

<p>We have seen how Mrs. Firkin, the lady&#8217;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&#8217;s
confidential servant. She had been a gracious friend
to Miss Briggs, the companion, also; and had secured
the latter&#8217;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 &#8220;fine words butter no parsnips&#8221;? 
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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Rawdon Crawley, on the other hand, like a selfish
heavy dragoon as he was, never took the least trouble
to conciliate his aunt&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>In a word, during Rawdon Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;My girls&#8217;
singing, after that little odious governess&#8217;s,
I know is unbearable,&#8221; the candid Rector&#8217;s
wife owned to herself.  &#8220;She always used to
go to sleep when Martha and Louisa played their duets.
Jim&#8217;s stiff college manners and poor dear Bute&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;If that poor man of mine had a head on his
shoulders,&#8221; Mrs. Bute Crawley thought to herself,
&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
manifold sins: of which his uncle&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s character is to be abused,
say what you will, there&#8217;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&#8217; parts.</p>

<p>Rebecca, too, being now a relative, came in for the
fullest share of Mrs. Bute&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
seduction by Miss Sharp, and from whom she got sundry
strange particulars regarding the ex-governess&#8217;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&#8217;s receipts
and letters.  This one was from a spunging-house:
that entreated an advance: another was full of gratitude
for Rebecca&#8217;s reception by the ladies of Chiswick:
and the last document from the unlucky artist&#8217;s
pen was that in which, from his dying bed, he recommended
his orphan child to Miss Pinkerton&#8217;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&#8217;s of ten years back--
your dear friend whom you hate now.  Look at a file
of your sister&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>From Miss Pinkerton&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
parentage, education, and behaviour as would scarcely
have pleased Rebecca, had the latter known that such
inquiries were being made concerning her.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s daughter.  She drank gin
with her father, &#38;c. &#38;c. It was a lost woman who was
married to a lost man; and the moral to be inferred
from Mrs. Bute&#8217;s tale was, that the knavery
of the pair was irremediable, and that no properly
conducted person should ever notice them again.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;t
sometimes speculate upon the possibility of a domestic
revolt, or upon other extreme consequences resulting
from their overstrained authority.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I am sure, my dear Mr. Clump,&#8221; she said,
&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Your devotion, it must be confessed, is admirable,&#8221;
Mr. Clump says, with a low bow; &#8220;but--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You did what became an excellent mother, my
dear Madam--the best of mothers; but--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;As the mother of a family and the wife of an
English clergyman, I humbly trust that my principles
are good,&#8221; Mrs. Bute said, with a happy solemnity
of conviction; &#8220;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I would lay down my life for my duty, or for
any member of my husband&#8217;s family,&#8221; Mrs.
Bute interposed.</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes, Madam, if need were; but we don&#8217;t
want Mrs Bute Crawley to be a martyr,&#8221; Clump
said gallantly.  &#8220;Dr Squills and myself have
both considered Miss Crawley&#8217;s case with every
anxiety and care, as you may suppose.  We see her
low-spirited and nervous; family events have agitated
her.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Her nephew will come to perdition,&#8221; Mrs.
Crawley cried.</p>

<p>&#8220;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,&#8221; Mr. Clump said,
grinning and showing his handsome teeth.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;The sight of her horrid nephew casually in
the Park, where I am told the wretch drives with the
brazen partner of his crimes,&#8221; Mrs. Bute said
(letting the cat of selfishness out of the bag of
secrecy), &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Upon my word, Madam,&#8221; Mr. Clump now said
bluntly, &#8220;I won&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Gracious mercy! is her life in danger?&#8221;
Mrs. Bute cried.  &#8220;Why, why, Mr. Clump, did
you not inform me sooner?&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What a little harpy that woman from Hampshire
is, Clump,&#8221; Squills remarked, &#8220;that has
seized upon old Tilly Crawley.  Devilish good Madeira.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What a fool Rawdon Crawley has been,&#8221;
Clump replied, &#8220;to go and marry a governess!
 There was something about the girl, too.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Green eyes, fair skin, pretty figure, famous
frontal development,&#8221; Squills remarked.  &#8220;There
is something about her; and Crawley was a fool, Squills.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A d--- fool--always was,&#8221; the apothecary
replied.</p>

<p>&#8220;Of course the old girl will fling him over,&#8221;
said the physician, and after a pause added, &#8220;She&#8217;ll
cut up well, I suppose.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Cut up,&#8221; says Clump with a grin; &#8220;I
wouldn&#8217;t have her cut up for two hundred a year.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That Hampshire woman will kill her in two months,
Clump, my boy, if she stops about her,&#8221; Dr.
Squills said. &#8220;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&#8217;t give many weeks&#8217;
purchase for your two hundred a year.&#8221; And it
was acting upon this hint that the worthy apothecary
spoke with so much candour to Mrs. Bute Crawley.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;t amuse her, Mrs. Bute
justly felt.  &#8220;We must go and visit our beautiful
suburbs of London,&#8221; she then thought.  &#8220;I
hear they are the most picturesque in the world&#8221;;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s stanhope
came in sight; Rebecca was seated by him.  In the enemy&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Done, by Jove,&#8221; Rawdon said to his wife.</p>

<p>&#8220;Try once more, Rawdon,&#8221; Rebecca answered.
 &#8220;Could not you lock your wheels into theirs,
dearest?&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s health, that they should leave
town for a while, and recommended Brighton very strongly.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XX</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Captain Dobbin Acts as the Messenger of Hymen</h4>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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!</p>

<p>&#8220;He will be here again to-day,&#8221; Amelia
thought.  &#8220;He is the greatest and best of men.&#8221;
 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
little baby things, with which Mrs. Sedley accommodated
her at the birth of one of Osborne&#8217;s own children.
 The fiendish ingratitude of that man, she was sure,
had broken Mr. S.&#8217;s heart: and as for a marriage,
he would never, never, never, never consent.</p>

<p>&#8220;They must run away together, Ma&#8217;am,&#8221;
Dobbin said, laughing, &#8220;and follow the example
of Captain Rawdon Crawley, and Miss Emmy&#8217;s friend
the little governess.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>It was not, however, Mr. Sedley&#8217;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. &#8220;The
only chance George has of reconcilement,&#8221; argued
his friend, &#8220;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.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;s butt on a thousand
occasions, old Sedley gave his hand to him in a very
hesitating humble manner now, and called him &#8220;Sir.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I am very glad to see you, Captain Dobbin,
sir,&#8221; 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).  &#8220;How is
the worthy alderman, and my lady, your excellent mother,
sir?&#8221;  He looked round at the waiter as he said,
&#8220;My lady,&#8221; as much as to say, &#8220;Hark
ye, John, I have friends still, and persons of rank
and reputation, too.&#8221;  &#8220;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&#8217;m only here temporarily,
you know, Captain.  What can we do for you. sir?  Will
you like to take anything?&#8221;</p>

<p>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, &#8220;My mother is very well--that
is, she&#8217;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&#8217;s
quite well.&#8221;  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.</p>

<p>&#8220;My wife will be very happy to see her ladyship,&#8221;
Sedley replied, pulling out his papers.  &#8220;I&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221; The old gentleman&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;re a military man,&#8221; he went
on; &#8220;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 &#8217;em that dinner in the City,
sir, and we saw the Temple of Concord, and the fireworks,
and the Chinese bridge in St. James&#8217;s Park,
could any sensible man suppose that peace wasn&#8217;t
really concluded, after we&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s why I&#8217;m here, William.
 That&#8217;s why my name&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;We&#8217;re going to hunt Boney out, sir,&#8221;
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.
 &#8220;We are going to hunt him out, sir--the Duke&#8217;s
in Belgium already, and we expect marching orders
every day.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Give him no quarter.  Bring back the villain&#8217;s
head, sir. Shoot the coward down, sir,&#8221; Sedley
roared.  &#8220;I&#8217;d enlist myself, by--; but
I&#8217;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,&#8221; he added, with a break
in his voice.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes,&#8221; he continued, &#8220;there are
some vipers that you warm, and they sting you afterwards.
 There are some beggars that you put on horseback,
and they&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I have heard something of this, sir, from my
friend George,&#8221; Dobbin said, anxious to come
to his point.  &#8220;The quarrel between you and
his father has cut him up a great deal, sir.  Indeed,
I&#8217;m the bearer of a message from him.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O, <i>that&#8217;s</i> your errand, is it?&#8221;
cried the old man, jumping up. &#8220;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&#8217;s hankering about my house,
is he still?  If my son had the courage of a man,
he&#8217;d shoot him.  He&#8217;s as big a villain
as his father.  I won&#8217;t have his name mentioned
in my house.  I curse the day that ever I let him
into it; and I&#8217;d rather see my daughter dead
at my feet than married to him.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;His father&#8217;s harshness is not George&#8217;s
fault, sir.  Your daughter&#8217;s love for him is
as much your doing as his.  Who are you, that you
are to play with two young people&#8217;s affections
and break their hearts at your will?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Recollect it&#8217;s not his father that breaks
the match off,&#8221; old Sedley cried out.  &#8220;It&#8217;s
I that forbid it.  That family and mine are separated
for ever.  I&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s my belief, sir, that you have not
the power or the right to separate those two,&#8221;
Dobbin answered in a low voice; &#8220;and that if
you don&#8217;t give your daughter your consent it
will be her duty to marry without it.  There&#8217;s
no reason she should die or live miserably because
you are wrong-headed.  To my thinking, she&#8217;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&#8217;s charges against you,
as charges there are, than that his son claims to enter
your family and marry your daughter?&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;We must do it without,&#8221; Dobbin said,
smiling, and told Mr. Sedley, as he had told Mrs.
Sedley in the day, before, the story of Rebecca&#8217;s
elopement with Captain Crawley.  It evidently amused
the old gentleman.  &#8220;You&#8217;re terrible fellows,
you Captains,&#8221; 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&#8217;s countenance since he had used the dismal
coffee-house.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;My sisters say she has diamonds as big as pigeons&#8217;
eggs,&#8221; George said, laughing.  &#8220;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217; 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&#8217;s widow, her relative, &#8220;chaperoned&#8221;
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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You should have seen her dress for court, Emmy,&#8221;
Osborne cried, laughing.  &#8220;She came to my sisters
to show it off, before she was presented in state
by my Lady Binkie, the Haggistoun&#8217;s kinswoman.
She&#8217;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 &#8217;em up, by Jove--and a yellow
satin train that streeled after her like the tail
of a cornet.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;How old is she?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s,
Saint Jams.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Why, surely it must be Miss Swartz, the parlour
boarder,&#8221; Emmy said, remembering that good-natured
young mulatto girl, who had been so hysterically affected
when Amelia left Miss Pinkerton&#8217;s academy.</p>

<p>&#8220;The very name,&#8221; George said.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish they would have loved me,&#8221; said
Emmy, wistfully. &#8220;They were always very cold
to me.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My dear child, they would have loved you if
you had had two hundred thousand pounds,&#8221; George
replied.  &#8220;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&#8217;s
Goldmore, the East India Director, there&#8217;s Dipley,
in the tallow trade--<i>our</i> trade,&#8221; George
said, with an uneasy laugh and a blush.  &#8220;Curse
the whole pack of money-grubbing vulgarians!  I fall
asleep at their great heavy dinners.  I feel ashamed
in my father&#8217;s great stupid parties.  I&#8217;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&#8217;re an angel
and can&#8217;t help it.  Don&#8217;t remonstrate.
 You are the only lady. Didn&#8217;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&#8217;s a fine fellow: and I like him for marrying
the girl he had chosen.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s return from the City, before whom
George received a signal to retreat.</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXI</h3>

<h4 align="center">A Quarrel About an Heiress</h4>

<p>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&#8217;s soul,
which she was to realize.  He encouraged, with the
utmost enthusiasm and friendliness, his daughters&#8217;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You won&#8217;t find,&#8221; he would say to
Miss Rhoda, &#8220;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&#8217;ve conceived an
attachment for you which does them honour--I say,
which does them honour.  I&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;m a frank man, and I like you.  A glass of
Champagne!  Hicks, Champagne to Miss Swartz.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>What a match for George she&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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 &#8217;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.  &#8220;Let George cut
in directly and win her,&#8221; was his advice.  &#8220;Strike
while the iron&#8217;s hot, you know--while she&#8217;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 &#38; Brown&#8217;s.
 The sooner it is done the better, Mr. Osborne; them&#8217;s
my sentiments,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>While thus George Osborne&#8217;s good feelings, and
his good friend and genius, Dobbin, were carrying
back the truant to Amelia&#8217;s feet, George&#8217;s
parent and sisters were arranging this splendid match
for him, which they never dreamed he would resist.</p>

<p>When the elder Osborne gave what he called &#8220;a
hint,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>On the first day when his father formally gave him
the hint that he was to place his affections at Miss
Swartz&#8217;s feet, George temporised with the old
gentleman.  &#8220;You should have thought of the matter
sooner, sir,&#8221; he said. &#8220;It can&#8217;t
be done now, when we&#8217;re expecting every day
to go on foreign service.  Wait till my return, if
I do return&#8221;; 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;
&#8220;for, I promise you,&#8221; said he, with a
satisfied air, &#8220;that one way or other you shall
read the name of George Osborne in the Gazette.&#8221;</p>

<p>The father&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;So that you would have me shown up as a coward,
sir, and our name dishonoured for the sake of Miss
Swartz&#8217;s money,&#8221; George interposed.</p>

<p>This remark staggered the old gentleman; but as he
had to reply to it, and as his mind was nevertheless
made up, he said, &#8220;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.&#8221; Thus a new obstacle
was in George&#8217;s way, to interfere with his plans
regarding Amelia; and about which he and Dobbin had
more than one confidential consultation.  His friend&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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&#8217;s death to her,
or preluding a declaration of love.  He trampled over
all the young bucks of his father&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Dammy,&#8221; George said to a confidential
friend, &#8220;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.&#8221;
He restrained that exhibition of sentiment, however.</p>

<p>The sisters began to play the Battle of Prague.  &#8220;Stop
that d--- thing,&#8221; George howled out in a fury
from the sofa.  &#8220;It makes me mad.  You play
us something, Miss Swartz, do.  Sing something, anything
but the Battle of Prague.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Shall I sing &#8216;Blue Eyed Mary&#8217; or
the air from the Cabinet?&#8221; Miss Swartz asked.</p>

<p>&#8220;That sweet thing from the Cabinet,&#8221; the
sisters said.</p>

<p>&#8220;We&#8217;ve had that,&#8221; replied the misanthrope
on the sofa</p>

<p>&#8220;I can sing &#8216;Fluvy du Tajy,&#8217;&#8221;
Swartz said, in a meek voice, &#8220;if I had the
words.&#8221; It was the last of the worthy young woman&#8217;s
collection.</p>

<p>&#8220;O, &#8216;Fleuve du Tage,&#8217;&#8221; Miss
Maria cried; &#8220;we have the song,&#8221; and went
off to fetch the book in which it was.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s applause (for he remembered that
it was a favourite of Amelia&#8217;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 &#8220;Amelia Sedley&#8221; written in the
comer.</p>

<p>&#8220;Lor!&#8221; cried Miss Swartz, spinning swiftly
round on the music-stool, &#8220;is it my Amelia?
 Amelia that was at Miss P.&#8217;s at Hammersmith?
 I know it is.  It&#8217;s her.  and--Tell me about
her--where is she?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t mention her,&#8221; Miss Maria
Osborne said hastily.  &#8220;Her family has disgraced
itself.  Her father cheated Papa, and as for her, she
is never to be mentioned <i>here</i>.&#8221; This was
Miss Maria&#8217;s return for George&#8217;s rudeness
about the Battle of Prague.</p>

<p>&#8220;Are you a friend of Amelia&#8217;s?&#8221;
George said, bouncing up.  &#8220;God bless you for
it, Miss Swartz.  Don&#8217;t believe what the girls
say. <i>She&#8217;s</i> not to blame at any rate. She&#8217;s
the best--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You know you&#8217;re not to speak about her,
George,&#8221; cried Jane.  &#8220;Papa forbids it.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Who&#8217;s to prevent me?&#8221; George cried
out.  &#8220;I will speak of her.  I say she&#8217;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&#8221;; and he went up and wrung her hand.</p>

<p>&#8220;George! George!&#8221; one of the sisters cried
imploringly.</p>

<p>&#8220;I say,&#8221; George said fiercely, &#8220;I
thank everybody who loves Amelia Sed--&#8221; He stopped.
 Old Osborne was in the room with a face livid with
rage, and eyes like hot coals.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Mrs. Haggistoun,
let me take you down to dinner,&#8221; he said. &#8220;Give
your arm to Miss Swartz, George,&#8221; and they marched.</p>

<p>&#8220;Miss Swartz, I love Amelia, and we&#8217;ve
been engaged almost all our lives,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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, &#8220;Gentlemen of
the Guard, fire first.&#8221; The old man also took
a supply of ammunition, but his decanter clinked against
the glass as he tried to fill it.</p>

<p>After giving a great heave, and with a purple choking
face, he then began.  &#8220;How dare you, sir, mention
that person&#8217;s name before Miss Swartz to-day,
in my drawing-room? I ask you, sir, how dare you do
it?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Stop, sir,&#8221; says George, &#8220;don&#8217;t
say dare, sir.  Dare isn&#8217;t a word to be used
to a Captain in the British Army.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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 <i>will</i> say what
I like,&#8221; the elder said.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m a gentleman though I <i>am</i> your
son, sir,&#8221; George answered haughtily.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;My father didn&#8217;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
<i>some folks</i> have had through <i>my means</i>,
perhaps my son wouldn&#8217;t have any reason to brag,
sir, of his <i>superiority</i> and <i>West end airs</i> (these words were uttered in the elder Osborne&#8217;s
most sarcastic tones).  But it wasn&#8217;t considered
the part of a gentleman, in <i>my</i> time, for a man
to insult his father. If I&#8217;d done any such thing,
mine would have kicked me downstairs, sir.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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,&#8221; said George (fingering a bundle of
notes which he had got in the morning from Mr. Chopper).
 &#8220;You tell it me often enough, sir.  There&#8217;s
no fear of my forgetting it.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish you&#8217;d remember other things as
well, sir,&#8221; the sire answered.  &#8220;I wish
you&#8217;d remember that in this house--so long as
you choose to <i>honour</i> it with your <i>company</i>,
Captain--I&#8217;m the master, and that name, and
that that--that you--that I say--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That what, sir?&#8221; George asked, with scarcely
a sneer, filling another glass of claret.</p>

<p>&#8220;----!&#8221; 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 &#8217;em,
sir.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It wasn&#8217;t I, sir, that introduced Miss
Sedley&#8217;s name.  It was my sisters who spoke
ill of her to Miss Swartz; and by Jove I&#8217;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&#8217;s down.  I&#8217;ll shoot
any man but you who says a word against her.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Go on, sir, go on,&#8221; the old gentleman
said, his eyes starting out of his head.</p>

<p>&#8220;Go on about what, sir? about the way in which
we&#8217;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&#8217;s mine you give me orders to fling it
away, and punish her, kill her perhaps--for the faults
of other people.  It&#8217;s a shame, by Heavens,&#8221;
said George, working himself up into passion and enthusiasm
as he proceeded, &#8220;to play at fast and loose
with a young girl&#8217;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&#8217;s a
wonder anybody dared to hate her. If I desert her,
sir, do you suppose she forgets me?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I ain&#8217;t going to have any of this dam
sentimental nonsense and humbug here, sir,&#8221;
the father cried out.  &#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Marry that mulatto woman?&#8221; George said,
pulling up his shirt-collars.  &#8220;I don&#8217;t
like the colour, sir.  Ask the black that sweeps opposite
Fleet Market, sir.  I&#8217;m not going to marry a
Hottentot Venus.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ve done it,&#8221; said George, coming
into the Slaughters&#8217; an hour afterwards, looking
very pale.</p>

<p>&#8220;What, my boy?&#8221; says Dobbin.</p>

<p>George told what had passed between his father and
himself.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ll marry her to-morrow,&#8221; he said
with an oath.  &#8220;I love her more every day, Dobbin.&#8221;</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXII</h3>

<h4 align="center">A Marriage and Part of a Honeymoon</h4>

<p>Enemies the most obstinate and courageous can&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;
regarding him, where it was said that he and his friend
Captain Dobbin had left town.</p>

<p>One gusty, raw day at the end of April--the rain whipping
the pavement of that ancient street where the old
Slaughters&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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, &#38;c.,
&#38;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Couldn&#8217;t get a wink of sleep till daylight,
Dob,&#8221; said he. &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;So do I,&#8221; William responded.  &#8220;I
was a deuced deal more nervous than you were that
morning.  You made a famous breakfast, I remember.
 Eat something now.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;re a good old fellow, Will.  I&#8217;ll
drink your health, old boy, and farewell to--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;No, no; two glasses are enough,&#8221; Dobbin
interrupted him.  &#8220;Here, take away the liqueurs,
John.  Have some cayenne-pepper with your fowl.  Make
haste though, for it is time we were there.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s servant
put his master&#8217;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.  &#8220;We
shall find a better trap than this at the church-door,&#8221;
says he; &#8220;that&#8217;s a comfort.&#8221; And
the carriage drove on, taking the road down Piccadilly,
where Apsley House and St. George&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hang it!&#8221; said George, &#8220;I said
only a pair.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My master would have four,&#8221; said Mr.
Joseph Sedley&#8217;s servant, who was in waiting;
and he and Mr. Osborne&#8217;s man agreed as they followed
George and William into the church, that it was a &#8220;reg&#8217;lar
shabby turn hout; and with scarce so much as a breakfast
or a wedding faviour.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Here you are,&#8221; said our old friend, Jos
Sedley, coming forward. &#8220;You&#8217;re five minutes
late, George, my boy. What a day, eh? Demmy, it&#8217;s
like the commencement of the rainy season in Bengal.
 But you&#8217;ll find my carriage is watertight.
 Come along, my mother and Emmy are in the vestry.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s tones echoed
sadly through the empty walls.  Osborne&#8217;s &#8220;I
will&#8221; was sounded in very deep bass. Emmy&#8217;s
response came fluttering up to her lips from her heart,
but was scarcely heard by anybody except Captain Dobbin.</p>

<p>When the service was completed, Jos Sedley came forward
and kissed his sister, the bride, for the first time
for many months--George&#8217;s look of gloom had
gone, and he seemed quite proud and radiant. &#8220;It&#8217;s
your turn, William,&#8221; says he, putting his hand
fondly upon Dobbin&#8217;s shoulder; and Dobbin went
up and touched Amelia on the cheek.</p>

<p>Then they went into the vestry and signed the register.
&#8220;God bless you, Old Dobbin,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Write directly, and come down as soon as you
can, you know,&#8221; Osborne said.  After Mrs. Sedley
had taken an hysterical adieu of her daughter, the
pair went off to the carriage.  &#8220;Get out of the
way, you little devils,&#8221; George cried to a small
crowd of damp urchins, that were hanging about the
chapel-door.  The rain drove into the bride and bridegroom&#8217;s
faces as they passed to the chariot. The postilions&#8217;
favours draggled on their dripping jackets. The few
children made a dismal cheer, as the carriage, splashing
mud, drove away.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Come home and have some tiffin, Dobbin,&#8221;
a voice cried behind him; as a pudgy hand was laid
on his shoulder, and the honest fellow&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Here, you little beggars,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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, &#38;c., &#38;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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>&#8220;What a monstrous fine girl that is in the lodgings
over the milliner&#8217;s,&#8221; one of these three
promenaders remarked to the other; &#8220;Gad, Crawley,
did you see what a wink she gave me as I passed?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t break her heart, Jos, you rascal,&#8221;
said another. &#8220;Don&#8217;t trifle with her affections,
you Don Juan!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Get away,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What shall we do, boys, till the ladies return?&#8221;
the buck asked. The ladies were out to Rottingdean
in his carriage on a drive.</p>

<p>&#8220;Let&#8217;s have a game at billiards,&#8221;
one of his friends said--the tall one, with lacquered
mustachios.</p>

<p>&#8220;No, dammy; no, Captain,&#8221; Jos replied,
rather alarmed.  &#8220;No billiards to-day, Crawley,
my boy; yesterday was enough.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You play very well,&#8221; said Crawley, laughing.
 &#8220;Don&#8217;t he, Osborne? How well he made
that-five stroke, eh?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Famous,&#8221; Osborne said.  &#8220;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&#8217;s a wonderful story
that, Crawley.&#8221; Here George Osborne gave a yawn.
&#8220;It&#8217;s rather slow work,&#8221; said he,
&#8220;down here; what shall we do?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Shall we go and look at some horses that Snaffler&#8217;s
just brought from Lewes fair?&#8221; Crawley said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Suppose we go and have some jellies at Dutton&#8217;s,&#8221;
and the rogue Jos, willing to kill two birds with
one stone.  &#8220;Devilish fine gal at Dutton&#8217;s.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Suppose we go and see the Lightning come in,
it&#8217;s just about time?&#8221; George said.  This
advice prevailing over the stables and the jelly,
they turned towards the coach-office to witness the
Lightning&#8217;s arrival.</p>

<p>As they passed, they met the carriage--Jos Sedley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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. &#8220;We have
had a delightful drive, George,&#8221; she said, &#8220;and--and
we&#8217;re so glad to come back; and, Joseph, don&#8217;t
let him be late.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t be leading our husbands into mischief,
Mr. Sedley, you wicked, wicked man you,&#8221; Rebecca
said, shaking at Jos a pretty little finger covered
with the neatest French kid glove.  &#8220;No billiards,
no smoking, no naughtiness!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My dear Mrs. Crawley--Ah now! upon my honour!&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Do you remember the last time we met
at Miss Crawley&#8217;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!&#8221; 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&#8217;s
humility passed for sincerity with George Osborne.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish you could see some of Rawdon&#8217;s
friends who are always about our door,&#8221; Rebecca
said, laughing.  &#8220;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&#8217;s
opposite, and we could not get away until Sunday.
 If Aunty does not relent, what shall we do?&#8221;</p>

<p>Rawdon, with roars of laughter, related a dozen amusing
anecdotes of his duns, and Rebecca&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s.</p>

<p>The two wedding parties met constantly in each other&#8217;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&#8217;s purse
somewhat, and gave him the benefit of that ready money
for which the greatest spirits are sometimes at a
stand-still.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hullo! there&#8217;s old Dobbin,&#8221; George
cried, quite delighted to see his old friend perched
on the roof; and whose promised visit to Brighton
had been delayed until now.  &#8220;How are you, old
fellow? Glad you&#8217;re come down. Emmy&#8217;ll
be delighted to see you,&#8221; 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, &#8220;What&#8217;s the
news?  Have you been in Russell Square? What does
the governor say? Tell me everything.&#8221;</p>

<p>Dobbin looked very pale and grave.  &#8220;I&#8217;ve
seen your father,&#8221; said he.  &#8220;How&#8217;s
Amelia--Mrs. George?  I&#8217;ll tell you all the news
presently: but I&#8217;ve brought the great news of
all: and that is--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Out with it, old fellow,&#8221; George said.</p>

<p>&#8220;We&#8217;re ordered to Belgium.  All the army
goes--guards and all. Heavytop&#8217;s got the gout,
and is mad at not being able to move. O&#8217;Dowd
goes in command, and we embark from Chatham next week.&#8221;
This news of war could not but come with a shock upon
our lovers, and caused all these gentlemen to look
very serious.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Captain Dobbin Proceeds on His Canvass</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s affairs,
as the most selfish tactician could be in the pursuit
of his own.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s position and dignity, as collector
of Boggley Wollah, might compensate for his father&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s secret.</p>

<p>By a little inquiry regarding his mother&#8217;s engagements,
he was pretty soon able to find out by whom of her
ladyship&#8217;s friends parties were given at that
season; where he would be likely to meet Osborne&#8217;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&#8217; conversation
at an early hour the next day, when he had, he said,
to communicate to her news of the very greatest interest.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What a nice party it was last night,&#8221;
Miss Osborne at length began, encouragingly; &#8220;and--and
how you&#8217;re improved in your dancing, Captain
Dobbin.  Surely somebody has taught you,&#8221; she
added, with amiable archness.</p>

<p>&#8220;You should see me dance a reel with Mrs. Major
O&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Is the Major&#8217;s lady young and beautiful,
Captain?&#8221; the fair questioner continued.  &#8220;Ah,
what a terrible thing it must be to be a soldier&#8217;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Upon my word, she&#8217;s playing her hand
rather too openly,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;One of our young men is just married,&#8221;
Dobbin said, now coming to the point.  &#8220;It was
a very old attachment, and the young couple are as
poor as church mice.&#8221; &#8220;O, how delightful!
O, how romantic!&#8221; Miss Osborne cried, as the
Captain said &#8220;old attachment&#8221; and &#8220;poor.&#8221;
Her sympathy encouraged him.</p>

<p>&#8220;The finest young fellow in the regiment,&#8221;
he continued. &#8220;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.&#8221;  The young lady thought the actual
moment had arrived, and that Dobbin&#8217;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, &#38;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;But it&#8217;s not about marriage that I came
to speak--that is that marriage--that is--no, I mean--my
dear Miss Osborne, it&#8217;s about our dear friend
George,&#8221; Dobbin said.</p>

<p>&#8220;About George?&#8221; 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,
&#8220;Hang it, Will, why don&#8217;t you take old
Jane?  She&#8217;ll have you if you ask her. I&#8217;ll
bet you five to two she will.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes, about George, then,&#8221; he continued.
 &#8220;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&#8217;s warning. 
Who knows what may happen in the campaign?  Don&#8217;t
be agitated, dear Miss Osborne; and those two at least
should part friends.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;There has been no quarrel, Captain Dobbin,
except a little usual scene with Papa,&#8221; the
lady said.  &#8220;We are expecting George back daily.
 What Papa wanted was only for his good.  He has but
to come back, and I&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Such an angel as <i>you</i> I am sure would,&#8221;
Mr. Dobbin said, with atrocious astuteness.  &#8220;And
no man can pardon himself for giving a woman pain.
 What would you feel, if a man were faithless to you?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I should perish--I should throw myself out
of window--I should take poison--I should pine and
die.  I know I should,&#8221; Miss cried, who had
nevertheless gone through one or two affairs of the
heart without any idea of suicide.</p>

<p>&#8220;And there are others,&#8221; Dobbin continued,
&#8220;as true and as kind-hearted as yourself. 
I&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well,&#8221; said she, &#8220;this is--most
surprising--most painful--most extraordinary--what
will Papa say?--that George should fling away such
a superb establishment as was offered to him but at
any rate he has found a very brave champion in you,
Captain Dobbin.  It is of no use, however,&#8221;
she continued, after a pause; &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Ought a man to give up the woman he loved,
just when misfortune befell her?&#8221; Dobbin said,
holding out his hand.  &#8220;Dear Miss Osborne, is
this the counsel I hear from you?  My dear young lady!
you must befriend her. He can&#8217;t give her up.
 He must not give her up.  Would a man, think you,
give <i>you</i> up if you were poor?&#8221;</p>

<p>This adroit question touched the heart of Miss Jane
Osborne not a little.  &#8220;I don&#8217;t know whether
we poor girls ought to believe what you men say, Captain,&#8221;
she said. &#8220;There is that in woman&#8217;s tenderness
which induces her to believe too easily.  I&#8217;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.</p>

<p>He dropped it in some alarm.  &#8220;Deceivers!&#8221;
said he. &#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>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, &#8220;Well, if you are
not a deceiver, at least you are very romantic&#8221;;
and Captain William let this observation pass without
challenge.</p>

<p>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.
&#8220;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s she might
be worth thirty thousand pounds more than he had ever
hoped to get with her.</p>

<p>&#8220;Gad!  Jane,&#8221; said he, surveying even
the elder sister with some interest, &#8220;Eels will
be sorry he cried off.  You may be a fifty thousand
pounder yet.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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. &#8220;<i>Polly</i>,&#8221;
says she, &#8220;<i>Your sister&#8217;s got</i>
A <i>penny</i>.&#8221;  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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXIV</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Mr. Osborne Takes Down the Family Bible</h4>

<p>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&#8217;s conversation relative to the affairs
of his son George.  Dobbin&#8217;s messenger returned
from Mr. Osborne&#8217;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.</p>

<p>The Captain, with a half-guilty secret to confess,
and with the prospect of a painful and stormy interview
before him, entered Mr. Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;s door, and said, &#8220;You&#8217;ll
find the governor all right,&#8221; with the most
provoking good humour.</p>

<p>Osborne rose too, and shook him heartily by the hand,
and said, &#8220;How do, my dear boy?&#8221; with
a cordiality that made poor George&#8217;s ambassador
feel doubly guilty.  His hand lay as if dead in the
old gentleman&#8217;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&#8217;s
father:  and the latter was receiving him with smiles
of welcome; patting him on the shoulder, and calling
him &#8220;Dobbin, my dear boy.&#8221; The envoy had
indeed good reason to hang his head.</p>

<p>Osborne fully believed that Dobbin had come to announce
his son&#8217;s surrender.  Mr. Chopper and his principal
were talking over the matter between George and his
father, at the very moment when Dobbin&#8217;s messenger
arrived.  Both agreed that George was sending in his
submission.  Both had been expecting it for some days--and
&#8220;Lord! Chopper, what a marriage we&#8217;ll have!&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;What
a bumpkin he is for a Captain in the army,&#8221;
old Osborne thought.  &#8220;I wonder George hasn&#8217;t
taught him better manners.&#8221;</p>

<p>At last Dobbin summoned courage to begin.  &#8220;Sir,&#8221;
said he, &#8220;I&#8217;ve brought you some very grave
news.  I have been at the Horse Guards this morning,
and there&#8217;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&#8217;t
be home again before a tussle which may be fatal to
many of us.&#8221;   Osborne looked grave.  &#8220;My
s--, the regiment will do its duty, sir, I daresay,&#8221;
he said.</p>

<p>&#8220;The French are very strong, sir,&#8221; Dobbin
went on. &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What are you driving at, Dobbin?&#8221; his
interlocutor said, uneasy and with a scowl.  &#8220;I
suppose no Briton&#8217;s afraid of any d--- Frenchman,
hey?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;t it?  Should anything
happen to him, I think you would never forgive yourself
if you hadn&#8217;t parted in charity.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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, <i>might</i> 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You are a good fellow, William,&#8221; said
Mr. Osborne in a softened voice; &#8220;and me and
George shouldn&#8217;t part in anger, that is true.
Look here.  I&#8217;ve done for him as much as any
father ever did.  He&#8217;s had three times as much
money from me, as I warrant your father ever gave
you.  But I don&#8217;t brag about that.  How I&#8217;ve
toiled for him, and worked and employed my talents
and energy, I won&#8217;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 <i>my</i> making?  What do I seek but his
good, for which I&#8217;ve been toiling like a convict
ever since he was born? Nobody can say there&#8217;s
anything selfish in me.  Let him come back. I say,
here&#8217;s my hand.  I say, forget and forgive. 
As for marrying now, it&#8217;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&#8217;m glad you&#8217;ve brought him
round.  I know it&#8217;s you, Dobbin.  You&#8217;ve
took him out of many a scrape before.  Let him come.
 I shan&#8217;t be hard.  Come along, and dine in
Russell Square to-day: both of you.  The old shop,
the old hour.  You&#8217;ll find a neck of venison,
and no questions asked.&#8221;</p>

<p>This praise and confidence smote Dobbin&#8217;s heart
very keenly.  Every moment the colloquy continued
in this tone, he felt more and more guilty.  &#8220;Sir,&#8221;
said he, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Why, hang it, man, you don&#8217;t call offering
him eight or ten thousand a year threatening him?&#8221;
Mr. Osborne said, with still provoking good humour.
 &#8220;&#8217;Gad, if Miss S. will have me, I&#8217;m
her man. I ain&#8217;t particular about a shade or
so of tawny.&#8221; And the old gentleman gave his
knowing grin and coarse laugh.</p>

<p>&#8220;You forget, sir, previous engagements into
which Captain Osborne had entered,&#8221; the ambassador
said, gravely.</p>

<p>&#8220;What engagements? What the devil do you mean?
You don&#8217;t mean,&#8221; Mr. Osborne continued,
gathering wrath and astonishment as the thought now
first came upon him; &#8220;you don&#8217;t mean that
he&#8217;s such a d--- fool as to be still hankering
after that swindling old bankrupt&#8217;s daughter?
You&#8217;ve not come here for to make me suppose that
he wants to marry <i>her</i>?  Marry <i>her</i>, that
<i>is</i> a good one.  My son and heir marry a beggar&#8217;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&#8217;ve no doubt she was put on by her old sharper
of a father.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Mr. Sedley was your very good friend, sir,&#8221;
Dobbin interposed, almost pleased at finding himself
growing angry.  &#8220;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--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Fast and loose!&#8221; howled out old Osborne.
 &#8220;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&#8217;s you who have been a setting of him
up--is it? and my service to you, <i>captain</i>.  It&#8217;s
you who want to introduce beggars into my family.
Thank you for nothing, Captain.  Marry <i>her</i> indeed--he,
he! why should he?  I warrant you she&#8217;d go to
him fast enough without.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Sir,&#8221; said Dobbin, starting up in undisguised
anger; &#8220;no man shall abuse that lady in my hearing,
and you least of all.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O, you&#8217;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?&#8221; Osborne said, pulling at the bell-cord.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mr. Osborne,&#8221; said Dobbin, with a faltering
voice, &#8220;it&#8217;s you who are insulting the
best creature in the world. You had best spare her,
sir, for she&#8217;s your son&#8217;s wife.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s offices were, when
Mr. Chopper the chief clerk came rushing hatless after
him.</p>

<p>&#8220;For God&#8217;s sake, what is it?&#8221; Mr.
Chopper said, catching the Captain by the skirt. 
&#8220;The governor&#8217;s in a fit. What has Mr.
George been doing?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He married Miss Sedley five days ago,&#8221;
Dobbin replied. &#8220;I was his groomsman, Mr. Chopper,
and you must stand his friend.&#8221;</p>

<p>The old clerk shook his head.  &#8220;If that&#8217;s
your news, Captain, it&#8217;s bad.  The governor
will never forgive him.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s place when he
dined at home; and his cover, as we said, was laid
for him in expectation of that truant&#8217;s return.
 Nothing occurred during dinner-time except smiling
Mr. Frederick&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Take that plate away,&#8221; at last he said,
getting up with an oath-- and with this pushing his
chair back, he walked into his own room.</p>

<p>Behind Mr. Osborne&#8217;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 &#8220;Annual Register,&#8221; the &#8220;Gentleman&#8217;s
Magazine,&#8221; &#8220;Blair&#8217;s Sermons,&#8221;
and &#8220;Hume and Smollett.&#8221; From year&#8217;s
end to year&#8217;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&#8217;s
accounts, and overhauled the butler&#8217;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.</p>

<p>There was a picture of the family over the mantelpiece,
removed thither from the front room after Mrs. Osborne&#8217;s
death--George was on a pony, the elder sister holding
him up a bunch of flowers; the younger led by her
mother&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>In the large shining mahogany escritoire Mr. Osborne
had a drawer especially devoted to his son&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;Georgy
about a pony, October 13"--and so forth. In another
packet were &#8220;Dr. S.&#8217;s accounts"--"G.&#8217;s
tailor&#8217;s bills and outfits, drafts on me by G.
Osborne, jun.,&#8221; &#38;c.--his letters from the West
Indies--his agent&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s couldn&#8217;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!</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Anxious to keep all Mr. Osborne&#8217;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&#8217; next day.
 The note reached Mr. Chopper before he left the City,
and the instant reply was, that &#8220;Mr. Chopper
presents his respectful compliments, and will have
the honour and pleasure of waiting on Captain D.&#8221;
 The invitation and the rough draft of the answer
were shown to Mrs. Chopper and her daughters on his
return to Somers&#8217; 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&#8217;s family.  Never had the clerk
seen his principal so moved.  When he went in to Mr.
Osborne, after Captain Dobbin&#8217;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.  &#8220;And a precious lot of money he
has had too,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.&#8217;s port too severely that evening.</p>

<p>Mr. Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;clock Mr. Higgs (of the firm of Higgs &#38; Blatherwick,
solicitors, Bedford Row) called by appointment, and
was ushered into the governor&#8217;s private room,
and closeted there for more than an hour. At about
one Mr. Chopper received a note brought by Captain
Dobbin&#8217;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.  &#8220;I&#8217;ve been making a new will,&#8221;
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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>Chopper said he believed he was.  Indeed both of them
knew the fact perfectly.</p>

<p>Osborne took a letter directed to that officer, and
giving it to the clerk, requested the latter to deliver
it into Dobbin&#8217;s own hands immediately.</p>

<p>&#8220;And now, Chopper,&#8221; says he, taking his
hat, and with a strange look, &#8220;my mind will
be easy.&#8221;  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.</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;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, &#8220;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.&#8221; 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&#8217;s
Theatre.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&#8221;
Captain Dobbin wrote.) He was very much interested
about his employer&#8217;s family; but, que voulez-vous?
a grand dinner was of more concern to him than the
affairs of any other mortal.</p>

<p>Dobbin was quite justified in repeating the General&#8217;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&#8217;s, and who--such was his military ardour--went
off instantly to purchase a new sword at the accoutrement-maker&#8217;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&#8217;s heart, poised, tried, bent, and
balanced a weapon such as he thought would do execution
amongst Frenchmen. Shouting &#8220;Ha, ha!&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;, 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&#8217; prayers and tears flowing
in many homesteads.</p>

<p>Seeing young Stubble engaged in composition at one
of the coffee-room tables at the Slaughters&#8217;,
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.  &#8220;Why should I?&#8221;
said he.  &#8220;Let her have this night happy. I&#8217;ll
go and see my parents early in the morning, and go
down to Brighton myself to-morrow.&#8221;</p>

<p>So he went up and laid his big hand on young Stubble&#8217;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&#8217;s eyes brightened
up at this, for Dobbin was greatly respected in the
regiment, as the best officer and the cleverest man
in it.</p>

<p>&#8220;Thank you, Dobbin,&#8221; he said, rubbing
his eyes with his knuckles, &#8220;I was just--just
telling her I would.  And, O Sir, she&#8217;s so dam
kind to me.&#8221; The water pumps were at work again,
and I am not sure that the soft-hearted Captain&#8217;s
eyes did not also twinkle.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s
friend for ever and ever.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXV</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which All the Principal Personages Think Fit to</h4>
Leave Brighton

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is my opinion, George,&#8221; he said, &#8220;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&#8217;s play.  But you need not say that to Mrs.
Osborne, you know. There mayn&#8217;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.&#8221; So it was agreed to
represent the duty of the British army in Belgium
in this harmless light to Amelia.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Little Amelia, it must be owned, had rather a mean
opinion of her husband&#8217;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&#8217;s
lisp and queer manners many times to her, though to
do him justice, he always spoke most highly of his
friend&#8217;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.</p>

<p>As for Rebecca, Captain Dobbin had not been two hours
in the ladies&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>When George and Dobbin were alone in the latter&#8217;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.  &#8220;It&#8217;s
not in my father&#8217;s handwriting,&#8221; said
George, looking rather alarmed; nor was it: the letter
was from Mr. Osborne&#8217;s lawyer, and to the following
effect:</p>

<p align="center">&#8220;Bedford
Row, May 7, 1815.</p>

<p>&#8220;<i>Sir</i>,</p>

<p>&#8220;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;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 &#163;2000, 4 per cent. annuities,
at the value of the day (being your one-third share
of the sum of &#163;6000), shall be paid over to yourself
or your agents upon your receipt for the same, by</p>

<p align="center">&#8220;Your
obedient Servt.,<br>
&#8220;S.
<i>Higgs</i>.</p>

<p>&#8220;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;A pretty way you have managed the affair,&#8221;
said George, looking savagely at William Dobbin. 
&#8220;Look there, Dobbin,&#8221; and he flung over
to the latter his parent&#8217;s letter. &#8220;A beggar,
by Jove, and all in consequence of my d--d sentimentality.
 Why couldn&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;t last two years.  I&#8217;ve lost a
hundred and forty to Crawley at cards and billiards
since I&#8217;ve been down here. A pretty manager
of a man&#8217;s matters <i>you</i> are, forsooth.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;There&#8217;s no denying that the position
is a hard one,&#8221; Dobbin replied, after reading
over the letter with a blank countenance; &#8220;and
as you say, it is partly of my making. There are some
men who wouldn&#8217;t mind changing with you,&#8221;
he added, with a bitter smile. &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Do you suppose a man of my habits call live
on his pay and a hundred a year?&#8221; George cried
out in great anger.  &#8220;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&#8217;t change my habits.  I must have my comforts.
 I wasn&#8217;t brought up on porridge, like MacWhirter,
or on potatoes, like old O&#8217;Dowd.  Do you expect
my wife to take in soldiers&#8217; washing, or ride
after the regiment in a baggage waggon?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, well,&#8221; said Dobbin, still good-naturedly,
&#8220;we&#8217;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&#8217;t be for long.  Let your name
be mentioned in the Gazette, and I&#8217;ll engage
the old father relents towards you:&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Mentioned in the Gazette!&#8221; George answered.
 &#8220;And in what part of it?  Among the killed
and wounded returns, and at the top of the list, very
likely.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Psha!  It will be time enough to cry out when
we are hurt,&#8221; Dobbin said.  &#8220;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,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I say, Becky,&#8221; cried Rawdon Crawley out
of his dressing-room, to his lady, who was attiring
herself for dinner in her own chamber.</p>

<p>&#8220;What?&#8221; said Becky&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I say, what&#8217;ll Mrs. O. do, when O. goes
out with the regiment?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I suppose she&#8217;ll cry her eyes out,&#8221;
Becky answered. &#8220;She has been whimpering half
a dozen times, at the very notion of it, already to
me.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;<i>You</i> don&#8217;t care, I suppose?&#8221;
Rawdon said, half angry at his wife&#8217;s want of
feeling.</p>

<p>&#8220;You wretch! don&#8217;t you know that I intend
to go with you,&#8221; Becky replied.  &#8220;Besides,
you&#8217;re different.  You go as General Tufto&#8217;s
aide-de-camp.  We don&#8217;t belong to the line,&#8221;
Mrs. Crawley said, throwing up her head with an air
that so enchanted her husband that he stooped down
and kissed it.</p>

<p>&#8220;Rawdon dear--don&#8217;t you think--you&#8217;d
better get that--money from Cupid, before he goes?&#8221;
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&#8217;s quarters for a half-hour
before bed-time.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Emmy&#8217;s mind somehow misgave her about her friend.
Rebecca&#8217;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&#8217; 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&#8217;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&#8217;m not worthy of
him--I know he would have been happy without me--and
yet--I tried, I tried to give him up.</p>

<p>It is hard when, before seven days of marriage are
over, such thoughts and confessions as these force
themselves on a little bride&#8217;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?</p>

<p>&#8220;Gad, what a fine night, and how bright the
moon is!&#8221; George said, with a puff of his cigar,
which went soaring up skywards.</p>

<p>&#8220;How delicious they smell in the open air! 
I adore them.  Who&#8217;d think the moon was two
hundred and thirty-six thousand eight hundred and
forty-seven miles off?&#8221; Becky added, gazing at
that orb with a smile.  &#8220;Isn&#8217;t it clever
of me to remember that?  Pooh!  we learned it all
at Miss Pinkerton&#8217;s!  How calm the sea is, and
how clear everything.  I declare I can almost see
the coast of France!&#8221; and her bright green eyes
streamed out, and shot into the night as if they could
see through it.</p>

<p>&#8220;Do you know what I intend to do one morning?&#8221;
she said; &#8220;I find I can swim beautifully, and
some day, when my Aunt Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;t
that a stratagem?&#8221;</p>

<p>George burst out laughing at the idea of this aquatic
meeting. &#8220;What&#8217;s the row there, you two?&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s drawing-room,
the ambassadors&#8217; and high dignitaries&#8217;
carriages whisk off from a private door, while Captain
Jones&#8217;s ladies are waiting for their fly: as
you see in the Secretary of the Treasury&#8217;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, <i>viz</i>., 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&#8217;s arrival.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Dearest George parried the question about foreign
service, and with a melancholy shake of the head said,
&#8220;No, Emmy; it isn&#8217;t that:  it&#8217;s
not myself I care about: it&#8217;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.&#8221; And he handed her
over the letter.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;O, George,
how your poor heart must bleed at the idea of being
separated from your papa!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It does,&#8221; said George, with an agonised
countenance.</p>

<p>&#8220;But he can&#8217;t be angry with you long,&#8221;
she continued. &#8220;Nobody could, I&#8217;m sure.
 He must forgive you, my dearest, kindest husband.
 O, I shall never forgive myself if he does not.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What vexes me, my poor Emmy, is not my misfortune,
but yours,&#8221; George said.  &#8220;I don&#8217;t
care for a little poverty; and I think, without vanity,
I&#8217;ve talents enough to make my own way.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That you have,&#8221; interposed his wife,
who thought that war should cease, and her husband
should be made a general instantly.</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes, I shall make my way as well as another,&#8221;
Osborne went on; &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>Emmy, quite at ease, as this was her husband&#8217;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 &#8220;Wapping Old Stairs,&#8221;
in which the heroine, after rebuking her Tom for inattention,
promises &#8220;his trousers to mend, and his grog
too to make,&#8221; if he will be constant and kind,
and not forsake her.  &#8220;Besides,&#8221; she said,
after a pause, during which she looked as pretty and
happy as any young woman need, &#8220;isn&#8217;t
two thousand pounds an immense deal of money, George?&#8221;</p>

<p>George laughed at her naivete; and finally they went
down to dinner, Amelia clinging to George&#8217;s
arm, still warbling the tune of &#8220;Wapping Old
Stairs,&#8221; and more pleased and light of mind than
she had been for some days past.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd packing her own and her Major&#8217;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&#8217;s tin cocked-hat
case, and wondered what effect it would have at the
French king&#8217;s court at Ghent, or the great military
balls at Brussels.</p>

<p>&#8220;Ghent! Brussels!&#8221; cried out Amelia with
a sudden shock and start. &#8220;Is the regiment ordered
away, George--is it ordered away?&#8221; A look of
terror came over the sweet smiling face, and she clung
to George as by an instinct.</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t be afraid, dear,&#8221; he said
good-naturedly; &#8220;it is but a twelve hours&#8217;
passage.  It won&#8217;t hurt you.  You shall go, too,
Emmy.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I intend to go,&#8221; said Becky.  &#8220;I&#8217;m
on the staff.  General Tufto is a great flirt of mine.
 Isn&#8217;t he, Rawdon?&#8221; Rawdon laughed out
with his usual roar.  William Dobbin flushed up quite
red.  &#8220;She can&#8217;t go,&#8221; he said; &#8220;think
of the--of the danger,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I must and will go,&#8221; 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. 
&#8220;We&#8217;ll have Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd to chaperon
you,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Putting her arm round her friend&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s shoulder. &#8220;Great
news,&#8221; she wrote.  &#8220;Mrs. Bute is gone.
 Get the money from Cupid tonight, as he&#8217;ll
be off to-morrow most likely.  Mind this.-- R.&#8221;
So when the little company was about adjourning to
coffee in the women&#8217;s apartment, Rawdon touched
Osborne on the elbow, and said gracefully, &#8220;I
say, Osborne, my boy, if quite convenient, I&#8217;ll
trouble you for that &#8217;ere small trifle.&#8221;
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&#8217;s date, for the remaining sum.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;
throw of the lodgings which the invalid Miss Crawley
occupied, the old lady&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;We might as well be in London as here,&#8221;
Captain Rawdon often said, with a downcast air.</p>

<p>&#8220;A comfortable inn in Brighton is better than
a spunging-house in Chancery Lane,&#8221; his wife
answered, who was of a more cheerful temperament.
 &#8220;Think of those two aides-de-camp of Mr. Moses,
the sheriff&#8217;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&#8217;s men, Rawdon, my love.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I wonder the writs haven&#8217;t followed me
down here,&#8221; Rawdon continued, still desponding.</p>

<p>&#8220;When they do, we&#8217;ll find means to give
them the slip,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It will hardly be enough to pay the inn bill,&#8221;
grumbled the Guardsman.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why need we pay it?&#8221; said the lady, who
had an answer for everything.</p>

<p>Through Rawdon&#8217;s valet, who still kept up a
trifling acquaintance with the male inhabitants of
Miss Crawley&#8217;s servants&#8217; hall, and was
instructed to treat the coachman to drink whenever
they met, old Miss Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;s
invariable good words and good humour.  And, indeed,
she and Mrs. Firkin, the lady&#8217;s-maid, and the
whole of Miss Crawley&#8217;s household, groaned under
the tyranny of the triumphant Mrs. Bute.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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
&#8220;my poor Missus du take her physic like a lamb.&#8221;
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.  &#8220;She&#8217;s
no spirit left in her,&#8221; Firkin remarked to Briggs;
&#8220;she ain&#8217;t ave called me a fool these
three weeks.&#8221; Finally, Mrs. Bute had made up
her mind to dismiss the aforesaid honest lady&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>&#8220;Miss Sh--Mrs. Crawley,&#8221; she said.</p>

<p>Mrs. Crawley seized her hand, pressed it to her heart,
and with a sudden impulse, flinging her arms round
Briggs, kissed her affectionately.  &#8220;Dear, dear
friend!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Rebecca found no difficulty in engaging Briggs in
a long, intimate, and delightful conversation.  Everything
that had passed since the morning of Becky&#8217;s
sudden departure from Miss Crawley&#8217;s house in
Park Lane up to the present day, and Mrs. Bute&#8217;s
happy retreat, was discussed and described by Briggs.
 All Miss Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Can I ever forget her who so befriended the
friendless orphan?  No, though she has cast me off,&#8221;
the latter said, &#8220;I shall never cease to love
her, and I would devote my life to her service.  As
my own benefactress, as my beloved Rawdon&#8217;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&#8217;s faithful
friends as that odious designing Mrs. Bute has done.
 Rawdon, who was all heart,&#8221; Rebecca continued,
&#8220;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,&#8221; she exclaimed,
in a transport of enthusiasm, &#8220;some hearts can
never forget benefits; all women are not Bute Crawleys!
Though why should I complain of her,&#8221; Rebecca
added; &#8220;though I have been her tool and the
victim to her arts, do I not owe my dearest Rawdon
to her?&#8221;  And Rebecca unfolded to Briggs all
Mrs. Bute&#8217;s conduct at Queen&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
affections were hopelessly estranged from Rebecca,
and that the old lady would never forgive her nephew
for making so imprudent a marriage.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s designs exposed,
and herself well abused, was a satisfaction, and might
be advantageous to Rawdon&#8217;s interest; and Rebecca,
after an hour&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;ll say that you
are a good boy, and that sort of thing.&#8221;  So
Rawdon sate down, and wrote off, &#8220;Brighton,
Thursday,&#8221; and &#8220;My dear Aunt,&#8221; with
great rapidity: but there the gallant officer&#8217;s
imagination failed him.  He mumbled the end of his
pen, and looked up in his wife&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Before quitting the country and commencing
a campaign, which very possibly may be fatal.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What?&#8221; said Rawdon, rather surprised,
but took the humour of the phrase, and presently wrote
it down with a grin.</p>

<p>&#8220;Which very possibly may be fatal, I have come
hither--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Why not say come here, Becky?  Come here&#8217;s
grammar,&#8221; the dragoon interposed.</p>

<p>&#8220;I have come hither,&#8221; Rebecca insisted,
with a stamp of her foot, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Kindnesses all my life,&#8221; echoed Rawdon,
scratching down the words, and quite amazed at his
own facility of composition.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s
daughter, and am not ashamed of the union.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;No, run me through the body if I am!&#8221;
Rawdon ejaculated.</p>

<p>&#8220;You old booby,&#8221; 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.&#8221;  So he altered these words, bowing
to the superior knowledge of his little Missis.</p>

<p>&#8220;I thought that you were aware of the progress
of my attachment,&#8221; Rebecca continued:  &#8220;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She won&#8217;t recognise my style in that,&#8221;
said Becky.  &#8220;I made the sentences short and
brisk on purpose.&#8221; And this authentic missive
was despatched under cover to Miss Briggs.</p>

<p>Old Miss Crawley laughed when Briggs, with great mystery,
handed her over this candid and simple statement.
 &#8220;We may read it now Mrs. Bute is away,&#8221;
she said.  &#8220;Read it to me, Briggs.&#8221;</p>

<p>When Briggs had read the epistle out, her patroness
laughed more. &#8220;Don&#8217;t you see, you goose,&#8221;
she said to Briggs, who professed to be much touched
by the honest affection which pervaded the composition,
&#8220;don&#8217;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.&#8221;
They are all alike, Miss Crawley thought in her heart.
 They all want me dead, and are hankering for my money.</p>

<p>&#8220;I don&#8217;t mind seeing Rawdon,&#8221; she
added, after a pause, and in a tone of perfect indifference.
 &#8220;I had just as soon shake hands with him as
not.  Provided there is no scene, why shouldn&#8217;t
we meet?  I don&#8217;t mind.  But human patience
has its limits; and mind, my dear, I respectfully
decline to receive Mrs. Rawdon--I can&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;The old girl has always acted like a trump
to me,&#8221; he said to his wife, as he narrated
the interview, &#8220;and I felt, you know, rather
queer, and that sort of thing.  I walked by the side
of the what-dy&#8217;e-call-&#8217;em, you know,
and to her own door, where Bowls came to help her
in.  And I wanted to go in very much, only--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;<i>You didn&#8217;t go in</i>,
Rawdon!&#8221; screamed his wife.</p>

<p>&#8220;No, my dear; I&#8217;m hanged if I wasn&#8217;t
afraid when it came to the point.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You fool! you ought to have gone in, and never
come out again,&#8221; Rebecca said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t call me names,&#8221; said the
big Guardsman, sulkily. &#8220;Perhaps I <i>was</i>
a fool, Becky, but you shouldn&#8217;t say so&#8221;;
and he gave his wife a look, such as his countenance
could wear when angered, and such as was not pleasant
to face.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, dearest, to-morrow you must be on the
look-out, and go and see her, mind, whether she asks
you or no,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>But before the night was over he was compelled to
give in, and own, as usual, to his wife&#8217;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.  &#8220;Rawdon is
getting very fat and old, Briggs,&#8221; she said
to her companion.  &#8220;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&#8217;t you?&#8221;</p>

<p>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--</p>

<p>&#8220;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--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He was very much affected at seeing you, ma&#8217;am,&#8221;
the companion said; &#8220;and I am sure, when you
remember that he is going to the field of danger--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;How much money has he promised you, Briggs?&#8221;
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.&#8221; 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&#8217;s
late amanuensis, Mrs. Bute Crawley.</p>

<p>&#8220;Begin &#8216;My dear sir,&#8217; or &#8216;Dear
sir,&#8217; that will be better, and say you are desired
by Miss Crawley--no, by Miss Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;s in Gray&#8217;s Inn Square, he will
find there a communication for him.  Yes, that will
do; and that will make him leave Brighton.&#8221;
The benevolent Briggs penned this sentence with the
utmost satisfaction.</p>

<p>&#8220;To seize upon me the very day after Mrs. Bute
was gone,&#8221; the old lady prattled on; &#8220;it
was too indecent. Briggs, my dear, write to Mrs. Crawley,
and say <i>she</i> needn&#8217;t come back.  No--she
needn&#8217;t--and she shan&#8217;t--and I won&#8217;t
be a slave in my own house--and I won&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>That final paragraph, which referred Rawdon to Miss
Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Out of Jos&#8217;s losings and George Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I should have liked to see the old girl before
we went,&#8221; Rawdon said.  &#8220;She looks so
cut up and altered that I&#8217;m sure she can&#8217;t
last long.  I wonder what sort of a cheque I shall
have at Waxy&#8217;s.  Two hundred--it can&#8217;t
be less than two hundred--hey, Becky?&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s
Inn, and learnt his fate.  He came back furious.</p>

<p>&#8220;By Jove, Becky,&#8221; says he, &#8220;she&#8217;s
only given me twenty pound!&#8221;</p>

<p>Though it told against themselves, the joke was too
good, and Becky burst out laughing at Rawdon&#8217;s
discomfiture.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXVI</h3>

<h4 align="center">Between London and Chatham</h4>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.
&#8220;I&#8217;ve always been accustomed to travel
like a gentleman,&#8221; George said, &#8220;and,
damme, my wife shall travel like a lady.  As long as
there&#8217;s a shot in the locker, she shall want
for nothing,&#8221; said the generous fellow, quite
pleased with himself for his magnificence of spirit.
 Nor did Dobbin try and convince him that Amelia&#8217;s
happiness was not centred in turtle-soup.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;that the Emperor
Halixander&#8217;s sister slep in when the allied sufferings
was here,&#8221; 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.  &#8220;Ar&#8217;n&#8217;t
you coming with me, dearest?&#8221; she asked him.
 No; the &#8220;dearest&#8221; had &#8220;business&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>Dobbin walked home to his old quarters and the Slaughters&#8217;,
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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;God bless you.&#8221;  Amelia could hardly
walk along the flags and up the steps into the parlour.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217; 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.
 <i>He</i> 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.</p>

<p>George&#8217;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&#8217;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.  &#8220;To the health of your
master and mistress, Trotter,&#8221; Mr. Sedley said,
&#8220;and here&#8217;s something to drink your health
when you get home, Trotter.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>In honour of the young bride&#8217;s arrival, her
mother thought it necessary to prepare I don&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s pride and vanity
will let her own to such a confession.  Then Rebecca&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s coldness,
or Rebecca&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>For the next day, George had more important &#8220;business&#8221;
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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s orders,
and purchased a quantity of lady&#8217;s gear, showing
a great deal of taste and elegant discernment, as
all the shopfolks said.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s shopping, and she acquitted
herself with considerable liveliness and credit on
this her first appearance in the genteel world of
London.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;
clerks know in London! Nothing is hidden from their
inquisition, and their families mutely rule our city.</p>

<p>Perhaps George expected, when he entered Mr. Higgs&#8217;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&#8217;s part, that
rendered swaggering absurd.  He pretended to be writing
at a paper, when the Captain entered.  &#8220;Pray,
sit down, sir,&#8221; said he, &#8220;and I will attend
to your little affair in a moment.  Mr. Poe, get the
release papers, if you please&#8221;; and then he
fell to writing again.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;One of the late Mrs. Osborne&#8217;s
trustees is out of town,&#8221; he said indifferently,
&#8220;but my client wishes to meet your wishes, and
have done with the business as quick as possible.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Give me a cheque, sir,&#8221; said the Captain
very surlily. &#8220;Damn the shillings and halfpence,
sir,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;That chap will be in gaol in two years,&#8221;
Mr. Higgs said to Mr. Poe.</p>

<p>&#8220;Won&#8217;t O. come round, sir, don&#8217;t
you think?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Won&#8217;t the monument come round,&#8221;
Mr. Higgs replied.</p>

<p>&#8220;He&#8217;s going it pretty fast,&#8221; said
the clerk.  &#8220;He&#8217;s only married a week,
and I saw him and some other military chaps handing
Mrs. Highflyer to her carriage after the play.&#8221;
And then another case was called, and Mr. George Osborne
thenceforth dismissed from these worthy gentlemen&#8217;s
memory.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Fred Bullock told old Osborne of his son&#8217;s appearance
and conduct. &#8220;He came in as bold as brass,&#8221;
said Frederick.  &#8220;He has drawn out every shilling.
 How long will a few hundred pounds last such a chap
as that?&#8221; 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&#8217;s business.
 All his own baggage and outfit was put into a state
of speedy preparation, and he paid Amelia&#8217;s
purchases with cheques on his agents, and with the
splendour of a lord.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXVII</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Amelia Joins Her Regiment</h4>

<p>When Jos&#8217;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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>Along with the Captain was Ensign Stubble; who, as
the barouche neared the inn, burst out with an exclamation
of &#8220;By Jove! what a pretty girl&#8221;; highly
applauding Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s Peggy O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;s fist,&#8221;
said George, laughing.  &#8220;I know it by the kisses
on the seal.&#8221; And in fact, it was a note from
Mrs. Major O&#8217;Dowd, requesting the pleasure of
Mrs. Osborne&#8217;s company that very  evening to
a small friendly party.  &#8220;You must go,&#8221;
George said. &#8220;You will make acquaintance with
the regiment there.  O&#8217;Dowd goes in command
of the regiment, and Peggy goes in command.&#8221;</p>

<p>But they had not been for many minutes in the enjoyment
of Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Sure, I couldn&#8217;t stop till tay-time.
 Present me, Garge, my dear fellow, to your lady.
 Madam, I&#8217;m deloighted to see ye; and to present
to you me husband, Meejor O&#8217;Dowd&#8221;; and
with this, the jolly lady in the riding-habit grasped
Amelia&#8217;s hand very warmly, and the latter knew
at once that the lady was before her whom her husband
had so often laughed at.  &#8220;You&#8217;ve often
heard of me from that husband of yours,&#8221; said
the lady, with great vivacity.</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;ve often heard of her,&#8221; echoed
her husband, the Major.</p>

<p>Amelia answered, smiling, &#8220;that she had.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And small good he&#8217;s told you of me,&#8221;
Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd replied; adding that &#8220;George
was a wicked divvle.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That I&#8217;ll go bail for,&#8221; said the
Major, trying to look knowing, at which George laughed;
and Mrs. O&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;This, my dear,&#8221; said George with great
gravity, &#8220;is my very good, kind, and excellent
friend, Auralia Margaretta, otherwise called Peggy.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Faith, you&#8217;re right,&#8221; interposed
the Major.</p>

<p>&#8220;Otherwise called Peggy, lady of Major Michael
O&#8217;Dowd, of our regiment, and daughter of Fitzjurld
Ber&#8217;sford de Burgo Malony of Glenmalony, County
Kildare.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And Muryan Squeer, Doblin,&#8221; said the
lady with calm superiority.</p>

<p>&#8220;And Muryan Square, sure enough,&#8221; the
Major whispered.</p>

<p>&#8220;&#8217;Twas there ye coorted me, Meejor dear,&#8221;
the lady said; and the Major assented to this as to
every other proposition which was made generally in
company.</p>

<p>Major O&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd
of O&#8217;Dowdstown indeed, whom he had never disobeyed
but when he ran away and enlisted, and when he persisted
in marrying that odious Peggy Malony.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Before Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd was half an hour in Amelia&#8217;s
(or indeed in anybody else&#8217;s) company, this
amiable lady told all her birth and pedigree to her
new friend.  &#8220;My dear,&#8221; said she, good-naturedly,
&#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;ve got such a nice good-natured
face and way widg you, that I&#8217;m sure we&#8217;ll
agree; and that you&#8217;ll be an addition to our
family anyway.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;&#8217;Deed and she will,&#8221; said O&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;We&#8217;re all good fellows here,&#8221; the
Major&#8217;s lady continued. &#8220;There&#8217;s
not a regiment in the service where you&#8217;ll find
a more united society nor a more agreeable mess-room.
 There&#8217;s no quarrelling, bickering, slandthering,
nor small talk amongst us.  We all love each other.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Especially Mrs. Magenis,&#8221; said George,
laughing.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mrs. Captain Magenis and me has made up, though
her treatment of me would bring me gray hairs with
sorrow to the grave.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And you with such a beautiful front of black,
Peggy, my dear,&#8221; the Major cried.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;ll tell you about
the regiment, and warn you when we&#8217;re alone.
 Introduce me to your brother now; sure he&#8217;s
a mighty fine man, and reminds me of me cousin, Dan
Malony (Malony of Ballymalony, my dear, you know who
mar&#8217;ied Ophalia Scully, of Oystherstown, own
cousin to Lord Poldoody).  Mr. Sedley, sir, I&#8217;m
deloighted to be made known te ye.  I suppose you&#8217;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.)&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s the 150th gives us a farewell dinner,
my love,&#8221; interposed the Major, &#8220;but we&#8217;ll
easy get a card for Mr. Sedley.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Run Simple (Ensign Simple, of Ours, my dear
Amelia. I forgot to introjuice him to ye).  Run in
a hurry, with Mrs. Major O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;s compliments
to Colonel Tavish, and Captain Osborne has brought
his brothernlaw down, and will bring him to the 150th
mess at five o&#8217;clock sharp--when you and I,
my dear, will take a snack here, if you like.&#8221;
 Before Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;s speech was concluded,
the young Ensign was trotting downstairs on his commission.</p>

<p>&#8220;Obedience is the soul of the army.  We will
go to our duty while Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd will stay and
enlighten you, Emmy,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>And, now having her new friend to herself, the impetuous
Mrs: O&#8217;Dowd proceeded to pour out such a quantity
of information as no poor little woman&#8217;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.  &#8220;Mrs. Heavytop, the Colonel&#8217;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&#8217;s
eyes at a half-caste girl there.  Mrs. Magenis, though
without education, was a good woman, but she had the
divvle&#8217;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 &#8216;em&#8217;s goin&#8217; with
the regiment this time,&#8221; Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd added.
 &#8220;Fanny Magenis stops with her mother, who sells
small coal and potatoes, most likely, in Islington-town,
hard by London, though she&#8217;s always bragging
of her father&#8217;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&#8217;s in an interesting situation--faith,
and she always is, then--and has given the Lieutenant
seven already.  And Ensign Posky&#8217;s wife, who
joined two months before you, my dear, has quarl&#8217;d
with Tom Posky a score of times, till you can hear&#8217;m
all over the bar&#8217;ck (they say they&#8217;re
come to broken pleets, and Tom never accounted for
his black oi), and she&#8217;ll go back to her mother,
who keeps a ladies&#8217; 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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>Of this incongruous family our astonished Amelia found
herself all of a sudden a member:  with Mrs. O&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I hope Osborne has sown his wild oats,&#8221;
said Mrs. Magenis to Mrs. Bunny.  &#8220;If a reformed
rake makes a good husband, sure it&#8217;s she will
have the fine chance with Garge,&#8221; Mrs. O&#8217;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&#8217;s replies that
she was yet in utter darkness, put into her hands three
little penny books with pictures, <i>viz</i>., the &#8220;Howling
Wilderness,&#8221; the &#8220;Washerwoman of Wandsworth
Common,&#8221; and the &#8220;British Soldier&#8217;s
best Bayonet,&#8221; which, bent upon awakening her
before she slept, Mrs. Kirk begged Amelia to read
that night ere she went to bed.</p>

<p>But all the men, like good fellows as they were, rallied
round their comrade&#8217;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&#8217;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.  &#8220;I
will make all his friends welcome,&#8221; she resolved
in her heart.  &#8220;I will love all as I love him.
 I will always try and be gay and good-humoured and
make his home happy.&#8221;</p>

<p>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,
&#8220;Jove, isn&#8217;t she a pretty gal?&#8221;
and never took his eyes off her except when the negus
came in.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXVIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Amelia Invades the Low Countries</h4>

<p>The regiment with its officers was to be transported
in ships provided by His Majesty&#8217;s government
for the occasion:  and in two days after the festive
assembly at Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;s apartments, in
the midst of cheering from all the East India ships
in the river, and the military on shore, the band
playing &#8220;God Save the King,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>That period of Jos&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
army, folks mistook him for a great personage, a commissary-general,
or a government courier at the very least.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s carriage and luggage
from the ship and the custom-house, for Mr. Jos was
at present without a servant, Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;My
lord,&#8221; speedily acquired that gentleman&#8217;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.</p>

<p>But it may be said as a rule, that every Englishman
in the Duke of Wellington&#8217;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.  &#8220;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s death was not to be of this sort, but
his comfort was exceeding, and Mrs. O&#8217;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.</p>

<p>His courage was prodigious.  &#8220;Boney attack us!&#8221;
he cried.  &#8220;My dear creature, my poor Emmy,
don&#8217;t be frightened.  There&#8217;s no danger.
The allies will be in Paris in two months, I tell you;
when I&#8217;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&#8217;t know
military affairs, my dear.  I do, and I tell you there&#8217;s
no infantry in France can stand against Rooshian infantry,
and no general of Boney&#8217;s that&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd?  Do you think
our little girl here need be afraid? Is there any
cause for fear, Isidor?  Hey, sir?  Get some more
beer.&#8221;</p>

<p>Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd said that her &#8220;Glorvina was
not afraid of any man alive, let alone a Frenchman,&#8221;
and tossed off a glass of beer with a wink which expressed
her liking for the beverage.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Since Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd had a cock&#8217;s
plume in her hat, and a very large &#8220;repayther&#8221;
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&#8217;ge after her
mar&#8217;ge; and these ornaments, with other outward
peculiarities of the Major&#8217;s wife, gave excruciating
agonies to Captain Osborne, when his wife and the
Major&#8217;s came in contact; whereas Amelia was only
amused by the honest lady&#8217;s eccentricities,
and not in the least ashamed of her company.</p>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd.
 &#8220;Talk about kenal boats; my dear!  Ye should
see the kenal boats between Dublin and Ballinasloe.
 It&#8217;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.&#8221; And Jos owned with a sigh, &#8220;that
for good streaky beef, really mingled with fat and
lean, there was no country like England.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Except Ireland, where all your best mate comes
from,&#8221; said the Major&#8217;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.  &#8220;I&#8217;ll
thank ye tell me what they mean by that old gazabo
on the top of the market-place,&#8221; 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&#8217;Dowd, whom it concerned as well as another,
went on prattling about Ballinafad, and the horses
in the stables at Glenmalony, and the clar&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Those who like to lay down the History-book, and to
speculate upon what <i>might</i> 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&#8217;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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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 <i>him</i>!  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!</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s regiment belonged,
he had the honour of dancing with Lady Blanche Thistlewood,
Lord Bareacres&#8217; daughter; he bustled for ices
and refreshments for the two noble ladies; he pushed
and squeezed for Lady Bareacres&#8217; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I hope there will be no women besides our own
party,&#8221; Lady Bareacres said, after reflecting
upon the invitation which had been made, and accepted
with too much precipitancy.</p>

<p>&#8220;Gracious Heaven, Mamma--you don&#8217;t suppose
the man would bring his wife,&#8221; shrieked Lady
Blanche, who had been languishing in George&#8217;s
arms in the newly imported waltz for hours the night
before.  &#8220;The men are bearable, but their women--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Wife, just married, dev&#8217;lish pretty woman,
I hear,&#8221; the old Earl said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, my dear Blanche,&#8221; said the mother,
&#8220;I suppose, as Papa wants to go, we must go;
but we needn&#8217;t know them in England, you know.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; rudeness, and
her own discomfiture, old Mrs. Sedley was mightily
pleased nevertheless, and talked about Emmy&#8217;s
friend, the Countess of Bareacres, with such assiduity
that the news how his son was entertaining peers and
peeresses actually came to Osborne&#8217;s ears in
the City.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s hair off in
the green-room; but Tom is notoriously spiteful and
jealous; and the General&#8217;s wig has nothing to
do with our story.</p>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd
declared was not near so large or handsome as her
fawther&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You should see the flowers at Glenmalony,&#8221;
Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd was remarking.  &#8220;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 &#8217;em, and upon me honour and conscience
I think our magnolias is as big as taykettles.&#8221;</p>

<p>Dobbin, who never used to &#8220;draw out&#8221; Mrs.
O&#8217;Dowd as that wicked Osborne delighted in doing
(much to Amelia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hwhat&#8217;s that gawky guggling about?&#8221;
said Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd.  &#8220;Is it his nose bleedn?
 He always used to say &#8217;twas his nose bleedn,
till he must have pomped all the blood out of &#8217;um.
 An&#8217;t the magnolias at Glenmalony as big as
taykettles, O&#8217;Dowd?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;&#8217;Deed then they are, and bigger, Peggy,&#8221;
the Major said.  When the conversation was interrupted
in the manner stated by the arrival of the officer
who purchased the bouquet.</p>

<p>&#8220;Devlish fine horse--who is it?&#8221; George
asked.</p>

<p>&#8220;You should see me brother Molloy Malony&#8217;s
horse, Molasses, that won the cop at the Curragh,&#8221;
the Major&#8217;s wife was exclaiming, and was continuing
the family history, when her husband interrupted her
by saying--</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s General Tufto, who commands the
---- cavalry division&#8221;; adding quietly, &#8220;he
and I were both shot in the same leg at Talavera.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Where you got your step,&#8221; said George
with a laugh. &#8220;General Tufto! Then, my dear,
the Crawleys are come.&#8221;</p>

<p>Amelia&#8217;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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXIX</h3>

<h4 align="center">Brussels</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s Crawley,
where the Baronet, Mr. Pitt, and Rawdon himself had
given her many lessons), and by the side of the gallant
General Tufto.</p>

<p>&#8220;Sure it&#8217;s the Juke himself,&#8221; cried
Mrs. Major O&#8217;Dowd to Jos, who began to blush
violently; &#8220;and that&#8217;s Lord Uxbridge on
the bay.  How elegant he looks!  Me brother, Molloy
Malony, is as like him as two pays.&#8221;</p>

<p>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
&#8220;who the fat officer was in the gold-laced cap?&#8221;
on which Becky replied, &#8220;that he was an officer
in the East Indian service.&#8221; But Rawdon Crawley
rode out of the ranks of his company, and came up
and shook hands heartily with Amelia, and said to
Jos, &#8220;Well, old boy, how are you?&#8221; and
stared in Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;s face and at the
black cock&#8217;s feathers until she began to think
she had made a conquest of him.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s cordial greeting
with more than corresponding warmth.  The nods between
Rawdon and Dobbin were of the very faintest specimens
of politeness.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
own residence.  &#8220;Sorry I hadn&#8217;t seen you
three days ago,&#8221; George said.  &#8220;Had a
dinner at the Restaurateur&#8217;s--rather a nice
thing.  Lord Bareacres, and the Countess, and Lady
Blanche, were good enough to dine with us--wish we&#8217;d
had you.&#8221; 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&#8217;s carriage.</p>

<p>&#8220;How well the Juke looked,&#8221; Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd
remarked. &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He&#8217;s a great soldier,&#8221; Jos said,
much more at ease now the great man was gone.  &#8220;Was
there ever a battle won like Salamanca?  Hey, Dobbin?
 But where was it he learnt his art?  In India, my
boy!  The jungle&#8217;s the school for a general,
mark me that.  I knew him myself, too, Mrs. O&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;She&#8217;s been useful to you, my dear,&#8221;
George said to his wife, whom he could leave alone
with less scruple when she had this society. &#8220;But
what a comfort it is that Rebecca&#8217;s come:  you
will have her for a friend, and we may get rid now
of this damn&#8217;d Irishwoman.&#8221;  To this Amelia
did not answer, yes or no:  and how do we know what
her thoughts were?</p>

<p>The coup d&#8217;oeil of the Brussels opera-house
did not strike Mrs. O&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Who is that wonderful woman with Amelia, Rawdon,
love?&#8221; 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).</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t you see that creature with a yellow
thing in her turban, and a red satin gown, and a great
watch?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Near the pretty little woman in white?&#8221;
asked a middle-aged gentleman seated by the querist&#8217;s
side, with orders in his button, and several under-waistcoats,
and a great, choky, white stock.</p>

<p>&#8220;That pretty woman in white is Amelia, General:
 you are remarking all the pretty women, you naughty
man.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Only one, begad, in the world!&#8221; said
the General, delighted, and the lady gave him a tap
with a large bouquet which she had.</p>

<p>&#8220;Bedad it&#8217;s him,&#8221; said Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd;
&#8220;and that&#8217;s the very bokay he bought in
the Marshy aux Flures!&#8221; and when Rebecca, having
caught her friend&#8217;s eye, performed the little
hand-kissing operation once more, Mrs. Major O&#8217;D.,
taking the compliment to herself, returned the salute
with a gracious smile, which sent that unfortunate
Dobbin shrieking out of the box again.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You found my cheque all right at the agent&#8217;s?
George said, with a knowing air.</p>

<p>&#8220;All right, my boy,&#8221; Rawdon answered.
 &#8220;Happy to give you your revenge.  Governor
come round?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Not yet,&#8221; said George, &#8220;but he
will; and you know I&#8217;ve some private fortune
through my mother.  Has Aunty relented?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Sent me twenty pound, damned old screw.  When
shall we have a meet? The General dines out on Tuesday.
Can&#8217;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&#8221;; and
Rawdon was going-off with two brilliant young gentlemen
of fashion, who were, like himself, on the staff of
a general officer.</p>

<p>George was only half pleased to be asked to dinner
on that particular day when the General was not to
dine.  &#8220;I will go in and pay my respects to
your wife,&#8221; said he; at which Rawdon said, &#8220;Hm,
as you please,&#8221; 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&#8217;s box, the number of which he
had carefully counted.</p>

<p>&#8220;Entrez,&#8221; said a clear little voice, and
our friend found himself in Rebecca&#8217;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?</p>

<p>&#8220;My dear Captain George!&#8221; cried little
Rebecca in an ecstasy.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Indeed,&#8221; said the General, with a very
small bow; &#8220;of what regiment is Captain George?&#8221;</p>

<p>George mentioned the --th:  how he wished he could
have said it was a crack cavalry corps.</p>

<p>&#8220;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Not Captain George, you stupid man; Captain
Osborne,&#8221; Rebecca said. The General all the
while was looking savagely from one to the other.</p>

<p>&#8220;Captain Osborne, indeed! Any relation to the
L--Osbornes?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;We bear the same arms,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>She redoubled in cordiality.  &#8220;How is dearest
Amelia? But I needn&#8217;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Shall I go and fetch you some?&#8221; said
the General, bursting with wrath.</p>

<p>&#8220;Let <i>me</i> go, I entreat you,&#8221; George
said.</p>

<p>&#8220;No, I will go to Amelia&#8217;s box.  Dear,
sweet girl!  Give me your arm, Captain George&#8221;;
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, &#8220;Don&#8217;t you
see the state of affairs, and what a fool I&#8217;m
making of him?&#8221;  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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;s
glass, now brought to bear upon the Osborne party.
 Mrs. Rawdon saluted Jos, too, with the kindliest
greeting: she admired Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;s large
Cairngorm brooch and superb Irish diamonds, and wouldn&#8217;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&#8217;s arm this
time.  No, she would not have George&#8217;s: he must
stay and talk to his dearest, best, little Amelia.</p>

<p>&#8220;What a humbug that woman is!&#8221; honest
old Dobbin mumbled to George, when he came back from
Rebecca&#8217;s box, whither he had conducted her
in perfect silence, and with a countenance as glum
as an undertaker&#8217;s.  &#8220;She writhes and
twists about like a snake.  All the time she was here,
didn&#8217;t you see, George, how she was acting at
the General over the way?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Humbug--acting!  Hang it, she&#8217;s the nicest
little woman in England,&#8221; George replied, showing
his white teeth, and giving his ambrosial whiskers
a twirl.  &#8220;You ain&#8217;t a man of the world,
Dobbin. Dammy, look at her now, she&#8217;s talked
over Tufto in no time.  Look how he&#8217;s laughing!
 Gad, what a shoulder she has!  Emmy, why didn&#8217;t
you have a bouquet?  Everybody has a bouquet.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Faith, then, why didn&#8217;t you <i>boy</i>
one?&#8221; Mrs. O&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd
was silent and subdued after Becky&#8217;s brilliant
apparition, and scarcely said a word more about Glenmalony
all the evening.</p>

<p>&#8220;When do you intend to give up play, George,
as you have promised me, any time these hundred years?&#8221;
Dobbin said to his friend a few days after the night
at the Opera.  &#8220;When do you intend to give up
sermonising?&#8221; was the other&#8217;s reply.  &#8220;What
the deuce, man, are you alarmed about?  We play low;
I won last night.  You don&#8217;t suppose Crawley
cheats?  With fair play it comes to pretty much the
same thing at the year&#8217;s end.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;But I don&#8217;t think he could pay if he
lost,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Rebecca was doubly affectionate, of course, and would
not take notice, in the least, of her friend&#8217;s
coolness.  &#8220;I think Emmy has become prouder
since her father&#8217;s name was in the--since Mr.
Sedley&#8217;s <i>misfortunes</i>,&#8221; Rebecca said,
softening the phrase charitably for George&#8217;s
ear.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;m very much obliged to Emmy, very,&#8221;
Mrs. Rawdon said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Pooh, jealousy!&#8221; answered George, &#8220;all
women are jealous.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And all men too.  Weren&#8217;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,&#8221; Crawley&#8217;s
wife said, with a pert toss of her head.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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 <i>will</i> throw herself in your way, why, what
can a fellow do, you know?  I <i>am</i> 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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;s society,
passed his evenings in the Crawleys&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>George was so occupied with his new acquaintances
that he and William Dobbin were by no means so much
together as formerly. George avoided him in public
and in the regiment, and, as we see, did not like
those sermons which his senior was disposed to inflict
upon him. If some parts of his conduct made Captain
Dobbin exceedingly grave and cool; of what use was
it to tell George that, though his whiskers were large,
and his own opinion of his knowingness great, he was
as green as a schoolboy? that Rawdon was making a
victim of him as he had done of many before, and as
soon as he had used him would fling him off with scorn?
 He would not listen:  and so, as Dobbin, upon those
days when he visited the Osborne house, seldom had
the advantage of meeting his old friend, much painful
and unavailing talk between them was spared.  Our
friend George was in the full career of the pleasures
of Vanity Fair.</p>

<p>There never was, since the days of Darius, such a
brilliant train of camp-followers as hung round the
Duke of Wellington&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Jos and Mrs. O&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Whilst her appearance was an utter failure (as her
husband felt with a sort of rage), Mrs. Rawdon Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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 <i>very</i>
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s side.  Becky was just
lecturing Mrs. Osborne upon the follies which her
husband was committing.  &#8220;For God&#8217;s sake,
stop him from gambling, my dear,&#8221; she said,
&#8220;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&#8217;t you prevent
him, you little careless creature? Why don&#8217;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&#8217;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?&#8221; And she left her bouquet
and shawl by Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is curious, when a man is bent upon play,
by what clumsy rogues he will allow himself to be
cheated,&#8221; Dobbin said; and Emmy said, &#8220;Indeed.&#8221;
She was thinking of something else.  It was not the
loss of the money that grieved her.</p>

<p>At last George came back for Rebecca&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s, did
not hear it even, his brain was so throbbing with
triumph and excitement, and allowed them to go away
without a word.</p>

<p>His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet-scene.
It was quite natural that George should come at Rebecca&#8217;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. &#8220;William,&#8221; she said, suddenly
clinging to Dobbin, who was near her, &#8220;you&#8217;ve
always been very kind to me--I&#8217;m--I&#8217;m not
well.  Take me home.&#8221;  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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to
a play-table, and began to bet frantically.  He won
repeatedly. &#8220;Everything succeeds with me to-night,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hullo, Dob!  Come and drink, old Dob!  The
Duke&#8217;s wine is famous. Give me some more, you
sir&#8221;; and he held out a trembling glass for
the liquor.</p>

<p>&#8220;Come out, George,&#8221; said Dobbin, still
gravely; &#8220;don&#8217;t drink.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Drink!  there&#8217;s nothing like it.  Drink
yourself, and light up your lantern jaws, old boy.
 Here&#8217;s to you.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s arm.  &#8220;The
enemy has passed the Sambre,&#8221; William said, &#8220;and
our left is already engaged. Come away.  We are to
march in three hours.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He had looked into Amelia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he
stooped down.  &#8220;I am awake, George,&#8221; 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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXX</h3>

<h4 align="center">&#8220;The Girl I Left Behind Me&#8221;</h4>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd to his duty, come
back to the Major&#8217;s wife, and the ladies and
the baggage.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;It&#8217;s my belief, Peggy, my dear,&#8221;
said he, as he placidly pulled his nightcap over his
ears, &#8220;that there will be such a ball danced
in a day or two as some of &#8217;em has never heard
the chune of&#8221;; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;d like ye wake me about half an hour
before the assembly beats,&#8221; the Major said to
his lady.  &#8220;Call me at half-past one, Peggy dear,
and see me things is ready.  May be I&#8217;ll not
come back to breakfast, Mrs. O&#8217;D.&#8221;  With
which words, which signified his opinion that the
regiment would march the next morning, the Major ceased
talking, and fell asleep.</p>

<p>Mrs. O&#8217;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.  &#8220;Time
enough for that,&#8221; she said, &#8220;when Mick&#8217;s
gone&#8221;; 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 &#8220;repayther&#8221;
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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>On Sundays, and at periods of a solemn nature, Mrs.
O&#8217;Dowd used to read with great gravity out of
a large volume of her uncle the Dean&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;The Girl
I Left Behind Me.&#8221; It is she who remains and
suffers--and has the leisure to think, and brood,
and remember.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;Hang it,&#8221; he would
say (or perhaps use a still stronger expression out
of his simple vocabulary), &#8220;before I was married
I didn&#8217;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&#8217;m married, except renewing, of course, I give
you my honour I&#8217;ve not touched a bit of stamped
paper.&#8221;</p>

<p>Rebecca always knew how to conjure away these moods
of melancholy. &#8220;Why, my stupid love,&#8221;
she would say, &#8220;we have not done with your aunt
yet.  If she fails us, isn&#8217;t there what you call
the Gazette? or, stop, when your uncle Bute&#8217;s
life drops, I have another scheme. The living has
always belonged to the younger brother, and why shouldn&#8217;t
you sell out and go into the Church?&#8221;  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&#8217;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&#8217;s first
sermon, to the immense delight of the General at breakfast.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s gravity became
such that Becky rallied him about it in a manner which
rather hurt the feelings of the Guardsman.  &#8220;You
don&#8217;t suppose I&#8217;m afraid, Becky, I should
think,&#8221; he said, with a tremor in his voice.
 &#8220;But I&#8217;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 &#8217;em into the scrape.  It is
no laughing matter that, Mrs. C., anyways.&#8221;</p>

<p>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. &#8220;Dearest love,&#8221;
she said, &#8220;do you suppose I feel nothing?&#8221;
and hastily dashing something from her eyes, she looked
up in her husband&#8217;s face with a smile.</p>

<p>&#8220;Look here,&#8221; said he.  &#8220;If I drop,
let us see what there is for you. I have had a pretty
good run of luck here, and here&#8217;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&#8217;m
hit, why you know I cost nothing.  Don&#8217;t cry,
little woman; I may live to vex you yet.  Well, I shan&#8217;t
take either of my horses, but shall ride the General&#8217;s
grey charger:  it&#8217;s cheaper, and I told him
mine was lame.  If I&#8217;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&#8217;t let her go under
the two o&#8217;s.  Bullfinch will fetch his price
any day, only you&#8217;d better sell him in this country,
because the dealers have so many bills of mine, and
so I&#8217;d rather he shouldn&#8217;t go back to
England.  Your little mare the General gave you will
fetch something, and there&#8217;s no d--d livery stable
bills here as there are in London,&#8221; Rawdon added,
with a laugh.  &#8220;There&#8217;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 <i>that</i> up the spout, ma&#8217;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&#8217;m sorry I didn&#8217;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&#8217;ve got, Becky, you know.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s advantage as, for example,
&#8220;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,&#8221; and so forth,
over all of which articles he made Rebecca the mistress.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
(or it might be his widow&#8217;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&#8217;s side,
and smoked his cigar in silence as they hastened after
the troops of the General&#8217;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.</p>

<p>And Rebecca, as we have said, wisely determined not
to give way to unavailing sentimentality on her husband&#8217;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.
 &#8220;What a fright I seem,&#8221; she said, examining
herself in the glass, &#8220;and how pale this pink
makes one look!&#8221;  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.</p>

<p>The town was quite quiet when she woke up at ten o&#8217;clock,
and partook of coffee, very requisite and comforting
after the exhaustion and grief of the morning&#8217;s
occurrences.</p>

<p>This meal over, she resumed honest Rawdon&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s lady,
and numerous tributes from the jewellers&#8217; shops,
all of which betokened her admirer&#8217;s taste and
wealth.  As for &#8220;tickers,&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;s
lawful wives and daughters, what a profusion of jewellery
there would be exhibited in the genteelest homes of
Vanity Fair!</p>

<p>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&#8217;s pocket-book was a draft
for twenty pounds on Osborne&#8217;s banker.  This
made her think about Mrs. Osborne.  &#8220;I will go
and get the draft cashed,&#8221; she said, &#8220;and
pay a visit afterwards to poor little Emmy.&#8221;
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&#8217;s wife.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Very kind of you,&#8221; said Jos, yawning,
and wishing the Captain at the deuce.</p>

<p>&#8220;I--I didn&#8217;t like to go off without saying
good-bye, you know,&#8221; Dobbin said in a very incoherent
manner; &#8220;because you know some of us mayn&#8217;t
come back again, and I like to see you all well, and--and
that sort of thing, you know.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What do you mean?&#8221; 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&#8217;s apartments,
striding about the room, upsetting the chairs, beating
the tattoo, biting his nails, and showing other signs
of great inward emotion.</p>

<p>Jos had always had rather a mean opinion of the Captain,
and now began to think his courage was somewhat equivocal.
 &#8220;What is it I can do for you, Dobbin?&#8221;
he said, in a sarcastic tone.</p>

<p>&#8220;I tell you what you can do,&#8221; the Captain
replied, coming up to the bed; &#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Sir,&#8221; said Jos, majestically, &#8220;when
I want money, I know where to ask for it.  And as
for my sister, you needn&#8217;t tell me how I ought
to behave to her.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You speak like a man of spirit, Jos,&#8221;
the other answered good-naturedly, &#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Of course, of course,&#8221; answered Mr. Jos,
whose generosity in money matters Dobbin estimated
quite correctly.</p>

<p>&#8220;And you&#8217;ll see her safe out of Brussels
in the event of a defeat?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A defeat! D--- it, sir, it&#8217;s impossible.
 Don&#8217;t try and frighten <i>me</i>,&#8221; the
hero cried from his bed; and Dobbin&#8217;s mind was
thus perfectly set at ease now that Jos had spoken
out so resolutely respecting his conduct to his sister.
 &#8220;At least,&#8221; thought the Captain, &#8220;there
will be a retreat secured for her in case the worst
should ensue.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s bedroom opened into
the sitting-room which was common to the family party,
and opposite this door was that of Amelia&#8217;s
chamber.  The bugles had wakened everybody:  there
was no use in concealment now.  George&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;Good God,&#8221;
thought he, &#8220;and is it grief like this I dared
to pry into?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>At last, George took Emmy&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Thank Heaven that is over,&#8221; 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&#8217; 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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXXI</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Jos Sedley Takes Care of His Sister</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>About George&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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. &#8220;I&#8217;m an
honest man,&#8221; he said, &#8220;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?&#8221;  So Jos was
pleased with George&#8217;s absence.  His plain hat,
and gloves on a sideboard, and the idea that the owner
was away, caused Jos I don&#8217;t know what secret
thrill of pleasure.  &#8220;<i>He</i> won&#8217;t be
troubling me this morning,&#8221; Jos thought, &#8220;with
his dandified airs and his impudence.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Put the Captain&#8217;s hat into the ante-room,&#8221;
he said to Isidor, the servant.</p>

<p>&#8220;Perhaps he won&#8217;t want it again,&#8221;
replied the lackey, looking knowingly at his master.
 He hated George too, whose insolence towards him
was quite of the English sort.</p>

<p>&#8220;And ask if Madame is coming to breakfast,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Isidor, the valet, had looked on very sulkily, while
Osborne&#8217;s servant was disposing of his master&#8217;s
baggage previous to the Captain&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.  &#8220;How
those sleeve-buttons will suit me!&#8221; thought he,
as he fixed a pair on the fat pudgy wrists of Mr.
Sedley.  &#8220;I long for sleeve-buttons; and the
Captain&#8217;s boots with brass spurs, in the next
room, corbleu! what an effect they will make in the
Allee Verte!&#8221; So while Monsieur Isidor with
bodily fingers was holding on to his master&#8217;s
nose, and shaving the lower part of Jos&#8217;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.</p>

<p>But Mr. Joseph Sedley, luckily for his own peace,
no more knew what was passing in his domestic&#8217;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&#8217;s man was marking
his victim down, as you see one of Mr. Paynter&#8217;s
assistants in Leadenhall Street ornament an unconscious
turtle with a placard on which is written, &#8220;Soup
to-morrow.&#8221;</p>

<p>Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;s hand, and said, Tenez,
Madame, est-ce qu&#8217;il n&#8217;est pas aussi
a l&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Several times during the forenoon Mr. Jos&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s proclamation
from Avesnes had been distributed everywhere plentifully
in Brussels.  &#8220;Soldiers!&#8221;  it said, &#8220;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!&#8221;  But
the partisans of the French prophesied a more speedy
extermination of the Emperor&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Crushed, psha!&#8221; said Jos, whose heart
was pretty stout at breakfast-time.  &#8220;The Duke
has gone to beat the Emperor as he has beaten all
his generals before.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;His papers are burned, his effects are removed,
and his quarters are being got ready for the Duke
of Dalmatia,&#8221; Jos&#8217;s informant replied.
 &#8220;I had it from his own maitre d&#8217;hotel.
 Milor Duc de Richemont&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;The King of France is at Ghent, fellow,&#8221;
replied Jos, affecting incredulity.</p>

<p>&#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Nonsense, sir, we are three to one, sir, against
any force Boney can bring into the field,&#8221; Mr.
Sedley objected; &#8220;the Austrians and the Russians
are on their march.  He must, he shall be crushed,&#8221;
Jos said, slapping his hand on the table.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s
the proclamation of his Majesty the Emperor and King,&#8221;
said the now declared partisan of Napoleon, and taking
the document from his pocket, Isidor sternly thrust
it into his master&#8217;s face, and already looked
upon the frogged coat and valuables as his own spoil.</p>

<p>Jos was, if not seriously alarmed as yet, at least
considerably disturbed in mind.  &#8220;Give me my
coat and cap, sir, said he, &#8220;and follow me.
 I will go myself and learn the truth of these reports.&#8221;
Isidor was furious as Jos put on the braided frock.
 &#8220;Milor had better not wear that military coat,&#8221;
said he; &#8220;the Frenchmen have sworn not to give
quarter to a single British soldier.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Silence, sirrah!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Rebecca was dressed very neatly and smartly, as usual:
her quiet sleep after Rawdon&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Are you preparing to join the army, Mr. Joseph?&#8221;
she said.  &#8220;Is there to be nobody left in Brussels
to protect us poor women?&#8221;  Jos succeeded in
plunging into the coat, and came forward blushing and
stuttering out excuses to his fair visitor.  &#8220;How
was she after the events of the morning--after the
fatigues of the ball the night before?&#8221;  Monsieur
Isidor disappeared into his master&#8217;s adjacent
bedroom, bearing off the flowered dressing-gown.</p>

<p>&#8220;How good of you to ask,&#8221; said she, pressing
one of his hands in both her own.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Tremendous,&#8221; Jos said.</p>

<p>&#8220;You men can bear anything,&#8221; replied the
lady.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>This speech might be interpreted, &#8220;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.&#8221; I don&#8217;t
know whether Jos understood the words in this sense.
 But he was profoundly mortified by the lady&#8217;s
inattention to him during their stay at Brussels.
 He had never been presented to any of Rawdon Crawley&#8217;s
great acquaintances:  he had scarcely been invited
to Rebecca&#8217;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.  &#8220;Ah!&#8221; thought Jos, &#8220;now
she wants me she comes to me.  When there is nobody
else in the way she can think about old Joseph Sedley!&#8221;
 But besides these doubts he felt flattered at the
idea Rebecca expressed of his courage.</p>

<p>He blushed a good deal, and put on an air of importance.
&#8220;I should like to see the action,&#8221; he
said.  &#8220;Every man of any spirit would, you know.
 I&#8217;ve seen a little service in India, but nothing
on this grand scale.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You men would sacrifice anything for a pleasure,&#8221;
Rebecca answered. &#8220;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!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My dear madam,&#8221; Jos replied, now beginning
to be quite soothed, &#8220;don&#8217;t be alarmed.
 I only said I should like to go--what Briton would
not?  But my duty keeps me here:  I can&#8217;t leave
that poor creature in the next room.&#8221; And he
pointed with his finger to the door of the chamber
in which Amelia was.</p>

<p>&#8220;Good noble brother!&#8221; Rebecca said, putting
her handkerchief to her eyes, and smelling the eau-de-cologne
with which it was scented.  &#8220;I have done you
injustice: you have got a heart.  I thought you had
not.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O, upon my honour!&#8221; Jos said, making
a motion as if he would lay his hand upon the spot
in question.  &#8220;You do me injustice, indeed you
do--my dear Mrs. Crawley.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I do, now your heart is true to your sister.
 But I remember two years ago--when it was false to
me!&#8221; Rebecca said, fixing her eyes upon him
for an instant, and then turning away into the window.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I know you think me ungrateful,&#8221; Rebecca
continued, coming out of the window, and once more
looking at him and addressing him in a low tremulous
voice.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Good gracious! what have I done?&#8221; asked
Jos in a flurry of pleasure and perplexity; &#8220;what
have I done--to--to--?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Is jealousy nothing?&#8221; said Rebecca. 
&#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>All Jos&#8217;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?  &#8220;If the worst comes to the worst,&#8221;
Becky thought, &#8220;my retreat is secure; and I have
a right-hand seat in the barouche.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Au revoir,&#8221; she said,
kissing her hand to Mr. Joseph, and tapped gently at
the door of his sister&#8217;s apartment.  As she
entered and closed the door on herself, he sank down
in a chair, and gazed and sighed and puffed portentously.
 &#8220;That coat is very tight for Milor,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Rebecca&#8217;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&#8217;t
hear widows&#8217; cries or mothers&#8217; 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!</p>

<p>After the first movement of terror in Amelia&#8217;s
mind--when Rebecca&#8217;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&#8217;s look after a
moment with a steadiness which surprised and somewhat
abashed her rival.</p>

<p>&#8220;Dearest Amelia, you are very unwell,&#8221;
the visitor said, putting forth her hand to take Amelia&#8217;s.
 &#8220;What is it? I could not rest until I knew
how you were.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Why
are you here, Rebecca?&#8221; she said, still looking
at her solemnly with her large eyes.  These glances
troubled her visitor.</p>

<p>&#8220;She must have seen him give me the letter at
the ball,&#8221; Rebecca thought.  &#8220;Don&#8217;t
be agitated, dear Amelia,&#8221; she said, looking
down. &#8220;I came but to see if I could--if you
were well.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Are you well?&#8221; said Amelia.  &#8220;I
dare say you are. You don&#8217;t love your husband.
 You would not be here if you did.  Tell me, Rebecca,
did I ever do you anything but kindness?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Indeed, Amelia, no,&#8221; the other said,
still hanging down her head.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Amelia, I protest before God, I have done my
husband no wrong,&#8221; Rebecca said, turning from
her.</p>

<p>&#8220;Have you done me no wrong, Rebecca?  You did
not succeed, but you tried.  Ask your heart if you
did not.&#8221;</p>

<p>She knows nothing, Rebecca thought.</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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. 
&#8220;But what have I done to you,&#8221; she continued
in a more pitiful tone, &#8220;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?&#8221; she continued.  &#8220;You made
me wretched enough for the past fortnight: you might
have spared me to-day.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I--I never came here,&#8221; interposed Rebecca,
with unlucky truth.</p>

<p>&#8220;No.  You didn&#8217;t come.  You took him away.
 Are you come to fetch him from me?&#8221; she continued
in a wilder tone.  &#8220;He was here, but he is gone
now.  There on that very sofa he sate.  Don&#8217;t
touch it.  We sate and talked there.  I was on his
knee, and my arms were round his neck, and we said
&#8216;Our Father.&#8217; Yes, he was here:  and they
came and took him away, but he promised me to come
back.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He will come back, my dear,&#8221; said Rebecca,
touched in spite of herself.</p>

<p>&#8220;Look,&#8221; said Amelia, &#8220;this is his
sash--isn&#8217;t it a pretty colour?&#8221; 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&#8217;s pillow.</p>

<p>Rebecca walked, too, silently away.  &#8220;How is
Amelia?&#8221; asked Jos, who still held his position
in the chair.</p>

<p>&#8220;There should be somebody with her,&#8221; said
Rebecca. &#8220;I think she is very unwell&#8221;:
 and she went away with a very grave face, refusing
Mr. Sedley&#8217;s entreaties that she would stay and
partake of the early dinner which he had ordered.</p>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd, whom the Dean&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ve cares of my own enough,&#8221; Mrs.
O&#8217;Dowd said, gravely, &#8220;and I thought poor
Amelia would be little wanting for company this day.
But if she&#8217;s so bad as you say, and you can&#8217;t
attend to her, who used to be so fond of her, faith
I&#8217;ll see if I can be of service. And so good
marning to ye, Madam&#8221;; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd
flung over her shoulder almost upset Mrs. Crawley&#8217;s
gravity. &#8220;My service to ye, me fine Madam, and
I&#8217;m glad to see ye so cheerful,&#8221; thought
Peggy.  &#8220;It&#8217;s not <i>you</i> that will cry
your eyes out with grief, anyway.&#8221; And with this
she passed on, and speedily found her way to Mrs.
Osborne&#8217;s lodgings.</p>

<p>The poor soul was still at the bedside, where Rebecca
had left her, and stood almost crazy with grief. 
The Major&#8217;s wife, a stronger-minded woman,
endeavoured her best to comfort her young friend.
&#8220;You must bear up, Amelia, dear,&#8221; she said
kindly, &#8220;for he mustn&#8217;t find you ill when
he sends for you after the victory.  It&#8217;s not
you are the only woman that are in the hands of God
this day.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I know that.  I am very wicked, very weak,&#8221;
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&#8217;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&#8217;s tribute to the war.  It taxes
both alike, and takes the blood of the men, and the
tears of the women.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s room to see if he could coax her to
share that meal.  &#8220;Try,&#8221; said he; &#8220;the
soup is very good.  Do try, Emmy,&#8221; and he kissed
her hand.  Except when she was married, he had not
done so much for years before.  &#8220;You are very
good and kind, Joseph,&#8221; she said.  &#8220;Everybody
is, but, if you please, I will stay in my room to-day.&#8221;</p>

<p>The savour of the soup, however, was agreeable to
Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;s nostrils: and she thought
she would bear Mr. Jos company.  So the two sate down
to their meal. &#8220;God bless the meat,&#8221; said
the Major&#8217;s wife, solemnly: she was thinking
of her honest Mick, riding at the head of his regiment:
 &#8220;&#8217;Tis but a bad dinner those poor boys
will get to-day,&#8221; she said, with a sigh, and
then, like a philosopher, fell to.</p>

<p>Jos&#8217;s spirits rose with his meal.  He would
drink the regiment&#8217;s health; or, indeed, take
any other excuse to indulge in a glass of champagne.
 &#8220;We&#8217;ll drink to O&#8217;Dowd and the brave
--th,&#8221; said he, bowing gallantly to his guest.
 &#8220;Hey, Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd?  Fill Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;s
glass, Isidor.&#8221;</p>

<p>But all of a sudden, Isidor started, and the Major&#8217;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.  &#8220;What is it?&#8221; said Jos.
 &#8220;Why don&#8217;t you pour, you rascal?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Cest le feu!&#8221; said Isidor, running to
the balcony.</p>

<p>&#8220;God defend us; it&#8217;s cannon!&#8221; Mrs.
O&#8217;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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXXII</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Jos Takes Flight, and the War Is Brought to a Close</h4>

<p>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.  &#8220;He has cut the armies in
two,&#8221; it was said.  &#8220;He is marching straight
on Brussels.  He will overpower the English, and be
here to-night.&#8221; &#8220;He will overpower the
English,&#8221; shrieked Isidor to his master, &#8220;and
will be here to-night.&#8221; The man bounded in and
out from the lodgings to the street, always returning
with some fresh particulars of disaster.  Jos&#8217;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.</p>

<p>The women were away all this time.  After hearing
the firing for a moment, the stout Major&#8217;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&#8217;s side, sometimes in remonstrance,
sometimes talking cheerfully, oftener in silence and
terrified mental supplication.  &#8220;I never let
go her hand once,&#8221; said the stout lady afterwards,
&#8220;until after sunset, when the firing was over.&#8221;
Pauline, the bonne, was on her knees at church hard
by, praying for son homme a elle.</p>

<p>When the noise of the cannonading was over, Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd
issued out of Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;s bedroom, looking very much
alarmed, and as if he would say something.  But the
Major&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd,&#8221; he said, &#8220;hadn&#8217;t
you better get Amelia ready?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Are you going to take her out for a walk?&#8221;
said the Major&#8217;s lady; &#8220;sure she&#8217;s
too weak to stir.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I--I&#8217;ve ordered the carriage,&#8221;
he said, &#8220;and--and post-horses; Isidor is gone
for them,&#8221; Jos continued.</p>

<p>&#8220;What do you want with driving to-night?&#8221;
answered the lady.  &#8220;Isn&#8217;t she better
on her bed?  I&#8217;ve just got her to lie down.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Get her up,&#8221; said Jos; &#8220;she must
get up, I say&#8221;:  and he stamped his foot energetically.
 &#8220;I say the horses are ordered--yes, the horses
are ordered.  It&#8217;s all over, and--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And what?&#8221; asked Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m off for Ghent,&#8221; Jos answered.
 &#8220;Everybody is going; there&#8217;s a place
for you!  We shall start in half-an-hour.&#8221;</p>

<p>The Major&#8217;s wife looked at him with infinite
scorn.  &#8220;I don&#8217;t move till O&#8217;Dowd
gives me the route,&#8221; said she. &#8220;You may
go if you like, Mr. Sedley; but, faith, Amelia and
I stop here.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She <i>shall</i> go,&#8221; said Jos, with another
stamp of his foot.  Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd put herself
with arms akimbo before the bedroom door.</p>

<p>&#8220;Is it her mother you&#8217;re going to take
her to?&#8221; she said; &#8220;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&#8217;ll bring you into mischief.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;D--n!&#8221; yelled out Jos, wild with fear,
rage, and mortification; and Isidor came in at this
juncture, swearing in his turn.  &#8220;Pas de chevaux,
sacre bleu!&#8221; hissed out the furious domestic.
 All the horses were gone.  Jos was not the only man
in Brussels seized with panic that day.</p>

<p>But Jos&#8217;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&#8217;s
admirer, was too good a soldier to disobey his Colonel&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>At some ten o&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Isidor, who had come into the kitchen, heard the conversation
and rushed out to inform his master.  &#8220;It is
all over,&#8221; he shrieked to Jos.  &#8220;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.&#8221; 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. &#8220;And the --th?&#8221; gasped Jos.</p>

<p>&#8220;Cut in pieces,&#8221; said the hussar--upon
which Pauline cried out, &#8220;O my mistress, ma
bonne petite dame,&#8221; went off fairly into hysterics,
and filled the house with her screams.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s door, which Mrs. O&#8217;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 <i>will</i> mistake
me for a military man, thought he, remembering Isidor&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Coupez-moi, Isidor,&#8221; shouted he; &#8220;vite!
 Coupez-moi!&#8221;</p>

<p>Isidor thought for a moment he had gone mad, and that
he wished his valet to cut his throat.</p>

<p>&#8220;Les moustaches,&#8221; gasped Joe; &#8220;les
moustaches--coupy, rasy, vite!"-- his French was of
this sort--voluble, as we have said, but not remarkable
for grammar.</p>

<p>Isidor swept off the mustachios in no time with the
razor, and heard with inexpressible delight his master&#8217;s
orders that he should fetch a hat and a plain coat.
 &#8220;Ne porty ploo--habit militair--bonn--bonny
a voo, prenny dehors"--were Jos&#8217;s words--the
coat and cap were at last his property.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Venny maintenong,&#8221; he continued, &#8220;sweevy--ally--party--dong
la roo.&#8221; And so having said, he plunged swiftly
down the stairs of the house, and passed into the
street.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Rebecca had her revenge now upon these insolent enemies.
 If became known in the hotel that Captain Crawley&#8217;s
horses had been left behind, and when the panic began,
Lady Bareacres condescended to send her maid to the
Captain&#8217;s wife with her Ladyship&#8217;s compliments,
and a desire to know the price of Mrs. Crawley&#8217;s
horses.  Mrs. Crawley returned a note with her compliments,
and an intimation that it was not her custom to transact
bargains with ladies&#8217; maids.</p>

<p>This curt reply brought the Earl in person to Becky&#8217;s
apartment; but he could get no more success than the
first ambassador.  &#8220;Send a lady&#8217;s maid
to <i>me</i>!&#8221; Mrs. Crawley cried in great anger;
&#8220;why didn&#8217;t my Lady Bareacres tell me
to go and saddle the horses!  Is it her Ladyship that
wants to escape, or her Ladyship&#8217;s femme de chambre?&#8221;
And this was all the answer that the Earl bore back
to his Countess.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I don&#8217;t want to be waited on by bailiffs
in livery,&#8221; she said; &#8220;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.&#8221;  Lady Bareacres
trembled with rage and terror.  The diamonds were
sewed into her habit, and secreted in my Lord&#8217;s
padding and boots. &#8220;Woman, the diamonds are at
the banker&#8217;s, and I <i>will</i> have the horses,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s perplexities.  &#8220;Not to be
able to get horses!&#8221; she said, &#8220;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!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>It was while enjoying the humiliation of her enemy
that Rebecca caught sight of Jos, who made towards
her directly he perceived her.</p>

<p>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. &#8220;<i>He</i> shall
buy my horses,&#8221; thought Rebecca, &#8220;and I&#8217;ll
ride the mare.&#8221;</p>

<p>Jos walked up to his friend, and put the question
for the hundredth time during the past hour, &#8220;Did
she know where horses were to be had?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What, <i>you</i> fly?&#8221; said Rebecca, with
a laugh.  &#8220;I thought you were the champion of
all the ladies, Mr. Sedley.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I--I&#8217;m not a military man,&#8221; gasped
he.</p>

<p>&#8220;And Amelia?--Who is to protect that poor little
sister of yours?&#8221; asked Rebecca.  &#8220;You
surely would not desert her?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What good can I do her, suppose--suppose the
enemy arrive?&#8221; Jos answered.  &#8220;They&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Horrid!&#8221; cried Rebecca, enjoying his
perplexity.</p>

<p>&#8220;Besides, I don&#8217;t want to desert her,&#8221;
cried the brother. &#8220;She <i>shan&#8217;t</i> 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--&#8221; sighed he--</p>

<p>&#8220;I have two to sell,&#8221; the lady said. 
Jos could have flung himself into her arms at the
news.  &#8220;Get the carriage, Isidor,&#8221; he cried;
&#8220;we&#8217;ve found them--we have found them.&#8221;</p>

<p>My horses never were in harness,&#8221; added the
lady. &#8220;Bullfinch would kick the carriage to
pieces, if you put him in the traces.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;But he is quiet to ride?&#8221; asked the civilian.</p>

<p>&#8220;As quiet as a lamb, and as fast as a hare,&#8221;
answered Rebecca.</p>

<p>&#8220;Do you think he is up to my weight?&#8221;
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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;She
would sell both or neither,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Once or twice in the day she certainly had herself
thought about flying.  But her reason gave her better
counsel.  &#8220;Suppose the French do come,&#8221;
thought Becky, &#8220;what can they do to a poor officer&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd and Amelia,
and own to them that he was about to run.</p>

<p>By the time Jos&#8217;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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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. &#8220;Stop!  stop!&#8221; a feeble
voice cried from the straw, and the carriage stopped
opposite Mr. Sedley&#8217;s hotel.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is George, I know it is!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mr. Sedley, Mr. Sedley!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Little Tom Stubble held out his hot and feeble hand.
&#8220;I&#8217;m to be taken in here,&#8221; he said.
 &#8220;Osborne--and--and Dobbin said I was; and you
are to give the man two napoleons: my mother will pay
you.&#8221; This young fellow&#8217;s thoughts, during
the long feverish hours passed in the cart, had been
wandering to his father&#8217;s parsonage which he
had quitted only a few months before, and he had sometimes
forgotten his pain in that delirium.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s quarters.  Amelia and the Major&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s
horse had been shot under him as the regiment charged,
and they all thought that O&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s hotel in the city; and
tell Mrs. Captain Osborne that the action was over,
and that her husband was unhurt and well.</p>

<p>&#8220;Indeed, but he has a good heart that William
Dobbin,&#8221; Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd said, &#8220;though
he is always laughing at me.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
hotel, he found that the great Bareacres&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Poor wretch,&#8221;
she said, twirling round the little bit of paper in
her fingers, &#8220;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The next day was a Sunday.  And Mrs. Major O&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd.</p>

<p>When she returned she brought her prayer-book with
her, and her uncle the Dean&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd was reading the service in her best voice,
the cannon of Waterloo began to roar.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s room, where our three friends
had paused in their prayers, and further interrupted
them by a passionate appeal to Amelia.</p>

<p>&#8220;I can&#8217;t stand it any more, Emmy,&#8221;
he said; &#8217;I won&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;God forgive me, Mr. Sedley, but you are no
better than a coward,&#8221; Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd said,
laying down the book.</p>

<p>&#8220;I say come, Amelia,&#8221; the civilian went
on; &#8220;never mind what she says; why are we to
stop here and be butchered by the Frenchmen?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You forget the --th, my boy,&#8221; said the
little Stubble, the wounded hero, from his bed--"and
and you won&#8217;t leave me, will you, Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;No, my dear fellow,&#8221; said she, going
up and kissing the boy.  &#8220;No harm shall come
to you while I stand by. I don&#8217;t budge till I
get the word from Mick.  A pretty figure I&#8217;d
be, wouldn&#8217;t I, stuck behind that chap on a
pillion?&#8221;</p>

<p>This image caused the young patient to burst out laughing
in his bed, and even made Amelia smile.  &#8220;I
don&#8217;t ask her,&#8221; Jos shouted out--"I don&#8217;t
ask that--that Irishwoman, but you Amelia; once for
all, will you come?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Without my husband, Joseph?&#8221; Amelia said,
with a look of wonder, and gave her hand to the Major&#8217;s
wife. Jos&#8217;s patience was exhausted.</p>

<p>&#8220;Good-bye, then,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.
 &#8220;Look at him, Amelia dear, driving into the
parlour window.  Such a bull in a china-shop I never
saw.&#8221; And presently the pair of riders disappeared
at a canter down the street leading in the direction
of the Ghent road, Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd pursuing them
with a fire of sarcasm so long as they were in sight.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>All of us have read of what occurred during that interval.
 The tale is in every Englishman&#8217;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&#8217;s code of honour.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXXIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Miss Crawley&#8217;s Relations Are Very Anxious About Her</h4>

<p>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&#8217;s gallantry
was mentioned with honour, and his promotion was presently
recorded.</p>

<p>&#8220;What a pity that young man has taken such an
irretrievable step in the world!&#8221; his aunt said;
&#8220;with his rank and distinction he might have
married a brewer&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s glory?&#8221;
said Miss Briggs, who was greatly excited by the Waterloo
proceedings, and loved speaking romantically when there
was an occasion.  &#8220;Has not the Captain--or the
Colonel as I may now style him--done deeds which make
the name of Crawley illustrious?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Briggs, you are a fool,&#8221; said Miss Crawley:
&#8220;Colonel Crawley has dragged the name of Crawley
through the mud, Miss Briggs.  Marry a drawing-master&#8217;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>While thus approaching, as all hoped, to convalescence,
Miss Briggs was the only victim admitted into the
presence of the invalid; yet Miss Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;the Guard died,
but never surrendered,&#8221; was taken prisoner the
next minute by a private soldier, who broke the Frenchman&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
old friends of the emigration, to whom she had shown
so much kindness during their distress.</p>

<p>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,&#8221; she explained to Miss Briggs, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
gracious reply greatly encouraged our young friends,
Rawdon and his lady, who hoped for the best from their
aunt&#8217;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.</p>

<p>To the rector&#8217;s lady, who went off to tend her
husband&#8217;s broken collar-bone at the Rectory
at Queen&#8217;s Crawley, the spinster&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;How silly I was,&#8221; Mrs. Bute thought,
and with reason, &#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s
behalf had met with the most savage ingratitude. Rawdon&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217; 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, &#8220;That is the son of the old
reprobate Sir Pitt, who is very likely drinking at
the public house at this very moment.&#8221; 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, &#8220;How many is there at
Queen&#8217;s Crawley, Young Squaretoes?&#8221; to
the surprise of the platform, and the ruin of Mr. Pitt&#8217;s
speech. And the two daughters of the house of Queen&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, as we have said, whatever individual differences
there might be between them all, Miss Crawley&#8217;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 <i>little</i> 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s demise,
that her son was a member of several worldly clubs,
had lost largely at play at Wattier&#8217;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&#8217;s circle.</p>

<p>The Lady Emily was her brother&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;Lead us to some sunny isle,<br>
&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;Yonder in the western deep;<br>
&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;Where the skies for ever smile,<br>
&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;And the blacks for ever weep,
&#38;c.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>As for the Lady Jane, on whom, as it has been said,
Mr. Pitt Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s companion by the hand.  He introduced
Miss Briggs to the lady with whom he happened to be
walking, the Lady Jane Sheepshanks, saying, &#8220;Lady
Jane, permit me to introduce to you my aunt&#8217;s
kindest friend and most affectionate companion, Miss
Briggs, whom you know under another title, as authoress
of the delightful &#8217;Lyrics of the Heart,&#8217;
of which you are so fond.&#8221;  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.</p>

<p>The artful diplomatist and disciple of the Machiavellian
Binkie!  It was he who had given Lady Jane that copy
of poor Briggs&#8217;s early poems, which he remembered
to have seen at Queen&#8217;s Crawley, with a dedication
from the poetess to his father&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s favourite
daughter, and tended him and loved him sincerely:
 as for Lady Emily, the authoress of the &#8220;Washerwoman
of Finchley Common,&#8221; 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&#8217;s sermons.</p>

<p>&#8220;I will certainly call,&#8221; said Lady Southdown
then, in reply to the exhortation of her daughter&#8217;s
pretendu, Mr. Pitt Crawley--"Who is Miss Crawley&#8217;s
medical man?&#8221;</p>

<p>Mr. Crawley mentioned the name of Mr. Creamer.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217; 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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217; Pills, Rodgers&#8217; Pills,
Pokey&#8217;s Elixir, every one of her Ladyship&#8217;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, &#8220;Dear
Madam, I took Podgers&#8217; specific at your orders
last year, and believe in it.  Why, why am I to recant
and accept the Rodgers&#8217; articles now?&#8221;
 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, &#8220;Well,
well, Rodgers&#8217; be it.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And as for her spiritual state,&#8221; continued
the Lady, &#8220;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 &#8217;A Voice
from the Flames,&#8217; &#8216;A Trumpet-warning to
Jericho,&#8217; and the &#8216;Fleshpots Broken; or,
the Converted Cannibal.&#8217;&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And the &#8216;Washerwoman of Finchley Common,&#8217;
Mamma,&#8221; said Lady Emily. &#8220;It is as well
to begin soothingly at first.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Stop, my dear ladies,&#8221; said Pitt, the
diplomatist. &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Can we then begin too early, Pitt?&#8221; said
Lady Emily, rising with six little books already in
her hand.</p>

<p>&#8220;If you begin abruptly, you will frighten her
altogether. I know my aunt&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You are as worldly as Miss Crawley, Pitt,&#8221;
said Lady Emily, tossing out of the room, her books
in her hand.</p>

<p>&#8220;And I need not tell you, my dear Lady Southdown,&#8221;
Pitt continued, in a low voice, and without heeding
the interruption, &#8220;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&#8217;s (Colonel Crawley&#8217;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--&#8217;</p>

<p>&#8220;Of course, of course,&#8221; Lady Southdown
remarked. &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And if I might suggest, my sweet lady,&#8221;
Pitt said in a bland tone, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Most certainly, Emily would ruin everything,&#8221;
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&#8217;s
health, or for the sake of her soul&#8217;s ultimate
welfare, or for the sake of her money, agreed to temporise.</p>

<p>The next day, the great Southdown female family carriage,
with the Earl&#8217;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&#8217;s door, and the tall serious footman
handed in to Mr. Bowls her Ladyship&#8217;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 &#8220;Washerwoman,&#8221; and other mild and
favourite tracts for Miss B.&#8217;s own perusal; and
a few for the servants&#8217; hall, <i>viz</i>.:  &#8220;Crumbs
from the Pantry,&#8221; &#8220;The Frying Pan and
the Fire,&#8221; and &#8220;The Livery of Sin,&#8221;
of a much stronger kind.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXXIV</h3>

<h4 align="center">James Crawley&#8217;s Pipe Is Put Out</h4>

<p>The amiable behaviour of Mr. Crawley, and Lady Jane&#8217;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&#8217;s card left personally
too for her, Briggs, was not a little pleasing to the
poor friendless companion.  &#8220;What could Lady
Southdown mean by leaving a card upon you, I wonder,
Miss Briggs?&#8221; said the republican Miss Crawley;
upon which the companion meekly said &#8220;that she
hoped there could be no harm in a lady of rank taking
notice of a poor gentlewoman,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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, &#38;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.</p>

<p>This orthodox horror of Romish superstition saved
Pitt Crawley in Lady Southdown&#8217;s opinion, whilst
his admiration for Fox and Napoleon raised him immeasurably
in Miss Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;And what do you think, my dear?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Lady Jane blushed very much, and said &#8220;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.&#8221;
And when the ladies were retiring at the conclusion
of their visit, Miss Crawley hoped &#8220;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.&#8221; This promise was
graciously accorded, and they separated upon great
terms of amity.</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t let Lady Southdown come again,
Pitt,&#8221; said the old lady. &#8220;She is stupid
and pompous, like all your mother&#8217;s family, whom
I never could endure.  But bring that nice good-natured
little Jane as often as ever you please.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
engoument by artless sweetness and friendship.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish, my love, I could get somebody to play
piquet with me,&#8221; Miss Crawley said one night
when this functionary made his appearance with the
candles and the coffee. &#8220;Poor Briggs can no more
play than an owl, she is so stupid&#8221; (the spinster
always took an opportunity of abusing Briggs before
the servants); &#8220;and I think I should sleep better
if I had my game.&#8221;</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>&#8220;Miss Crawley, I can play a little.  I used
to--to play a little with poor dear papa.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Come and kiss me.  Come and kiss me this instant,
you dear good little soul,&#8221; 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!</p>

<p>It must not be imagined that Mr. Pitt Crawley&#8217;s
artifices escaped the attention of his dear relations
at the Rectory at Queen&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s success
rendered the Rector&#8217;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&#8217;s household to give her information
of what took place there.  &#8220;It was all Bute&#8217;s
collar-bone,&#8221; she persisted in saying; &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Hunting; nonsense!  It was you that frightened
her, Barbara,&#8221; the divine interposed.  &#8220;You&#8217;re
a clever woman, but you&#8217;ve got a devil of a
temper; and you&#8217;re a screw with your money, Barbara.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;d have been screwed in gaol, Bute,
if I had not kept your money.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I know I would, my dear,&#8221; said the Rector,
good-naturedly. &#8220;You <i>are</i> a clever woman,
but you manage too well, you know&#8221;:  and the
pious man consoled himself with a big glass of port.</p>

<p>&#8220;What the deuce can she find in that spooney
of a Pitt Crawley?&#8221; he continued.  &#8220;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&#8217;s remembered
at Oxford as Miss Crawley still--the spooney.</p>

<p>&#8220;I say, Barbara,&#8221; his reverence continued,
after a pause.</p>

<p>&#8220;What?&#8221; said Barbara, who was biting her
nails, and drumming the table.</p>

<p>&#8220;I say, why not send Jim over to Brighton to
see if he can do anything with the old lady.  He&#8217;s
very near getting his degree, you  know.  He&#8217;s
only been plucked twice--so was I--but he&#8217;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&#8217;s a handsome feller.
 D--- it, ma&#8217;am, let&#8217;s put him on the old
woman, hey, and tell him to thrash Pitt if he says
anything. Ha, ha, ha!</p>

<p>&#8220;Jim might go down and see her, certainly,&#8221;
the housewife said; adding with a sigh, &#8220;If
we could but get one of the girls into the house;
but she could never endure them, because they are not
pretty!&#8221;  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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Kalydor is said
to act as a cure; when boys are seen to shave furtively
with their sister&#8217;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, &#8220;Jack, my boy, go out and see if the evening
holds up,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s favour.
 Nor did his blushes and awkwardness take away from
it:  she was pleased with these healthy tokens of the
young gentleman&#8217;s ingenuousness.</p>

<p>He said &#8220;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&#8217;am, and my father&#8217;s and mother&#8217;s,
who hope you are well.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s things instantly; &#8220;and hark ye,
Bowls,&#8221; she added, with great graciousness,
&#8220;you will have the goodness to pay Mr. James&#8217;s
bill.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I beg your pardon, sir,&#8221; says Bowls,
advancing with a profound bow; &#8220;what otel, sir,
shall Thomas fetch the luggage from?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;O, dam,&#8221; said young James, starting up,
as if in some alarm, &#8220;I&#8217;ll go.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What!&#8221; said Miss Crawley.</p>

<p>&#8220;The Tom Cribb&#8217;s Arms,&#8221; said James,
blushing deeply.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I--I didn&#8217;t know any better,&#8221; said
James, looking down. &#8220;I&#8217;ve never been
here before; it was the coachman told me.&#8221; 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&#8217;s conversation, had passed the evening
in company with that scientific man and his friends,
at the inn in question.</p>

<p>&#8220;I--I&#8217;d best go and settle the score,&#8221;
James continued. &#8220;Couldn&#8217;t think of asking
you, Ma&#8217;am,&#8221; he added, generously.</p>

<p>This delicacy made his aunt laugh the more.</p>

<p>&#8220;Go and settle the bill, Bowls,&#8221; she said,
with a wave of her hand, &#8220;and bring it to me.&#8221;</p>

<p>Poor lady, she did not know what she had done!  &#8220;There--there&#8217;s
a little dawg,&#8221; said James, looking frightfully
guilty.  &#8220;I&#8217;d best go for him.  He bites
footmen&#8217;s calves.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Haw, haw,&#8221; laughed James, encouraged
by these compliments; &#8220;Senior Wrangler, indeed;
that&#8217;s at the other shop.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What is the other shop, my dear child?&#8221;
said the lady.</p>

<p>&#8220;Senior Wranglers at Cambridge, not Oxford,&#8221;
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&#8217;s
spirits, and no word of yea or nay could he be induced
to utter during the rest of the drive.</p>

<p>On his return he found his room prepared, and his
portmanteau ready, and might have remarked that Mr.
Bowls&#8217;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. &#8220;Reglarly up a tree, by jingo!&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
time at dinner was spent in superintending the invalid&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;The chief pleasure which my aunt has,&#8221;
said Mr. Crawley, filling his glass, &#8220;is that
people should do as they like in her house. This is
Liberty Hall, James, and you can&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Why are you going to marry an Earl&#8217;s
daughter?&#8221; said James.</p>

<p>&#8220;My dear friend, remember it is not poor Lady
Jane&#8217;s fault that she is well born,&#8221; Pitt
replied, with a courtly air.  &#8220;She cannot help
being a lady.  Besides, I am a Tory, you know.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, as for that,&#8221; said Jim, &#8220;there&#8217;s
nothing like old blood; no, dammy, nothing like it.
 I&#8217;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I think you were speaking of dogs killing rats,&#8221;
Pitt remarked mildly, handing his cousin the decanter
to &#8220;buzz.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Killing rats was I? Well, Pitt, are you a sporting
man? Do you want to see a dawg as <i>can</i> kill a
rat? If you do, come down with me to Tom Corduroy&#8217;s,
in Castle Street Mews, and I&#8217;ll show you such
a bull-terrier as--Pooh! gammon,&#8221; cried James,
bursting out laughing at his own absurdity--"<i>You</i>
don&#8217;t care about a dawg or rat; it&#8217;s all
nonsense.  I&#8217;m blest if I think you know the
difference between a dog and a duck.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;No; by the way,&#8221; Pitt continued with
increased blandness, &#8220;it was about blood you
were talking, and the personal advantages which people
derive from patrician birth.  Here&#8217;s the fresh
bottle.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Blood&#8217;s the word,&#8221; said James,
gulping the ruby fluid down. &#8220;Nothing like blood,
sir, in hosses, dawgs, <i>and</i> 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&#8217;
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&#8217;t.  My arm was
in a sling; couldn&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You don&#8217;t drink, James,&#8221; the ex-attache
continued. &#8220;In my time at Oxford, the men passed
round the bottle a little quicker than you young fellows
seem to do.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Come, come,&#8221; said James, putting his
hand to his nose and winking at his cousin with a
pair of vinous eyes, &#8220;no jokes, old boy; no
trying it on on me.  You want to trot me out, but it&#8217;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&#8217;s a precious
good tap.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You had better ask her,&#8221; Machiavel continued,
&#8220;or make the best of your time now.  What says
the bard? &#8217;Nunc vino pellite curas, Cras ingens
iterabimus aequor,&#8217;&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s house, James
showed that he could appreciate them indeed; and hardly
needed any of his cousin&#8217;s encouragement in
draining off the second bottle supplied by Mr. Bowls.</p>

<p>When the time for coffee came, however, and for a
return to the ladies, of whom he stood in awe, the
young gentleman&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;He seems a very silent, awkward, bashful lad,&#8221;
said Miss Crawley to Mr. Pitt.</p>

<p>&#8220;He is more communicative in men&#8217;s society
than with ladies,&#8221; Machiavel dryly replied:
 perhaps rather disappointed that the port wine had
not made Jim speak more.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
Arms on the night before he had come to his aunt&#8217;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&#8217;s bill.  It was not the
amount of eightpences, but the quantity of gin which
told fatally against poor James&#8217;s character,
when his aunt&#8217;s butler, Mr. Bowls, went down
at his mistress&#8217;s request to pay the young gentleman&#8217;s
bill.  The landlord, fearing lest the account should
be refused altogether, swore solemnly that the young
gent had consumed personally every farthing&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>This day too the unlucky boy&#8217;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.  &#8220;And that&#8217;s a
fair offer, my buck,&#8221; he said, with a loud laugh,
slapping Pitt on the shoulder, &#8220;and my father
told me to make it too, and he&#8217;ll go halves
in the bet, ha, ha!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s money would be left to
him in preference to his father and all the rest of
the family.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;Fire and the Frying Pan&#8221;
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&#8217;s bed.  When
made aware of the fact, however--to rush upstairs
at three steps at a time to enter the unconscious
James&#8217;s apartment, calling out, &#8220;Mr. James,&#8221;
in a voice stifled with alarm, and to cry, &#8220;For
Gawd&#8217;s sake, sir, stop that &#8217;ere pipe,&#8221;
was the work of a minute with Mr. Bowls.  &#8220;O,
Mr. James, what &#8217;<i>ave</i> you done!&#8221; he
said in a voice of the deepest pathos, as he threw
the implement out of the window.  &#8220;What &#8217;ave
you done, sir! Missis can&#8217;t abide &#8217;em.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Missis needn&#8217;t smoke,&#8221; 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&#8217;s young
man, who operated upon Mr. James&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Dear sir,&#8221; it said, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>And herewith honest James&#8217;s career as a candidate
for his aunt&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;my pistols, the same which
I shot Captain Marker,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s wife in their own hotels--"Why,&#8221;
wrote a great lady to Miss Crawley, who had bought
her lace and trinkets at the Duchess&#8217;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!&#8221;</p>

<p>It is to be feared that this letter of the Parisian
great lady did not by any means advance Mrs. Becky&#8217;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&#8217;s
situation, and how audaciously she had made use of
Miss Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s or Beauvilliers&#8217;;
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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Journal contained the following
announcement in an interesting corner of the paper:
 &#8220;On the 26th of March--the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel
Crawley, of the Life Guards Green--of a son and heir.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXXV</h3>

<h4 align="center">Widow and Mother</h4>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Whatever his sensations might have been, however,
the stem old man would have no confidant.  He never
mentioned his son&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>About three weeks after the 18th of June, Mr. Osborne&#8217;s
acquaintance, Sir William Dobbin, called at Mr. Osborne&#8217;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. &#8220;My son, Major Dobbin,&#8221; the Alderman
said, with some hesitation, &#8220;despatched me a
letter by an officer of the --th, who arrived in town
to-day.  My son&#8217;s letter contains one for you,
Osborne.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>The letter was in George&#8217;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 &#8220;Pax in bello&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The poor boy&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Under the memorial in question were emblazoned the
well-known and pompous Osborne arms; and the inscription
said, that the monument was &#8220;Sacred to the memory
of George Osborne, Junior, Esq., late a Captain in
his Majesty&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Will he forgive Mrs.
George?&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Were you in Captain Osborne&#8217;s company?&#8221;
he said, and added, after a pause, &#8220;he was my
son, sir.&#8221;</p>

<p>The man was not of the Captain&#8217;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.  &#8220;The whole army
didn&#8217;t contain a finer or a better officer,&#8221;
the soldier said. &#8220;The Sergeant of the Captain&#8217;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&#8217;s
actions.  But his honour had seen Major Dobbin, no
doubt, the brave Captain&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Osborne put a guinea into the soldier&#8217;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&#8217;s
presence. And the first soldier went away; and after
telling a comrade or two how Captain Osborne&#8217;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.</p>

<p>In the Sergeant&#8217;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&#8217;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.  &#8220;It was Major
Dobbin who took back the Captain&#8217;s body to Brussels,&#8221;
the Sergeant said, in a low voice, &#8220;and had
him buried, as your honour knows.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Osborne gave a sumptuous reward to the Sergeant when
he parted with him, after having visited the scenes
of his son&#8217;s last exploits. His burial-place
he had already seen.  Indeed, he had driven thither
immediately after his arrival at Brussels.  George&#8217;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?</p>

<p>As after the drive to Waterloo, Mr. Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;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.&#8221;
&#8220;Tell the scoundrel to drive on quick,&#8221;
he shouted with an oath, to the lackey on the box.
A minute afterwards, a horse came clattering over the
pavement behind Osborne&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mr. Osborne, Mr. Osborne!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Dobbin laid his hand on the carriage side.  &#8220;I
will see you, sir,&#8221; he said.  &#8220;I have
a message for you.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;From that woman?&#8221; said Osborne, fiercely.</p>

<p>&#8220;No,&#8221; replied the other, &#8220;from your
son&#8221;; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Pray, have you any commands for me, Captain
Dobbin, or, I beg your pardon, I should say <i>major</i>
Dobbin, since better men than you are dead, and you
step into their <i>shoes</i>?&#8221; said Mr. Osborne,
in that sarcastic tone which he sometimes was pleased
to assume.</p>

<p>&#8220;Better men <i>are</i> dead,&#8221; Dobbin replied.
 &#8220;I want to speak to you about one.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Make it short, sir,&#8221; said the other with
an oath, scowling at his visitor.</p>

<p>&#8220;I am here as his closest friend,&#8221; the
Major resumed, &#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I don&#8217;t know his widow, sir,&#8221; Osborne
said.  &#8220;Let her go back to her father.&#8221;
But the gentleman whom he addressed was determined
to remain in good temper, and went on without heeding
the interruption.</p>

<p>&#8220;Do you know, sir, Mrs. Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;s offence upon the child&#8217;s
head? or will you forgive the child for poor George&#8217;s
sake?&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s wife.
 &#8220;And that&#8217;s what you may tell her,&#8221;
he concluded with an oath; &#8220;and that&#8217;s
what I will stick to to the last day of my life.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;I might tell her, and
she would not heed it,&#8221; thought Dobbin, sadly:
for the poor girl&#8217;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.</p>

<p>So, indeed, were even friendship and kindness.  She
received them both uncomplainingly, and having accepted
them, relapsed into her grief.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Our friend Dobbin was one of them.  It was he who
brought her back to England and to her mother&#8217;s
house; when Mrs. O&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s marvellous
care has awarded to the female instinct-- joys how
far higher and lower than reason--blind beautiful devotions
which only women&#8217;s hearts know.  It was William
Dobbin&#8217;s task to muse upon these movements of
Amelia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>I suppose Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;
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.</p>

<p>The child was asleep.  &#8220;Hush,&#8221; said Amelia,
annoyed, perhaps, at the creaking of the Major&#8217;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.  &#8220;Go downstairs, little
Mary,&#8221; said he presently to the child, &#8220;I
want to speak to Mrs. Osborne.&#8221; She looked up
rather astonished, and laid down the infant on its
bed.</p>

<p>&#8220;I am come to say good-bye, Amelia,&#8221; said
he, taking her slender little white hand gently.</p>

<p>&#8220;Good-bye? and where are you going?&#8221; she
said, with a smile.</p>

<p>&#8220;Send the letters to the agents,&#8221; he said;
&#8220;they will forward them; for you will write
to me, won&#8217;t you? I shall be away a long time.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ll write to you about Georgy,&#8221;
she said.  &#8220;Dear&#8217; William, how good you
have been to him and to me.  Look at him.  Isn&#8217;t
he like an angel?&#8221;</p>

<p>The little pink hands of the child closed mechanically
round the honest soldier&#8217;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.  &#8220;God
bless you,&#8221; said Amelia, and held up her face
and kissed him.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hush!  Don&#8217;t wake Georgy!&#8221; 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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXXVI</h3>

<h4 align="center">How to Live Well on Nothing a Year</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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.&#8217;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?</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8221; is here introduced to personify the
world in general--the Mrs. Grundy of each respected
reader&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s chief society.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>The truth is, when we say of a gentleman that he lives
elegantly on nothing a year, we use the word &#8220;nothing&#8221;
to signify something unknown; meaning, simply, that
we don&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Though Frascati&#8217;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&#8217;s charming
little reunions of an evening this fatal amusement
commonly was practised--much to good-natured little
Mrs. Crawley&#8217;s annoyance. She spoke about her
husband&#8217;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&#8217;s was child&#8217;s
play.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd snapped her fingers in Mrs. Crawley&#8217;s
face and called her husband &#8220;no betther than
a black-leg.&#8221; Colonel Crawley challenged Colonel
O&#8217;Dowd, C.B.  The Commander-in-Chief hearing
of the dispute sent for Colonel Crawley, who was getting
ready the same pistols &#8220;which he shot Captain
Marker,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>But, in spite of Rawdon&#8217;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.  &#8220;Gambling,&#8221;
she would say, &#8220;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?&#8221; Rawdon
acquiesced in the justice of her opinion; and in truth
he had remarked that after a few nights of his little
suppers, &#38;c., gentlemen were tired of play with him,
and, in spite of Rebecca&#8217;s charms, did not present
themselves very eagerly.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;,
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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <i>serréd</i> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s wife, his nurse.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s caresses
to his mamma&#8217;s, and when finally he quitted that
jolly nurse and almost parent, he cried loudly for
hours.  He was only consoled by his mother&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;
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&#8217;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&#8217;s wife, who had nursed
madame&#8217;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.
 &#8220;Ah, Monsieur!&#8221; he would add--"ils m&#8217;ont
affreusement vole.&#8221; It was melancholy to hear
his accents as he spoke of that catastrophe.</p>

<p>Rebecca&#8217;s object in her journey to London was
to effect a kind of compromise with her husband&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s creditors
unanimously to accept her proposals, and purchased
with fifteen hundred pounds of ready money more than
ten times that amount of debts.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXXVII</h3>

<h4 align="center">The Subject Continued</h4>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Before Mr. Bowls came to preside over Miss Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
pantry.  When he had been a certain number of years
at the head of Miss Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;s, who had subsisted
in an honourable manner by the exercise of a mangle,
and the keeping of a small greengrocer&#8217;s shop
in the neighbourhood.  The truth is, that the ceremony
had been clandestinely performed some years back; although
the news of Mr. Raggles&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s, Sugar-cane Lodge, and little
Matilda to Miss Peckover&#8217;s, Laurentinum House,
Clapham.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Lodge at Queen&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>As luck would have it, Raggles&#8217; 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&#8217;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&#8217;s defective
capital.</p>

<p>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&#8217;t get his money for powdering
the footmen&#8217;s heads; or a poor carpenter who
has ruined himself by fixing up ornaments and pavilions
for my lady&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Rawdon and his wife generously gave their patronage
to all such of Miss Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s table than at honest Rawdon&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Rebecca&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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 &#8220;society,&#8221; than the benighted
squire&#8217;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 &#8220;society.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s side at Brussels,
met Mrs. Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;You can&#8217;t shoot me into society,&#8221;
she said good-naturedly.  &#8220;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 <i>Ste</i>.  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&#8217;t get us your
aunt&#8217;s money; and it is much better that we
should be friends with your brother&#8217;s family
than enemies, as those foolish Butes are.  When your
father dies, Queen&#8217;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&#8217;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?&#8221; Rawdon was obliged
to confess that he owed all these benefits to his wife,
and to trust himself to her guidance for the future.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s own handwriting.
 She, too, begged to join in her husband&#8217;s congratulations.
 She should ever remember Mr. Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Pitt Crawley received this communication very graciously--more
graciously than Miss Crawley had received some of Rebecca&#8217;s
previous compositions in Rawdon&#8217;s handwriting;
and as for Lady Jane, she was so charmed with the
letter that she expected her husband would instantly
divide his aunt&#8217;s legacy into two equal portions
and send off one-half to his brother at Paris.</p>

<p>To her Ladyship&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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. &#8220;When Lady
Jane comes,&#8221; thought she, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Rawdon,&#8221; 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):  &#8220;I must have a sheep-dog.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A what?&#8221; said Rawdon, looking up from
an ecarte table.</p>

<p>&#8220;A sheep-dog!&#8221; said young Lord Southdown.
 &#8220;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&#8217;s
snuff-boxes? There&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I mark the trick,&#8221; Rawdon gravely said.
 He attended to his game commonly and didn&#8217;t
much meddle with the conversation, except when it
was about horses and betting.</p>

<p>&#8220;What <i>can</i> you want with a shepherd&#8217;s
dog?&#8221; the lively little Southdown continued.</p>

<p>&#8220;I mean a <i>moral</i> shepherd&#8217;s dog,&#8221;
said Becky, laughing and looking up at Lord Steyne.</p>

<p>&#8220;What the devil&#8217;s that?&#8221; said his
Lordship.</p>

<p>&#8220;A dog to keep the wolves off me,&#8221; Rebecca
continued. &#8220;A companion.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Dear little innocent lamb, you want one,&#8221;
said the marquis; and his jaw thrust out, and he began
to grin hideously, his little eyes leering towards
Rebecca.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>The candles lighted up Lord Steyne&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;And so the shepherd is not enough,&#8221; said
he, &#8220;to defend his lambkin?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;The shepherd is too fond of playing at cards
and going to his clubs,&#8221; answered Becky, laughing.</p>

<p>&#8220;&#8217;Gad, what a debauched Corydon!&#8221;
said my lord--"what a mouth for a pipe!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I take your three to two,&#8221; here said
Rawdon, at the card-table.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hark at Meliboeus,&#8221; snarled the noble
marquis; &#8220;he&#8217;s pastorally occupied too:
 he&#8217;s shearing a Southdown. What an innocent
mutton, hey? Damme, what a snowy fleece!&#8221;</p>

<p>Rebecca&#8217;s eyes shot out gleams of scornful humour.
&#8220;My lord,&#8221; she said, &#8220;you are a
knight of the Order.&#8221; He had the collar round
his neck, indeed--a gift of the restored princes of
Spain.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>She rose up from her sofa and went and took his coffee
cup out of his hand with a little curtsey.  &#8220;Yes,&#8221;
she said, &#8220;I must get a watchdog.  But he won&#8217;t
bark at <i>you</i>. 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;How is Mrs. Crawley&#8217;s husband?&#8221;
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&#8217;s husband.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;It&#8217;s
my cherub crying for his nurse,&#8221; she said.  She
did not offer to move to go and see the child.  &#8220;Don&#8217;t
agitate your feelings by going to look for him,&#8221;
said Lord Steyne sardonically. &#8220;Bah!&#8221;
replied the other, with a sort of blush, &#8220;he&#8217;ll
cry himself to sleep&#8221;; and they fell to talking
about the opera.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s skull so violently against
the ceiling that he almost dropped the child, so terrified
was he at the disaster.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;For God&#8217;s sake, Rawdy, don&#8217;t wake
Mamma,&#8221; he cried.  And the child, looking in
a very hard and piteous way at his father, bit his
lips, clenched his hands, and didn&#8217;t cry a bit.
 Rawdon told that story at  the clubs, at the mess,
to everybody in town.  &#8220;By Gad, sir,&#8221; he
explained to the public in general, &#8220;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&#8217;t cry for fear of disturbing his
mother.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.
&#8220;Hang it, I ain&#8217;t clever enough for her--I
know it.  She won&#8217;t miss me,&#8221; he used
to say:  and he was right, his wife did not miss him.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;Hang it, you know she&#8217;s so
clever,&#8221; he said, &#8220;and I&#8217;m not literary
and that, you know.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Don&#8217;t
stay and stupefy yourself at home to-night, my dear,&#8221;
she would say.  &#8220;Some men are coming who will
only bore you. I would not ask them, but you know
it&#8217;s for your good, and now I have a sheep-dog,
I need not be afraid to be alone.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A sheep-dog--a companion!  Becky Sharp with
a companion!  Isn&#8217;t it good fun?&#8221; thought
Mrs. Crawley to herself.  The notion tickled hugely
her sense of humour.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Good morning, your Honour,&#8221; said Clink,
in reply to the &#8220;How do, Clink?&#8221; of the
Colonel.  &#8220;This ere young gentleman is about
the little Colonel&#8217;s age, sir,&#8221; continued
the corporal.</p>

<p>&#8220;His father was a Waterloo man, too,&#8221;
said the old gentleman, who carried the boy.  &#8220;Wasn&#8217;t
he, Georgy?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;In a line regiment,&#8221; Clink said with
a patronizing air.</p>

<p>&#8220;He was a Captain in the --th regiment,&#8221;
said the old gentleman rather pompously.  &#8220;Captain
George Osborne, sir--perhaps you knew him.  He died
the death of a hero, sir, fighting against the Corsican
tyrant.&#8221; Colonel Crawley blushed quite red. 
&#8220;I knew him very well, sir,&#8221; he said,
&#8220;and his wife, his dear little wife, sir-- how
is she?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She is my daughter, sir,&#8221; 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--</p>

<p>&#8220;Mr. Sedley, Sole Agent for the Black Diamond
and Anti-Cinder Coal Association, Bunker&#8217;s Wharf,
Thames Street, and Anna-Maria Cottages, Fulham Road
West.&#8221;</p>

<p>Little Georgy went up and looked at the Shetland pony.</p>

<p>&#8220;Should you like to have a ride?&#8221; said
Rawdon minor from the saddle.</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Take hold of him, Georgy,&#8221; he said--"take
my little boy round the waist--his name is Rawdon.&#8221;
And both the children began to laugh.</p>

<p>&#8220;You won&#8217;t see a prettier pair I think,
<i>this</i> summer&#8217;s day, sir,&#8221; said the
good-natured Corporal; and the Colonel, the Corporal,
and old Mr. Sedley with his umbrella, walked by the
side of the children.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXXVIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">A Family in a Very Small Way</h4>

<p>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:</p>

<p>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&#8217;s sentiments and proceedings that it was
clear he must have been by the conqueror&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Jos&#8217;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&#8217;s speculations in life subsequent to his
bankruptcy did not by any means retrieve the broken
old gentleman&#8217;s fortune.  He tried to be a wine-merchant,
a coal-merchant, a commission lottery agent, &#38;c.,
&#38;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.
 &#8220;I was better off once, sir,&#8221; he did
not fail to tell everybody who &#8220;used the room.&#8221;
&#8220;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&#8217;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.&#8221; 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 &#8220;Poor devil, what imprudences
he has committed, what chances that chap has thrown
away!&#8221; Well, well--a carriage and three thousand
a year is not the summit of the reward nor the end
of God&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Had Mrs. Sedley been a woman of energy, she would
have exerted it after her husband&#8217;s ruin and,
occupying a large house, would have taken in boarders.
 The broken Sedley would have acted well as the boarding-house
landlady&#8217;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
&#8220;a few select inmates to join a cheerful musical
family,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>I don&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s lady, drove by
in her husband&#8217;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&#8217;s boy;
and made visitations to the butcher, who sold hundreds
of oxen very likely with less ado than was made about
Mrs. Sedley&#8217;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&#8217;s Sermons in the evening.</p>

<p>On that day, for &#8220;business&#8221; prevented
him on weekdays from taking such a pleasure, it was
old Sedley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Between Mrs. Sedley and her daughter there was a sort
of coolness about this boy, and a secret jealousy--for
one evening in George&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s arms and
then grasped at the bottle, leaving the old lady gaping
at her, furious, and holding the guilty tea-spoon.</p>

<p>Amelia flung the bottle crashing into the fire-place.
&#8220;I will <i>not</i> have baby poisoned, Mamma,&#8221;
cried Emmy, rocking the infant about violently with
both her arms round him and turning with flashing
eyes at her mother.</p>

<p>&#8220;Poisoned, Amelia!&#8221; said the old lady;
&#8220;this language to me?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He shall not have any medicine but that which
Mr. Pestler sends for hi n.  He told me that Daffy&#8217;s
Elixir was poison.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Very good:  you think I&#8217;m a murderess
then,&#8221; replied Mrs. Sedley. &#8220;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 <i>news</i>.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Mamma,&#8221; said the poor girl, who was always
ready for tears--"you shouldn&#8217;t be hard upon
me.  I--I didn&#8217;t mean--I mean, I did not wish
to say you would to any wrong to this dear child, only--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, no, my love,--only that I was a murderess;
in which case I had better go to the Old Bailey. 
Though I didn&#8217;t poison <i>you</i>, when you were
a child, but gave you the best of education and the
most expensive masters money could procure.  Yes;
I&#8217;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&#8217;m
a murderess.  Ah, Mrs. Osborne! may <i>you</i> never
nourish a viper in your bosom, that&#8217;s <i>my</i>
prayer.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Mamma, Mamma!&#8221; cried the bewildered girl;
and the child in her arms set up a frantic chorus
of shouts. &#8220;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.&#8221;
And Mrs. Sedley tossed out of the room, hissing out
the word poison once more, and so ending her charitable
benediction.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
health, she referred them pointedly to Mrs. Osborne.
 <i>She</i> never ventured to ask whether the baby was
well or not.  <i>She</i> would not touch the child although
he was her grandson, and own precious darling, for
she was not <i>used</i> 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>In this room was all Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Perhaps the doctor&#8217;s lady had good reason for
her jealousy:  most women shared it, of those who
formed the small circle of Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s sake.</p>

<p>Again, there was the little French chevalier opposite,
who gave lessons in his native tongue at various schools
in the neighbourhood, and who might be heard in his
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.</p>

<p>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? &#8220;There is nothing
in her, Beilby,&#8221; the latter lady would say.
 &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>Very likely Miss Binny was right to a great extent.
 It <i>is</i> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s savings.</p>

<p>Besides her pension of fifty pounds a year, there
had been five hundred pounds, as her husband&#8217;s
executor stated, left in the agent&#8217;s hands at
the time of Osborne&#8217;s demise, which sum, as
George&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
nearest friend, he demanded with a high hand a statement
of the late Captain&#8217;s accounts.  Dobbin&#8217;s
stammering, blushing, and awkwardness added to the
other&#8217;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&#8217;s money.</p>

<p>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&#8217;
Coffee-house, in a box of which place of entertainment
the gentlemen had their colloquy.  &#8220;Come upstairs,
sir,&#8221; lisped out the Major.  &#8220;I insist
on your coming up the stairs, and I will show which
is the injured party, poor George or I&#8221;; and,
dragging the old gentleman up to his bedroom, he produced
from his desk Osborne&#8217;s accounts, and a bundle
of IOU&#8217;s which the latter had given, who, to
do him justice, was always ready to give an IOU.  &#8220;He
paid his bills in England,&#8221; Dobbin added, &#8220;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Mrs. Mango&#8217;s
own set at the Pineries was not so fine,&#8221; Mr.
Pestler remarked.  These chess-men were the delight
of Georgy&#8217;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&#8217;s, too, became prettily her
modest black gown.  &#8220;What a pity it is she won&#8217;t
think of him!&#8221; Mrs. Sedley remarked to Mrs.
Clapp and to all her friends of Brompton.  &#8220;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&#8217;m sick of that miniature.  I wish we had never
seen  those odious purse-proud Osbornes.&#8221;</p>

<p>Amidst such humble scenes and associates George&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s pride, and perhaps thought they were
not wrong.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s education, which would fall heavily upon
his mother&#8217;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&#8217;s sixth birthday a gentleman in
a gig, accompanied by a servant, drove up to Mr. Sedley&#8217;s
house and asked to see Master George Osborne:  it
was Mr. Woolsey, military tailor, of Conduit Street,
who came at the Major&#8217;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&#8217;s
father. Sometimes, too, and by the Major&#8217;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.</p>

<p>One day they kindly came over to Amelia with news
which they were <i>sure</i> would delight her--something
<i>very</i> interesting about their dear William.</p>

<p>&#8220;What was it:  was he coming home?&#8221; she
asked with pleasure beaming in her eyes.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s--to Miss Glorvina O&#8217;Dowd, Sir
Michael O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;s sister, who had gone
out to join Lady O&#8217;Dowd at Madras--a very beautiful
and accomplished girl, everybody said.&#8221;</p>

<p>Amelia said &#8220;Oh!&#8221; Amelia was very <i>very</i>
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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XXXIX</h3>

<h4 align="center">A Cynical Chapter</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;At least the money will remain in the
family,&#8221; she said charitably.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Corner.  Fanny
and Matilda sang duets together, Mamma playing the
piano, and the other two sisters sitting with their
arms round each other&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;s carriage-wheels since Pitt
and Lady Jane came to pay their visit of duty after
their marriage.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
reception of his son and daughter-in-law were ever
known at all.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Crawley
and his bride into the halls of their fathers.  He
led the way into Sir Pitt&#8217;s &#8220;Library,&#8221;
as it was called, the fumes of tobacco growing stronger
as Pitt and Lady Jane approached that apartment, &#8220;Sir
Pitt ain&#8217;t very well,&#8221; Horrocks remarked
apologetically and hinted that his master was afflicted
with lumbago.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s servant,
who seemed to be about to take the baggage down.</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t move none of them trunks,&#8221;
he cried, pointing with a pipe which he held in his
hand.  &#8220;It&#8217;s only a morning visit, Tucker,
you fool.  Lor, what cracks that off hoss has in his
heels!  Ain&#8217;t there no one at the King&#8217;s
Head to rub &#8217;em a little? How do, Pitt? How do,
my dear? Come to see the old man, hay? &#8217;Gad--you&#8217;ve
a pretty face, too. You ain&#8217;t like that old
horse-godmother, your mother. Come and give old Pitt
a kiss, like a good little gal.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Pitt has got vat,&#8221; said the Baronet,
after this mark of affection. &#8220;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&#8217;t stand stearing there like a fat pig.
 I won&#8217;t ask you to stop, my dear; you&#8217;ll
find it too stoopid, and so should I too along a Pitt.
 I&#8217;m an old man now, and like my own ways, and
my pipe and backgammon of a night.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I can play at backgammon, sir,&#8221; said
Lady Jane, laughing.  &#8220;I used to play with Papa
and Miss Crawley, didn&#8217;t I, Mr. Crawley?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Lady Jane can play, sir, at the game to which
you state that you are so partial,&#8221; Pitt said
haughtily.</p>

<p>But she wawn&#8217;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&#8217;ll be charmed to see you, you know; he&#8217;s
so much obliged to you for gettin&#8217; the old woman&#8217;s
money.  Ha, ha! Some of it will do to patch up the
Hall when I&#8217;m gone.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I perceive, sir,&#8221; said Pitt with a heightened
voice, &#8220;that your people will cut down the timber.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Yees, yees, very fine weather, and seasonable
for the time of year,&#8221; Sir Pitt answered, who
had suddenly grown deaf.  &#8220;But I&#8217;m gittin&#8217;
old, Pitt, now.  Law bless you, you ain&#8217;t far
from fifty yourself.  But he wears well, my pretty
Lady Jane, don&#8217;t he? It&#8217;s all godliness,
sobriety, and a moral life.  Look at me, I&#8217;m
not very fur from fowr-score--he, he&#8221;; and he
laughed, and took snuff, and leered at her and pinched
her hand.</p>

<p>Pitt once more brought the conversation back to the
timber, but the Baronet was deaf again in an instant.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m gittin&#8217; very old, and have
been cruel bad this year with the lumbago.  I shan&#8217;t
be here now for long; but I&#8217;m glad ee&#8217;ve
come, daughter-in-law.  I like your face, Lady Jane:
 it&#8217;s got none of the damned high-boned Binkie
look in it; and I&#8217;ll give ee something pretty,
my dear, to go to Court in.&#8221; And he shuffled
across the room to a cupboard, from which he took
a little old case containing jewels of some value.
 &#8220;Take that,&#8221; said he, &#8220;my dear;
it belonged to my mother, and afterwards to the first
Lady Binkie. Pretty pearls--never gave &#8217;em the
ironmonger&#8217;s daughter. No, no.  Take &#8217;em
and put &#8217;em up quick,&#8221; said he, thrusting
the case into his daughter&#8217;s hand, and clapping
the door of the cabinet to, as Horrocks entered with
a salver and refreshments.</p>

<p>&#8220;What have you a been and given Pitt&#8217;s
wife?&#8221; said the individual in ribbons, when
Pitt and Lady Jane had taken leave of the old gentleman.
 It was Miss Horrocks, the butler&#8217;s daughter--the
cause of the scandal throughout the county--the lady
who reigned now almost supreme at Queen&#8217;s Crawley.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s rose-garden became the
dreariest wilderness.  Only two or three domestics
shuddered in the bleak old servants&#8217; 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 &#8220;Sir.&#8221; It may have
been shame, or it may have been dislike of his neighbours,
but the old Cynic of Queen&#8217;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&#8217;s
room, which commanded the back entrance by which they
were admitted; and so the Baronet&#8217;s daily perplexities
increased, and his embarrassments multiplied round
him.</p>

<p>The horror of Pitt Crawley may be imagined, as these
reports of his father&#8217;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&#8217;s name was never mentioned
in Pitt&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s tracts; and he laughed at
his sons, and at the world, and at the Ribbons when
she was angry, which was not seldom.</p>

<p>Miss Horrocks was installed as housekeeper at Queen&#8217;s
Crawley, and ruled all the domestics there with great
majesty and rigour.  All the servants were instructed
to address her as &#8220;Mum,&#8221; or &#8220;Madam"--
and there was one little maid, on her promotion, who
persisted in calling her &#8220;My Lady,&#8221; without
any rebuke on the part of the housekeeper.  &#8220;There
has been better ladies, and there has been worser,
Hester,&#8221; was Miss Horrocks&#8217; 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 &#8220;as
was to be a Baronet&#8217;s lady.&#8221; 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&#8217;s court-dresses, swearing (entirely to
Miss Horrocks&#8217; 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&#8217;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, &#38;c.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>One day the Baronet surprised &#8220;her ladyship,&#8221;
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&#8217;s side, quite delighted during the
operation, and wagging her head up and down and crying,
&#8220;Lor, Mum, &#8217;tis bittiful"--just like a
genteel sycophant in a real drawing-room.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
carouse, and through that apartment into Sir Pitt&#8217;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&#8217;s
eyes flashed out at her from under her black calash.</p>

<p>&#8220;Look at that, James and Mr. Crawley,&#8221;
cried Mrs. Bute, pointing at the scared figure of
the black-eyed, guilty wench.</p>

<p>&#8220;He gave &#8217;em me; he gave &#8217;em me!&#8221;
she cried.</p>

<p>&#8220;Gave them you, you abandoned creature!&#8221;
screamed Mrs. Bute.  &#8220;Bear witness, Mr. Crawley,
we found this good-for-nothing woman in the act of
stealing your brother&#8217;s property; and she will
be hanged, as I always said she would.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Ring the bell, James,&#8221; Mrs. Bute said.
 &#8220;Go on ringing it till the people come.&#8221;
The three or four domestics resident in the deserted
old house came presently at that jangling and continued
summons.</p>

<p>&#8220;Put that woman in the strong-room,&#8221; she
said.  &#8220;We caught her in the act of robbing
Sir Pitt.  Mr. Crawley, you&#8217;ll make out her
committal--and, Beddoes, you&#8217;ll drive her over
in the spring cart, in the morning, to Southampton
Gaol.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My dear,&#8221; interposed the Magistrate and
Rector--"she&#8217;s only--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Are there no handcuffs?&#8221; Mrs. Bute continued,
stamping in her clogs.  &#8220;There used to be handcuffs.
Where&#8217;s the creature&#8217;s abominable father?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He <i>did</i> give &#8217;em me,&#8221; still
cried poor Betsy; &#8220;didn&#8217;t he, Hester?
You saw Sir Pitt--you know you did--give &#8217;em
me, ever so long ago-- the day after Mudbury fair:
 not that I want &#8217;em.  Take &#8217;em if you
think they ain&#8217;t mine.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Law, Betsy, how could you go for to tell such
a wicked story!&#8221; said Hester, the little kitchen-maid
late on her promotion--"and to Madame Crawley, so
good and kind, and his Rev&#8217;rince (with a curtsey),
and you may search all <i>my</i> boxes, Mum, I&#8217;m
sure, and here&#8217;s my keys as I&#8217;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 <i>you&#8217;ve</i>
had the picking of, may I never go to church agin.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Give up your keys, you hardened hussy,&#8221;
hissed out the virtuous little lady in the calash.</p>

<p>&#8220;And here&#8217;s a candle, Mum, and if you
please, Mum, I can show you her room, Mum, and the
press in the housekeeper&#8217;s room, Mum, where
she keeps heaps and heaps of things, Mum,&#8221; cried
out the eager little Hester with a profusion of curtseys.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;t you lose sight of that woman,&#8221;
said Mrs. Bute, seizing the candle.  &#8220;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>With the early morning an express was sent off to
Mr. Pitt Crawley by the Rector&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
Crawley.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XL</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Becky Is Recognized by the Family</h4>

<p>The heir of Crawley arrived at home, in due time,
after this catastrophe, and henceforth may be said
to have reigned in Queen&#8217;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&#8217;s Crawley, whither Lady Southdown,
of course, came too; and she set about converting the
parish under the Rector&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Mrs. Bute&#8217;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&#8217;s
Crawley.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s multifarious business,
her conferences with ministers, and her correspondence
with all the missionaries of Africa, Asia, aud Australasia,
&#38;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s drink simmering
in the jug; they read the weekly paper the whole week
through; and Law&#8217;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&#8217;s
love is there that would stand a year&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s effects
to Queen&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;Hold your tongue, you stoopid
old fool,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>At last a day came when the nurse&#8217;s occupation
was over.  Early one morning, as Pitt Crawley was
at his steward&#8217;s and bailiff&#8217;s books in
the study, a knock came to the door, and Hester presented
herself, dropping a curtsey, and said,</p>

<p>&#8220;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--&#8221;
She dropped another curtsey.</p>

<p>What was it that made Pitt&#8217;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? &#8220;I&#8217;ll clear the estate now
with the ready money,&#8221; he thought and rapidly
calculated its incumbrances and the improvements which
he would make.  He would not use his aunt&#8217;s
money previously lest Sir Pitt should recover and his
outlay be in vain.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;
mild beer.</p>

<p>&#8220;Shall I write to your brother--or will you?&#8221;
asked Lady Jane of her husband, Sir Pitt.</p>

<p>&#8220;I will write, of course,&#8221; Sir Pitt said,
&#8220;and invite him to the funeral:  it will be
but becoming.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And--and--Mrs. Rawdon,&#8221; said Lady Jane
timidly.</p>

<p>&#8220;Jane!&#8221; said Lady Southdown, &#8220;how
can you think of such a thing?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Mrs. Rawdon must of course be asked,&#8221;
said Sir Pitt, resolutely.</p>

<p>&#8220;Not whilst I am in the house!&#8221; said Lady
Southdown.</p>

<p>&#8220;Your Ladyship will be pleased to recollect
that I am the head of this family,&#8221; Sir Pitt
replied.  &#8220;If you please, Lady Jane, you will
write a letter to Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, requesting her
presence upon this melancholy occasion.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Jane, I forbid you to put pen to paper!&#8221;
cried the Countess.</p>

<p>&#8220;I believe I am the head of this family,&#8221;
Sir Pitt repeated; &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;We don&#8217;t turn you out of our house, Mamma,&#8221;
said the timid Lady Jane imploringly.</p>

<p>&#8220;You invite such company to it as no Christian
lady should meet, and I will have my horses to-morrow
morning.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Have the goodness to write, Jane, under my
dictation,&#8221; said Sir Pitt, rising and throwing
himself into an attitude of command, like the portrait
of a Gentleman in the Exhibition, &#8220;and begin.
 &#8217;Queen&#8217;s Crawley, September 14, 1822.--My
dear brother--&#8217;&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;She won&#8217;t go away,&#8221; he said.  &#8220;She
has let her house at Brighton and has spent her last
half-year&#8217;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.  &#8217;My
dear brother, the melancholy intelligence which it
is my duty to convey to my family must have been long
anticipated by,&#8217;&#8221; &#38;c.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
order.  &#8220;What an orator this will be,&#8221;
thought she, &#8220;when he enters the House of Commons&#8221;
(on which point, and on the tyranny of Lady Southdown,
Pitt had sometimes dropped hints to his wife in bed);
&#8220;how wise and good, and what a genius my husband
is!  I fancied him a little cold; but how good, and
what a genius!&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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. &#8220;What&#8217;s
the use of going down to that stupid place?&#8221;
thought he.  &#8220;I can&#8217;t stand being alone
with Pitt after dinner, and horses there and back
will cost us twenty pound.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;Hurray!&#8221; and waving the note round
her head.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hurray?&#8221; said Rawdon, wondering at the
little figure capering about in a streaming flannel
dressing-gown, with tawny locks dishevelled. &#8220;He&#8217;s
not left us anything, Becky.  I had my share when I
came of age.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;ll never be of age, you silly old
man,&#8221; Becky replied.  &#8220;Run out now to
Madam Brunoy&#8217;s, for I must have some mourning:
 and get a crape on your hat, and a black waistcoat--I
don&#8217;t think you&#8217;ve got one; order it to
be brought home to-morrow, so that we may be able
to start on Thursday.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You don&#8217;t mean to go?&#8221; Rawdon interposed.</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Posting will cost a dooce of a lot of money,&#8221;
grumbled Rawdon.</p>

<p>&#8220;We might take Southdown&#8217;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&#8217;ll like it better.  It seems
more humble--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Rawdy goes, of course?&#8221; the Colonel asked.</p>

<p>&#8220;No such thing; why pay an extra place? He&#8217;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&#8217;ll tell this
to Raggles, who has been pressing for money, and it
will console poor Raggles.&#8221; And so Becky began
sipping her chocolate.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Miss Briggs and I are plunged in grief and
despondency for the death of our Papa,&#8221; Rebecca
said.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, Rebecca, how can you--&#8221; was all that
Briggs could say as she turned up her eyes.</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, Rebecca, how can you--&#8221; echoed my
Lord.  &#8220;So that old scoundrel&#8217;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!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I might have been Silenus&#8217;s widow,&#8221;
said Rebecca. &#8220;Don&#8217;t you remember, Miss
Briggs, how you peeped in at the door and saw old Sir
Pitt on his knees to me?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s faithful retainer a score of years)
made no objection to that exercise of the dowager&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
friends, small tradesmen, in a country town, quarrelled
over Miss Briggs&#8217;s forty pounds a year as eagerly
and more openly than Miss Crawley&#8217;s kinsfolk
had for that lady&#8217;s inheritance.  Briggs&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;Gentlewoman
of agreeable manners, and accustomed to the best society,
was anxious to,&#8221; &#38;c., she took up her residence
with Mr. Bowls in Half Moon Street, and waited the
result of the advertisement.</p>

<p>So it was that she fell in with Rebecca.  Mrs. Rawdon&#8217;s
dashing little carriage and ponies was whirling down
the street one day, just as Miss Briggs, fatigued,
had reached Mr. Bowls&#8217;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&#8217;s
hands, before she of the agreeable manners had recovered
from the shock of seeing an old friend.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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 &#8220;Apartments
to Let.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s account of the Colonel&#8217;s
menage.  &#8220;I wouldn&#8217;t trust him, Ragg,
my boy,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
dear little darling Rawdon.</p>

<p>Mrs. Bowls cautioned her lodger against venturing
into the lion&#8217;s den, &#8220;wherein you will
rue it, Miss B., mark my words, and as sure as my
name is Bowls.&#8221; 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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XLI</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Becky Revisits the Halls of Her Ancestors</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;It&#8217;s
the old drag, Rawdon,&#8221; Rebecca said as they
got in.  &#8220;The worms have eaten the cloth a good
deal-- there&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Fine gal,&#8221; 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?</p>

<p>&#8220;Your sisters must be young women now,&#8221;
Rebecca said, thinking of those girls for the first
time perhaps since she had left them.</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t know, I&#8217;m shaw,&#8221; replied
the Colonel.  &#8220;Hullo! here&#8217;s old Mother
Lock.  How-dy-do, Mrs. Lock? Remember me, don&#8217;t
you? Master Rawdon, hey? Dammy how those old women
last; she was a hundred when I was a boy.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;The governor has cut into the timber,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s head like an undertaker&#8217;s
tray.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s part, twirled up his mustachios and
took leave to salute Lady Jane with a kiss, which caused
her Ladyship to blush exceedingly.</p>

<p>&#8220;Dev&#8217;lish nice little woman, Lady Jane,&#8221;
was his verdict, when he and his wife were together
again.  &#8220;Pitt&#8217;s got fat, too, and is doing
the thing handsomely.&#8221; &#8220;He can afford it,&#8221;
said Rebecca and agreed in her husband&#8217;s farther
opinion &#8220;that the mother-in-law was a tremendous
old Guy--and that the sisters were rather well-looking
young women.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s family, and
the special retainers of both Hall and Rectory were
habited in sable; added to these, the undertaker&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;She&#8217;s hardly changed since eight years,&#8221;
said Miss Rosalind to Miss Violet, as they were preparing
for dinner.</p>

<p>&#8220;Those red-haired women look wonderfully well,&#8221;
replied the other.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hers is much darker than it was; I think she
must dye it,&#8221; Miss Rosalind added.  &#8220;She
is stouter, too, and altogether improved,&#8221; continued
Miss Rosalind, who was disposed to be very fat.</p>

<p>&#8220;At least she gives herself no airs and remembers
that she was our Governess once,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It can&#8217;t be true what the girls at the
Rectory said, that her mother was an opera-dancer--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A person can&#8217;t help their birth,&#8221;
Rosalind replied with great liberality.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I wonder whether Lady Southdown will go away,
she looked very glum upon Mrs. Rawdon,&#8221; the
other said.</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish she would.  I won&#8217;t read the Washerwoman
of Finchley Common,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s regency,
and here beholding that Mrs. Rawdon&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What I should like best,&#8221; said Rebecca,
&#8220;would be to go to the nursery and see your
dear little children.&#8221; On which the two ladies
looked very kindly at each other and went to that apartment
hand in hand.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish Mamma would not insist on giving him
so much medicine,&#8221; Lady Jane said with a sigh.
 &#8220;I often think we should all be better without
it.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>And so having easily won the daughter&#8217;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.</p>

<p>But she crowned all, and confirmed herself in Lady
Southdown&#8217;s favour, by feeling very much agitated
and unwell after the funeral and requesting her Ladyship&#8217;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&#8217;s
room with a parcel of favourite tracts, and a medicine
of her own composition, which she insisted that Mrs.
Rawdon should take.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s nose, who left her
victim finally with a benediction.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s own Roman nose
through which she snuffled. &#8220;Give us Lady Southdown
and the black dose,&#8221; was a constant cry amongst
the folks in Becky&#8217;s little drawing-room in
May Fair.  And for the first time in her life the Dowager
Countess of Southdown was made amusing.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s own statements,
behaviour, and conversation.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s avarice--who hoped to
gain all Miss Crawley&#8217;s fortune and deprive Rawdon
of his aunt&#8217;s favour--which caused and invented
all the wicked reports against Rebecca.  &#8220;She
succeeded in making us poor,&#8221; Rebecca said with
an air of angelical patience; &#8220;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!&#8221; she cried.  &#8220;Dear
Lady Jane, what care we for poverty? I am used to
it from childhood, and I am often thankful that Miss
Crawley&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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,
&#8220;Ahem!  Rebecca, may I give you a wing?"--a
speech which made the little woman&#8217;s eyes sparkle
with pleasure.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s room for their
place of rendezvous when off duty, where they played
at cards in privacy and drank their beer.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s carriages at three miles
an hour, empty, and in profound affliction; the parson
speaking out the formula about &#8220;our dear brother
departed.&#8221; As long as we have a man&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217; hall at Queen&#8217;s Crawley,
the gentry&#8217;s carriages wheeled off to their different
destinations: then the undertaker&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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, &#38;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.  &#8220;I am very well,&#8221;
he wrote.  &#8220;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It isn&#8217;t difficult to be a country gentleman&#8217;s
wife,&#8221; Rebecca thought.  &#8220;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&#8217;s
worth of soup for the poor.  I shouldn&#8217;t miss
it much, out of five thousand a year.  I could even
drive out ten miles to dine at a neighbour&#8217;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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 <i>was</i> 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I have passed beyond it, because I have brains,&#8221;
Becky thought, &#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8221;; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>So Rebecca, during her stay at Queen&#8217;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 &#8220;honoured&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;How happy you will be to see your darling little
boy again!&#8221; Lady Crawley said, taking leave
of her kinswoman.</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh so happy!&#8221; said Rebecca, throwing
up the green eyes. She was immensely happy to be free
of the place, and yet loath to go. Queen&#8217;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.  &#8220;It is all the influence of a long course
of Three Per Cents,&#8221; Becky said to herself,
and was right very likely.</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XLII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Which Treats of the Osborne Family</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217; hall, was happy compared to that unfortunate
and now middle-aged young lady.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s part. George being dead and cut
out of his father&#8217;s will, Frederick insisted
that the half of the old gentleman&#8217;s property
should be settled upon his Maria, and indeed, for
a long time, refused, &#8220;to come to the scratch&#8221;
(it was Mr. Frederick&#8217;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.  &#8220;Fred might take it, and
welcome, or leave it, and go and be hanged.&#8221;
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&#8217;s, went
on &#8217;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.  &#8220;I always told
you, Maria, that it was your money he loved and not
you,&#8221; she said, soothingly.</p>

<p>&#8220;He selected me and my money at any rate; he
didn&#8217;t choose you and yours,&#8221; replied
Maria, tossing up her head.</p>

<p>The rapture was, however, only temporary.  Fred&#8217;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 &#8220;knuckled down,&#8221; 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 &#8220;nobs&#8221; at the West End. It was
something for the old man to be able to say, &#8220;My
son, sir, of the house of Hulker, Bullock, and Co.,
sir; my daughter&#8217;s cousin, Lady Mary Mango,
sir, daughter of the Right Hon.  The Earl of Castlemouldy.&#8221;
In his imagination he saw his house peopled by the
&#8220;nobs.&#8221; So he forgave young Bullock and
consented that the marriage should take place.</p>

<p>It was a grand affair--the bridegroom&#8217;s relatives
giving the breakfast, their habitations being near
St.  George&#8217;s, Hanover Square, where the business
took place.  The &#8220;nobs of the West End&#8221;
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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s diplomacy could repair,
and perilled her chance of her inheritance like a
giddy heedless creature as she was.</p>

<p>&#8220;So Russell Square is not good enough for Mrs.
Maria, hay?&#8221; said the old gentleman, rattling
up the carriage windows as he and his daughter drove
away one night from Mrs. Frederick Bullock&#8217;s,
after dinner.  &#8220;So she invites her father and
sister to a second day&#8217;s dinner (if those sides,
or ontrys, as she calls &#8217;em, weren&#8217;t served
yesterday, I&#8217;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
&#8217;em speak to a dam fiddler--a fellar I despise.
And they won&#8217;t come to Russell Square, won&#8217;t
they? Why, I&#8217;ll lay my life I&#8217;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!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Jane Osborne could not but concur in these opinions
respecting her sister&#8217;s conduct; and when Mrs.
Frederick&#8217;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.  &#8220;That&#8217;s
more than any of your Lords will give, <i>I&#8217;ll</i>
warrant,&#8221; he said and refused to attend at the
ceremony.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>One can fancy the pangs with which Miss Osborne in
her solitude in Russell Square read the Morning Post,
where her sister&#8217;s name occurred every now and
then, in the articles headed &#8220;Fashionable Reunions,&#8221;
and where she had an opportunity of reading a description
of Mrs. F.  Bullock&#8217;s costume, when presented
at the drawing room by Lady Frederica Bullock.  Jane&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>At five o&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;nobs
at the West End&#8221;; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; doctor.</p>

<p>I can&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.
 &#8220;Jane and I do not move in the same sphere
of life,&#8221; Mrs. Bullock said.  &#8220;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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;s little boy, still hoped that the
child&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd, as her wont
was--and did not mention Glorvina by name, and only
in italics, as the Major&#8217;s <i>bride</i>, 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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s father
had seen him.</p>

<p>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. &#8220;What&#8217;s
the matter, Miss Osborne?&#8221; he deigned to say.</p>

<p>The woman burst into tears.  &#8220;Oh, sir,&#8221;
she said, &#8220;I&#8217;ve seen little George.  He
is as beautiful as an angel--and so like him!&#8221;
The old man opposite to her did not say a word, but
flushed up and began to tremble in every limb.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XLIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which the Reader Has to Double the Cape</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
lady snapped her fingers in the Judge&#8217;s lady&#8217;s
face and said <i>she&#8217;d</i> never walk behind ever
a beggarly civilian.  Even now, though it is five-and-twenty
years ago, people remember Lady O&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Peggy O&#8217;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&#8217; and
Captains&#8217; 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&#8217;s
wife had no business to be a parson--that Mrs. Kirk
would be much better mending her husband&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Among other points, she had made up her mind that
Glorvina should marry our old friend Dobbin.  Mrs.
O&#8217;Dowd knew the Major&#8217;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&#8217;s happiness--much
more than that poor good little weak-spur&#8217;ted
Amelia, about whom he used to take on so.--"Look at
Glorvina enter a room,&#8221; Mrs. O&#8217;Dowd would
say, &#8220;and compare her with that poor Mrs. Osborne,
who couldn&#8217;t say boo to a goose.  She&#8217;d
be worthy of you, Major--you&#8217;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&#8217;s of an ancient
family that any nobleman might be proud to marry into.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;Grady
are the Misses O&#8217;Grady still:  Glorvina persisted
that but for Lady O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;s unlucky quarrel
with the Judge&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Well, although Lady O&#8217;Dowd and Glorvina quarrelled
a great number of times every day, and upon almost
every conceivable subject--indeed, if Mick O&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s sisters in
England should fancy they were about to have a sister-in-law.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s manifest attentions
to him. &#8220;Bah!&#8221; said he, &#8220;she is only
keeping her hand in--she practises upon me as she
does upon Mrs. Tozer&#8217;s piano, because it&#8217;s
the most handy instrument in the station.  I am much
too battered and old for such a fine young lady as
Glorvina.&#8221; 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&#8217;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.
 &#8220;Faith, the Major&#8217;s big enough to choose
for himself,&#8221; Sir Michael said; &#8220;he&#8217;ll
ask ye when he wants ye&#8221;; or else he would turn
the matter off jocularly, declaring that &#8220;Dobbin
was too young to keep house, and had written home
to ask lave of his mamma.&#8221; Nay, he went farther,
and in private communications with his Major would
caution and rally him, crying, &#8220;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&#8217;s
a pink satin for Glorvina, which will finish ye,  Dob,
if it&#8217;s in the power of woman or satin to move
ye.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
arm, happy and loving--there was but this image that
filled our honest Major&#8217;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&#8217;s face simpering
over it--and, perhaps, Mr. Dobbin&#8217;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&#8217;s
recollections of boyhood are.</p>

<p>We have said how the two Misses Dobbin and Amelia,
the Major&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd. &#8220;Your sister
has just  kindly visited me,&#8221; Amelia wrote in
her letter, &#8220;and informed me of an <i>interesting event</i>, upon which I beg to offer my <i>most sincere congratulations</i>. I hope the young
lady to whom I hear you are to be <i>united</i> 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 <i>your prosperity</i>!  Georgy sends his love
to <i>his dear godpapa</i> and hopes that you
will not forget him. I tell him that you are about
to form <i>other ties</i>, with one who I am sure
merits <i>all your affection</i>, but that,
although such ties must of course be the strongest
and most sacred, and supersede <i>all others</i>,
yet that I am sure the widow and the child whom you
have ever protected and loved will always <i>have</i>
A <i>corner in your heart</i>&#8221; The
letter, which has been before alluded to, went on in
this strain, protesting throughout as to the extreme
satisfaction of the writer.</p>

<p>This letter, .which arrived by the very same ship
which brought out Lady O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.
 &#8220;O Amelia, Amelia,&#8221; he thought, &#8220;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!&#8221; 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&#8217;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. &#8220;Good God, Amelia!&#8221;
he said, &#8220;don&#8217;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!&#8221; 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!</p>

<p>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&#8217;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 <i>her</i>--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&#8217;Dowd and the ladies of
the King&#8217;s Regiment gave a ball to the Company&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;more than
on any of the others,&#8221; she owned, sobbing.  &#8220;He&#8217;ll
break my heart, he will, Peggy,&#8221; she would whimper
to her sister-in-law when they were good friends;
&#8220;sure every one of me frocks must be taken in--
it&#8217;s such a skeleton I&#8217;m growing.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;dearest William&#8221; 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&#8217;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 &#8220;he had
no sort of present intention of altering his condition.&#8221;</p>

<p>Two or three nights after the arrival of the second
package of letters, the Major had passed the evening
pretty cheerfully at Lady O&#8217;Dowd&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd&#8217;s
favourite evening pastime), Major Dobbin took leave
of the Colonel&#8217;s family at his usual hour and
retired to his own house.</p>

<p>There on his table, his sister&#8217;s letter lay
reproaching him.  He took it up, ashamed rather of
his negligence regarding it, and prepared himself
for a disagreeable hour&#8217;s communing with that
crabbed-handed absent relative. .  .  .  It may have
been an hour after the Major&#8217;s departure from
the Colonel&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s bedchamber.</p>

<p>&#8220;O&#8217;Dowd--Colonel!&#8221; said Dobbin and
kept up a great shouting.</p>

<p>&#8220;Heavens, Meejor!&#8221; said Glorvina of the
curl-papers, putting out her head too, from her window.</p>

<p>&#8220;What is it, Dob, me boy?&#8221; said the Colonel,
expecting there was a fire in the station, or that
the route had come from headquarters.</p>

<p>&#8220;I--I must have leave of absence.  I must go
to England--on the most urgent private affairs,&#8221;
Dobbin said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Good heavens, what has happened!&#8221; thought
Glorvina, trembling with all the papillotes.</p>

<p>&#8220;I want to be off--now--to-night,&#8221; Dobbin
continued; and the Colonel getting up, came out to
parley with him.</p>

<p>In the postscript of Miss Dobbin&#8217;s cross-letter,
the Major had just come upon a paragraph, to the following
effect:--"I drove yesterday to see your old <i>acquaintance</i>,
Mrs. Osborne.  The wretched place they live at, since
they were bankrupts, you know--Mr. S., to judge from
a <i>brass plate</i> 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, <i>his</i> ERRING <i>and self</i>-<i>willed son</i>.  And Amelia will not
be ill-disposed to give him up.  The widow is <i>consoled</i>,
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.&#8221;</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XLIV</h3>

<h4 align="center">A Round</h4>-about Chapter between London and Hampshire

<p>Our old friends the Crawleys&#8217; 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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
Crawley Avenue when old Sir Pitt Crawley passed under
them for the last  time.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He had put up at an hotel at first, but, Becky, as
soon as she heard of the Baronet&#8217;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&#8217;s hospitalities, so kindly were
they pressed, so frankly and amiably offered.  Becky
seized Pitt&#8217;s hand in a transport of gratitude
when he agreed to come.  &#8220;Thank you,&#8221; she
said, squeezing it and looking into the Baronet&#8217;s
eyes, who blushed a good deal; &#8220;how happy this
will make Rawdon!&#8221; She bustled up to Pitt&#8217;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.</p>

<p>A fire was blazing already in Sir Pitt&#8217;s apartment
(it was Miss Briggs&#8217;s room, by the way, who
was sent upstairs to sleep with the maid).  &#8220;I
knew I should bring you,&#8221; she said with pleasure
beaming in her glance.  Indeed, she was really sincerely
happy at having him for a guest.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Isn&#8217;t it a good
salmi?&#8221; she said; &#8220;I made it for you.
 I can make you better dishes than that, and will
when you come to see me.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Everything you do, you do well,&#8221; said
the Baronet gallantly.  &#8220;The salmi is excellent
indeed.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A poor man&#8217;s wife,&#8221; Rebecca replied
gaily, &#8220;must make herself useful, you know&#8221;;
on which her brother-in-law vowed that &#8220;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&#8217;s qualities.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Besides the salmi, which was made of Lord Steyne&#8217;s
pheasants from his lordship&#8217;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&#8217;s famous
cellars, which brought fire into the Baronet&#8217;s
pallid cheeks and a glow into his feeble frame.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s at Gray&#8217;s
Inn, to the blazing fire in Curzon Street--a gladness
in which the men of law likewise participated, for
Pitt&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;
families should meet again in the country at Christmas.</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish you could have got a little money out
of him,&#8221; Rawdon said to his wife moodily when
the Baronet was gone.  &#8220;I should like to give
something to old Raggles, hanged if I shouldn&#8217;t.
 It ain&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Tell him,&#8221; said Becky, &#8220;that as
soon as Sir Pitt&#8217;s affairs are settled, everybody
will be paid, and give him a little something on account.
 Here&#8217;s a cheque that Pitt left for the boy,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Pitt knew how poor his brother and his brother&#8217;s
family must be.  It could not have escaped the notice
of such a cool and experienced old diplomatist that
Rawdon&#8217;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&#8217;s debtor.</p>

<p>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.&#8217;s insufficient acts of repentance.  And
I have no doubt that Pitt Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
special behalf, as to the most profitable investment
of Miss B.&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s temper) and fled
down below to his friends of the kitchen, bursting
in an agony of grief.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is not because it hurts me,&#8221; little
Rawdon gasped out--"only-- only"--sobs and tears wound
up the sentence in a storm.  It was the little boy&#8217;s
heart that was bleeding.  &#8220;Why mayn&#8217;t I
hear her singing? Why don&#8217;t she ever sing to
me--as she does to that baldheaded man with the large
teeth?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>After this incident, the mother&#8217;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&#8217;s own bosom.  They were 
separated from that day of the boxes on the ear.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s hat
in the hall.  The footman told the circumstance as
a good joke to Lord Steyne&#8217;s coachman; that officer
imparted it to Lord Steyne&#8217;s gentleman, and
to the servants&#8217; 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&#8217;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Was Rebecca guilty or not?&#8221; the Vehmgericht
of tho servants&#8217; hall had pronounced against
her.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s carriage-lamps
at her door, contemplated by Raggles, burning in the
blackness of midnight, &#8220;that kep him up,&#8221;
as he afterwards said, that even more than Rebecca&#8217;s
arts and coaxings.</p>

<p>And so--guiltless very likely--she was writhing and
pushing onward towards what they call &#8220;a position
in society,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s Crawley.
 Becky would have liked to leave the little brat behind,
and would have done so but for Lady Jane&#8217;s urgent
invitations to the youngster, and the symptoms of revolt
and discontent which Rawdon manifested at her neglect
of her son.  &#8220;He&#8217;s the finest boy in England,&#8221;
the father said in a tone of reproach to her, &#8220;and
you don&#8217;t seem to care for him, Becky, as much
as you do for your spaniel.  He shan&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Where you go yourself because you want to smoke
those filthy cigars,&#8221; replied Mrs. Rawdon.</p>

<p>&#8220;I remember when you liked &#8217;em though,&#8221;
answered the husband.</p>

<p>Becky laughed; she was almost always good-humoured.
&#8220;That was when I was on my promotion, Goosey,&#8221;
she said.  &#8220;Take Rawdon outside with you and
give him a cigar too if you like.&#8221;</p>

<p>Rawdon did not warm his little son for the winter&#8217;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.</p>

<p>It was dark again when little Rawdon was wakened up
to enter his uncle&#8217;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&#8217;s the old Turkey one that used
to be in the Ladies&#8217; Gallery,&#8221; thought
Rebecca, and the next instant was kissing Lady Jane.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Little Rawdon exhibited a fine appetite and showed
a gentlemanlike behaviour.</p>

<p>&#8220;I like to dine here,&#8221; 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&#8217;s side, while
the daughter took possession of the place and the
little wine-glass prepared for her near her mother.
 &#8220;I like to dine here,&#8221; said Rawdon Minor,
looking up at his relation&#8217;s kind face.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why?&#8221; said the good Lady Jane.</p>

<p>&#8220;I dine in the kitchen when I am at home,&#8221;
replied Rawdon Minor, &#8220;or else with Briggs.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The house had been much improved even since the Baronet&#8217;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.  &#8220;Who was Grandpapa?&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>The brothers had good occupation for several mornings
in examining the improvements which had been effected
by Sir Pitt&#8217;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. &#8220;There is that new lodge-gate,&#8221;
said Pitt, pointing to it humbly with the bamboo cane,
&#8220;I can no more pay for it before the dividends
in January than I can fly.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I can lend you, Pitt, till then,&#8221; 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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XLV</h3>

<h4 align="center">Between Hampshire and London</h4>

<p>Sir Pitt Crawley had done more than repair fences
and restore dilapidated lodges on the Queen&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;t
hunt; he wasn&#8217;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&#8217;s Crawley, he should
be happy to see him there, and the gentlemen of the
Fuddlestone hunt.  And to Lady Southdown&#8217;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 &#8220;county balls,&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s recollection,
spoke with gratitude of the delight which her Ladyship&#8217;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&#8217;s
Crawley reminded her of her absent friend.</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;You remain a Baronet--you consent to be a
mere country gentleman,&#8221; she said to him, while
he had been her guest in London. &#8220;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&#8217;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,&#8221;
she added with a laugh.  &#8220;Poor little penniless,
I have got a little interest--and who knows, perhaps
the mouse may be able to aid the lion.&#8221; Pitt
Crawley was amazed and enraptured with her speech.
 &#8220;How that woman comprehends me!&#8221; he said.
&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He looked her full in the face after the operation,
trembling and turning very red, as his wont was when
moved.  &#8220;You never kiss me at home, Mamma,&#8221;
he said, at which there was a general silence and
consternation and a by no means pleasant look in Becky&#8217;s
eyes.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s son, sometimes joining his cousin in
that and other amusements. He and the Baronet&#8217;s
keeper were very close friends, their mutual taste
for &#8220;dawgs&#8221; 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&#8217;s celebrated
&#8220;dawg&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>But the greatest day of all was that on which Sir
Huddlestone Fuddlestone&#8217;s hounds met upon the
lawn at Queen&#8217;s Crawley.</p>

<p>That was a famous sight for little Rawdon.  At half-past
ten, Tom Moody, Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Next comes boy Jack, Tom Moody&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s voice, unmatched
at rating, or the snaky thongs of the whips.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
tongue and lash.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, Sir Huddlestone has hoisted himself unwieldily
on the Nob:  &#8220;Let&#8217;s try Sowster&#8217;s
Spinney, Tom,&#8221; says the Baronet, &#8220;Farmer
Mangle tells me there are two foxes in it.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>The Reverend Bute Crawley (who has been too modest
to appear at the public meet before his nephew&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Lady Jane&#8217;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&#8217;s own house alone, by the fireside,
and watching all the men round your rival.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;I have no taste for bread
and butter,&#8221; she would say, when caricaturing
Lady Jane and her ways to my Lord Steyne.</p>

<p>&#8220;No more has a certain person for holy water,&#8221;
his lordship replied with a bow and a grin and a great
jarring laugh afterwards.</p>

<p>So these two ladies did not see much of each other
except upon those occasions when the younger brother&#8217;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.</p>

<p>On the occasion of his first Speaker&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The ex-Colonel would sit for hours in his brother&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XLVI</h3>

<h4 align="center">Struggles and Trials</h4>

<p>Our friends at Brompton were meanwhile passing their
Christmas after their fashion and in a manner by no
means too cheerful.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;Mrs.
S--, Miss Emmy, and Mr. Joseph in India,&#8221; at
the merchant&#8217;s rich table in Russell Square.
 Time magnified the splendour of those recollections
in the honest clerk&#8217;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, &#8220;This was not what you was accustomed
to once, sir,&#8221; 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
&#8217;Melia&#8217;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&#8217;s character abused by
any member of the society.  He had seen the first
men in London shaking hands with Mr. S--; he said,
&#8220;He&#8217;d known him in times when Rothschild
might be seen on &#8217;Change with him any day, and
he owed him personally everythink.&#8221;</p>

<p>Clapp, with the best of characters and handwritings,
had been able very soon after his master&#8217;s disaster
to find other employment for himself.  &#8220;Such
a little fish as me can swim in any bucket,&#8221;
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&#8217;s services and to reward them
with a comfortable salary.  In fine, all Sedley&#8217;s
wealthy friends had dropped off one by one, and this
poor ex-dependent still remained faithfully attached
to him.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s
cane and his schoolfellows&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>Georgy made great progress in the school, which was
kept by a friend of his mother&#8217;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&#8217;s father actually supplied
the meat for the establishment, whereas Golding&#8217;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.</p>

<p>In these quiet labours and harmless cares the gentle
widow&#8217;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.  &#8220;What
matters it,&#8221; she asked, &#8220;For an old woman
like me?&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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? &#8220;I expect
<i>you</i>, dear,&#8221; Mrs. Bullock would say, &#8220;for
of course my share of our Papa&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;t look well, his going to
Stumpy and Rowdy&#8217;s.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>&#8220;I bought it with my money, sir,&#8221; she
said in a great fright.</p>

<p>&#8220;Go and order another like it, or a better if
you can get it,&#8221; said the old gentleman and
lapsed again into silence.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.&#8221; At last, he said, &#8220;There was an
old gentleman, with thick eyebrows, and a broad hat,
and large chain and seals.&#8221; He came one day
as the coachman was lunging Georgy round the lawn on
the gray pony.  &#8220;He looked at me very much.
 He shook very much.  I said &#8216;My name is Norval&#8217;
after dinner.  My aunt began to cry.  She is always
crying.&#8221; Such was George&#8217;s report on that
night.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>She was never seen angry but twice or thrice in her
life, and it was in one of these moods that Mr. Osborne&#8217;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.  &#8220;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,&#8221; said the lawyer
who told the story.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Then it came out that Jos&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>She ran on amazed and flurried with her riches to
Darton&#8217;s shop, in St.  Paul&#8217;s Churchyard,
and there purchased the Parents&#8217; 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, &#8220;George
Osborne, A Christmas gift from his affectionate-mother.&#8221;
The books are extant to this day, with the fair delicate
superscription.</p>

<p>She was going from her own room with the books in
her hand to place them on George&#8217;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&#8217;s eye.</p>

<p>&#8220;What are those?&#8221; she said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Some books for Georgy,&#8221; Amelia replied--I--I
promised them to him at Christmas.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Books!&#8221; cried the elder lady indignantly,
&#8220;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&#8217;ve sold every trinket
I had, the India shawl from my back even down to the
very spoons, that our tradesmen mightn&#8217;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&#8217;s Jos, deserts
his father in his old age; and there&#8217;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.&#8221; Hysteric sobs and
cries ended Mrs. Sedley&#8217;s speech--it echoed
through every room in the small house, whereof the
other female inmates heard every word of the colloquy.</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, Mother, Mother!&#8221; cried poor Amelia
in reply. &#8220;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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!</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XLVII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Gaunt House</h4>

<p>All the world knows that Lord Steyne&#8217;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, &#38;c.--it has
a dreary look--nor is my Lord Steyne&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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. &#8220;The Prince and Perdita have
been in and out of that door, sir,&#8221; he had often
told me; &#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;s Marquisate and
Garter--and the remainder--&#8221; 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&#8217;s affairs,
is ready to account.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s farm, an humble place of
residence, of which we all remember the wonderful furniture
which was sold at my lord&#8217;s demise by a late
celebrated auctioneer.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s brother at some of
Philip of Orleans&#8217;s banquets.  The Earl of Gaunt&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;The humiliations,&#8221;
Tom used to say, &#8220;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&#8217;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 <i>reigning favourite</i> 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 &#8217;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&#8217;ve watched her there--that is, I&#8217;ve happened
to be passing there--and depend on it, there&#8217;s
a mystery in her case. People are not so unhappy unless
they have something to repent of,&#8221; added Tom
Eaves with a knowing wag of his head; &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>So, if Mr. Eaves&#8217;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.</p>

<p>In comparing, too, the poor man&#8217;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. &#8220;Take it as a
rule,&#8221; this sardonic old Laves would say, &#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;t but be suspicious and hostile.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;
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.&#8221; And
here, haply, a great man coming up, Tom Eaves&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;
tutor, the Reverend Mr. Trail (now my Lord Bishop
of Ealing) on her ladyship&#8217;s director, Father
Mole, over their wine, and in pitting Oxford against
St. Acheul.  He cried &#8220;Bravo, Latimer!  Well
said, Loyola!&#8221; alternately; he promised Mole
a bishopric if he would come over, and vowed he would
use all his influence to get Trail a cardinal&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s debts.
At his lamented demise, he was found himself to be
possessor of many of his heir&#8217;s bonds, purchased
for their benefit, and devised by his Lordship to
the children of his younger son.</p>

<p>As, to my Lord Gaunt&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s diplomatic duties
led him. There was talk of appointing him minister,
and bets were laid at the Travellers&#8217; that he
would be ambassador ere long, when of a sudden, rumours
arrived of the secretary&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Brazil,&#8221;
said one gossip to another, with a grin-- &#8220;Brazil
is St.  John&#8217;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.&#8221; These are the kinds of
epitaphs which men pass over one another in Vanity
Fair.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s toy, or nursing
the keeper&#8217;s baby&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
family, long before Lady Steyne&#8217;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.</p>

<p>The absent lord&#8217;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&#8217;s shame as well as of his honours,
and watched sickening for the day when the awful ancestral
curse should come down on them.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;I have taken your son,&#8221;
it said, &#8220;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&#8217;s.&#8221;
And then my lord would defy the ghost which threatened
him, for he knew of a remedy by which he could baulk
his enemy.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;Nous regardons a
deux fois&#8221; (as the French lady said) before we
condemn a person of my lord&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Lord Steyne is really too bad,&#8221; Lady
Slingstone said, &#8220;but everybody goes, and of
course I shall see that my girls come to no harm.&#8221;
&#8220;His lordship is a man to whom I owe much, everything
in life,&#8221; 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&#8217;s
parties.  &#8220;His morals are bad,&#8221; 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; &#8220;but hang
it, he&#8217;s got the best dry Sillery in Europe!&#8221;
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.  &#8220;Where you see such persons as the Bishop
of Ealing and the Countess of Slingstone, you may be
pretty sure, Jane,&#8221; the Baronet would say, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XLVIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which the Reader Is Introduced to the Very Best</h4>
of Company

<p>At last Becky&#8217;s kindness and attention to the
chief of her husband&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;Hypocrite&#8221;
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. 
<i>The king</i>? 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, <i>he</i>
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 themselves
almost to be, ready to die for him.  Yes, we saw him.
 Fate cannot deprive us of <i>that</i>.  Others have
seen Napoleon.  Some few still exist who have beheld
Frederick the Great, Doctor Johnson, Marie Antoinette,
&#38;c.-- be it our reasonable boast to our children,
that we saw George the Good, the Magnificent, the
Great.</p>

<p>Well, there came a happy day in Mrs. Rawdon Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
shop, and saw fine plumes within, and enormous bunches
of flowers in the breasts of the new livery-coats
of the footmen.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Then Rawdon followed in his old Guards&#8217; 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&#8217;s
Street, towards the old brick palace where the Star
of Brunswick was in waiting to receive his nobles
and gentlefolks.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>We are authorized to state that Mrs. Rawdon Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s wonder,
will have passed into the domain of the absurd, along
with all previous vanities.  But we are wandering
too much.  Mrs. Rawdon&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s train, and the splendour of
the lace on her dress.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;My dear Mrs. Crawley, it must have cost a little
fortune,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>And the diamonds--"Where the doose did you get the
diamonds, Becky?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Becky looked at her husband, and then at Sir Pitt,
with an air of saucy triumph--as much as to say, &#8220;Shall
I betray you?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Guess!&#8221; she said to her husband.  &#8220;Why,
you silly man,&#8221; she continued, &#8220;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&#8217;s,
in Coventry Street. You don&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;They are family jewels,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>The diamonds, which had created Rawdon&#8217;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&#8217; bills? How many
of you have gowns and bracelets which you daren&#8217;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&#8217;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!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>As he bowed over her he smiled, and quoted the hackneyed
and beautiful lines from The Rape of the Lock about
Belinda&#8217;s diamonds, &#8220;which Jews might
kiss and infidels adore.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;But I hope your lordship is orthodox,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>This may be said, that in all London there was no
more loyal heart than Becky&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;One must, my dear, show one is somebody,&#8221;
she said.  &#8220;One mustn&#8217;t be seen with doubtful
people.  I pity Lady Crackenbury from my heart, and
Mrs. Washington White may be a very good-natured person.
 <i>You</i> may go and dine with them, as you like your
rubber.  But I mustn&#8217;t, and won&#8217;t; and
you will have the goodness to tell Smith to say I
am not at home when either of them calls.&#8221;</p>

<p>The particulars of Becky&#8217;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. &#8220;If you
had been sandy-haired, green-eyed, and a French rope-dancer&#8217;s
daughter,&#8221; Mrs. Bute said to her eldest girl
(who, on the contrary, was a very swarthy, short,
and snub-nosed young lady), &#8220;You might have
had superb diamonds forsooth, and have been presented
at Court by your cousin, the Lady Jane.  But you&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221; In this way the worthy Rectoress consoled
herself, and her daughters sighed and sat over the
Peerage all night.</p>

<p>A few days after the famous presentation, another
great and exceeding honour was vouchsafed to the virtuous
Becky.  Lady Steyne&#8217;s carriage drove up to Mr.
Rawdon Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;s card and Lady Crackenbury&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; cards already
ranged as the trumps of Becky&#8217;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.</p>

<p>She found him grinning over the bowl.  She was discovered,
and she blushed a little.  &#8220;Thank you, Monseigneur,&#8221;
she said.  &#8220;You see your ladies have been here.
 How good of you!  I couldn&#8217;t come before--I
was in the kitchen making a pudding.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I know you were, I saw you through the area-railings
as I drove up,&#8221; replied the old gentleman.</p>

<p>&#8220;You see everything,&#8221; she replied.</p>

<p>&#8220;A few things, but not that, my pretty lady,&#8221;
he said good-naturedly.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Is it a crime to try and look my best when
<i>you</i> come here?&#8221; 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&#8217;t
come off on a pocket-handkerchief, and some so good
that even tears will not disturb it.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well,&#8221; said the old gentleman, twiddling
round his wife&#8217;s card, &#8220;you are bent on
becoming a fine lady. You pester my poor old life
out to get you into the world.  You won&#8217;t be
able to hold your own there, you silly little fool.
 You&#8217;ve got no money.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You will get us a place,&#8221; interposed
Becky, &#8220;as quick as possible.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;ve got no money, and you want to
compete with those who have. You poor little earthenware
pipkin, you want to swim down the stream along with
the great copper kettles.  All women are alike. Everybody
is striving for what is not worth the having!  Gad!
 I dined with the King yesterday, and we had neck
of mutton and turnips. A dinner of herbs is better
than a stalled ox very often.  You will go to Gaunt
House.  You give an old fellow no rest until you get
there.  It&#8217;s not half so nice as here. You&#8217;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&#8217;t sleep in what they call
my bedroom. The bed is like the baldaquin of St.  Peter&#8217;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&#8217;ll
be asked to dinner next week.  And gare aux femmes,
look out and hold your own!  How the women will bully
you!&#8221; 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&#8217;s benefit on that
day.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;If you don&#8217;t turn off that abominable
sheep-dog,&#8221; said Lord Steyne, with a savage
look over his shoulder at her, &#8220;I will have her
poisoned.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I always give my dog dinner from my own plate,&#8221;
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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I can&#8217;t send her away,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You owe her her wages, I suppose?&#8221; said
the Peer.</p>

<p>&#8220;Worse than that,&#8221; said Becky, still casting
down her eyes; &#8220;I have ruined her.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Ruined her? Then why don&#8217;t you turn her
out?&#8221; the gentleman asked.</p>

<p>&#8220;Men do that,&#8221; Becky answered bitterly.
 &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;--it, how much is it?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;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!&#8221;</p>

<p>Lord Steyne made no reply except by beating the devil&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s signature
and the address of Messrs.  Jones, Brown, and Robinson,
Lombard Street.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s bank,
presented a document there to the authority at the
desk, who, in reply, asked her &#8220;How she would
take it?&#8221;</p>

<p>She gently said &#8220;she would take a hundred and
fifty pounds in small notes and the remainder in one
note&#8221;: and passing through St. Paul&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;And I hope this will be a lesson
to you, Spavin,&#8221; she said, &#8220;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s cashier had given
her.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter XLIX</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which We Enjoy Three Courses and a Dessert</h4>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;My Lady Steyne,&#8221; he said, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Blanche writes them,&#8221; Lady Steyne said
in a flutter. &#8220;Lady Gaunt writes them.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I will not write to that person,&#8221; 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&#8217;s eyes for
those who had offended him.</p>

<p>&#8220;Send the children out of the room.  Go!&#8221;
said he pulling at the bell-rope.  The urchins, always
frightened before him, retired: their mother would
have followed too.  &#8220;Not you,&#8221; he said.
 &#8220;You stop.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My Lady Steyne,&#8221; he said, &#8220;once
more will you have the goodness to go to the desk
and write that card for your dinner on Friday?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My Lord, I will not be present at it,&#8221;
Lady Gaunt said; &#8220;I will go home.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;ve
got no brains.  You were here to have children, and
you have not had any. Gaunt&#8217;s tired of you,
and George&#8217;s wife is the only person in the
family who doesn&#8217;t wish you were dead.  Gaunt
would marry again if you were.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish I were,&#8221; her Ladyship answered
with tears and rage in her eyes.</p>

<p>&#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You may strike me if you like, sir, or hit
any cruel blow,&#8221; Lady Gaunt said.  To see his
wife and daughter suffering always put his Lordship
into a good humour.</p>

<p>&#8220;My sweet Blanche,&#8221; he said, &#8220;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&#8217;m
sure, would tell my Lady Steyne if he were here. 
You mustn&#8217;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&#8217;s character is not good,
but it is as good as Bareacres&#8217;, 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&#8217;s
illustrious ancestor, the first de la Jones.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;The money which I brought into the family,
sir,&#8221; Lady George cried out--</p>

<p>&#8220;You purchased a contingent reversion with it,&#8221;
the Marquis said darkly.  &#8220;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&#8217;t give <i>me</i> any airs.
 As for Mrs. Crawley&#8217;s character, I shan&#8217;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?&#8221; He broke out with
a laugh.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>After this vigorous allocution, to one of which sort
Lord Steyne treated his &#8220;Hareem&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>There were families in London who would have sacrificed
a year&#8217;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,
&#8220;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s heart at
least was in the right place.</p>

<p>The ladies of Gaunt House called Lady Bareacres in
to their aid, in order to repulse the common enemy.
 One of Lady Gaunt&#8217;s carriages went to Hill
Street for her Ladyship&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8217;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. &#8220;He has not been here for four months,&#8221;
Lord Steyne would say.  &#8220;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&#8217; fathers-in-law, and the
other banks with me!&#8221;</p>

<p>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. &#8220;Look
at his face.  I think he must be descended from a sheep,&#8221;
Becky whispered to Lord Steyne.  Indeed, his Excellency&#8217;s
countenance, long, solemn, and white, with the ornament
round his neck, bore some resemblance to that of a
venerable bell-wether.</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>The Colonel&#8217;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&#8217;s schoolfellows.  It has been told
before that honest Rawdon had not been much used at
any period of his life to ladies&#8217; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
feet, as it were, by saying that his Lordship had
been her father&#8217;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.</p>

<p>The Lady Bareacres then came under Becky&#8217;s cognizance--to
whom the Colonel&#8217;s lady made also a most respectful
obeisance:  it was returned with severe dignity by
the exalted person in question.</p>

<p>&#8220;I had the pleasure of making your Ladyship&#8217;s
acquaintance at Brussels, ten years ago,&#8221; Becky
said in the most winning manner.  &#8220;I had the
good fortune to meet Lady Bareacres at the Duchess
of Richmond&#8217;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&#8217;s diamonds are safe.&#8221;</p>

<p>Everybody&#8217;s eyes looked into their neighbour&#8217;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 &#8220;knuckling down by Jove,&#8221; to
Mrs. Crawley.  &#8220;I think I needn&#8217;t be afraid
of <i>that</i> woman,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Lord Steyne,&#8221; said her Ladyship, as her
wan cheeks glowed with a blush, &#8220;says you sing
and play very beautifully, Mrs. Crawley--I wish you
would do me the kindness to sing to me.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I will do anything that may give pleasure to
my Lord Steyne or to you,&#8221; said Rebecca, sincerely
grateful, and seating herself at the piano, began
to sing.</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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,&#8221;
he said to Becky.  Now there are angels of two kinds,
and both sorts, it is said, are charming in their
way.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s first-rate singing.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter L</h3>

<h4 align="center">Contains a Vulgar Incident</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s house is not a very lively one since
Uncle Jos&#8217;s annuity has been withdrawn and the
little family are almost upon famine diet.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;Don&#8217;t want &#8217;em,&#8221; says
one.  &#8220;Be off,&#8221; says another fiercely.
 Three-and-sixpence has been spent in vain-- the screens
retire to Miss Clapp&#8217;s bedroom, who persists
in thinking them lovely.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;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&#8217;s&#8221;;
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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;t, she can&#8217;t. Not now, at least.
 Some other day.  Oh! it is too hard to think of and
to bear.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>The combat, which we describe in a sentence or two,
lasted for many weeks in poor Amelia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
ghastly and terrified look, when, with a trembling,
miserable voice he made the confession, conveyed reproaches
to him for his concealment.  &#8220;Ah!&#8221; said
he with quivering lips and turning away, &#8220;you
despise your old father now!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, papal it is not that,&#8221; Amelia cried
out, falling on his neck and kissing him many times.
 &#8220;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&#8221;; and she kissed him again wildly
and went away.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;What is the matter,
Mother?&#8221; said he; &#8220;you look very pale.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Nothing, my child,&#8221; she said and stooped
down and kissed him.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s help,
endure them for the boy&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What? Mrs. Pride has come down, has she?&#8221;
old Osborne said, when with a tremulous eager voice
Miss Osborne read him the letter. &#8220;Reg&#8217;lar
starved out, hey? Ha, ha!  I knew she would.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Get the room over mine--his room that was--ready,&#8221;
he said.  &#8220;Yes, sir,&#8221; his daughter replied
in a tremble. It was George&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Miss Osborne was much affected when she first entered
this room with the servants under her.  She sank quite
pale on the little bed. &#8220;This is blessed news,
m&#8217;am--indeed, m&#8217;am,&#8221; the housekeeper
said; &#8220;and the good old times is returning,
m&#8217;am.  The dear little feller, to be sure, m&#8217;am;
how happy he will be!  But some folks in May Fair,
m&#8217;am, will owe him a grudge, m&#8217;am&#8221;;
and she clicked back the bolt which held the window-sash
and let the air into the chamber.</p>

<p>&#8220;You had better send that woman some money,&#8221;
Mr. Osborne said, before he went out.  &#8220;She
shan&#8217;t want for nothing.  Send her a hundred
pound.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;And I&#8217;ll go and see her to-morrow?&#8221;
Miss Osborne asked.</p>

<p>&#8220;That&#8217;s your look out.  She don&#8217;t
come in here, mind. No, by --, not for all the money
in London.  But she mustn&#8217;t want now.  So look
out, and get things right.&#8221; With which brief
speeches Mr. Osborne took leave of his daughter and
went on his accustomed way into the City.</p>

<p>&#8220;Here, Papa, is some money,&#8221; Amelia said
that night, kissing the old man, her father, and putting
a bill for a hundred pounds into his hands.  &#8220;And--and,
Mamma, don&#8217;t be harsh with Georgy.  He--he is
not going to stop with us long.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s pencil-case and
pay the tart-woman.  The boy was the image of his
father, as his fond mother thought.</p>

<p>Indeed I have no heart, on account of our dear Amelia&#8217;s
sake, to go through the story of George&#8217;s last
days at home.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s use, marking his
books and linen, talking with him and preparing him
for the change-- fondly fancying that he needed preparation.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;He would come and
see his mamma often on the pony,&#8221; he said. 
&#8220;He would come and fetch her in the carriage;
they would drive in the park, and she should have
everything she wanted.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>So poor Amelia had been getting ready in silent misery
for her son&#8217;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.</p>

<p>A few days are past, and the great event of Amelia&#8217;s
life is consummated.  No angel has intervened.  The
child is sacrificed and offered up to fate, and the
widow is quite alone.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
house. It is so pleasant and cool.  She can look up
and see the drawing-room windows illuminated, and,
at about nine o&#8217;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.</p>

<p>One Sunday she happened to be walking in Russell Square,
at some distance from Mr. Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s tombstone. Many hundred
fresh children&#8217;s voices rose up there and sang
hymns to the Father Beneficent, and little George&#8217;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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LI</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which a Charade Is Acted Which May or May Not Puzzle</h4>
the Reader

<p>After Becky&#8217;s appearance at my Lord Steyne&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s aristocratic pleasures
likewise--for these too, like all other mortal delights,
were but transitory.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;, 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Here, before long, Becky received not only &#8220;the
best&#8221; foreigners (as the phrase is in our noble
and admirable society slang), but some of the best
English people too. I don&#8217;t mean the most virtuous,
or indeed the least virtuous, or the cleverest, or
the stupidest, or the richest, or the best born, but
&#8220;the best,"--in a word, people about whom there
is no question--such as the great Lady Fitz-Willis,
that Patron Saint of Almack&#8217;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 &#8220;best
people.&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;s interest),
to frequent Mrs. Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;best&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217; houses, and characters,
and families--just as the Joneses do about the Smiths.
 Becky&#8217;s former acquaintances hated and envied
her; the poor woman herself was yawning in spirit.
&#8220;I wish I were out of it,&#8221; she said to
herself.  &#8220;I would rather be a parson&#8217;s
wife and teach a Sunday school than this; or a sergeant&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You would do it very well,&#8221; said Lord
Steyne, laughing. She used to tell the great man her
ennuis and perplexities in her artless way-- they
amused him.</p>

<p>&#8220;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,&#8221; Becky continued
pensively, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I should have liked to see it,&#8221; said
Lord Steyne.</p>

<p>&#8220;I should like to do it now,&#8221; Becky continued.
 &#8220;How Lady Blinkey would open her eyes, and
Lady Grizzel Macbeth would stare!  Hush! silence!
there is Pasta beginning to sing.&#8221; 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. &#8220;How cool that woman is,&#8221; said one;
&#8220;what airs of independence she assumes, where
she ought to sit still and be thankful if anybody
speaks to her!&#8221; &#8220;What an honest and good-natured
soul she is!&#8221; said another. &#8220;What an artful
little minx&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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:</p>

<p>&#8220;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, &#38;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,&#8221;
and an &#38;c., which the reader may fill at his pleasure
through a dozen close lines of small type.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;How very well you speak French,&#8221; Lady
Grizzel said, who herself spoke the tongue in an Edinburgh
accent most remarkable to hear.</p>

<p>&#8220;I ought to know it,&#8221; Becky modestly said,
casting down her eyes. &#8220;I taught it in a school,
and my mother was a Frenchwoman.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s fault
that she fancies herself better than you and me. 
The skirts of her ancestors&#8217; 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&#8217;s lords and councillors,
when the great ancestor of the House became King of
Scotland.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;Now look out for sport,&#8221; 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&#8217;s face tingle with shame; then she returned
to her soup with the most perfect calm and a quiet
smile on her face.  Wagg&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>His lordship&#8217;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&#8217;s overt hostilities.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s habit to levy contributions on all
her husband&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s
Crawley supplied her with game and fruit in abundance.
 Lord Steyne&#8217;s cellars were at her disposal,
and that excellent nobleman&#8217;s famous cooks presided
over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord&#8217;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&#8217;s private
life, speculating upon their income, and cutting them
if we don&#8217;t approve of their expenditure--why,
what a howling wilderness and intolerable dwelling
Vanity Fair would be! Every man&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
vintage of Lafitte will remunerate the honest proprietor
who reared it.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s struggles,
and triumphs, and disappointments, of all of which,
indeed, as is the case with all persons of merit, she
had her share.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Bid the slave-merchant enter,&#8221; says the
Turkish voluptuary with a wave of his hand.  Mesrour
conducts the slave-merchant into my lord&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
face (it is Mesrour again in another costume) appears
a ghastly joy.  &#8220;Mercy!  mercy!&#8221; cries
the Pasha:  while the Kislar Aga, grinning horribly,
pulls out--a bow-string.</p>

<p>The curtain draws just as he is going to use that
awful weapon. Hassan from within bawls out, &#8220;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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;The Camels are coming.&#8221; 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.  &#8220;Last two syllables,&#8221;
roars the head.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>A tremor ran through the room.  &#8220;Good God!&#8221;
somebody said, &#8220;it&#8217;s Mrs. Rawdon Crawley.&#8221;</p>

<p>Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Aegisthus&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Brava!
 brava!&#8221; old Steyne&#8217;s strident voice was
heard roaring over all the rest.  &#8220;By--, she&#8217;d
do it too,&#8221; he said between his teeth. The performers
were called by the whole house, which sounded with
cries of &#8220;Manager! Clytemnestra!&#8221; 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.
 &#8220;Heigh ha? Run him through the body. Marry
somebody else, hay?&#8221; was the apposite remark
made by His Royal Highness.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the
part,&#8221; said Lord Steyne.  Becky laughed, gay
and saucy looking, and swept the prettiest little
curtsey ever seen.</p>

<p>Servants brought in salvers covered with numerous
cool dainties, and the performers disappeared to get
ready for the second charade-tableau.</p>

<p>The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted
in pantomime, and the performance took place in the
following wise:</p>

<p>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, &#8220;First syllable.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;Ostler, bring round my gig,&#8221;
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 &#8220;Pots&#8221;
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 &#8220;Second syllable.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I think it must be &#8216;Hotel,&#8217;&#8221;
says Captain Grigg of the Life Guards; there is a
general laugh at the Captain&#8217;s cleverness.  He
is not very far from the mark.</p>

<p>While the third syllable is in preparation, the band
begins a nautical medley--"All in the Downs,&#8221;
&#8220;Cease Rude Boreas,&#8221; &#8220;Rule Britannia,&#8221;
&#8220;In the Bay of Biscay O!"--some maritime event
is about to take place.  A ben is heard ringing as
the curtain draws aside. &#8220;Now, gents, for the
shore!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>There was a little ballet, &#8220;Le Rossignol,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and
gurgling from a sweet pasteboard cottage covered with
roses and trellis work. &#8220;Philomele, Philomele,&#8221;
cries the old woman, and Philomele comes out.</p>

<p>More applause--it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder
and patches, the most ravissante little Marquise in
the world.</p>

<p>She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the
stage with all the innocence of theatrical youth--she
makes a curtsey.  Mamma says &#8220;Why, child, you
are always laughing and singing,&#8221; and away she
goes, with--</p>

<p align="center"><em>The Rose Upon My Balcony</em></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s sunshine
in my heart, Mamma, which wakens   and rejoices, And
so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that&#8217;s the reason
why.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;
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&#8217;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&#8217;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.  &#8220;None but a compatriot,&#8221; his
Excellency declared, &#8220;could have performed that
majestic dance in such a way.&#8221;</p>

<p>Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de Klingenspohr,
the Prince of Peterwaradin&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Mrs. Rawdon Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;Beg your pardon, Colonel, I
vish to speak to you most particular.&#8221; This
gentleman&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;We&#8217;re three on us--it&#8217;s no use
bolting,&#8221; the man behind said.</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s you, Moss, is it?&#8221; said the
Colonel, who appeared to know his interlocutor.  &#8220;How
much is it?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Only a small thing,&#8221; whispered Mr. Moss,
of Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, and assistant officer
to the Sheriff of Middlesex-- &#8220;One hundred and
sixty-six, six and eight-pence, at the suit of Mr.
Nathan.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God&#8217;s
sake,&#8221; poor Rawdon said--"I&#8217;ve got seventy
at home.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ve not got ten pounds in the world,&#8221;
said poor Mr. Wenham--"Good night, my dear fellow.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Good night,&#8221; said Rawdon ruefully.  And
Wenham walked away--and Rawdon Crawley finished his
cigar as the cab drove under Temple Bar.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LII</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Lord Steyne Shows Himself in a Most Amiable Light</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Young Rawdon&#8217;s aunt, we have said, was very
fond of him, as was her little girl, who wept copiously
when the time for her cousin&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
feelings and softness; the other&#8217;s kindly and
gentle nature could not but revolt at her sister&#8217;s
callous behaviour.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s
son, of the old regiment, had taken him in charge
and promised to be kind to him.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s education?</p>

<p>Our business does not lie with the second generation
and Master Rawdon&#8217;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.</p>

<p>His father sagaciously tipped Blackball, his master,
a sovereign, and secured that young gentleman&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;in.&#8221; &#8220;Stick
to it, my boy,&#8221; he said to him with much gravity,
&#8220;there&#8217;s nothing like a good classical
education!  Nothing!&#8221;</p>

<p>Becky&#8217;s contempt for her husband grew greater
every day.  &#8220;Do what you like--dine where you
please--go and have ginger-beer and sawdust at Astley&#8217;s,
or psalm-singing with Lady Jane--only don&#8217;t expect
me to busy myself with the boy.  I have your interests
to attend to, as you can&#8217;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;Who knows,&#8221; the dear woman may
have thought within herself, &#8220;perhaps he may
give me a little more?&#8221; My lord, however, made
no such proposal to the little schemer--very likely
thinking that he had been sufficiently generous already.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;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.&#8221;
Lord Steyne, laughing, promised he never would divulge
their conversation, and when he and Miss Briggs parted
he laughed still more.</p>

<p>&#8220;What an accomplished little devil it is!&#8221;
thought he. &#8220;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.&#8221; His lordship&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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? &#8220;Ah, my Lord,&#8221; she said, &#8220;you
don&#8217;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.&#8221; She
burst into tears as she spoke.  Persecuted virtue
never looked more bewitchingly wretched.</p>

<p>They had a long conversation, driving round and round
the Regent&#8217;s Park in Mrs. Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>He told Lady Jane of this second proof of Steyne&#8217;s
bounty, and she, too, looked odd and alarmed; so did
Sir Pitt.  &#8220;She is too clever and--and gay to
be allowed to go from party to party without a companion,&#8221;
both said.  &#8220;You must go with her, Rawdon, wherever
she goes, and you must have somebody with her--one
of the girls from Queen&#8217;s Crawley, perhaps,
though they were rather giddy guardians for her.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s out-sentinels were in the hands of
the enemy.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Becky promised anything and everything Pitt wanted;
but Lord Steyne came to her house as often as ever,
and Sir Pitt&#8217;s anger increased. I wonder was
Lady Jane angry or pleased that her husband at last
found fault with his favourite Rebecca? Lord Steyne&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
manner which enforced obedience.  Little Becky, to
do her justice, was charmed with Rawdon&#8217;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.  &#8220;How much pleasanter
it is,&#8221; she would say, &#8220;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!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>And it was while Rawdon&#8217;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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">A Rescue and a Catastrophe</h4>

<p>Friend Rawdon drove on then to Mr. Moss&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;t
unfrequently occur in the life of a man who lives
on nothing a year.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;ll find your old bed, Colonel, and
everything comfortable,&#8221; that gentleman said,
&#8220;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ll ring when I want anything,&#8221;
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.  &#8220;But what is the use of disturbing
her night&#8217;s rest?&#8221; thought Rawdon. &#8220;She
won&#8217;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&#8217;s only
a hundred-and-seventy, and the deuce is in it if we
can&#8217;t raise that.&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s entertainment
the night before.  It contained a brilliant account
of the festivities and of the beautiful and accomplished
Mrs. Rawdon Crawley&#8217;s admirable personifications.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>Now on the score of his application, Rawdon had not
many misgivings.</p>

<p><i>Dear Becky</i>, (Rawdon wrote)</p>

<p>I <i>hope you slept well</i>.  Don&#8217;t
be <i>frightened</i> if I don&#8217;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 <i>gilt and splendid</i>
PARLER I write this--the same that had me this time
two years.  Miss Moss brought in my tea--she is grown
very <i>fat</i>, and, as usual, had her STOCKENS <i>down at heal</i>.</p>

<p>It&#8217;s Nathan&#8217;s business--a hundred-and-fifty--with
costs, hundred-and-seventy.  Please send me my desk
and some CLOTHS--I&#8217;m in pumps and a white tye
(something like Miss M&#8217;s stockings)--I&#8217;ve
seventy in it.  And as soon as you get this, Drive
to Nathan&#8217;s--offer him seventy-five down, and
<i>ask him to renew</i>--say I&#8217;ll
take wine--we may as well have some dinner sherry;
but not PICTURS, they&#8217;re too dear.</p>

<p>If he won&#8217;t stand it.  Take my ticker and such
of your things as you can <i>spare</i>, and send them
to Balls--we must, of coarse, have the sum to-night.
 It won&#8217;t do to let it stand over, as to-morrow&#8217;s
Sunday; the beds here are not very <i>clean</i>, and
there may be other things out against me--I&#8217;m
glad it an&#8217;t Rawdon&#8217;s Saturday for coming
home.  God bless you.</p>

<p>Yours in haste, R.  C. P.S.  Make haste and come.</p>

<p>This letter, sealed with a wafer, was dispatched by
one of the messengers who are always hanging about
Mr. Moss&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>But the day passed away and no messenger returned--no
Becky.  Mr. Moss&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;stand&#8221;
a bottle of champagne for the company, he consented,
and the ladies drank to his &#8217;ealth, and Mr. Moss,
in the most polite manner, &#8220;looked towards him.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;No
ceramony, Colonel, I beg,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p><i>Mon pauvre cher petit</i>, (Mrs. Crawley
wrote)</p>

<p>I could not sleep <i>one wink</i> 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
<i>on no account</i>.  So that my poor old
man&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Ill as I was, I instantly called for the carriage,
and as soon as I was dressed (though I couldn&#8217;t
drink a drop of chocolate--I assure you I couldn&#8217;t
without my monstre to bring it to me), I drove ventre
a terre to Nathan&#8217;s.  I saw him--I wept--I cried--I
fell at his odious knees.  Nothing would mollify the
horrid man. He would have all the money, he said,
or keep my poor monstre in prison.  I drove home with
the intention of paying that triste visite chez mon
oncle (when every trinket I have should be at your
disposal though they would not fetch a hundred pounds,
for some, you know, are with ce cher oncle already),
and found Milor there with the Bulgarian old sheep-faced
monster, who had come to compliment me upon last night&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;d
and psha&#8217;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</p>

<p>Becky</p>

<p>I am writing in bed.  Oh I have such a headache and
such a heartache!</p>

<p>When Rawdon read over this letter, he turned so red
and looked so savage that the company at the table
d&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s door.</p>

<p>&#8220;Colonel Crawley,&#8221; 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, &#8220;Colonel, you&#8217;re
wanted,&#8221; led her into the back parlour, which
he occupied.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is I, Rawdon,&#8221; she said in a timid
voice, which she strove to render cheerful.  &#8220;It
is Jane.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
house, and they went homewards in the cab in which
she had hastened to his release.  &#8220;Pitt was
gone to a parliamentary dinner,&#8221; she said, &#8220;when
Rawdon&#8217;s note came, and so, dear Rawdon, I--I
came myself&#8221;; 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.
&#8220;Oh,&#8221; said he, in his rude, artless way,
&#8220;you--you don&#8217;t know how I&#8217;m changed
since I&#8217;ve known you, and--and little Rawdy.
 I--I&#8217;d like to change somehow.  You see I want--I
want--to be--&#8221; 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&#8217;s
bed, she prayed humbly for that poor way-worn sinner.</p>

<p>Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly.  It was nine
o&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;Brava!
 Brava!"--it was Lord Steyne&#8217;s.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>He, too, attempted a laugh--and came forward holding
out his hand. &#8220;What, come back!  How d&#8217;ye
do, Crawley?&#8221; he said, the nerves of his mouth
twitching as he tried to grin at the intruder.</p>

<p>There was that in Rawdon&#8217;s face which caused
Becky to fling herself before him.  &#8220;I am innocent,
Rawdon,&#8221; she said; &#8220;before God, I am innocent.&#8221;
She clung hold of his coat, of his hands; her own were
all covered with serpents, and rings, and baubles.
 &#8220;I am innocent. Say I am innocent,&#8221; she
said to Lord Steyne.</p>

<p>He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as
furious with the wife as with the husband.  &#8220;You
innocent!  Damn you,&#8221; he screamed out.  &#8220;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&#8217;re as innocent as
your mother, the ballet-girl, and your husband the
bully.  Don&#8217;t think to frighten me as you have
done others. Make way, sir, and let me pass&#8221;;
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.</p>

<p>But Rawdon Crawley springing out, seized him by the
neckcloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed
and bent under his arm.  &#8220;You lie, you dog!&#8221;
said Rawdon. &#8220;You lie, you coward and villain!&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Come here,&#8221; he said.  She came up at
once.</p>

<p>&#8220;Take off those things.&#8221; 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.  &#8220;Throw them
down,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Come upstairs,&#8221; Rawdon said to his wife.
 &#8220;Don&#8217;t kill me, Rawdon,&#8221; she said.
 He laughed savagely.  &#8220;I want to see if that
man lies about the money as he has about me.  Has
he given you any?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;No,&#8221; said Rebecca, &#8220;that is--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Give me your keys,&#8221; Rawdon answered,
and they went out together.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Did he give you this?&#8221; Rawdon said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes,&#8221; Rebecca answered.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ll send it to him to-day,&#8221; Rawdon
said (for day had dawned again, and many hours had
passed in this search), &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I am innocent,&#8221; said Becky.  And he left
her without another word.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s pay.  &#8220;Mon Dieu, madame, what
has happened?&#8221; she asked.</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;s orders, and Lord Steyne went away.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LIV</h3>

<h4 align="center">Sunday After the Battle</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s own private use.  His gentleman
alone took the opportunity of perusing the newspaper
before he laid it by his master&#8217;s desk.  Before
he had brought it into the study that morning, he
had read in the journal a flaming account of &#8220;Festivities
at Gaunt House,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Good
gracious, Rawdon,&#8221; he said, with a blank face,
&#8220;what brings you here at this time of the morning?
Why ain&#8217;t you at home?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Home,&#8221; said Rawdon with a wild laugh.
 &#8220;Don&#8217;t be frightened, Pitt. I&#8217;m
not drunk.  Shut the door; I want to speak to you.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Pitt, it&#8217;s all over with me,&#8221; the
Colonel said after a pause.  &#8220;I&#8217;m done.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I always said it would come to this,&#8221;
the Baronet cried peevishly, and beating a tune with
his clean-trimmed nails.  &#8220;I warned you a thousand
times.  I can&#8217;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&#8217;t mean to say that
I won&#8217;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&#8217;s a painful thing for the family, but everybody
does it.  There was George Kitely, Lord Ragland&#8217;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--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s not money I want,&#8221; Rawdon
broke in.  &#8220;I&#8217;m not come to you about
myself.  Never mind what happens to me "</p>

<p>&#8220;What is the matter, then?&#8221; said Pitt,
somewhat relieved.</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s the boy,&#8221; said Rawdon in a
husky voice.  &#8220;I want you to promise me that
you will take charge of him when I&#8217;m gone.  That
dear good wife of yours has always been good to him;
and he&#8217;s fonder of her than he is of his . 
.  .--Damn it.  Look here, Pitt--you know that I was
to have had Miss Crawley&#8217;s money.  I wasn&#8217;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&#8217;t
do my duty with the regiment so bad.  You know how
I was thrown over about the money, and who got it.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;After the sacrifices I have made, and the manner
in which I have stood by you, I think this sort of
reproach is useless,&#8221; Sir Pitt said.  &#8220;Your
marriage was your own doing, not mine.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That&#8217;s over now,&#8221; said Rawdon.
 &#8220;That&#8217;s over now.&#8221; And the words
were wrenched from him with a groan, which made his
brother start.</p>

<p>&#8220;Good God!  is she dead?&#8221; Sir Pitt said
with a voice of genuine alarm and commiseration.</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish I was,&#8221; Rawdon replied.  &#8220;If
it wasn&#8217;t for little Rawdon I&#8217;d have cut
my throat this morning--and that damned villain&#8217;s
too.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;It was a regular plan between that scoundrel
and her,&#8221; he said.  &#8220;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.&#8221; 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.  &#8220;And
as it may end fatally with me,&#8221; Rawdon said with
a broken voice, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>The elder brother was much affected, and shook Rawdon&#8217;s
hand with a cordiality seldom exhibited by him. Rawdon
passed his hand over his shaggy eyebrows. &#8220;Thank
you, brother,&#8221; said he.  &#8220;I know I can
trust your word.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I will, upon my honour,&#8221; the Baronet
said.  And thus, and almost mutely, this bargain was
struck between them.</p>

<p>Then Rawdon took out of his pocket the little pocket-book
which he had discovered in Becky&#8217;s desk, and
from which he drew a bundle of the notes which it
contained. &#8220;Here&#8217;s six hundred,&#8221;
he said--"you didn&#8217;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&#8217;ve
always felt ashamed of having taken the poor old woman&#8217;s
money.  And here&#8217;s some more--I&#8217;ve only
kept back a few pounds--which Becky may as well have,
to get on with.&#8221; 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&#8217;s
winnings.</p>

<p>Pitt stooped and picked them up, amazed at so much
wealth.  &#8220;Not that,&#8221; Rawdon said.  &#8220;I
hope to put a bullet into the man whom that belongs
to.&#8221; He had thought to himself, it would be a
fine revenge to wrap a ball in the note and kill Steyne
with it.</p>

<p>After this colloquy the brothers once more shook hands
and parted. Lady Jane had heard of the Colonel&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Rawdon Crawley meanwhile hurried on from Great Gaunt
Street, and knocking at the great bronze Medusa&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;clock at the Regent Club in St.
 James&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
labours, and, not being on duty, was in bed.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What&#8217;s the row about, Crawley, my boy?&#8221;
said the old warrior.  &#8220;No more gambling business,
hay, like that when we shot Captain Marker?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s about--about my wife,&#8221; Crawley
answered, casting down his eyes and turning very red.</p>

<p>The other gave a whistle.  &#8220;I always said she&#8217;d
throw you over,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Is there no way out of it, old boy?&#8221;
the Captain continued in a grave tone.  &#8220;Is
it only suspicion, you know, or--or what is it? Any
letters? Can&#8217;t you keep it quiet? Best not make
any noise about a thing of that sort if you can help
it.&#8221; &#8220;Think of his only finding her out
now,&#8221; the Captain thought to himself, and remembered
a hundred particular conversations at the mess-table,
in which Mrs. Crawley&#8217;s reputation had been
torn to shreds.</p>

<p>&#8220;There&#8217;s no way but one out of it,&#8221;
Rawdon replied--"and there&#8217;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 &#8217;em alone
together.  I told him he was a liar and a coward,
and knocked him down and thrashed him.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Serve him right,&#8221; Macmurdo said.  &#8220;Who
is it?&#8221;</p>

<p>Rawdon answered it was Lord Steyne.</p>

<p>&#8220;The deuce!  a Marquis!  they said he--that
is, they said you--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What the devil do you mean?&#8221; roared out
Rawdon; &#8220;do you mean that you ever heard a fellow
doubt about my wife and didn&#8217;t tell me, Mac?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;The world&#8217;s very censorious, old boy,&#8221;
the other replied.  &#8220;What the deuce was the
good of my telling you what any tom-fools talked about?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It was damned unfriendly, Mac,&#8221; 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. &#8220;Hold up, old boy,&#8221;
he said; &#8220;great man or not, we&#8217;ll put
a bullet in him, damn him.  As for women, they&#8217;re
all so.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You don&#8217;t know how fond I was of that
one,&#8221; Rawdon said, half-inarticulately.  &#8220;Damme,
I followed her like a footman.  I gave up everything
I had to her.  I&#8217;m a beggar because I would marry
her. By Jove, sir, I&#8217;ve pawned my own watch
in order to get her anything she fancied; and she
she&#8217;s been making a purse for herself all the
time, and grudged me a hundred pound to get me out
of quod.&#8221; 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. &#8220;She may be innocent, after all,&#8221;
he said.  &#8220;She says so. Steyne has been a hundred
times alone with her in the house before.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It may be so,&#8221; Rawdon answered sadly,
&#8220;but this don&#8217;t look very innocent&#8221;:
 and he showed the Captain the thousand-pound note
which he had found in Becky&#8217;s pocket-book. 
&#8220;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.&#8221;
The Captain could not but own that the secreting of
the money had a very ugly look.</p>

<p>Whilst they were engaged in their conference, Rawdon
dispatched Captain Macmurdo&#8217;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&#8217;s absence, and with
great labour and a Johnson&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s behalf, to give up the note to
its owner.</p>

<p>By the time this note was composed, the Captain&#8217;s
servant returned from his mission to Colonel Crawley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;They won&#8217;t give &#8217;em up,&#8221;
said the man; &#8220;there&#8217;s a regular shinty
in the house, and everything at sixes and sevens.
 The landlord&#8217;s come in and took possession.
 The servants was a drinkin&#8217; 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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s discomfiture.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m glad the little &#8217;un isn&#8217;t
at home,&#8221; Rawdon said, biting his nails.  &#8220;You
remember him, Mac, don&#8217;t you, in the Riding School?
How he sat the kicker to be sure! didn&#8217;t he?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That he did, old boy,&#8221; said the good-natured
Captain.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;He&#8217;s a regular trump, that boy,&#8221;
the father went on, still musing about his son.  &#8220;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&#8217;s
all I&#8217;ve got.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Go down and order some breakfast,&#8221; he
said to his man in a loud cheerful voice.  &#8220;What&#8217;ll
you have, Crawley? Some devilled kidneys and a herring--let&#8217;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.&#8221; With
which, and leaving the Colonel to dress himself, Macmurdo
turned round towards the wall, and resumed the perusal
of Bell&#8217;s Life, until such time as his friend&#8217;s
toilette was complete and he was at liberty to commence
his own.</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LV</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which the Same Subject is Pursued</h4>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>A lady very like her subsequently kept a milliner&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;Have a little
drop, do&#8217;ee now, Mrs. Raggles,&#8221; the cook
was saying as Becky entered, the white cashmere dressing-gown
flouncing around her.</p>

<p>&#8220;Simpson!  Trotter!&#8221; the mistress of the
house cried in great wrath.   &#8220;How dare you
stay here when you heard me call? How dare you sit
down in my presence? Where&#8217;s my maid?&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;<i>Your</i> sofy, indeed!&#8221; Mrs. Cook said.
 &#8220;I&#8217;m a settin&#8217; on Mrs. Raggles&#8217;s
sofy.  Don&#8217;t you stir, Mrs. Raggles, Mum. I&#8217;m
a settin&#8217; on Mr. and Mrs. Raggles&#8217;s sofy,
which they bought with honest money, and very dear
it cost &#8216;em, too.  And I&#8217;m thinkin&#8217;
if I set here until I&#8217;m paid my wages, I shall
set a precious long time, Mrs. Raggles; and set I
will, too--ha!  ha!&#8221; and with this she filled
herself another glass of the liquor and drank it with
a more hideously satirical air.</p>

<p>&#8220;Trotter!  Simpson!  turn that drunken wretch
out,&#8221; screamed Mrs. Crawley.</p>

<p>&#8220;I shawn&#8217;t,&#8221; said Trotter the footman;
&#8220;turn out yourself.  Pay our selleries, and
turn me out too.  <i>We&#8217;ll</i> go fast enough.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Are you all here to insult me?&#8221; cried
Becky in a fury; &#8220;when Colonel Crawley comes
home I&#8217;ll--&#8221;</p>

<p>At this the servants burst into a horse haw-haw, in
which, however, Raggles, who still kept a most melancholy
countenance, did not join. &#8220;He ain&#8217;t a
coming back,&#8221; Mr. Trotter resumed.  &#8220;He
sent for his things, and I wouldn&#8217;t let &#8217;em
go, although Mr. Raggles would; and I don&#8217;t
b&#8217;lieve he&#8217;s no more a Colonel than I am.
 He&#8217;s hoff, and I suppose you&#8217;re a goin&#8217;
after him.  You&#8217;re no better than swindlers,
both on you.  Don&#8217;t be a bullyin&#8217; <i>me</i>.
 I won&#8217;t stand it.  Pay us our selleries, I
say.  Pay us our selleries.&#8221; It was evident,
from Mr. Trotter&#8217;s flushed countenance and defective
intonation, that he, too, had had recourse to vinous
stimulus.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mr. Raggles,&#8221; said Becky in a passion
of vexation, &#8220;you will not surely let me be
insulted by that drunken man?&#8221; &#8220;Hold your
noise, Trotter; do now,&#8221; said Simpson the page.
 He was affected by his mistress&#8217;s deplorable
situation, and succeeded in preventing an outrageous
denial of the epithet &#8220;drunken&#8221; on the
footman&#8217;s part.</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, M&#8217;am,&#8221; said Raggles, &#8220;I
never thought to live to see this year day:  I&#8217;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&#8217;
to ruing me--yes, ruing me"--said the poor fellow
with tears in his eyes.  &#8220;Har you a goin&#8217;
to pay me? You&#8217;ve lived in this &#8217;ouse
four year.  You&#8217;ve &#8217;ad my substance: my
plate and linning.  You ho me a milk and butter bill
of two &#8217;undred pound, you must &#8217;ave noo
laid heggs for your homlets, and cream for your spanil
dog.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She didn&#8217;t care what her own flesh and
blood had,&#8221; interposed the cook.  &#8220;Many&#8217;s
the time, he&#8217;d have starved but for me.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He&#8217;s a charaty-boy now, Cooky,&#8221;
said Mr. Trotter, with a drunken &#8220;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You all seem to be against me,&#8221; she said
bitterly. &#8220;What do you want? I can&#8217;t pay
you on Sunday.  Come back to-morrow and I&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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. &#8220;Good
Heavens!  was ever such ill luck as mine?&#8221; she
said; &#8220;to be so near, and to lose all.  Is it
all too late?&#8221; No; there was one chance more.</p>

<p>She dressed herself and went away unmolested this
time, but alone. It was four o&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s room before the astonished
Baronet had even laid down the paper.</p>

<p>He turned red and started back from her with a look
of great alarm and horror.</p>

<p>&#8220;Do not look so,&#8221; she said.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Is this true, what I see in the paper then?&#8221;
Sir Pitt said--a paragraph in which had greatly surprised
him.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s service.  I have received
Lord Steyne alone a hundred times before. I confess
I had money of which Rawdon knew nothing. Don&#8217;t
you know how careless he is of it, and could I dare
to confide it to him?&#8221; And so she went on with
a perfectly connected story, which she poured into
the ears of her perplexed kinsman.</p>

<p>It was to the following effect.  Becky owned, and
with prefect frankness, but deep contrition, that
having remarked Lord Steyne&#8217;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&#8217;s attachment to the advantage
of herself and her family.  &#8220;I looked for a
peerage for you, Pitt,&#8221; she said (the brother-in-law
again turned red).  &#8220;We have talked about it.
 Your genius and Lord Steyne&#8217;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&#8217;s
partiality for me,&#8221; she said, casting down her
eyes.  &#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;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!&#8221; And as she spoke she flung
herself down on her knees, and bursting into tears,
seized hold of Pitt&#8217;s hand, which she kissed
passionately.</p>

<p>It was in this very attitude that Lady Jane, who,
returning from church, ran to her husband&#8217;s
room directly she heard Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was closeted
there, found the Baronet and his sister-in-law.</p>

<p>&#8220;I am surprised that woman has the audacity
to enter this house,&#8221; 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&#8217;s
household, who had told her all, and a great deal
more than they knew, of that story, and many others
besides).  &#8220;How dare Mrs. Crawley to enter the
house of--of an honest family?&#8221;</p>

<p>Sir Pitt started back, amazed at his wife&#8217;s
display of vigour. Becky still kept her kneeling posture
and clung to Sir Pitt&#8217;s hand.</p>

<p>&#8220;Tell her that she does not know all:  Tell
her that I am innocent, dear Pitt,&#8221; she whimpered
out.</p>

<p>&#8220;Upon-my word, my love, I think you do Mrs.
Crawley injustice,&#8221; Sir Pitt said; at which
speech Rebecca was vastly relieved.  &#8220;Indeed
I believe her to be--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;To be what?&#8221; cried out Lady Jane, her
clear voice thrilling and, her heart beating violently
as she spoke. &#8220;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Lady Jane!&#8221; cried Sir Pitt, starting
up, &#8220;this is really language-- "  &#8220;I have
been a true and faithful wife to you, Sir Pitt,&#8221;
Lady Jane continued, intrepidly; &#8220;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&#8221;;
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.</p>

<p>As for Becky, she was not hurt; nay, she was pleased.
&#8220;It was the diamond-clasp you gave me,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;t pay; no, dammy, he wouldn&#8217;t
pay.  It was but a year since the young Cornet, now
so knowing a hand in Cribb&#8217;s parlour, had a
still lingering liking for toffy, and used to be birched
at Eton.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
Street and entered into their Club.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;Crawley,
I congratulate you.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What do you mean?&#8221; said the Colonel.</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s in the Observer and the Royalist
too,&#8221; said Mr. Smith.</p>

<p>&#8220;What?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is come just in the nick of time,&#8221;
said Smith.  &#8220;I suppose Crawley had not a shilling
in the world.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s a wind that blows everybody good,&#8221;
Mr. Brown said.  &#8220;He can&#8217;t go away without
paying me a pony he owes me.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What&#8217;s the salary?&#8221; asked Smith.</p>

<p>&#8220;Two or three thousand,&#8221; answered the
other.  &#8220;But the climate&#8217;s so infernal,
they don&#8217;t enjoy it long. Liverseege died after
eighteen months of it, and the man before went off
in six weeks, I hear.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Some people say his brother is a very clever
man.  I always found him a d--- bore,&#8221; Smith
ejaculated.  &#8220;He must have good interest, though.
 He must have got the Colonel the place.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He!&#8221; said Brown.  with a sneer.  &#8220;Pooh.
 It was Lord Steyne got it.</p>

<p>&#8220;How do you mean?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband,&#8221;
answered the other enigmatically, and went to read
his papers.</p>

<p>Rawdon, for his part, read in the Royalist the following
astonishing paragraph:</p>

<p><i>Governorship of Coventry island</i>.--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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Coventry Island!  Where was it? Who had appointed
him to the government? You must take me out as your
secretary, old boy,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>The Colonel and his aide-de-camp went out to meet
the gentleman, rightly conjecturing that he was an
emissary of Lord Steyne.  &#8220;How d&#8217;ye do,
Crawley? I am glad to see you,&#8221; said Mr. Wenham
with a bland smile, and grasping Crawley&#8217;s hand
with great cordiality.</p>

<p>&#8220;You come, I suppose, from--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Exactly,&#8221; said Mr. Wenham.</p>

<p>&#8220;Then this is my friend Captain Macmurdo, of
the Life Guards Green.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Delighted to know Captain Macmurdo, I&#8217;m
sure,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;As Macmurdo acts for me, and knows what I mean,&#8221;
Crawley said, &#8220;I had better retire and leave
you together.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Of course,&#8221; said Macmurdo.</p>

<p>&#8220;By no means, my dear Colonel,&#8221; Mr. Wenham
said; &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Humph!&#8221; 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--</p>

<p>&#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Hanged if I know,&#8221; the Captain said;
his principal turned very red.</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ll see him d--- before I take his place,&#8221;
growled out Rawdon.</p>

<p>&#8220;You are irritated against my noble friend,&#8221;
Mr. Wenham calmly resumed; &#8220;and now, in the
name of common sense and justice, tell me  why?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;<i>Why</i>?&#8221; cried Rawdon in surprise.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why? Dammy!&#8221; said the Captain, ringing
his stick on the ground.</p>

<p>&#8220;Dammy, indeed,&#8221; said Mr. Wenham with
the most agreeable smile; &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You don&#8217;t mean to say that--that Crawley&#8217;s
mistaken?&#8221; said Mr. Macmurdo.</p>

<p>&#8220;I believe that Mrs. Crawley is as innocent
as my wife, Mrs. Wenham,&#8221; Mr. Wenham said with
great energy.  &#8220;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&#8217;s future reputation,
and his own prospects in life.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I will tell you what happened,&#8221; Mr. Wenham
continued with great solemnity; &#8220;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He has plenty of pluck,&#8221; said the Colonel.
 &#8220;Nobody ever said he hadn&#8217;t.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;His first order to me was to write a letter
of challenge, and to carry it to Colonel Crawley.
 One or other of us,&#8221; he said, &#8220;must not
survive the outrage of last night.&#8221;</p>

<p>Crawley nodded.  &#8220;You&#8217;re coming to the
point, Wenham,&#8221; he said.</p>

<p>&#8220;I tried my utmost to calm Lord Steyne.  Good
God! sir,&#8221; I said, &#8220;how I regret that
Mrs. Wenham and myself had not accepted Mrs. Crawley&#8217;s
invitation to sup with her!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She asked you to sup with her?&#8221; Captain
Macmurdo said.</p>

<p>&#8220;After the opera.  Here&#8217;s the note of
invitation--stop--no, this is another paper--I thought
I had h, but it&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I don&#8217;t believe one word of the whole
story,&#8221; said Rawdon, grinding his teeth.  &#8220;I
believe it a d--- lie, and that you&#8217;re in it,
Mr. Wenham.  If the challenge don&#8217;t come from
him, by Jove it shall come from me.&#8221;</p>

<p>Mr. Wenham turned deadly pale at this savage interruption
of the Colonel and looked towards the door.</p>

<p>But he found a champion in Captain Macmurdo.  That
gentleman rose up with an oath and rebuked Rawdon
for his language.  &#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
nothing proved at all:  that your wife&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Captain Macmurdo, you speak like a man of sense,&#8221;
Mr. Wenham cried out, immensely relieved--"I forget
any words that Colonel Crawley has used in the irritation
of the moment.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I thought you would,&#8221; Rawdon said with
a sneer.</p>

<p>&#8220;Shut your mouth, you old stoopid,&#8221; the
Captain said good-naturedly. &#8220;Mr. Wenham ain&#8217;t
a fighting man; and quite right, too.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;This matter, in my belief,&#8221; the Steyne
emissary cried, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I suppose Lord Steyne won&#8217;t talk about
it very much,&#8221; said Captain Macmurdo; &#8220;and
I don&#8217;t see why our side should.  The affair
ain&#8217;t a very pretty one, any way you take it,
and the less said about it the better. It&#8217;s
you are thrashed, and not us; and if you are satisfied,
why, I think, we should be.&#8221;</p>

<p>Mr. Wenham took his hat, upon this, and Captain Macmurdo
following him to the door, shut it upon himself and
Lord Steyne&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You don&#8217;t stick at a trifle, Mr. Wenham,&#8221;
he said.</p>

<p>&#8220;You flatter me, Captain Macmurdo,&#8221; answered
the other with a smile. &#8220;Upon my honour and
conscience now, Mrs. Crawley did ask us to sup after
the opera.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Of course; and Mrs. Wenham had one of her head-aches.
 I say, I&#8217;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&#8217;t fight him.  But
we had rather not take his money.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It was all a mistake--all a mistake, my dear
sir,&#8221; 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&#8217;s brother was, told Sir
Pitt, in confidence, that he had made the affair all
right between Lord Steyne and the Colonel.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>But Rawdon would not hear of it.  &#8220;She has kep
money concealed from me these ten years,&#8221; he
said &#8220;She swore, last night only, she had none
from Steyne.  She knew it was all up, directly I found
it.  If she&#8217;s not guilty, Pitt, she&#8217;s
as bad as guilty, and I&#8217;ll never see her again--never.&#8221;
His head sank down on his chest as he spoke the words,
and he looked quite broken and sad.</p>

<p>&#8220;Poor old boy,&#8221; Macmurdo said, shaking
his head.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s fortune was made through his means.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s arrival; some said she
was living in Bierstadt, and had become a dame d&#8217;honneur
to the Queen of Bulgaria; some that she was at Boulogne;
and others, at a boarding-house at Cheltenham.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s nest about Queen&#8217;s
Crawley, and rode out with Sir Huddlestone&#8217;s
hounds, which he admired so on his first well-remembered
visit to Hampshire.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LVI</h3>

<h4 align="center">Georgy is Made a Gentleman</h4>

<p>Georgy Osborne was now fairly established in his grandfather&#8217;s
mansion in Russell Square, occupant of his father&#8217;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&#8217;s heart
for him.  Mr. Osborne was as proud of him as ever
he had been of the elder George.</p>

<p>The child had many more luxuries and indulgences than
had been awarded his father.  Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;s constant
saying regarding little Georgy.  He saw him in his
mind&#8217;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&#8217;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
&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s aunt and
say, &#8220;Look, Miss O.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I bought it with my own money, Mamma,&#8221;
he said. &#8220;I thought you&#8217;d like it.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>But what was the grandfather&#8217;s pleasure compared
to Amelia&#8217;s ecstacy? That proof of the boy&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Look at
him,&#8221; the old man would say, nudging his neighbour
with a delighted purple face, &#8220;did you ever
see such a chap? Lord, Lord! he&#8217;ll be ordering
a dressing-case next, and razors to shave with; I&#8217;m
blessed if he won&#8217;t.&#8221;</p>

<p>The antics of the lad did not, however, delight Mr.
Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;whopped&#8221; her third
boy (a young gentleman a year older than Georgy, and
by chance home for the holidays from Dr. Tickleus&#8217;s
at Ealing School) in Russell Square. George&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>This young Todd, of Coram Street, Russell Square,
was Master George&#8217;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&#8217;s Park and the Serpentine,
when the weather permitted; for going to the play,
whither they were often conducted, by Mr. Osborne&#8217;s
orders, by Rowson, Master George&#8217;s appointed
body-servant, with whom they sat in great comfort in
the pit.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
Wells; and performed, indeed, many of the plays to
the Todd family and their youthful friends, with West&#8217;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&#8217;s
liberality and gratitude for the pleasures to which
the footman inducted him.</p>

<p>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 <i>him</i>)--was summoned to ornament little
George&#8217;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,
&#8220;like a regular West End swell,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Georgy, after breakfast, would sit in the arm-chair
in the dining-room and read the Morning Post, just
like a grown-up man.  &#8220;How he <i>du</i> dam and
swear,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>George&#8217;s education was confided to a neighbouring
scholar and private pedagogue who &#8220;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
Service:  these four sat down to dinner at Mrs. Veal&#8217;s
genteel board, when Georgy was introduced to her establishment.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>With respect to learning, &#8220;the Curriculum,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>Thus he would say to George in school, &#8220;I observed
on my return home from taking the indulgence of an
evening&#8217;s scientific conversation with my excellent
friend Doctor Bulders--a true archaeologian, gentlemen,
a true archaeologian--that the windows of your venerated
grandfather&#8217;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?&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Then those friends who had the honour of partaking
of Mr. Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>To this great man George&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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 &#8220;Athene&#8221; engraved
on them, and a pompous Latin inscription from the
professor to his young friends.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,
&#38;c., out of turnips and carrots in a very creditable
manner, would go to &#8220;the Square,&#8221; 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!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>In Russell Square everybody was afraid of Mr. Osborne,
and Mr. Osborne was afraid of Georgy.  The boy&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Miss Osborne, George&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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 &#8220;the Square,&#8221; we may be
sure) &#8220;who knows what might happen? Don&#8217;t
they make a pretty little couple?&#8221; the fond mother
thought.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The illness of that old lady had been the occupation
and perhaps the safeguard of Amelia.  What do men
know about women&#8217;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.</p>

<p>From her chair Amelia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;avance.</p>

<p>One day as the young gentlemen were assembled in the
study at the Rev.  Mr. Veal&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s a fat one and a thin one,&#8221;
Mr. Bluck said as a thundering knock came to the door.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,
&#8220;Two gentlemen want to see Master Osborne.&#8221;
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, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;My God, how like he is!&#8221; said the long
gentleman with a start. &#8220;Can you guess who we
are, George?&#8221;</p>

<p>The boy&#8217;s face flushed up, as it did usually
when he was moved, and his eyes brightened.  &#8220;I
don&#8217;t know the other,&#8221; he said, &#8220;but
I should think you must be Major Dobbin.&#8221;</p>

<p>Indeed it was our old friend.  His voice trembled
with pleasure as he greeted the boy, and taking both
the other&#8217;s hands in his own, drew the lad to
him.</p>

<p>&#8220;Your mother has talked to you about me--has
she?&#8221; he said.</p>

<p>&#8220;That she has,&#8221; Georgy answered, &#8220;hundreds
and hundreds of times.&#8221;</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LVII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Eothen</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>It may have shown a want of &#8220;proper pride&#8221;
in Amelia that she chose to accept these money benefits
at the hands of her father&#8217;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.  &#8220;There must be classes--there must
be rich and poor,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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 &#8220;screw&#8221;
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&#8217;p&#8217;orth of kindness act upon
her and bring tears into her eyes, as though you were
an angel benefiting her.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s accident, whose prosperity
is very likely a satire.</p>

<p>They buried Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Old Sedley grew very fond of his daughter after his
wife&#8217;s death, and Amelia had her consolation
in doing her duty by the old man.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s, where the troops
should fire a salvo over his grave, and where many
a gallant officer lies far away from his home.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
maid at Brussels, when the young widow&#8217;s hair
was cut off, during the fever which prostrated her
after the death of George Osborne on the plateau at
Mount St.  John.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;Kirk will be disappointed
of his majority this time,&#8221; he said with a smile;
&#8220;he will expect to find himself gazetted by the
time the regiment reaches home.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Perhaps he was not inclined to put himself in his
exhausted state again under the guardianship of Glorvina.
&#8220;I think Miss O&#8217;Dowd would have done for
me,&#8221; he said laughingly to a fellow-passenger,
&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
misfortunes and unceremonious applications to him,
was soothed down by the Major, who pointed out the
elder&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Married?
not the least,&#8221; Jos answered; &#8220;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
<i>he</i> would be happy.&#8221; What were the dates
of Sedley&#8217;s letters from Europe? The civilian
fetched them. They were two months later than the
Major&#8217;s; and the ship&#8217;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.</p>

<p>After they passed St.  Helena, Major Dobbin&#8217;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.
 &#8220;He ain&#8217;t got distangy manners, dammy,&#8221;
Bragg observed to his first mate; &#8220;he wouldn&#8217;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&#8217;t got manners, but there&#8217;s
something about him--&#8221; And thus Captain Bragg
showed that he possessed discrimination as a man,
as well as ability as a commander.</p>

<p>But a calm taking place when the Ramchunder was within
ten days&#8217; 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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LVIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Our Friend the Major</h4>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s native servant arose
and began to get ready his master&#8217;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.</p>

<p>He then directed his steps to Mr. Sedley&#8217;s room
and opened the curtains of the great large family
bed wherein Mr. Jos was snoring. &#8220;Come, up!
 Sedley,&#8221; the Major said, &#8220;it&#8217;s time
to be off; the chaise will be at the door in half
an hour.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The chaise came up presently, and the Major would
wait no longer.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He grudged the time lost between Piccadilly and his
old haunt at the Slaughters&#8217;, 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.
 &#8220;Put the Major&#8217;s things in twenty-three,
that&#8217;s his room,&#8221; John said, exhibiting
not the least surprise.  &#8220;Roast fowl for your
dinner, I suppose.  You ain&#8217;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&#8217;t
the coach good enough?&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;t, he didn&#8217;t
care a straw, on the day before he was married. He
could fancy him walking in, banging the door of Dobbin&#8217;s
room, and his own hard by--</p>

<p>&#8220;You ain&#8217;t got young,&#8221; John said,
calmly surveying his friend of former days.</p>

<p>Dobbin laughed.  &#8220;Ten years and a fever don&#8217;t
make a man young, John,&#8221; he said.  &#8220;It
is you that are always young--no, you are always old.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What became of Captain Osborne&#8217;s widow?&#8221;
John said.  &#8220;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.  &#8217;April 10, 1815, Captain Osborne:
 &#8216;3 pounds.&#8217; I wonder whether his father
would pay me,&#8221; and so saying, John of the Slaughters&#8217;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m glad old John didn&#8217;t forget
me,&#8221; he thought. &#8220;She&#8217;ll know me,
too, I hope.&#8221; And he sallied out of the inn,
bending his steps once more in the direction of Brompton.</p>

<p>Every minute incident of his last meeting with Amelia
was present to the constant man&#8217;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. &#8220;May God Almighty bless her, whatever
has happened,&#8221; he thought to himself.  &#8220;Psha!
 she may be gone from here,&#8221; he said and went
in through the gate.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
brass plate was still on the door, at the knocker
of which Dobbin performed a summons.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He was as pale as a ghost and could hardly falter
out the words-- &#8220;Does Mrs. Osborne live here?&#8221;</p>

<p>She looked him hard in the face for a moment--and
then turning white too--said, &#8220;Lord bless me--it&#8217;s
Major Dobbin.&#8221; She held out both her hands shaking--"Don&#8217;t
you remember me?&#8221; she said.  &#8220;I used to
call you Major Sugarplums.&#8221; 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 &#8220;Ma, Pa!&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m an old friend,&#8221; he said--not
without blushing though.  &#8220;Don&#8217;t you remember
me, Mrs. Clapp, and those good cakes you used to make
for tea? Don&#8217;t you recollect me, Clapp? I&#8217;m
George&#8217;s godfather, and just come back from
India.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>The landlord and landlady of the house led the worthy
Major into the Sedleys&#8217; 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&#8217;s
gold watch), and there, as he sat down in the lodger&#8217;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&#8217;s history of which
he was not aware--namely of Mrs. Sedley&#8217;s death,
of George&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m very much pressed for time,&#8221;
the Major said, &#8220;and have business to-night
of importance.  I should like to see Mrs. Osborne tho&#8217;.
Suppose Miss Polly would come with me and show me the
way?&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
yellow shawl and large pebble brooch, of which she
assumed the loan in order to make herself a worthy
companion for the Major.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Who&#8217;s that?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s five thousand
pound to her fortune; but her and Miss B., who made
the match, have quarrelled already.&#8221;</p>

<p>If the Major had twitched before, he started now,
and slapped the bamboo on the ground with an emphasis
which made Miss Clapp cry, &#8220;Law,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;There they are,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Suppose you were to run on and tell her,&#8221;
the Major said.  Polly ran forward, her yellow shawl
streaming in the breeze.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s stories, scarcely hearing a
word of the old man&#8217;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&#8217;s
eager and happy face dissipated that fear in the timorous
mother&#8217;s bosom.</p>

<p>&#8220;News!  News!&#8221; cried the emissary of Major
Dobbin. &#8220;He&#8217;s come!  He&#8217;s come!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Who is come?&#8221; said Emmy, still thinking
of her son.</p>

<p>&#8220;Look there,&#8221; answered Miss Clapp, turning
round and pointing; in which direction Amelia looking,
saw Dobbin&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I--I&#8217;ve another arrival to announce,&#8221;
he said after a pause.</p>

<p>&#8220;Mrs. Dobbin?&#8221; Amelia said, making a movement
back--why didn&#8217;t he speak?</p>

<p>&#8220;No,&#8221; he said, letting her hands go: 
&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Papa, Papa!&#8221; Emmy cried out, &#8220;here
are news!  My brother is in England.  He is come to
take care of you. Here is Major Dobbin.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;He is very much shaken,&#8221; Emmy whispered
as Dobbin went up and cordially shook hands with the
old man.</p>

<p>Although he had such particular business in London
that evening, the Major consented to forego it upon
Mr. Sedley&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;, 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&#8217;s school.</p>

<p>The first thing Mrs. Osborne showed the Major was
Georgy&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Dobbin told him all, and a little more perhaps than
all, that had happened on board the Ramchunder, and
exaggerated Jos&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>At his accustomed hour Mr. Sedley began to doze in
his chair, and then it was Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;s master.  &#8220;He knows <i>everything</i>,&#8221;
Amelia said.  &#8220;He has the most delightful parties.
 You who are so learned yourself, and have read so
much, and are so clever and accomplished--don&#8217;t
shake your head and say no--<i>he</i> always used to
say you were--you will be charmed with Mr. Veal&#8217;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,&#8221; and she went
to the piano-drawer and drew out a theme of Georgy&#8217;s
composition.  This great effort of genius, which is
still in the possession of George&#8217;s mother,
is as follows:</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>George S.  Osborne Athene House, 24 April, 1827</p>

<p>&#8220;Think of him writing such a hand, and quoting
Greek too, at his age,&#8221; the delighted mother
said.  &#8220;Oh, William,&#8221; she added, holding
out her hand to the Major, &#8220;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&#8217;s
gone!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Ought I to be angry with her for being faithful
to him?&#8221; William thought.  &#8220;Ought I to
be jealous of my friend in the grave, or hurt that
such a heart as Amelia&#8217;s can love only once and
for ever? Oh, George, George, how little you knew
the prize you had, though.&#8221; This  sentiment
passed rapidly through William&#8217;s mind as he was
holding Amelia&#8217;s hand, whilst the handkerchief
was veiling her eyes.</p>

<p>&#8220;Dear friend,&#8221; she said, pressing the
hand which held hers, &#8220;how good, how kind you
always have been to me! See!  Papa is stirring. You
will go and see Georgy tomorrow, won&#8217;t you?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Not to-morrow,&#8221; said poor old Dobbin.
 &#8220;I have business.&#8221; He did not like to
own that he had not as yet been to his parents&#8217;
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&#8217;s
arrival.  And so the first day was over, and he had
seen her.</p>

<p>When he got back to the Slaughters&#8217;, 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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LIX</h3>

<h4 align="center">The Old Piano</h4>

<p>The Major&#8217;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&#8217;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,
&#38;c., &#38;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&#8217;s the wine papers, here&#8217;s
the sawdust, here&#8217;s the coals; here&#8217;s my
letters to Calcutta and Madras, and replies from Major
Dobbin, C.B., and Mr. Joseph Sedley to the same. 
&#8220;He shall find no irregularity about <i>me</i>,
Emmy,&#8221; the old gentleman said.</p>

<p>Emmy smiled.  &#8220;I don&#8217;t think Jos will
care about seeing those papers, Papa,&#8221; she said.</p>

<p>&#8220;You don&#8217;t know anything about business,
my dear,&#8221; 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&#8217;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,
&#8220;Mr. Joseph Sedley of the Honourable East India
Company&#8217;s Bengal Civil Service.&#8221;</p>

<p>Amelia found him up very early the next morning, more
eager, more hectic, and more shaky than ever.  &#8220;I
didn&#8217;t sleep much, Emmy, my dear,&#8221; he
said.  &#8220;I was thinking of my poor Bessy.  I wish
she was alive, to ride in Jos&#8217;s carriage once
again.  She kept her own and became it very well.&#8221;
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&#8217;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&#8217;clock in the morning
awaiting the arrival of his son.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>There are some splendid tailors&#8217; 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&#8217;s former
shyness and blundering blushing timidity had given
way to a more candid and courageous self-assertion
of his worth.  &#8220;I don&#8217;t care about owning
it,&#8221; Waterloo Sedley would say to his friends,
&#8220;I am a dressy man&#8221;; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;t know as
yet, and the rest of his Persicos apparatus.</p>

<p>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.  <i>He</i>, 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&#8217;s request and imbibed
some of the ale for which the place is famous.  At
Farnham he stopped to view the Bishop&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;Didn&#8217;t
you see how he shook all over when you asked if he
was married and he said, &#8217;Who told you those
lies?&#8217; Oh, M&#8217;am,&#8221; Polly said, &#8220;he
never kept his eyes off you, and I&#8217;m sure he&#8217;s
grown grey athinking of you.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s dearest
friend and her own and George&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Not that Emmy, being made aware of the honest Major&#8217;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&#8217;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 <i>then</i> it would
be time enough for her to speak and to put an end
to hopes which never could be realized.</p>

<p>She slept, therefore, very soundly that evening, after
the conversation with Miss Polly, and was more than
ordinarily happy, in spite of Jos&#8217;s delaying.
 &#8220;I am glad he is not going to marry that Miss
O&#8217;Dowd,&#8221; she thought. &#8220;Colonel O&#8217;Dowd
never could have a sister fit for such an accomplished
man as Major William.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>The same morning brought Major Dobbin a letter to
the Slaughters&#8217; 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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>Jos was so comfortably situated in St.  Martin&#8217;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&#8217; 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&#8217;s hands, Dobbin
most active in anybody&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Shortly after Jos&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>As for Miss Mary, her sorrow at Amelia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Let us hope she was wrong in her judgement.  Poor
Emmy&#8217;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&#8217;s liking.  She cast about notes of admiration
all over the new house, extolling every article of
furniture or ornament; she fingered Mrs. Osborne&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Nobody ever heard of these griefs, which had been
part of our poor little woman&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s house was gone to
ruin and the instrument was recovered out of the wreck.</p>

<p>Major Dobbin was exceedingly pleased when, as he was
superintending the arrangements of Jos&#8217;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&#8217;s
chamber, and where the old gentleman sat commonly
of evenings.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;I&#8217;m
glad you&#8217;ve kept it,&#8221; he said in a very
sentimental manner.  &#8220;I was afraid you didn&#8217;t
care about it.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I value it more than anything I have in the
world,&#8221; said Amelia.</p>

<p>&#8220;Do you, Amelia?&#8221; 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.  &#8220;Do you,
Amelia?&#8221; he said; and the question, the great
question of all, was trembling on his lips, when Emmy
replied--</p>

<p>&#8220;Can I do otherwise?--did not he give it me?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I did not know,&#8221; said poor old Dob, and
his countenance fell.</p>

<p>Emmy did not note the circumstance at the time, nor
take immediate heed of the very dismal expression
which honest Dobbin&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;t play.</p>

<p>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--</p>

<p>&#8220;I have to beg your pardon for something.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;About what?&#8221; said he.</p>

<p>&#8220;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.&#8221; She
held out her hand, but the poor little woman&#8217;s
heart was bleeding; and as for her eyes, of course
they were at their work.</p>

<p>But William could hold no more.  &#8220;Amelia, Amelia,&#8221;
he said, &#8220;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&#8217;t thought
of you.  I came to tell you this before I went to
India, but you did not care, and I hadn&#8217;t the
heart to speak.  You did not care whether I stayed
or went.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I was very ungrateful,&#8221; Amelia said.</p>

<p>&#8220;No, only indifferent,&#8221; Dobbin continued
desperately. &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It is you who are cruel now,&#8221; Amelia
said with some spirit. &#8220;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&#8217;t come, though I wished
and prayed for you to come, and they took him too
away from me.  Isn&#8217;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.</p>

<p>The Major folded his arms round her, holding her to
him as if she was a child, and kissed her head.  &#8220;I
will not change, dear Amelia,&#8221; he said.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes, often,&#8221; 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&#8217;s tray.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LX</h3>

<h4 align="center">Returns to the Genteel World</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>It was a modest establishment.  The butler was Jos&#8217;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&#8217;s wine.  Emmy was supplied with
a maid, grown on Sir William Dobbin&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
property as well as his own. &#8220;Damn it, we will
make a man of the feller,&#8221; he said; &#8220;and
I&#8217;ll see him in Parliament before I die.  You
may go and see his mother, Miss O., though I&#8217;ll
never set eyes on her&#8221;:  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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s goodness!  Her
eyes looked more kindly on Dobbin than they ever had
done.  She blushed, he thought, after looking at him
so.</p>

<p>Georgy never tired of his praises of the Major to
his mother.  &#8220;I like him, Mamma, because he
knows such lots of things; and he ain&#8217;t like
old Veal, who is always bragging and using such long
words, don&#8217;t you know? The chaps call him &#8216;Longtail&#8217;
at school.  I gave him the name; ain&#8217;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&#8217;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, &#8217;<i>that</i> feller!  Why, I didn&#8217;t
think he could say Bo to a goose&#8217;--but I know
he could, couldn&#8217;t he, Mamma?&#8221;</p>

<p>Emmy laughed:  she thought it was very likely the
Major could do thus much.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;God bless
my soul, you don&#8217;t say so,&#8221; 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&#8217;t
at table, put on that countenance and used that favourite
phrase.  Even Dobbin would shoot out a sudden peal
at the boy&#8217;s mimicry.  If George did not mimic
his uncle to his face, it was only by Dobbin&#8217;s
rebukes and Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;s friend, Emmy&#8217;s friend,
Georgy&#8217;s friend, Jos&#8217;s counsel and adviser.
&#8220;He might almost as well be at Madras for anything
<i>we</i> see of him,&#8221; Miss Ann Dobbin remarked
at Camberwell.  Ah!  Miss Ann, did it not strike you
that it was not <i>you</i> whom the Major wanted to marry?</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Mutato nomine, it is all the same.  Don&#8217;t the
barristers&#8217; wives talk about Circuit? Don&#8217;t
the soldiers&#8217; ladies gossip about the Regiment?
Don&#8217;t the clergymen&#8217;s ladies discourse
about Sunday-schools and who takes whose duty? Don&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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, &#38;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&#8217;s and Jos&#8217;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&#8217;s Park.  The lady&#8217;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&#8217;s female society, rather
a pleasing young person--not much in her, but pleasing,
and that sort of thing.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s officer that&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s good judgement-- that is, if a man may
be said to have good judgement who is under the influence
of Love&#8217;s delusion.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s.</p>

<p>Emmy laughed.  &#8220;Shall I wear the family diamonds,
Jos?&#8221; she said.</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish you would let me buy you some,&#8221;
thought the Major.  &#8220;I should like to see any
that were too good for you.&#8221;</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LXI</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which Two Lights are Put Out</h4>

<p>There came a day when the round of decorous pleasures
and solemn gaieties in which Mr. Jos Sedley&#8217;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&#8217; chambers
commonly are) and serves for another purpose of utility,
of which the undertaker&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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, &#38;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 &#8220;Quiet
in Heaven.&#8221; Your son will new furnish the house,
or perhaps let it, and go into a more modern quarter;
your name will be among the &#8220;Members Deceased&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>The period of mourning for Mrs. Sedley&#8217;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.  &#8220;The state of my father&#8217;s health,&#8221;
Jos Sedley solemnly remarked at the Club, &#8220;prevents
me from giving any <i>large</i> 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.&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;She walks into the room as silently as a sunbeam,&#8221;
Mr. Dobbin thought as he saw her passing in and out
from her father&#8217;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?</p>

<p>A secret feud of some years&#8217; 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.  &#8220;Oh, Emmy, I&#8217;ve been thinking
we were very unkind and unjust to you,&#8221; 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!</p>

<p>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, &#8220;To-morrow, success
or failure won&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;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&#8217;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.&#8221;
Or suppose, on the other hand, your swan sings quite
a different sort of dirge and you say, &#8220;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&#8217;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You see,&#8221; said old Osborne to George,
&#8220;what comes of merit, and industry, and judicious
speculations, and that.  Look at me and my banker&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>Beyond these people and Mr. Clapp&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s learning, valour, and estimation
in the world&#8217;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.</p>

<p>The Major&#8217;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&#8217;s accounts
with his ward and the boy&#8217;s mother, got a hint,
which staggered him very much, and at once pained
and pleased him, that it was out of William Dobbin&#8217;s
own pocket that a part of the fund had been supplied
upon which the poor widow and the child had subsisted.</p>

<p>When pressed upon the point, Dobbin, who could not
tell lies, blushed and stammered a good deal and finally
confessed.  &#8220;The marriage,&#8221; he said (at
which his interlocutor&#8217;s face grew dark) &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Major D.,&#8221; 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&#8217;s my hand, sir,
though I little thought that my flesh and blood was
living on you--&#8221; and the pair shook hands, with
great confusion on Major Dobbin&#8217;s part, thus
found out in his act of charitable hypocrisy.</p>

<p>He strove to soften the old man and reconcile him
towards his son&#8217;s memory.  &#8220;He was such
a noble fellow,&#8221; he said, &#8220;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&#8221;; and Dobbin told
the old father as many stories as he could remember
regarding the gallantry and achievements of his son.
 &#8220;And Georgy is so like him,&#8221; the Major
added.</p>

<p>&#8220;He&#8217;s so like him that he makes me tremble
sometimes,&#8221; the grandfather said.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
appearance or behaviour--the master of the house interrupted
her.  &#8220;You&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That he is, Grandpapa,&#8221; 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. &#8220;Indeed he is,&#8221; she said.
 &#8220;Your dear father always said so. He is one
of the best and most upright of men.&#8221; 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.  &#8220;I say, Dob,&#8221; he said,
&#8220;there&#8217;s such an uncommon nice girl wants
to marry you.  She&#8217;s plenty of tin; she wears
a front; and she scolds the servants from morning till
night.&#8221; &#8220;Who is it?&#8221; asked Dobbin.
  &#8220;It&#8217;s Aunt O.,&#8221; the boy answered.
&#8220;Grandpapa said so.  And I say, Dob, how prime
it would be to have you for my uncle.&#8221; Old Sedley&#8217;s
quavering voice from the next room at this moment
weakly called for Amelia, and the laughing ended.</p>

<p>That old Osborne&#8217;s mind was changing was pretty
clear. He asked George about his uncle sometimes,
and laughed at the boy&#8217;s imitation of the way
in which Jos said &#8220;God-bless-my-soul&#8221; and
gobbled his soup.  Then he said, &#8220;It&#8217;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&#8217;s no quarrel betwigst me and him anyhow.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is some of Sedley&#8217;s wine,&#8221; whispered
the butler to his master. &#8220;I&#8217;ve had it
a long time, and paid a good figure for it, too,&#8221;
Mr. Osborne said aloud to his guest, and then whispered
to his right-hand neighbour how he had got it &#8220;at
the old chap&#8217;s sale.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;You don&#8217;t know
what she endured, sir,&#8221; said honest Dobbin with
a tremor in his voice, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;By God, you are a good feller, sir,&#8221;
was all Mr. Osborne said.  It had never struck him
that the widow would feel any pain at parting from
the boy, or that his having a fine fortune could grieve
her.  A reconciliation was announced as speedy and
inevitable, and Amelia&#8217;s heart already began
to beat at the notion of the awful meeting with George&#8217;s
father.</p>

<p>It was never, however, destined to take place.  Old
Sedley&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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. &#8220;How much money
had he left to that boy? Not half, surely? Surely
share and share alike between the three?&#8221; It
was an agitating moment.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s property,
was left to his mother, &#8220;the widow of my beloved
son, George Osborne,&#8221; who was to resume the
guardianship of the boy.</p>

<p>&#8220;Major William Dobbin, my beloved son&#8217;s
friend,&#8221; was appointed executor; &#8220;and
as out of his kindness and bounty, and with his own
private funds, he maintained my grandson and my son&#8217;s
widow, when they were otherwise without means of support&#8221;
(the testator went on to say) &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;You
are mine, and mine only, now and forever.&#8221;</p>

<p>William knew her feelings:  had he not passed his
whole life in divining them?</p>

<p>When the nature of Mr. Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;s establishment, who used to question
her humble orders and say they would &#8220;ask Master&#8221;
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&#8217;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 &#8217;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&#8217;s coachman, asked &#8220;what them
there Russell Square coachmen knew about town, and
whether they was fit to sit on a box before a lady?&#8221;
Jos&#8217;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, &#8220;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s room as well as
his own.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Look here, Mother,&#8221; said Georgy, &#8220;here&#8217;s
a G.O. scratched on the glass with a diamond, I never
saw it before, I never did it.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It was your father&#8217;s room long before
you were born, George,&#8221; she said, and she blushed
as she kissed the boy.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Georgy at this time was removed from Mr. Veal&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;He is just of the age for Rosa,&#8221; the
fond parent thought, and glanced towards that dear
child, an unwholesome little miss of seven years of
age.</p>

<p>&#8220;Rosa, go and kiss your dear cousin,&#8221;
Mrs. Frederick said.  &#8220;Don&#8217;t you know
me, George? I am your aunt.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I know you well enough,&#8221; George said;
&#8220;but I don&#8217;t like kissing, please&#8221;;
and he retreated from the obedient caresses of his
cousin.</p>

<p>&#8220;Take me to your dear mamma, you droll child,&#8221;
Mrs. Frederick said, and those ladies accordingly
met, after an absence of more than fifteen years.
 During Emmy&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
friends; if they drop out of the rank they disappear,
and we march on without them.  Who is ever missed
in Vanity Fair?</p>

<p>But so, in a word, and before the period of grief
for Mr. Osborne&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s hospitalities.  That lady persisted
in patronizing her and determined most graciously
to form her.  She found Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;s bald head,
after dinner, at one of the banker&#8217;s best parties
(Fred was still anxious that the balance of the Osborne
property should be transferred from Stumpy and Rowdy&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;She seems good-natured but insipid,&#8221;
said Mrs. Rowdy; &#8220;that Major seems to be particularly
epris.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She wants ton sadly,&#8221; said Mrs. Hollyock.
 &#8220;My dear creature, you never will be able to
form her.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She is dreadfully ignorant or indifferent,&#8221;
said Mrs. Glowry with a voice as if from the grave,
and a sad shake of the head and turban. &#8220;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--&#8217;Poor Pope!
 I hope not--What has he done?&#8217;&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She is my brother&#8217;s widow, my dear friends,&#8221;
Mrs. Frederick replied, &#8220;and as such I think
we&#8217;re all bound to give her every attention
and instruction on entering into the world.  You may
fancy there can be no <i>mercenary</i> motives in those
whose <i>disappointments</i> are well known.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That poor dear Mrs. Bullock,&#8221; said Rowdy
to Hollyock, as they drove away together--"she is
always scheming and managing.  She wants Mrs. Osborne&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I wish Glowry was choked with her Man of Sin
and her Battle of Armageddon,&#8221; cried the other,
and the carriage rolled away over Putney Bridge.</p>

<p>But this sort of society was too cruelly genteel for
Emmy, and all jumped for joy when a foreign tour was
proposed.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LXII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Am Rhein</h4>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s great carriage that would hold thirteen
people; my Lord Methuselah&#8217;s carriage, my Lord
Bareacres&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;A qui cette voiture la?&#8221; said one gentleman-courier
with a large morocco money-bag and ear-rings to another
with ear-rings and a large morocco money-bag.</p>

<p>&#8220;C&#8217;est a Kirsch je bense--je l&#8217;ai
vu toute a l&#8217;heure--qui brenoit des sangviches
dans la voiture,&#8221; said the courier in a fine
German French.</p>

<p>Kirsch emerging presently from the neighbourhood of
the hold, where he had been bellowing instructions
intermingled with polyglot oaths to the ship&#8217;s
men engaged in secreting the passengers&#8217; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Nous allons avoir une belle traversee, Monsieur
George,&#8221; said the courier with a grin, as he
lifted his gold-laced cap.</p>

<p>&#8220;D--- your French,&#8221; said the young gentleman,
&#8220;where&#8217;s the biscuits, ay?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 &#8217;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&#8217; hair, which was
then dark, was now a beautiful golden auburn, whereas
Lord Bareacres&#8217; 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&#8217;s mind entirely.
 The presence of a Lord fascinated him, and he could
look at nothing else.</p>

<p>&#8220;Those people seem to interest you a good deal,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;What a heavenly day!&#8221; Emmy said and added,
with great originality, &#8220;I hope we shall have
a calm passage.&#8221;</p>

<p>Jos waved his hand, scornfully glancing at the same
time under his eyelids at the great folks opposite.
 &#8220;If you had made the voyages we have,&#8221;
he said, &#8220;you wouldn&#8217;t much care about
the weather.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;Herr Graf Lord von
Sedley nebst Begleitung aus London.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Wherever the party stopped, and an opportunity was
offered, Mr. Jos left his own card and the Major&#8217;s
upon &#8220;Our Minister.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;Don Juan&#8221; 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 &#8220;Vedrai Carino&#8221; and &#8220;Batti
Batti&#8221; 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&#8217;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.  &#8220;It
is one&#8217;s nature to sing and the other&#8217;s
to hoot,&#8221; he said, laughing, &#8220;and with
such a sweet voice as you have yourself, you must
belong to the Bulbul faction.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s-eye of the fashion; but of
gentlemen how many? Let us take a little scrap of
paper and each make out his list.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;t tried, and entreating
him not to baulk his appetite, but to have a second
supply of this or that.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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, &#8220;Gayd, it really does one good to
see a woman caypable of that stayt of excaytement.&#8221;
And in the Prison Scene, where Fidelio, rushing to
her husband, cries, &#8220;Nichts, nichts, mein Florestan,&#8221;
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&#8217;s memoirs
that I remarked her.</p>

<p>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,
&#8220;God Save the King&#8221; is performed.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;
eggs; when the regiment was graciously given by his
Majesty to Colonel Sir Michael O&#8217;Dowd, K.C.B.
 who had commanded it in many glorious fields.</p>

<p>Tapeworm must have met with Colonel Dobbin at the
house of the Colonel&#8217;s Colonel, the Marshal,
for he recognized him on this night at the theatre,
and with the utmost condescension, his Majesty&#8217;s
minister came over from his own box and publicly shook
hands with his new-found friend.</p>

<p>&#8220;Look at that infernal sly-boots of a Tapeworm,&#8221;
Fipps whispered, examining his chief from the stalls.
&#8220;Wherever there&#8217;s a pretty woman he always
twists himself in.&#8221; And I wonder what were diplomatists
made for but for that?</p>

<p>&#8220;Have I the honour of addressing myself to Mrs.
Dobbin?&#8221; asked the Secretary with a most insinuating
grin.</p>

<p>Georgy burst out laughing and said, &#8220;By Jove,
that was a good &#8217;un.&#8221; Emmy and the Major
blushed:  we saw them from the stalls.</p>

<p>&#8220;This lady is Mrs. George Osborne,&#8221; said
the Major, &#8220;and this is her brother, Mr. Sedley,
a distinguished officer of the Bengal Civil Service:
 permit me to introduce him to your lordship.&#8221;</p>

<p>My lord nearly sent Jos off his legs with the most
fascinating smile.  &#8220;Are you going to stop in
Pumpernickel?&#8221; he said.  &#8220;It is a dull
place, but we want some nice people, and we would try
and make it <i>so</i> agreeable to you.  Mr.--Ahum--Mrs.--Oho.
 I shall do myself the honour of calling upon you
to-morrow at your inn.&#8221; And he went away with
a Parthian grin and glance which he thought must finish
Mrs. Osborne completely.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;hote,
and the lady, in return, presented us with a little
smile and a curtsey, for which everybody might be
thankful.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s wake.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;And our Minister seems a most delightful and
affable person,&#8221; our new friend said.  &#8220;With
such a representative, and--and a good medical man,
I can fancy the place to be most eligible.  Good-night,
gentlemen.&#8221; 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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LXIII</h3>

<h4 align="center">In Which We Meet an Old Acquaintance</h4>

<p>Such polite behaviour as that of Lord Tapeworm did
not fail to have the most favourable effect upon Mr.
Sedley&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
father; he was sure he had, he had met him at--at
the Levee--didn&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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.
&#8220;How very affable his Lordship is,&#8221; he
said; &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>When Tapeworm&#8217;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&#8217;s particular treatment would infallibly
restore the Bengalee to youth and slimness.  &#8220;Dere
came here last year,&#8221; he said, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>Jos&#8217;s mind was made up; the springs, the Doctor,
the Court, and the Charge d&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s widow, a severe
and devout Princess of the House of Bolkum and Regent
of the Duchy during her son&#8217;s glorious minority,
and after the death of her husband, cut off in the
pride of his pleasures.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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?</p>

<p>Everybody--everybody that was noble of course, for
as for the bourgeois we could not quite be expected
to take notice of <i>them</i>-- 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&#8217;s life might in fact be a perfect
round of pleasure in the unpretending Pumpernickel
way.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>We had on our side the Home Minister, the Master of
the Horse, the Duke&#8217;s Private Secretary, and
the Prince&#8217;s Tutor; whereas of the French party
were the Foreign Minister, the Commander-in-Chief&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Their headquarters and table d&#8217;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&#8217;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, &#8220;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.&#8221;
On their side they would say, &#8220;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&#8221;:  and so on.  When
one side or the other had written any particularly
spicy dispatch, news of it was sure to slip out.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s sister was the greatest delight that
Heaven could bestow on her, and Jos might have put
a Countess&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;He is covered with ribbons
like a prize cart-horse,&#8221; Tapeworm said, who
was not allowed by the rules of his service to take
any decorations:  &#8220;Let him have the cordons;
but with whom is the victory?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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, &#38;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
courier, Mr. Kirsch, and having only peeped into a
play-room at Baden-Baden when he hung on Dobbin&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>But in spite of her care and assiduity she guessed
wrong and the last two florins followed each other
under the croupier&#8217;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&#8217;s honest face staring at the scene.  The
little scamp!  What business had he to be there?</p>

<p>When she saw the boy, at whose face she looked hard
through her shining eyes and mask, she said, &#8220;Monsieur
n&#8217;est pas joueur?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Non, Madame,&#8221; 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. 
&#8220;You have nevare played--will you do me a littl&#8217;
favor?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;What is it?&#8221; said Georgy, blushing again.
 Mr. Kirsch was at work for his part at the rouge
et noir and did not see his young master.</p>

<p>&#8220;Play this for me, if you please; put it on
any number, any number.&#8221; 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&#8217;s hand.
 The boy laughed and did as he was bid.</p>

<p>The number came up sure enough.  There is a power
that arranges that, they say, for beginners.</p>

<p>&#8220;Thank you,&#8221; said she, pulling the money
towards her, &#8220;thank you. What is your name?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;My name&#8217;s Osborne,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Laissez-moi tranquille,&#8221; said Mr. Kirsch,
very much excited by play and wine.  &#8220;ll faut
s&#8217;amuser, parbleu. Je ne suis pas au service
de Monsieur.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hadn&#8217;t you better come, Jos,&#8221; the
Major said, &#8220;with George and me?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ll stop and go home with that rascal,
Kirsch,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Did you play?&#8221; asked the Major when they
were out and on their way home.</p>

<p>The boy said &#8220;No.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Give me your word of honour as a gentleman
that you never will.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Why?&#8221; said the boy; &#8220;it seems very
good fun.&#8221; And, in a very eloquent and impressive
manner, the Major showed him why he shouldn&#8217;t,
and would have enforced his precepts by the example
of Georgy&#8217;s own father, had he liked to say
anything that should reflect on the other&#8217;s
memory.  When he had housed him, he went to bed and
saw his light, in the little room outside of Amelia&#8217;s,
presently disappear.  Amelia&#8217;s followed half
an hour afterwards.  I don&#8217;t know what made
the Major note it so accurately.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Come and give me good luck,&#8221; she said,
still in a foreign accent, quite different from that
frank and perfectly English &#8220;Thank you,&#8221;
with which she had saluted Georgy&#8217;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&#8217;m very
fortunate; I&#8217;m sure to give you good fortune,&#8221;
and other words of compliment and confusion. &#8220;Do
you play much?&#8221; the foreign mask said.</p>

<p>&#8220;I put a Nap or two down,&#8221; said Jos with
a superb air, flinging down a gold piece.</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes; ay nap after dinner,&#8221; said the mask
archly.  But Jos looking frightened, she continued,
in her pretty French accent, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Good God, who is it?&#8221; asked Jos in a
flutter.</p>

<p>&#8220;Can&#8217;t you guess, Joseph Sedley?&#8221;
said the little woman in a sad voice, and undoing
her mask, she looked at him.  &#8220;You have forgotten
me.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Good heavens!  Mrs. Crawley!&#8221; gasped
out Jos.</p>

<p>&#8220;Rebecca,&#8221; said the other, putting her
hand on his; but she followed the game still, all
the time she was looking at him.</p>

<p>&#8220;I am stopping at the Elephant,&#8221; she continued.
 &#8220;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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>The red came up again, and she lost the whole of that
stake. &#8220;Come away,&#8221; she said.  &#8220;Come
with me a little--we are old friends, are we not,
dear Mr. Sedley?&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LXIV</h3>

<h4 align="center">A Vagabond Chapter</h4>

<p>We must pass over a part of Mrs. Rebecca Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The fact was that Pitt&#8217;s mind had been poisoned
against her.  A short time after Lord Steyne&#8217;s
accident Wenham had been with the Baronet and given
him such a biography of Mrs. Becky as had astonished
the member for Queen&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; Commons would
ensue.  But it was Mr. Wenham&#8217;s business, Lord
Steyne&#8217;s business, Rawdon&#8217;s, everybody&#8217;s--to
get her out of the country, and hush up a most disagreeable
affair.</p>

<p>She was probably so much occupied in arranging these
affairs of business with her husband&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s only boy, always sickly,
died of hooping-cough and measles--then Rawdon&#8217;s
mamma wrote the most affectionate composition to her
darling son, who was made heir of Queen&#8217;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.  &#8220;Oh, Aunt Jane,
you are my mother!&#8221; he said; &#8220;and not--and
not that one.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Our darling Becky&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;society&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>On another day the packet came in.  It had been blowing
fresh, and it always suited Becky&#8217;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&#8217;t think she liked it.  She felt she was
alone, quite alone, and the far-off shining cliffs
of England were impassable to her.</p>

<p>The behaviour of the men had undergone too I don&#8217;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&#8217;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.
 &#8220;If <i>he&#8217;d</i> been here,&#8221; she said,
&#8220;those cowards would never have dared to insult
me.&#8221; She thought about &#8220;him&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>She rouged regularly now; and--and her maid got Cognac
for her besides that which was charged in the hotel
bill.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
little girl. <i>They</i> 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 <i>them</i>! she thought, as they went
away simpering after kissing her.  And she heard Beaumoris&#8217;s
laugh ringing on the stair and knew quite well how
to interpret his hilarity.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;monsieur,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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 <i>wouldn&#8217;t</i> 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s academy to pass his holidays with
his mother.  &#8220;He and her Rawdon were of the same
age, and so like,&#8221; Becky said in a voice choking
with agony; whereas there was five years&#8217; difference
between the boys&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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 &#8220;sweet friend,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
acquaintance first at sea, where they were swimming
together, and subsequently at the table d&#8217;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.  &#8220;If
you were a man of any spirit, Mr. Eagles, you would
box the wretch&#8217;s ears the next time you see him
at the Club,&#8221; 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&#8217;s ears.</p>

<p>The Eagles then patronized Mrs. Rawdon, took her to
live with her at her own house at Paris, quarrelled
with the ambassador&#8217;s wife because she would
not receive her protegee, and did all that lay in
woman&#8217;s power to keep Becky straight in the paths
of virtue and good repute.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.  &#8220;The
women here are as amusing as those in May Fair,&#8221;
she told an old London friend who met her, &#8220;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&#8217;t
think she is so vulgar as Lady --&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;s salons.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s monument
much struck her.  She made a little sketch of it.
 &#8220;That poor Cupid!&#8221; she said; &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>At Brussels Becky arrived, recommended by Madame de
Saint Amour to her friend, Madame la Comtesse de Borodino,
widow of Napoleon&#8217;s General, the famous Count
de Borodino, who was left with no resource by the
deceased hero but that of a table d&#8217;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 &#8220;Continental society&#8221;
at these houses, put down their money, or ate their
meals, at Madame de Borodino&#8217;s tables.  The gallant
young fellows treated the company round to champagne
at the table d&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s allowance
would come in, and she would pay off Madame de Borodino&#8217;s
score and would once more take the cards against Monsieur
de Rossignol, or the Chevalier de Raff.</p>

<p>When Becky left Brussels, the sad truth is that she
owed three months&#8217; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; 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&#8217;
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&#8217;s
biography, but of this part, the less, perhaps, that
is said the better.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>It happened at Rome once that Mrs. de Rawdon&#8217;s
half-year&#8217;s salary had just been paid into the
principal banker&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s colours and boasting of his
commission, but pillaging for themselves, and occasionally
gibbeted by the roadside.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s irregular
corps, struggled furiously for refreshments, of which
when the pair had had enough, they pushed on until
they reached the Duchess&#8217;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&#8217;s--and there he
sat at Polonia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;That woman looks stupid and ill-humoured,&#8221;
she thought; &#8220;I am sure she can&#8217;t amuse
him.  No, he must be bored by her--he never was by
me.&#8221; 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.  &#8220;I wonder whether he will know
me,&#8221; she thought.  Lord Steyne was talking and
laughing with a great and illustrious lady at his
side, when he looked up and saw Becky.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s sudden appearance at his
ball-supper, and remained looking at her with open
mouth, when that horrid Major Loder pulled her away.</p>

<p>&#8220;Come away into the supper-room, Mrs. R.,&#8221;
was that gentleman&#8217;s remark:  &#8220;seeing
these nobs grubbing away has made me peckish too.
Let&#8217;s go and try the old governor&#8217;s champagne.&#8221;
Becky thought the Major had had a great deal too much
already.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s
confidential man, who came up nodding to her rather
familiarly and putting a finger to his hat.  &#8220;I
knew that Madame was here,&#8221; he said; &#8220;I
followed her from her hotel.  I have some advice to
give Madame.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;From the Marquis of Steyne?&#8221; Becky asked,
resuming as much of her dignity as she could muster,
and not a little agitated by hope and expectation.</p>

<p>&#8220;No,&#8221; said the valet; &#8220;it is from
me.  Rome is very unwholesome.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Not at this season, Monsieur Fiche--not till
after Easter.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;honneur.  Be warned.  Go away
from Rome, I tell you--or you will be ill and die.&#8221;</p>

<p>Becky laughed, though in rage and fury.  &#8220;What!
assassinate poor little me?&#8221; she said.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>It was Monsieur Fiche&#8217;s turn to laugh now. 
&#8220;Defend you,&#8221; he said, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, it was Madame de Belladonna, was it?&#8221;
Becky said, relieved a little, for the information
she had just got had scared her.</p>

<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s
carriage"--and seizing Becky&#8217;s arm, he rushed
down an alley of the garden as Lord Steyne&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Monseigneur has never recovered the shock of
that night, never,&#8221; Monsieur Fiche whispered
to Mrs. Crawley as the carriage flashed by, and she
peeped out at it from behind the shrubs that hid her.
 &#8220;That was a consolation at any rate,&#8221;
Becky thought.</p>

<p>Whether my lord really had murderous intentions towards
Mrs. Becky as Monsieur Fiche said (since Monseigneur&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s sensibilities by
the downfall of the ancient French monarchy.</p>

<p>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.
 &#8220;In him,&#8221; Mr. Wagg said, &#8220;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,&#8221; &#38;c.,
&#38;c.</p>

<p>His will was a good deal disputed, and an attempt
was made to force from Madame de Belladonna the celebrated
jewel called the &#8220;Jew&#8217;s-eye&#8221; 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&#8217;s death, as were the bank-notes, jewels,
Neapolitan and French bonds, &#38;c., found in his lordship&#8217;s
secretaire and claimed by his heirs from that injured
woman.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LXV</h3>

<h4 align="center">Full of Business and Pleasure</h4>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Go away,&#8221; said a well-known voice, which
made Jos thrill, &#8220;I expect somebody; I expect
my grandpapa.  He mustn&#8217;t see you there.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Angel Englanderinn!&#8221; bellowed the kneeling
student with the whity-brown ringlets and the large
finger-ring, &#8220;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&#8217;t.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;That we will,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Newmero kattervang dooze, si vous plait,&#8221;
Jos said in his grandest manner, when he was able
to speak.</p>

<p>&#8220;Quater fang tooce!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>The gentleman from Bengal was standing, disconcerted
by this incident, when the door of the 92 opened of
itself and Becky&#8217;s little head peeped out full
of archness and mischief.  She lighted on Jos.  &#8220;It&#8217;s
you,&#8221; she said, coming out.  &#8220;How I have
been waiting for you!  Stop! not yet--in one minute
you shall come in.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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. &#8220;Come in,&#8221;
she said.  &#8220;Come and talk to me.  Sit yonder
on the chair&#8221;; and she gave the civilian&#8217;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.
  &#8220;How little years have changed you,&#8221;
she said with a look of tender interest.  &#8220;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!&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I should have known you anywhere,&#8221; she
continued; &#8220;a woman never forgets some things.
 And you were the first man I ever--I ever saw.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Was I really?&#8221; said Jos.  &#8220;God
bless my soul, you--you don&#8217;t say so.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;When I came with your sister from Chiswick,
I was scarcely more than a child,&#8221; Becky said.
 &#8220;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&#8217;t let
us talk of old times&#8221;; and she passed her handkerchief
with the tattered lace across her eyelids.</p>

<p>&#8220;Is not this a strange place,&#8221; she continued,
&#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
affection, which was my life, my prayer, my--my blessing;
and they-- they tore it from me--tore it from me&#8221;;
and she put her hand to her heart with a passionate
gesture of despair, burying her face for a moment
on the bed.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s heart had
first learned to beat at his enchanting presence; that
George Osborne had certainly paid an unjustifiable
court to <i>her</i>, which might account for Amelia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Jos walked over to Dobbin&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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, &#8220;The little
minx, has she come to light again?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;That little devil brings mischief wherever
she goes,&#8221; the Major said disrespectfully. 
&#8220;Who knows what sort of life she has been leading?
And what business has she here abroad and alone? Don&#8217;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&#8217;t there a scandal about their separation?
I think I heard something,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well, well; let&#8217;s ask Mrs. George,&#8221;
said that arch-diplomatist of a Major.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Hm!  Emmy is very well,&#8221; said Jos, who
did not happen to be in love with his sister.</p>

<p>&#8220;Very well? By Gad, sir, she&#8217;s the finest
lady I ever met in my life,&#8221; bounced out the
Major.  &#8220;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.&#8221; 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&#8217;s house, where she was contentedly
warbling at a music lesson with Madame Strumpff.</p>

<p>When that lady took her leave, Jos opened the business
with his usual pomp of words.  &#8220;Amelia, my dear,&#8221;
said he, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Her!&#8221; said Amelia, &#8220;who is it?
Major Dobbin, if you please not to break my scissors.&#8221;
The Major was twirling them round by the little chain
from which they sometimes hung to their lady&#8217;s
waist, and was thereby endangering his own eye.</p>

<p>It is a woman whom I dislike very much,&#8221; said
the Major, doggedly, &#8220;and whom you have no cause
to love.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It is Rebecca, I&#8217;m sure it is Rebecca,&#8221;
Amelia said, blushing and being very much agitated.</p>

<p>&#8220;You are right; you always are,&#8221; Dobbin
answered. Brussels, Waterloo, old, old times, griefs,
pangs, remembrances, rushed back into Amelia&#8217;s
gentle heart and caused a cruel agitation there.</p>

<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t let me see her,&#8221; Emmy continued.
 &#8220;I couldn&#8217;t see her.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I told you so,&#8221; Dobbin said to Jos.</p>

<p>&#8220;She is very unhappy, and--and that sort of
thing,&#8221; Jos urged.  &#8220;She is very poor
and unprotected, and has been ill--exceedingly ill--and
that scoundrel of a husband has deserted her.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Ah!&#8221; said Amelia</p>

<p>&#8220;She hasn&#8217;t a friend in the world,&#8221;
Jos went on, not undexterously, &#8220;and she said
she thought she might trust in you.  She&#8217;s so
miserable, Emmy.  She has been almost mad with grief.
 Her story quite affected me--&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Poor creature!&#8221; Amelia said.</p>

<p>&#8220;And if she can get no friend, she says she
thinks she&#8217;ll die,&#8221; Jos proceeded in a
low tremulous voice.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>This did not seem to affect Emmy.  She even smiled
a little. Perhaps she figured Jos to herself panting
up the stair.</p>

<p>&#8220;She&#8217;s beside herself with grief,&#8221;
he resumed.  &#8220;The agonies that woman has endured
are quite frightful to hear of.  She had a little
boy, of the same age as Georgy.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes, yes, I think I remember,&#8221; Emmy remarked.
&#8220;Well?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;The most beautiful child ever seen,&#8221;
Jos said, who was very fat, and easily moved, and
had been touched by the story Becky told; &#8220;a
perfect angel, who adored his mother.  The ruffians
tore him shrieking out of her arms, and have never
allowed him to see her.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Dear Joseph,&#8221; Emmy cried out, starting
up at once, &#8220;let us go and see her this minute.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is number 92, up four pair of stairs,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Gracious lady, gracious lady!&#8221; said the
landlord, knocking at Becky&#8217;s door; he had called
her Madame the day before, and was by no means courteous
to her.</p>

<p>&#8220;Who is it?&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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?</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LXVI</h3>

<h4 align="center">Amantium Irae</h4>

<p>Frankness and kindness like Amelia&#8217;s were likely
to touch even such a hardened little reprobate as
Becky.  She returned Emmy&#8217;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 &#8220;torn from her arms shrieking.&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;And so they took your darling child from you?&#8221;
our simpleton cried out.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;The child, my child? Oh, yes, my agonies were
frightful,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;My agonies,&#8221; Becky continued, &#8220;were
terrible (I hope she won&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;How old is he?&#8221; Emmy asked.</p>

<p>&#8220;Eleven,&#8221; said Becky.</p>

<p>&#8220;Eleven!&#8221; cried the other.  &#8220;Why,
he was born the same year with Georgy, who is--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I know, I know,&#8221; Becky cried out, who
had in fact quite forgotten all about little Rawdon&#8217;s
age.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Was he fair or dark?&#8221; went on that absurd
little Emmy.  &#8220;Show me his hair.&#8221;</p>

<p>Becky almost laughed at her simplicity.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Poor Becky, poor Becky!&#8221; said Emmy. 
&#8220;How thankful, how thankful I ought to be&#8221;;
(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.</p>

<p>&#8220;You will see my Georgy,&#8221; was the best
thing Emmy could think of to console Becky.  If anything
could make her comfortable that would.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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!</p>

<p>This part of her eventful history Becky gave with
the utmost feminine delicacy and the most indignant
virtue. Forced to fly her husband&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Whilst the ladies were carrying on their conversation,
Amelia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;Fuchs&#8221; and &#8220;Philister,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;The title Englanderinn seems to be en bays
de gonnoisance,&#8221; said Max, who knew the French
language, to Fritz, his comrade.  &#8220;After the
fat grandfather went away, there came a pretty little
compatriot.  I heard them chattering and whimpering
together in the little woman&#8217;s chamber.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;We must take the tickets for her concert,&#8221;
Fritz said. &#8220;Hast thou any money, Max?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Bah,&#8221; said the other, &#8220;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!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It is cracked; I hear her trying out of her
window a schrecklich. English ballad, called &#8216;De
Rose upon de Balgony.&#8217;&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Saufen and singen go not together,&#8221; observed
Fritz with the red nose, who evidently preferred the
former amusement.  &#8220;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?&#8221; and one and another successively having
buried their blond whiskers in the mawkish draught,
curled them and swaggered off into the fair.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;The little
devil is at her old tricks,&#8221; 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&#8217;s marriage, when he also was caught in
the little Circe&#8217;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, &#8220;I have been mixing in a foolish
intrigue with a woman,&#8221; George said. &#8220;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!&#8221; And William was pleased
to think, and had more than once soothed poor George&#8217;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&#8217;s memory, just at the close of the elder
man&#8217;s life.</p>

<p>&#8220;And so this devil is still going on with her
intrigues,&#8221; thought William.  &#8220;I wish
she were a hundred miles from here.  She brings mischief
wherever she goes.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;High, Dobbin!&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why did you not wait for me, sir, to escort
me downstairs?&#8221; she said, giving a little toss
of her head and a most sarcastic curtsey.</p>

<p>&#8220;I couldn&#8217;t stand up in the passage,&#8221;
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 &#8220;that instant.&#8221;
 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Well?&#8221; said he.</p>

<p>&#8220;The poor dear creature, how she has suffered!&#8221;
Emmy said.</p>

<p>&#8220;God bless my soul, yes,&#8221; Jos said, wagging
his head, so that his cheeks quivered like jellies.</p>

<p>&#8220;She may have Payne&#8217;s room, who can go
upstairs,&#8221; 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 &#8220;lark&#8221; 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.  &#8220;She
may have Payne&#8217;s room,&#8221; Emmy said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Why, you don&#8217;t mean to say you are going
to have that woman into the house?&#8221; bounced
out the Major, jumping up.</p>

<p>&#8220;Of course we are,&#8221; said Amelia in the
most innocent way in the world.  &#8220;Don&#8217;t
be angry and break the furniture, Major Dobbin.  Of
course we are going to have her here.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Of course, my dear,&#8221; Jos said.</p>

<p>&#8220;The poor creature, after all her sufferings,&#8221;
Emmy continued; &#8220;her horrid banker broken and
run away; her husband--wicked wretch-- having deserted
her and taken her child away from her&#8221; (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) &#8220;the
poor dear thing!  quite alone and absolutely forced
to give lessons in singing to get her bread--and not
have her here!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Take lessons, my dear Mrs. George,&#8221; cried
the Major, &#8220;but don&#8217;t  have her in the
house.  I implore you don&#8217;t.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Pooh,&#8221; said Jos.</p>

<p>&#8220;You who are always good and kind--always used
to be at any rate-- I&#8217;m astonished at you, Major
William,&#8221; Amelia cried.  &#8220;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--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;She was not always your friend, Amelia,&#8221;
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, &#8220;For shame, Major
Dobbin!&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;To allude to <i>that</i>!&#8221; she said, when
the door was closed.  &#8220;Oh, it was cruel of him
to remind me of it,&#8221; and she looked up at George&#8217;s
picture, which hung there as usual, with the portrait
of the boy underneath.  &#8220;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!&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;t be.  Never, never.</p>

<p>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!</p>

<p>William, though he saw by Amelia&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.
&#8220;Hullo!  where&#8217;s Dob?&#8221; the young
gentleman asked with his usual simplicity of language.
 &#8220;Major Dobbin is dining out, I suppose,&#8221;
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.  &#8220;This is
my boy, Rebecca,&#8221; 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. &#8220;Dear boy!&#8221; she said--"he is just
like my--&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I say,&#8221; said Georgy.</p>

<p>&#8220;What do you say?&#8221; Becky said, laughing.</p>

<p>&#8220;You&#8217;re the lady I saw in the mask at
the Rouge et Noir.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Hush!  you little sly creature,&#8221; Becky
said, taking up his hand and kissing it.  &#8220;Your
uncle was there too, and Mamma mustn&#8217;t know.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Oh, no--not by no means,&#8221; answered the
little fellow.</p>

<p>&#8220;You see we are quite good friends already,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;t know what sort of a night&#8217;s rest
he had with this frightful secret in bed with him.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Rebecca, too, was in the room, and advanced to meet
him with a smile and an extended hand.  Dobbin drew
back rather confusedly, &#8220;I--I beg your pardon,
m&#8217;am,&#8221; he said; &#8220;but I am bound to
tell you that it is not as your friend that I am come
here now.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Pooh!  damn; don&#8217;t let us have this sort
of thing!&#8221; Jos cried out, alarmed, and anxious
to get rid of a scene.</p>

<p>&#8220;I wonder what Major Dobbin has to say against
Rebecca?&#8221; Amelia said in a low, clear voice
with a slight quiver in it, and a very determined
look about the eyes.</p>

<p>&#8220;I will not have this sort of thing in my house,&#8221;
Jos again  interposed.  &#8220;I say I will not have
it; and Dobbin, I beg, sir, you&#8217;ll stop it.&#8221;
And he looked round, trembling and turning very red,
and gave a great puff, and made for his door.</p>

<p>&#8220;Dear friend!&#8221; Rebecca said with angelic
sweetness, &#8220;do hear what Major Dobbin has to
say against me.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I will not hear it, I say,&#8221; squeaked
out Jos at the top of his voice, and, gathering up
his dressing-gown, he was gone.</p>

<p>&#8220;We are only two women,&#8221; Amelia said.
 &#8220;You can speak now, sir.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;This manner towards me is one which scarcely
becomes you, Amelia,&#8221; the Major answered haughtily;
&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Pray proceed with it quickly, if you please,
Major Dobbin,&#8221; said Amelia, who was more and
more in a pet.  The expression of Dobbin&#8217;s face,
as she spoke in this imperious manner, was not pleasant.</p>

<p>&#8220;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--
"</p>

<p>&#8220;It was to the ball I went,&#8221; cried out
Becky.</p>

<p>&#8220;-- is not a fit companion for Mrs. Osborne
and her son,&#8221; Dobbin went on:  &#8220;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&#8217;t even wish to speak before--before
Mrs. Osborne.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Yours is a very modest and convenient sort
of calumny, Major Dobbin,&#8221; Rebecca said.  &#8220;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&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Indeed it does, madam,&#8221; said the Major.
 &#8220;If I have any authority in this house--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Authority, none!&#8221; broke out Amelia &#8220;Rebecca,
you stay with me.  I won&#8217;t desert you because
you have been persecuted, or insult you because--because
Major Dobbin chooses to do so.  Come away, dear.&#8221;
And the two women made towards the door.</p>

<p>William opened it.  As they were going out, however,
he took Amelia&#8217;s hand and said--"Will you stay
a moment and speak to me?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He wishes to speak to you away from me,&#8221;
said Becky, looking like a martyr.  Amelia gripped
her hand in reply.</p>

<p>&#8220;Upon my honour it is not about you that I am
going to speak,&#8221; Dobbin said.  &#8220;Come back,
Amelia,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I was confused when I spoke just now,&#8221;
the Major said after a pause, &#8220;and I misused
the word authority.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You did,&#8221; said Amelia with her teeth
chattering.</p>

<p>&#8220;At least I have claims to be heard,&#8221;
Dobbin continued.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is generous to remind me of our obligations
to you,&#8221; the woman answered.</p>

<p>&#8220;The claims I mean are those left me by George&#8217;s
father,&#8221; William said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes, and you insulted his memory.  You did
yesterday. You know you did.  And I will never forgive
you.  Never!&#8221; said Amelia.  She shot out each
little sentence in a tremor of anger and emotion.</p>

<p>&#8220;You don&#8217;t mean that, Amelia?&#8221; William
said sadly. &#8220;You don&#8217;t mean that these
words, uttered in a hurried moment, are to weigh against
a whole life&#8217;s devotion? I think that George&#8217;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.&#8221; Amelia
held down her head.</p>

<p>&#8220;It is not that speech of yesterday,&#8221;
he continued, &#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;t--you
couldn&#8217;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>William&#8217;s sally had quite broken and cast her
down. <i>Her</i> assault was long since over and beaten
back.</p>

<p>&#8220;Am I to understand then, that you are going--away,
William?&#8221; she said.</p>

<p>He gave a sad laugh.  &#8220;I went once before,&#8221;
he said, &#8220;and came back after twelve years.
 We were young then, Amelia.  Good-bye.  I have spent
enough of my life at this play.&#8221;</p>

<p>Whilst they had been talking, the door into Mrs. Osborne&#8217;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. &#8220;What a noble heart that man has,&#8221;
she thought, &#8220;and how shamefully that woman
plays with it!&#8221; 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.
 &#8220;Ah!&#8221; she thought, &#8220;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&#8221;; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>At the romantic hour of dinner, Mr. Georgy made his
appearance and again remarked the absence of &#8220;Old
Dob.&#8221; The meal was eaten in silence by the party.
 Jos&#8217;s appetite not being diminished, but Emmy
taking nothing at all.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s house on the other
side of the street.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hullo!&#8221; said he, &#8220;there&#8217;s
Dob&#8217;s trap--they are bringing it out of the
court-yard.&#8221; The &#8220;trap&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>Emmy gave a little start, but said nothing.</p>

<p>&#8220;Hullo!&#8221; Georgy continued, &#8220;there&#8217;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&#8217;t he a rum one? Why--they&#8217;re putting
the horses to Dob&#8217;s carriage. Is he going anywhere?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Yes,&#8221; said Emmy, &#8220;he is going on
a journey.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Going on a journey; and when is he coming back?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;He is--not coming back,&#8221; answered Emmy.</p>

<p>&#8220;Not coming back!&#8221; cried out Georgy, jumping
up. &#8220;Stay here, sir,&#8221; roared out Jos.
 &#8220;Stay, Georgy,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>The horses were put to.  The baggage was strapped
on.  Francis came out with his master&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;By Jove, I will go!&#8221; screamed out George.
 &#8220;Give him this,&#8221; said Becky, quite interested,
and put a paper into the boy&#8217;s hand.  He had
rushed down the stairs and flung across the street
in a minute-- the yellow postilion was cracking his
whip gently.</p>

<p>William had got into the carriage, released from the
embraces of his landlord.  George bounded in afterwards,
and flung his arms round the Major&#8217;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&#8217;s window, and Georgy, left
alone in the street, burst out crying in the face
of all the crowd.</p>

<p>Emmy&#8217;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.</p>

<p>As for Emmy, had she not done her duty? She had her
picture of George for a consolation.</p>





<h3 align="center">Chapter LXVII</h3>

<h4 align="center">Which Contains Births, Marriages, and Deaths</h4>

<p>Whatever Becky&#8217;s private plan might be by which
Dobbin&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s happiness in this life.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Tapeworm, the Charge d&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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, &#38;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.</p>

<p>Means were easily found to win the favour of Georgy
and the servants.  Amelia&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;brushing their &#8217;airs,&#8221;
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&#8217;s admiration of him.  She
made George write to him constantly and persisted
in sending Mamma&#8217;s kind love in a postscript.
 And as she looked at her husband&#8217;s portrait
of nights, it no longer reproached her--perhaps she
reproached it, now William was gone.</p>

<p>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,&#8221; was one
of them, that tender love-song of Weber&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Some books still subsisted, after Dobbin&#8217;s departure,
with his name written in them; a German dictionary,
for instance, with &#8220;William Dobbin,--th Reg.,&#8221;
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&#8217;s desk some time afterwards, found the
gloves neatly folded up and put away in what they
call the secret-drawers of the desk.</p>

<p>Not caring for society, and moping there a great deal,
Emmy&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s
father trusted him beyond all other men, and had been
constantly befriended by the good William.  &#8220;Why,
when your papa was a little boy,&#8221; she said,
&#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Did Dobbin kill the man who killed Papa?&#8221;
Georgy said.  &#8220;I&#8217;m sure he did, or he
would if he could have caught him, wouldn&#8217;t he,
Mother? When I&#8217;m in the Army, won&#8217;t I hate
the French?--that&#8217;s all.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;s friend as everybody else who knew
him well.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;God bless my soul, it is my portrait,&#8221;
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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I bought it,&#8221; said Becky in a voice trembling
with emotion; &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Won&#8217;t you?&#8221; Jos cried with a look
of unutterable rapture and satisfaction.  &#8220;Did
you really now value it for my sake?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You know I did, well enough,&#8221; said Becky;
&#8220;but why speak--why think--why look back!  It
is too late now!&#8221;</p>

<p>That evening&#8217;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.</p>

<p>It was June, and, by consequence, high season in London;
Jos, who read the incomparable Galignani (the exile&#8217;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-- &#8220;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s best style, the cheering continued
so enthusiastically that Lady O&#8217;Dowd and the
Colonel came forward to the balcony and drank the
healths of their fellow-countrymen in a bumper of
Wayte&#8217;s best claret.&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd,
K.C.B., Lady O&#8217;Dowd (by Mrs. Malloy Malony of
Ballymalony), and Miss Glorvina O&#8217;Dowd (by Lady
O&#8217;Dowd).  Almost directly after this, Dobbin&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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, &#8220;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&#8217;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?&#8221; The more
he thought of this long passage of his life, the more
clearly he saw his deception.  &#8220;I&#8217;ll go
into harness again,&#8221; he said, &#8220;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 &#8216;Wallenstein&#8217;
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.&#8221; 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!</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8220;dib&#8221; in the sea.</p>

<p>His interesting patient, Jos, was a regular milch-cow
to the Doctor, and he easily persuaded the civilian,
both for his own health&#8217;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.</p>

<p>There Amelia began to take baths and get what good
she could from them, and though scores of people of
Becky&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Some of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;s
drawing-room, which they perfumed with their coats
and mustachios, called Jos &#8220;Old buck,&#8221;
and invaded his dinner-table, and laughed and drank
for long hours there.</p>

<p>&#8220;What can they mean?&#8221; asked Georgy, who
did not like these gentlemen.  &#8220;I heard the
Major say to Mrs. Crawley yesterday, &#8217;No, no,
Becky, you shan&#8217;t keep the old buck to yourself.
 We must have the bones in, or, dammy, I&#8217;ll
split.&#8217; What could the Major mean, Mamma?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Major!  don&#8217;t call him Major!&#8221;
Emmy said.  &#8220;I&#8217;m sure I can&#8217;t tell
what he meant.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217; designs upon
her, yet she felt a horror and uneasiness in their
presence and longed to fly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;She mustn&#8217;t stop here,&#8221; Becky reasoned
with herself. &#8220;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&#8217;t marry either of these men.  It&#8217;s
too bad of Loder.  No; she shall marry the bamboo
cane, I&#8217;ll settle it this very night.&#8221;</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Thank you,&#8221; said Amelia.</p>

<p>&#8220;Listen to me, Amelia,&#8221; said Becky, marching
up and down the room before the other and surveying
her with a sort of contemptuous kindness.  &#8220;I
want to talk to you. You must go away from here and
from the impertinences of these men.  I won&#8217;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&#8217;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!&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I tried--I tried my best, indeed I did, Rebecca,&#8221;
said Amelia deprecatingly, &#8220;but I couldn&#8217;t
forget--&#8221;; and she finished the sentence by
looking up at the portrait.</p>

<p>&#8220;Couldn&#8217;t forget <i>him</i>!&#8221; cried
out Becky, &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s false!  It&#8217;s false!  Rebecca,&#8221;
cried out Amelia, starting up.</p>

<p>&#8220;Look there, you fool,&#8221; Becky said, still
with provoking good humour, and taking a little paper
out of her belt, she opened it and flung it into Emmy&#8217;s
lap.  &#8220;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!&#8221; Becky repeated.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s ball.  It was as she said:  the foolish
young man had asked her to fly.</p>

<p>Emmy&#8217;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? &#8220;There is nothing
to forbid me now,&#8221; she thought. &#8220;I may
love him with all my heart now.  Oh, I will, I will,
if he will but let me and forgive me.&#8221; I believe
it was this feeling rushed over all the others which
agitated that gentle little bosom.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;And now let us get pen and
ink and write to him to come this minute,&#8221; she
said.</p>

<p>&#8220;I--I wrote to him this morning,&#8221; Emmy
said, blushing exceedingly. Becky screamed with laughter--"Un
biglietto,&#8221; she sang out with Rosina, &#8220;eccolo
qua!"--the whole house echoed with her shrill singing.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>&#8220;I hope he won&#8217;t cross in such weather,&#8221;
Emmy said.</p>

<p>&#8220;I bet ten to one he does,&#8221; the boy answered.
 &#8220;Look, Mother, there&#8217;s the smoke of the
steamer.&#8221; It was that signal, sure enough.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s  heart was in a similar
flutter.</p>

<p>Emmy tried to look through the telescope over George&#8217;s
shoulder, but she could make nothing of it. She only
saw a black eclipse bobbing up and down before her
eyes.</p>

<p>George took the glass again and raked the vessel.
&#8220;How she does pitch!&#8221; he said.  &#8220;There
goes a wave slap over her bows.  There&#8217;s only
two people on deck besides the steersman.  There&#8217;s
a man lying down, and a--chap in a--cloak with a--Hooray!--it&#8217;s
Dob, by Jingo!&#8221; 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.&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>The ship came swiftly nearer and nearer.  As they
went in to meet her at the landing-place at the quay,
Emmy&#8217;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!</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>When Emmy emerged from it, she still kept tight hold
of one of William&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;It was time you sent for me, dear Amelia,&#8221;
he said.</p>

<p>&#8220;You will never go again, William?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;No, never,&#8221; he answered, and pressed
the dear little soul once more to his heart.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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!</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;Particular
business,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;s.  &#8220;I knew it
all along,&#8221; William said; &#8220;but could I
use that weapon against the poor fellow&#8217;s memory?
It was that which made me suffer so when you--&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Never speak of that day again,&#8221; Emmy
cried out, so contrite and humble that William turned
off the conversation by his account of Glorvina and
dear old Peggy O&#8217;Dowd, with whom he was sitting
when the letter of recall reached him.  &#8220;If
you hadn&#8217;t sent for me,&#8221; he added with
a laugh, &#8220;who knows what Glorvina&#8217;s name
might be now?&#8221;</p>

<p>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&#8217;Dowd is also so attached to it that, she says,
if anything were to happen to Mick, bedad she&#8217;d
come back and marry some of &#8217;em.  But the Major-General
is quite well and lives in great splendour at O&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;Dowd.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Lady Jane and Mrs. Dobbin became great friends--there
was a perpetual crossing of pony-chaises between the
Hall and the Evergreens, the Colonel&#8217;s place
(rented of his friend Major Ponto,  who was abroad
with his family).  Her Ladyship was godmother to Mrs.
Dobbin&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>Mrs. Rawdon Crawley&#8217;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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.  &#8220;But--but--oh, for God&#8217;s
sake, do come and live near me, and--and--see me sometimes,&#8221;
whimpered out the unfortunate man.</p>

<p>The Colonel&#8217;s brow darkened at this.  &#8220;We
can&#8217;t, Jos,&#8221; he said. &#8220;Considering
the circumstances, Amelia can&#8217;t visit you.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;I swear to you--I swear to you on the Bible,&#8221;
gasped out Joseph, wanting to kiss the book, &#8220;that
she is as innocent as a child, as spotless as your
own wife.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;It may be so,&#8221; said the Colonel gloomily,
&#8220;but Emmy can&#8217;t come to you.  Be a man,
Jos:  break off this disreputable connection.  Come
home to your family.  We hear your affairs are involved.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;Involved!&#8221; cried Jos.  &#8220;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.&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;You are not in debt, then? Why did you insure
your life?&#8221;</p>

<p>&#8220;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,&#8221; cried out William&#8217;s weak brother-in-law.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Jos clasped his hands and cried, &#8220;He would go
back to India.  He would do anything, only he must
have time: they mustn&#8217;t say anything to Mrs.
Crawley--she&#8217;d--she&#8217;d kill me if she knew
it.  You don&#8217;t know what a terrible woman she
is,&#8221; the poor wretch said.</p>

<p>&#8220;Then, why not come away with me?&#8221; said
Dobbin in reply; but Jos had not the courage.  &#8220;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.&#8221; And Dobbin quitted
him, full of forebodings.</p>

<p>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 &#8220;sister
Amelia, wife of, &#38;c., and his friend and invaluable
attendant during sickness, Rebecca, wife of Lieutenant-Colonel
Rawdon Crawley, C.B.,&#8221; who was appointed administratrix.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&#8217;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.</p>

<p>&#8220;Fonder than he is of me,&#8221; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<hr width="75%" size="1" />

<pre>

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