James Crawley's Pipe Is Put Out

The amiable behaviour of Mr. Crawley,

and Lady Jane's kind reception of her,

highly flattered Miss Briggs,

who was enabled to speak a good word for the latter,

after the cards of the Southdown family had been presented to Miss Crawley.

A Countess's card left personally too for her,


was not a little pleasing to the poor friendless companion.

"What could Lady Southdown mean by leaving a card upon you,

I wonder,

Miss Briggs?"

said the republican Miss Crawley;

upon which the companion meekly said "that she hoped there could be no harm in a lady of rank taking notice of a poor gentlewoman,"

and she put away this card in her work-box amongst her most cherished personal treasures.


Miss Briggs explained how she had met Mr. Crawley walking with his cousin and long affianced bride the day before: and she told how kind and gentle-looking the lady was,

and what a plain,

not to say common,

dress she had,

all the articles of which,

from the bonnet down to the boots,

she described and estimated with female accuracy.

Miss Crawley allowed Briggs to prattle on without interrupting her too much.

As she got well,

she was pining for society.

Mr. Creamer,

her medical man,

would not hear of her returning to her old haunts and dissipation in London.

The old spinster was too glad to find any companionship at Brighton,

and not only were the cards acknowledged the very next day,

but Pitt Crawley was graciously invited to come and see his aunt.

He came,

bringing with him Lady Southdown and her daughter.

The dowager did not say a word about the state of Miss Crawley's soul;

but talked with much discretion about the weather: about the war and the downfall of the monster Bonaparte: and above all,

about doctors,


and the particular merits of Dr. Podgers,

whom she then patronised.

During their interview Pitt Crawley made a great stroke,

and one which showed that,

had his diplomatic career not been blighted by early neglect,

he might have risen to a high rank in his profession.

When the Countess Dowager of Southdown fell foul of the Corsican upstart,

as the fashion was in those days,

and showed that he was a monster stained with every conceivable crime,

a coward and a tyrant not fit to live,

one whose fall was predicted,


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,


after giving himself generously up to their mercy,

was consigned to an ignoble and cruel banishment,

while a bigoted Popish rabble was tyrannising over France in his stead.

This orthodox horror of Romish superstition saved Pitt Crawley in Lady Southdown's opinion,

whilst his admiration for Fox and Napoleon raised him immeasurably in Miss Crawley's eyes.

Her friendship with that defunct British statesman was mentioned when we first introduced her in this history.

A true Whig,

Miss Crawley had been in opposition all through the war,

and though,

to be sure,

the downfall of the Emperor did not very much agitate the old lady,

or his ill-treatment tend to shorten her life or natural rest,

yet Pitt spoke to her heart when he lauded both her idols;

and by that single speech made immense progress in her favour.

"And what do you think,

my dear?"

Miss Crawley said to the young lady,

for whom she had taken a liking at first sight,

as she always did for pretty and modest young people;

though it must be owned her affections cooled as rapidly as they rose.

Lady Jane blushed very much,

and said "that she did not understand politics,

which she left to wiser heads than hers;

but though Mamma was,

no doubt,


Mr. Crawley had spoken beautifully."

And when the ladies were retiring at the conclusion of their visit,

Miss Crawley hoped "Lady Southdown would be so kind as to send her Lady Jane sometimes,

if she could be spared to come down and console a poor sick lonely old woman."

This promise was graciously accorded,

and they separated upon great terms of amity.

"Don't let Lady Southdown come again,


said the old lady.

"She is stupid and pompous,

like all your mother's family,

whom I never could endure.

But bring that nice good-natured little Jane as often as ever you please."

Pitt promised that he would do so.

He did not tell the Countess of Southdown what opinion his aunt had formed of her Ladyship,


on the contrary,

thought that she had made a most delightful and majestic impression on Miss Crawley.

And so,

nothing loth to comfort a sick lady,

and perhaps not sorry in her heart to be freed now and again from the dreary spouting of the Reverend Bartholomew Irons,

and the serious toadies who gathered round the footstool of the pompous Countess,

her mamma,

Lady Jane became a pretty constant visitor to Miss Crawley,

accompanied her in her drives,

and solaced many of her evenings.

She was so naturally good and soft,

that even Firkin was not jealous of her;

and the gentle Briggs thought her friend was less cruel to her when kind Lady Jane was by.

Towards her Ladyship Miss Crawley's manners were charming.

The old spinster told her a thousand anecdotes about her youth,

talking to her in a very different strain from that in which she had been accustomed to converse with the godless little Rebecca;

for there was that in Lady Jane's innocence which rendered light talking impertinence before her,

and Miss Crawley was too much of a gentlewoman to offend such purity.

The young lady herself had never received kindness except from this old spinster,

and her brother and father: and she repaid Miss Crawley's engoument by artless sweetness and friendship.

In the autumn evenings (when Rebecca was flaunting at Paris,

the gayest among the gay conquerors there,

and our Amelia,

our dear wounded Amelia,


where was she?) Lady Jane would be sitting in Miss Crawley's drawing-room singing sweetly to her,

in the twilight,

her little simple songs and hymns,

while the sun was setting and the sea was roaring on the beach.

The old spinster used to wake up when these ditties ceased,

and ask for more.

As for Briggs,

and the quantity of tears of happiness which she now shed as she pretended to knit,

and looked out at the splendid ocean darkling before the windows,

and the lamps of heaven beginning more brightly to shine --who,

I say can measure the happiness and sensibility of Briggs?

Pitt meanwhile in the dining-room,

with a pamphlet on the Corn Laws or a Missionary Register by his side,

took that kind of recreation which suits romantic and unromantic men after dinner.

He sipped Madeira: built castles in the air: thought himself a fine fellow: felt himself much more in love with Jane than he had been any time these seven years,

during which their liaison had lasted without the slightest impatience on Pitt's part --and slept a good deal.

When the time for coffee came,

Mr. Bowls used to enter in a noisy manner,

and summon Squire Pitt,

who would be found in the dark very busy with his pamphlet.

"I wish,

my love,

I could get somebody to play piquet with me,"

Miss Crawley said one night when this functionary made his appearance with the candles and the coffee.

"Poor Briggs can no more play than an owl,

she is so stupid" (the spinster always took an opportunity of abusing Briggs before the servants);

"and I think I should sleep better if I had my game."

At this Lady Jane blushed to the tips of her little ears,

and down to the ends of her pretty fingers;

and when Mr. Bowls had quitted the room,

and the door was quite shut,

she said:

"Miss Crawley,

I can play a little.

I used to --to play a little with poor dear papa."

"Come and kiss me.

Come and kiss me this instant,

you dear good little soul,"

cried Miss Crawley in an ecstasy: and in this picturesque and friendly occupation Mr. Pitt found the old lady and the young one,

when he came upstairs with him pamphlet in his hand.

How she did blush all the evening,

that poor Lady Jane!

It must not be imagined that Mr. Pitt Crawley's artifices escaped the attention of his dear relations at the Rectory at Queen's Crawley.

Hampshire and Sussex lie very close together,

and Mrs. Bute had friends in the latter county who took care to inform her of all,

and a great deal more than all,

that passed at Miss Crawley's house at Brighton.

Pitt was there more and more.

He did not come for months together to the Hall,

where his abominable old father abandoned himself completely to rum-and-water,

and the odious society of the Horrocks family.

Pitt's success rendered the Rector's family furious,

and Mrs. Bute regretted more (though she confessed less) than ever her monstrous fault in so insulting Miss Briggs,

and in being so haughty and parsimonious to Bowls and Firkin,

that she had not a single person left in Miss Crawley's household to give her information of what took place there.

"It was all Bute's collar-bone,"

she persisted in saying;

"if that had not broke,

I never would have left her.

I am a martyr to duty and to your odious unclerical habit of hunting,




It was you that frightened her,


the divine interposed.

"You're a clever woman,

but you've got a devil of a temper;

and you're a screw with your money,


"You'd have been screwed in gaol,


if I had not kept your money."

"I know I would,

my dear,"

said the Rector,


"You ARE a clever woman,

but you manage too well,

you know": and the pious man consoled himself with a big glass of port.

"What the deuce can she find in that spooney of a Pitt Crawley?"

he continued.

"The fellow has not pluck enough to say Bo to a goose.

I remember when Rawdon,

who is a man,

and be hanged to him,

used to flog him round the stables as if he was a whipping-top: and Pitt would go howling home to his ma --ha,



either of my boys would whop him with one hand.

Jim says he's remembered at Oxford as Miss Crawley still --the spooney.

"I say,


his reverence continued,

after a pause.


said Barbara,

who was biting her nails,

and drumming the table.

"I say,

why not send Jim over to Brighton to see if he can do anything with the old lady.

He's very near getting his degree,

you know.

He's only been plucked twice --so was I --but he's had the advantages of Oxford and a university education.

He knows some of the best chaps there.

He pulls stroke in the Boniface boat.

He's a handsome feller.

D -- -- it,


let's put him on the old woman,


and tell him to thrash Pitt if he says anything.




"Jim might go down and see her,


the housewife said;

adding with a sigh,

"If we could but get one of the girls into the house;

but she could never endure them,

because they are not pretty!"

Those unfortunate and well-educated women made themselves heard from the neighbouring drawing-room,

where they were thrumming away,

with hard fingers,

an elaborate music-piece on the piano-forte,

as their mother spoke;

and indeed,

they were at music,

or at backboard,

or at geography,

or at history,

the whole day long.

But what avail all these accomplishments,

in Vanity Fair,

to girls who are short,



and have a bad complexion?

Mrs. Bute could think of nobody but the Curate to take one of them off her hands;

and Jim coming in from the stable at this minute,

through the parlour window,

with a short pipe stuck in his oilskin cap,

he and his father fell to talking about odds on the St. Leger,

and the colloquy between the Rector and his wife ended.

Mrs. Bute did not augur much good to the cause from the sending of her son James as an ambassador,

and saw him depart in rather a despairing mood.

Nor did the young fellow himself,

when told what his mission was to be,

expect much pleasure or benefit from it;

but he was consoled by the thought that possibly the old lady would give him some handsome remembrance of her,

which would pay a few of his most pressing bills at the commencement of the ensuing Oxford term,

and so took his place by the coach from Southampton,

and was safely landed at Brighton on the same evening with his portmanteau,

his favourite bull-dog Towzer,

and an immense basket of farm and garden produce,

from the dear Rectory folks to the dear Miss Crawley.

Considering it was too late to disturb the invalid lady on the first night of his arrival,

he put up at an inn,

and did not wait upon Miss Crawley until a late hour in the noon of next day.

James Crawley,

when his aunt had last beheld him,

was a gawky lad,

at that uncomfortable age when the voice varies between an unearthly treble and a preternatural bass;

when the face not uncommonly blooms out with appearances for which Rowland's Kalydor is said to act as a cure;

when boys are seen to shave furtively with their sister's scissors,

and the sight of other young women produces intolerable sensations of terror in them;

when the great hands and ankles protrude a long way from garments which have grown too tight for them;

when their presence after dinner is at once frightful to the ladies,

who are whispering in the twilight in the drawing-room,

and inexpressibly odious to the gentlemen over the mahogany,

who are restrained from freedom of intercourse and delightful interchange of wit by the presence of that gawky innocence;


at the conclusion of the second glass,

papa says,


my boy,

go out and see if the evening holds up,"

and the youth,

willing to be free,

yet hurt at not being yet a man,

quits the incomplete banquet.


then a hobbadehoy,

was now become a young man,

having had the benefits of a university education,

and acquired the inestimable polish which is gained by living in a fast set at a small college,

and contracting debts,

and being rusticated,

and being plucked.

He was a handsome lad,


when he came to present himself to his aunt at Brighton,

and good looks were always a title to the fickle old lady's favour.

Nor did his blushes and awkwardness take away from it: she was pleased with these healthy tokens of the young gentleman's ingenuousness.

He said "he had come down for a couple of days to see a man of his college,

and --and to pay my respects to you,


and my father's and mother's,

who hope you are well."

Pitt was in the room with Miss Crawley when the lad was announced,

and looked very blank when his name was mentioned.

The old lady had plenty of humour,

and enjoyed her correct nephew's perplexity.

She asked after all the people at the Rectory with great interest;

and said she was thinking of paying them a visit.

She praised the lad to his face,

and said he was well-grown and very much improved,

and that it was a pity his sisters had not some of his good looks;

and finding,

on inquiry,

that he had taken up his quarters at an hotel,

would not hear of his stopping there,

but bade Mr. Bowls send for Mr. James Crawley's things instantly;

"and hark ye,


she added,

with great graciousness,

"you will have the goodness to pay Mr. James's bill."

She flung Pitt a look of arch triumph,

which caused that diplomatist almost to choke with envy.

Much as he had ingratiated himself with his aunt,

she had never yet invited him to stay under her roof,

and here was a young whipper-snapper,

who at first sight was made welcome there.

"I beg your pardon,


says Bowls,

advancing with a profound bow;




shall Thomas fetch the luggage from?"



said young James,

starting up,

as if in some alarm,

"I'll go."


said Miss Crawley.

"The Tom Cribb's Arms,"

said James,

blushing deeply.

Miss Crawley burst out laughing at this title.

Mr. Bowls gave one abrupt guffaw,

as a confidential servant of the family,

but choked the rest of the volley;

the diplomatist only smiled.

"I --I didn't know any better,"

said James,

looking down.

"I've never been here before;

it was the coachman told me."

The young story-teller!

The fact is,

that on the Southampton coach,

the day previous,

James Crawley had met the Tutbury Pet,

who was coming to Brighton to make a match with the Rottingdean Fibber;

and enchanted by the Pet's conversation,

had passed the evening in company with that scientific man and his friends,

at the inn in question.

"I --I'd best go and settle the score,"

James continued.

"Couldn't think of asking you,


he added,


This delicacy made his aunt laugh the more.

"Go and settle the bill,


she said,

with a wave of her hand,

"and bring it to me."

Poor lady,

she did not know what she had done!

"There --there's a little dawg,"

said James,

looking frightfully guilty.

"I'd best go for him.

He bites footmen's calves."

All the party cried out with laughing at this description;

even Briggs and Lady Jane,

who was sitting mute during the interview between Miss Crawley and her nephew: and Bowls,

without a word,

quitted the room.


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.



laughed James,

encouraged by these compliments;

"Senior Wrangler,


that's at the other shop."

"What is the other shop,

my dear child?"

said the lady.

"Senior Wranglers at Cambridge,

not Oxford,"

said the scholar,

with a knowing air;

and would probably have been more confidential,

but that suddenly there appeared on the cliff in a tax-cart,

drawn by a bang-up pony,

dressed in white flannel coats,

with mother-of-pearl buttons,

his friends the Tutbury Pet and the Rottingdean Fibber,

with three other gentlemen of their acquaintance,

who all saluted poor James there in the carriage as he sate.

This incident damped the ingenuous youth's spirits,

and no word of yea or nay could he be induced to utter during the rest of the drive.

On his return he found his room prepared,

and his portmanteau ready,

and might have remarked that Mr. Bowls's countenance,

when the latter conducted him to his apartments,

wore a look of gravity,


and compassion.

But the thought of Mr. Bowls did not enter his head.

He was deploring the dreadful predicament in which he found himself,

in a house full of old women,

jabbering French and Italian,

and talking poetry to him.

"Reglarly up a tree,

by jingo!"

exclaimed the modest boy,

who could not face the gentlest of her sex --not even Briggs --when she began to talk to him;


put him at Iffley Lock,

and he could out-slang the boldest bargeman.

At dinner,

James appeared choking in a white neckcloth,

and had the honour of handing my Lady Jane downstairs,

while Briggs and Mr. Crawley followed afterwards,

conducting the old lady,

with her apparatus of bundles,

and shawls,

and cushions.

Half of Briggs's time at dinner was spent in superintending the invalid's comfort,

and in cutting up chicken for her fat spaniel.

James did not talk much,

but he made a point of asking all the ladies to drink wine,

and accepted Mr. Crawley's challenge,

and consumed the greater part of a bottle of champagne which Mr. Bowls was ordered to produce in his honour.

The ladies having withdrawn,

and the two cousins being left together,


the ex-diplomatist,

he came very communicative and friendly.

He asked after James's career at college --what his prospects in life were --hoped heartily he would get on;


in a word,

was frank and amiable.

James's tongue unloosed with the port,

and he told his cousin his life,

his prospects,

his debts,

his troubles at the little-go,

and his rows with the proctors,

filling rapidly from the bottles before him,

and flying from Port to Madeira with joyous activity.

"The chief pleasure which my aunt has,"

said Mr. Crawley,

filling his glass,

"is that people should do as they like in her house.

This is Liberty Hall,


and you can't do Miss Crawley a greater kindness than to do as you please,

and ask for what you will.

I know you have all sneered at me in the country for being a Tory.

Miss Crawley is liberal enough to suit any fancy.

She is a Republican in principle,

and despises everything like rank or title."

"Why are you going to marry an Earl's daughter?"

said James.

"My dear friend,

remember it is not poor Lady Jane's fault that she is well born,"

Pitt replied,

with a courtly air.

"She cannot help being a lady.


I am a Tory,

you know."


as for that,"

said Jim,

"there's nothing like old blood;



nothing like it.

I'm none of your radicals.

I know what it is to be a gentleman,


See the chaps in a boat-race;

look at the fellers in a fight;


look at a dawg killing rats --which is it wins?

the good-blooded ones.

Get some more port,


old boy,

whilst I buzz this bottle-here.

What was I asaying?"

"I think you were speaking of dogs killing rats,"

Pitt remarked mildly,

handing his cousin the decanter to "buzz."

"Killing rats was I?



are you a sporting man?

Do you want to see a dawg as CAN kill a rat?

If you do,

come down with me to Tom Corduroy's,

in Castle Street Mews,

and I'll show you such a bull-terrier as --Pooh!


cried James,

bursting out laughing at his own absurdity --"YOU don't care about a dawg or rat;

it's all nonsense.

I'm blest if I think you know the difference between a dog and a duck."


by the way,"

Pitt continued with increased blandness,

"it was about blood you were talking,

and the personal advantages which people derive from patrician birth.

Here's the fresh bottle."

"Blood's the word,"

said James,

gulping the ruby fluid down.

"Nothing like blood,


in hosses,


AND men.


only last term,

just before I was rusticated,

that is,

I mean just before I had the measles,


ha --there was me and Ringwood of Christchurch,

Bob Ringwood,

Lord Cinqbars' son,

having our beer at the Bell at Blenheim,

when the Banbury bargeman offered to fight either of us for a bowl of punch.

I couldn't.

My arm was in a sling;

couldn't even take the drag down --a brute of a mare of mine had fell with me only two days before,

out with the Abingdon,

and I thought my arm was broke.



I couldn't finish him,

but Bob had his coat off at once --he stood up to the Banbury man for three minutes,

and polished him off in four rounds easy.


how he did drop,


and what was it?



all blood."

"You don't drink,


the ex-attache continued.

"In my time at Oxford,

the men passed round the bottle a little quicker than you young fellows seem to do."



said James,

putting his hand to his nose and winking at his cousin with a pair of vinous eyes,

"no jokes,

old boy;

no trying it on on me.

You want to trot me out,

but it's no go.

In vino veritas,

old boy.



Apollo virorum,


I wish my aunt would send down some of this to the governor;

it's a precious good tap."

"You had better ask her,"

Machiavel continued,

"or make the best of your time now.

What says the bard?

'Nunc vino pellite curas,

Cras ingens iterabimus aequor,'" and the Bacchanalian,

quoting the above with a House of Commons air,

tossed off nearly a thimbleful of wine with an immense flourish of his glass.

At the Rectory,

when the bottle of port wine was opened after dinner,

the young ladies had each a glass from a bottle of currant wine.

Mrs. Bute took one glass of port,

honest James had a couple commonly,

but as his father grew very sulky if he made further inroads on the bottle,

the good lad generally refrained from trying for more,

and subsided either into the currant wine,

or to some private gin-and-water in the stables,

which he enjoyed in the company of the coachman and his pipe.

At Oxford,

the quantity of wine was unlimited,

but the quality was inferior: but when quantity and quality united as at his aunt's house,

James showed that he could appreciate them indeed;

and hardly needed any of his cousin's encouragement in draining off the second bottle supplied by Mr. Bowls.

When the time for coffee came,


and for a return to the ladies,

of whom he stood in awe,

the young gentleman's agreeable frankness left him,

and he relapsed into his usual surly timidity;

contenting himself by saying yes and no,

by scowling at Lady Jane,

and by upsetting one cup of coffee during the evening.

If he did not speak he yawned in a pitiable manner,

and his presence threw a damp upon the modest proceedings of the evening,

for Miss Crawley and Lady Jane at their piquet,

and Miss Briggs at her work,

felt that his eyes were wildly fixed on them,

and were uneasy under that maudlin look.

"He seems a very silent,


bashful lad,"

said Miss Crawley to Mr. Pitt.

"He is more communicative in men's society than with ladies,"

Machiavel dryly replied: perhaps rather disappointed that the port wine had not made Jim speak more.

He had spent the early part of the next morning in writing home to his mother a most flourishing account of his reception by Miss Crawley.

But ah!

he little knew what evils the day was bringing for him,

and how short his reign of favour was destined to be.

A circumstance which Jim had forgotten --a trivial but fatal circumstance --had taken place at the Cribb's Arms on the night before he had come to his aunt's house.

It was no other than this --Jim,

who was always of a generous disposition,

and when in his cups especially hospitable,

had in the course of the night treated the Tutbury champion and the Rottingdean man,

and their friends,

twice or thrice to the refreshment of gin-and-water --so that no less than eighteen glasses of that fluid at eightpence per glass were charged in Mr. James Crawley's bill.

It was not the amount of eightpences,

but the quantity of gin which told fatally against poor James's character,

when his aunt's butler,

Mr. Bowls,

went down at his mistress's request to pay the young gentleman's bill.

The landlord,

fearing lest the account should be refused altogether,

swore solemnly that the young gent had consumed personally every farthing's worth of the liquor: and Bowls paid the bill finally,

and showed it on his return home to Mrs. Firkin,

who was shocked at the frightful prodigality of gin;

and took the bill to Miss Briggs as accountant-general;

who thought it her duty to mention the circumstance to her principal,

Miss Crawley.

Had he drunk a dozen bottles of claret,

the old spinster could have pardoned him.

Mr. Fox and Mr. Sheridan drank claret.

Gentlemen drank claret.

But eighteen glasses of gin consumed among boxers in an ignoble pot-house --it was an odious crime and not to be pardoned readily.

Everything went against the lad: he came home perfumed from the stables,

whither he had been to pay his dog Towzer a visit --and whence he was going to take his friend out for an airing,

when he met Miss Crawley and her wheezy Blenheim spaniel,

which Towzer would have eaten up had not the Blenheim fled squealing to the protection of Miss Briggs,

while the atrocious master of the bull-dog stood laughing at the horrible persecution.

This day too the unlucky boy's modesty had likewise forsaken him.

He was lively and facetious at dinner.

During the repast he levelled one or two jokes against Pitt Crawley: he drank as much wine as upon the previous day;

and going quite unsuspiciously to the drawing-room,

began to entertain the ladies there with some choice Oxford stories.

He described the different pugilistic qualities of Molyneux and Dutch Sam,

offered playfully to give Lady Jane the odds upon the Tutbury Pet against the Rottingdean man,

or take them,

as her Ladyship chose: and crowned the pleasantry by proposing to back himself against his cousin Pitt Crawley,

either with or without the gloves.

"And that's a fair offer,

my buck,"

he said,

with a loud laugh,

slapping Pitt on the shoulder,

"and my father told me to make it too,

and he'll go halves in the bet,



So saying,

the engaging youth nodded knowingly at poor Miss Briggs,

and pointed his thumb over his shoulder at Pitt Crawley in a jocular and exulting manner.

Pitt was not pleased altogether perhaps,

but still not unhappy in the main.

Poor Jim had his laugh out: and staggered across the room with his aunt's candle,

when the old lady moved to retire,

and offered to salute her with the blandest tipsy smile: and he took his own leave and went upstairs to his bedroom perfectly satisfied with himself,

and with a pleased notion that his aunt's money would be left to him in preference to his father and all the rest of the family.

Once up in the bedroom,

one would have thought he could not make matters worse;

and yet this unlucky boy did.

The moon was shining very pleasantly out on the sea,

and Jim,

attracted to the window by the romantic appearance of the ocean and the heavens,

thought he would further enjoy them while smoking.

Nobody would smell the tobacco,

he thought,

if he cunningly opened the window and kept his head and pipe in the fresh air.

This he did: but being in an excited state,

poor Jim had forgotten that his door was open all this time,

so that the breeze blowing inwards and a fine thorough draught being established,

the clouds of tobacco were carried downstairs,

and arrived with quite undiminished fragrance to Miss Crawley and Miss Briggs.

The pipe of tobacco finished the business: and the Bute-Crawleys never knew how many thousand pounds it cost them.

Firkin rushed downstairs to Bowls who was reading out the "Fire and the Frying Pan" to his aide-de-camp in a loud and ghostly voice.

The dreadful secret was told to him by Firkin with so frightened a look,

that for the first moment Mr. Bowls and his young man thought that robbers were in the house,

the legs of whom had probably been discovered by the woman under Miss Crawley's bed.

When made aware of the fact,

however --to rush upstairs at three steps at a time to enter the unconscious James's apartment,

calling out,

"Mr. James,"

in a voice stifled with alarm,

and to cry,

"For Gawd's sake,


stop that

'ere pipe,"

was the work of a minute with Mr. Bowls.


Mr. James,


'AVE you done!"

he said in a voice of the deepest pathos,

as he threw the implement out of the window.


'ave you done,


Missis can't abide


"Missis needn't smoke,"

said James with a frantic misplaced laugh,

and thought the whole matter an excellent joke.

But his feelings were very different in the morning,

when Mr. Bowls's young man,

who operated upon Mr. James's boots,

and brought him his hot water to shave that beard which he was so anxiously expecting,

handed a note in to Mr. James in bed,

in the handwriting of Miss Briggs.

"Dear sir,"

it said,

"Miss Crawley has passed an exceedingly disturbed night,

owing to the shocking manner in which the house has been polluted by tobacco;

Miss Crawley bids me say she regrets that she is too unwell to see you before you go --and above all that she ever induced you to remove from the ale-house,

where she is sure you will be much more comfortable during the rest of your stay at Brighton."

And herewith honest James's career as a candidate for his aunt's favour ended.

He had in fact,

and without knowing it,

done what he menaced to do.

He had fought his cousin Pitt with the gloves.

Where meanwhile was he who had been once first favourite for this race for money?

Becky and Rawdon,

as we have seen,

were come together after Waterloo,

and were passing the winter of 1815 at Paris in great splendour and gaiety.

Rebecca was a good economist,

and the price poor Jos Sedley had paid for her two horses was in itself sufficient to keep their little establishment afloat for a year,

at the least;

there was no occasion to turn into money "my pistols,

the same which I shot Captain Marker,"

or the gold dressing-case,

or the cloak lined with sable.

Becky had it made into a pelisse for herself,

in which she rode in the Bois de Boulogne to the admiration of all: and you should have seen the scene between her and her delighted husband,

whom she rejoined after the army had entered Cambray,

and when she unsewed herself,

and let out of her dress all those watches,




and valuables,

which she had secreted in the wadding,

previous to her meditated flight from Brussels!

Tufto was charmed,

and Rawdon roared with delighted laughter,

and swore that she was better than any play he ever saw,

by Jove.

And the way in which she jockeyed Jos,

and which she described with infinite fun,

carried up his delight to a pitch of quite insane enthusiasm.

He believed in his wife as much as the French soldiers in Napoleon.

Her success in Paris was remarkable.

All the French ladies voted her charming.

She spoke their language admirably.

She adopted at once their grace,

their liveliness,

their manner.

Her husband was stupid certainly --all English are stupid --and,


a dull husband at Paris is always a point in a lady's favour.

He was the heir of the rich and spirituelle Miss Crawley,

whose house had been open to so many of the French noblesse during the emigration.

They received the colonel's wife in their own hotels --"Why,"

wrote a great lady to Miss Crawley,

who had bought her lace and trinkets at the Duchess's own price,

and given her many a dinner during the pinching times after the Revolution --"Why does not our dear Miss come to her nephew and niece,

and her attached friends in Paris?

All the world raffoles of the charming Mistress and her espiegle beauty.


we see in her the grace,

the charm,

the wit of our dear friend Miss Crawley!

The King took notice of her yesterday at the Tuileries,

and we are all jealous of the attention which Monsieur pays her.

If you could have seen the spite of a certain stupid Miladi Bareacres (whose eagle-beak and toque and feathers may be seen peering over the heads of all assemblies) when Madame,

the Duchess of 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,


and yet how interesting and pretty this fair creature looks surrounded by the homage of the men,

and so soon to be a mother!

To hear her speak of you,

her protectress,

her mother,

would bring tears to the eyes of ogres.

How she loves you!

how we all love our admirable,

our respectable Miss Crawley!"

It is to be feared that this letter of the Parisian great lady did not by any means advance Mrs. Becky's interest with her admirable,

her respectable,


On the contrary,

the fury of the old spinster was beyond bounds,

when she found what was Rebecca's situation,

and how audaciously she had made use of Miss Crawley's name,

to get an entree into Parisian society.

Too much shaken in mind and body to compose a letter in the French language in reply to that of her correspondent,

she dictated to Briggs a furious answer in her own native tongue,

repudiating Mrs. Rawdon Crawley altogether,

and warning the public to beware of her as a most artful and dangerous person.

But as Madame the Duchess of X --had only been twenty years in England,

she did not understand a single word of the language,

and contented herself by informing Mrs. Rawdon Crawley at their next meeting,

that she had received a charming letter from that chere Mees,

and that it was full of benevolent things for Mrs. Crawley,

who began seriously to have hopes that the spinster would relent.


she was the gayest and most admired of Englishwomen: and had a little European congress on her reception-night.

Prussians and Cossacks,

Spanish and English --all the world was at Paris during this famous winter: to have seen the stars and cordons in Rebecca's humble saloon would have made all Baker Street pale with envy.

Famous warriors rode by her carriage in the Bois,

or crowded her modest little box at the Opera.

Rawdon was in the highest spirits.

There were no duns in Paris as yet: there were parties every day at Very's or Beauvilliers';

play was plentiful and his luck good.

Tufto perhaps was sulky.

Mrs. Tufto had come over to Paris at her own invitation,

and besides this contretemps,

there were a score of generals now round Becky's chair,

and she might take her choice of a dozen bouquets when she went to the play.

Lady Bareacres and the chiefs of the English society,

stupid and irreproachable females,

writhed with anguish at the success of the little upstart Becky,

whose poisoned jokes quivered and rankled in their chaste breasts.

But she had all the men on her side.

She fought the women with indomitable courage,

and they could not talk scandal in any tongue but their own.

So in fetes,


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,


and energy,

indeed merited a place of honour in Vanity Fair.

In the early spring of 1816,

Galignani's Journal contained the following announcement in an interesting corner of the paper:

"On the 26th of March --the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Crawley,

of the Life Guards Green --of a son and heir."

This event was copied into the London papers,

out of which Miss Briggs read the statement to Miss Crawley,

at breakfast,

at Brighton.

The intelligence,

expected as it might have been,

caused a crisis in the affairs of the Crawley family.

The spinster's rage rose to its height,

and sending instantly for Pitt,

her nephew,

and for the Lady Southdown,

from Brunswick Square,

she requested an immediate celebration of the marriage which had been so long pending between the two families.

And she announced that it was her intention to allow the young couple a thousand a year during her lifetime,

at the expiration of which the bulk of her property would be settled upon her nephew and her dear niece,

Lady Jane Crawley.

Waxy came down to ratify the deeds --Lord Southdown gave away his sister --she was married by a Bishop,

and not by the Rev. Bartholomew Irons --to the disappointment of the irregular prelate.

When they were married,

Pitt would have liked to take a hymeneal tour with his bride,

as became people of their condition.

But the affection of the old lady towards Lady Jane had grown so strong,

that she fairly owned she could not part with her favourite.

Pitt and his wife came therefore and lived with Miss Crawley: and (greatly to the annoyance of poor Pitt,

who conceived himself a most injured character --being subject to the humours of his aunt on one side,

and of his mother-in-law on the other).

Lady Southdown,

from her neighbouring house,

reigned over the whole family --Pitt,

Lady Jane,

Miss Crawley,




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.


Widow and Mother

The news of the great fights of Quatre Bras and Waterloo reached England at the same time.

The Gazette first published the result of the two battles;

at which glorious intelligence all England thrilled with triumph and fear.

Particulars then followed;

and after the announcement of the victories came the list of the wounded and the slain.

Who can tell the dread with which that catalogue was opened and read!


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,


even now,

feel at second-hand this breathless pause of expectation.

The lists of casualties are carried on from day to day: you stop in the midst as in a story which is to be continued in our next.

Think what the feelings must have been as those papers followed each other fresh from the press;

and if such an interest could be felt in our country,

and about a battle where but twenty thousand of our people were engaged,

think of the condition of Europe for twenty years before,

where people were fighting,

not by thousands,

but by millions;

each one of whom as he struck his enemy wounded horribly some other innocent heart far away.

The news which that famous Gazette brought to the Osbornes gave a dreadful shock to the family and its chief.

The girls indulged unrestrained in their grief.

The gloom-stricken old father was still more borne down by his fate and sorrow.

He strove to think that a judgment was on the boy for his disobedience.

He dared not own that the severity of the sentence frightened him,

and that its fulfilment had come too soon upon his curses.

Sometimes a shuddering terror struck him,

as if he had been the author of the doom which he had called down on his son.

There was a chance before of reconciliation.

The boy's wife might have died;

or he might have come back and said,

Father I have sinned.

But there was no hope now.

He stood on the other side of the gulf impassable,

haunting his parent with sad eyes.

He remembered them once before so in a fever,

when every one thought the lad was dying,

and he lay on his bed speechless,

and gazing with a dreadful gloom.

Good God!

how the father clung to the doctor then,

and with what a sickening anxiety he followed him: what a weight of grief was off his mind when,

after the crisis of the fever,

the lad recovered,

and looked at his father once more with eyes that recognised him.

But now there was no help or cure,

or chance of reconcilement: above all,

there were no humble words to soothe vanity outraged and furious,

or bring to its natural flow the poisoned,

angry blood.

And it is hard to say which pang it was that tore the proud father's heart most keenly --that his son should have gone out of the reach of his forgiveness,

or that the apology which his own pride expected should have escaped him.

Whatever his sensations might have been,


the stem old man would have no confidant.

He never mentioned his son's name to his daughters;

but ordered the elder to place all the females of the establishment in mourning;

and desired that the male servants should be similarly attired in deep black.

All parties and entertainments,

of course,

were to be put off.

No communications were made to his future son-in-law,

whose marriage-day had been fixed: but there was enough in Mr. Osborne's appearance to prevent Mr. Bullock from making any inquiries,

or in any way pressing forward that ceremony.

He and the ladies whispered about it under their voices in the drawing-room sometimes,

whither the father never came.

He remained constantly in his own study;

the whole front part of the house being closed until some time after the completion of the general mourning.

About three weeks after the 18th of June,

Mr. Osborne's acquaintance,

Sir William Dobbin,

called at Mr. Osborne's house in Russell Square,

with a very pale and agitated face,

and insisted upon seeing that gentleman.

Ushered into his room,

and after a few words,

which neither the speaker nor the host understood,

the former produced from an inclosure a letter sealed with a large red seal.

"My son,

Major Dobbin,"

the Alderman said,

with some hesitation,

"despatched me a letter by an officer of the  --th,

who arrived in town to-day.

My son's letter contains one for you,


The Alderman placed the letter on the table,

and Osborne stared at him for a moment or two in silence.

His looks frightened the ambassador,

who after looking guiltily for a little time at the grief-stricken man,

hurried away without another word.

The letter was in George's well-known bold handwriting.

It was that one which he had written before daybreak on the 16th of June,

and just before he took leave of Amelia.

The great red seal was emblazoned with the sham coat of arms which Osborne had assumed from the Peerage,

with "Pax in bello" for a motto;

that of the ducal house with which the vain old man tried to fancy himself connected.

The hand that signed it would never hold pen or sword more.

The very seal that sealed it had been robbed from George's dead body as it lay on the field of battle.

The father knew nothing of this,

but sat and looked at the letter in terrified vacancy.

He almost fell when he went to open it.

Have you ever had a difference with a dear friend?

How his letters,

written in the period of love and confidence,

sicken and rebuke you!

What a dreary mourning it is to dwell upon those vehement protests of dead affection!

What lying epitaphs they make over the corpse of love!

What dark,

cruel comments upon Life and Vanities!

Most of us have got or written drawers full of them.

They are closet-skeletons which we keep and shun.

Osborne trembled long before the letter from his dead son.

The poor boy's letter did not say much.

He had been too proud to acknowledge the tenderness which his heart felt.

He only said,

that on the eve of a great battle,

he wished to bid his father farewell,

and solemnly to implore his good offices for the wife --it might be for the child --whom he left behind him.

He owned with contrition that his irregularities and his extravagance had already wasted a large part of his mother's little fortune.

He thanked his father for his former generous conduct;

and he promised him that if he fell on the field or survived it,

he would act in a manner worthy of the name of George Osborne.

His English habit,


awkwardness perhaps,

had prevented him from saying more.

His father could not see the kiss George had placed on the superscription of his letter.

Mr. Osborne dropped it with the bitterest,

deadliest pang of balked affection and revenge.

His son was still beloved and unforgiven.

About two months afterwards,


as the young ladies of the family went to church with their father,

they remarked how he took a different seat from that which he usually occupied when he chose to attend divine worship;

and that from his cushion opposite,

he looked up at the wall over their heads.

This caused the young women likewise to gaze in the direction towards which their father's gloomy eyes pointed: and they saw an elaborate monument upon the wall,

where Britannia was represented weeping over an urn,

and a broken sword and a couchant lion indicated that the piece of sculpture had been erected in honour of a deceased warrior.

The sculptors of those days had stocks of such funereal emblems in hand;

as you may see still on the walls of St. Paul's,

which are covered with hundreds of these braggart heathen allegories.

There was a constant demand for them during the first fifteen years of the present century.

Under the memorial in question were emblazoned the well-known and pompous Osborne arms;

and the inscription said,

that the monument was "Sacred to the memory of George Osborne,



late a Captain in his Majesty's  --th regiment of foot,

who fell on the 18th of June,


aged 28 years,

while fighting for his king and country in the glorious victory of Waterloo.

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori."

The sight of that stone agitated the nerves of the sisters so much,

that Miss Maria was compelled to leave the church.

The congregation made way respectfully for those sobbing girls clothed in deep black,

and pitied the stern old father seated opposite the memorial of the dead soldier.

"Will he forgive Mrs. George?"

the girls said to themselves as soon as their ebullition of grief was over.

Much conversation passed too among the acquaintances of the Osborne family,

who knew of the rupture between the son and father caused by the former's marriage,

as to the chance of a reconciliation with the young widow.

There were bets among the gentlemen both about Russell Square and in the City.

If the sisters had any anxiety regarding the possible recognition of Amelia as a daughter of the family,

it was increased presently,

and towards the end of the autumn,

by their father's announcement that he was going abroad.

He did not say whither,

but they knew at once that his steps would be turned towards Belgium,

and were aware that George's widow was still in Brussels.

They had pretty accurate news indeed of poor Amelia from Lady Dobbin and her daughters.

Our honest Captain had been promoted in consequence of the death of the second Major of the regiment on the field;

and the brave O'Dowd,

who had distinguished himself greatly here as upon all occasions where he had a chance to show his coolness and valour,

was a Colonel and Companion of the Bath.

Very many of the brave  --th,

who had suffered severely upon both days of action,

were still at Brussels in the autumn,

recovering of their wounds.

The city was a vast military hospital for months after the great battles;

and as men and officers began to rally from their hurts,

the gardens and places of public resort swarmed with maimed warriors,

old and young,


just rescued out of death,

fell to gambling,

and gaiety,

and love-making,

as people of Vanity Fair will do.

Mr. Osborne found out some of the  --th easily.

He knew their uniform quite well,

and had been used to follow all the promotions and exchanges in the regiment,

and loved to talk about it and its officers as if he had been one of the number.

On the day after his arrival at Brussels,

and as he issued from his hotel,

which faced the park,

he saw a soldier in the well-known facings,

reposing on a stone bench in the garden,

and went and sate down trembling by the wounded convalescent man.

"Were you in Captain Osborne's company?"

he said,

and added,

after a pause,

"he was my son,


The man was not of the Captain's company,

but he lifted up his unwounded arm and touched-his cap sadly and respectfully to the haggard broken-spirited gentleman who questioned him.

"The whole army didn't contain a finer or a better officer,"

the soldier said.

"The Sergeant of the Captain's company (Captain Raymond had it now),

was in town,


and was just well of a shot in the shoulder.

His honour might see him if he liked,

who could tell him anything he wanted to know about --about the  --th's actions.

But his honour had seen Major Dobbin,

no doubt,

the brave Captain's great friend;

and Mrs. Osborne,

who was here too,

and had been very bad,

he heard everybody say.

They say she was out of her mind like for six weeks or more.

But your honour knows all about that --and asking your pardon" --the man added.

Osborne put a guinea into the soldier's hand,

and told him he should have another if he would bring the Sergeant to the Hotel du Parc;

a promise which very soon brought the desired officer to Mr. Osborne's presence.

And the first soldier went away;

and after telling a comrade or two how Captain Osborne's father was arrived,

and what a free-handed generous gentleman he was,

they went and made good cheer with drink and feasting,

as long as the guineas lasted which had come from the proud purse of the mourning old father.

In the Sergeant's company,

who was also just convalescent,

Osborne made the journey of Waterloo and Quatre Bras,

a journey which thousands of his countrymen were then taking.

He took the Sergeant with him in his carriage,

and went through both fields under his guidance.

He saw the point of the road where the regiment marched into action on the 16th,

and the slope down which they drove the French cavalry who were pressing on the retreating Belgians.

There was the spot where the noble Captain cut down the French officer who was grappling with the young Ensign for the colours,

the Colour-Sergeants having been shot down.

Along this road they retreated on the next day,

and here was the bank at which the regiment bivouacked under the rain of the night of the seventeenth.

Further on was the position which they took and held during the day,

forming time after time to receive the charge of the enemy's horsemen and lying down under the shelter of the bank from the furious French cannonade.

And it was at this declivity when at evening the whole English line received the order to advance,

as the enemy fell back after his last charge,

that the Captain,

hurraying and rushing down the hill waving his sword,

received a shot and fell dead.

"It was Major Dobbin who took back the Captain's body to Brussels,"

the Sergeant said,

in a low voice,

"and had him buried,

as your honour knows."

The peasants and relic-hunters about the place were screaming round the pair,

as the soldier told his story,

offering for sale all sorts of mementoes of the fight,


and epaulets,

and shattered cuirasses,

and eagles.

Osborne gave a sumptuous reward to the Sergeant when he parted with him,

after having visited the scenes of his son's last exploits.

His burial-place he had already seen.


he had driven thither immediately after his arrival at Brussels.

George's body lay in the pretty burial-ground of Laeken,

near the city;

in which place,

having once visited it on a party of pleasure,

he had lightly expressed a wish to have his grave made.

And there the young officer was laid by his friend,

in the unconsecrated corner of the garden,

separated by a little hedge from the temples and towers and plantations of flowers and shrubs,

under which the Roman Catholic dead repose.

It seemed a humiliation to old Osborne to think that his son,

an English gentleman,

a captain in the famous British army,

should not be found worthy to lie in ground where mere foreigners were buried.

Which of us is there can tell how much vanity lurks in our warmest regard for others,

and how selfish our love is?

Old Osborne did not speculate much upon the mingled nature of his feelings,

and how his instinct and selfishness were combating together.

He firmly believed that everything he did was right,

that he ought on all occasions to have his own way --and like the sting of a wasp or serpent his hatred rushed out armed and poisonous against anything like opposition.

He was proud of his hatred as of everything else.

Always to be right,

always to trample forward,

and never to doubt,

are not these the great qualities with which dullness takes the lead in the world?

As after the drive to Waterloo,

Mr. Osborne's carriage was nearing the gates of the city at sunset,

they met another open barouche,

in which were a couple of ladies and a gentleman,

and by the side of which an officer was riding.

Osborne gave a start back,

and the Sergeant,

seated with him,

cast a look of surprise at his neighbour,

as he touched his cap to the officer,

who mechanically returned his salute.

It was Amelia,

with the lame young Ensign by her side,

and opposite to her her faithful friend Mrs. O'Dowd.

It was Amelia,

but how changed from the fresh and comely girl Osborne knew.

Her face was white and thin.

Her pretty brown hair was parted under a widow's cap --the poor child.

Her eyes were fixed,

and looking nowhere.

They stared blank in the face of Osborne,

as the carriages crossed each other,

but she did not know him;

nor did he recognise her,

until looking up,

he saw Dobbin riding by her: and then he knew who it was.

He hated her.

He did not know how much until he saw her there.

When her carriage had passed on,

he turned and stared at the Sergeant,

with a curse and defiance in his eye cast at his companion,

who could not help looking at him --as much as to say "How dare you look at me?

Damn you!

I do hate her.

It is she who has tumbled my hopes and all my pride down."

"Tell the scoundrel to drive on quick,"

he shouted with an oath,

to the lackey on the box.

A minute afterwards,

a horse came clattering over the pavement behind Osborne's carriage,

and Dobbin rode up.

His thoughts had been elsewhere as the carriages passed each other,

and it was not until he had ridden some paces forward,

that he remembered it was Osborne who had just passed him.

Then he turned to examine if the sight of her father-in-law had made any impression on Amelia,

but the poor girl did not know who had passed.

Then William,

who daily used to accompany her in his drives,

taking out his watch,

made some excuse about an engagement which he suddenly recollected,

and so rode off.

She did not remark that either: but sate looking before her,

over the homely landscape towards the woods in the distance,

by which George marched away.

"Mr. Osborne,

Mr. Osborne!"

cried Dobbin,

as he rode up and held out his hand.

Osborne made no motion to take it,

but shouted out once more and with another curse to his servant to drive on.

Dobbin laid his hand on the carriage side.

"I will see you,


he said.

"I have a message for you."

"From that woman?"

said Osborne,



replied the other,

"from your son";

at which Osborne fell back into the corner of his carriage,

and Dobbin allowing it to pass on,

rode close behind it,

and so through the town until they reached Mr. Osborne's hotel,

and without a word.

There he followed Osborne up to his apartments.

George had often been in the rooms;

they were the lodgings which the Crawleys had occupied during their stay in Brussels.


have you any commands for me,

Captain Dobbin,


I beg your pardon,

I should say MAJOR Dobbin,

since better men than you are dead,

and you step into their SHOES?"

said Mr. Osborne,

in that sarcastic tone which he sometimes was pleased to assume.

"Better men ARE dead,"

Dobbin replied.

"I want to speak to you about one."

"Make it short,


said the other with an oath,

scowling at his visitor.

"I am here as his closest friend,"

the Major resumed,

"and the executor of his will.

He made it before he went into action.

Are you aware how small his means are,

and of the straitened circumstances of his widow?"

"I don't know his widow,


Osborne said.

"Let her go back to her father."

But the gentleman whom he addressed was determined to remain in good temper,

and went on without heeding the interruption.

"Do you know,


Mrs. Osborne's condition?

Her life and her reason almost have been shaken by the blow which has fallen on her.

It is very doubtful whether she will rally.

There is a chance left for her,


and it is about this I came to speak to you.

She will be a mother soon.

Will you visit the parent's offence upon the child's head?

or will you forgive the child for poor George's sake?"

Osborne broke out into a rhapsody of self-praise and imprecations;

--by the first,

excusing himself to his own conscience for his conduct;

by the second,

exaggerating the undutifulness of George.

No father in all England could have behaved more generously to a son,

who had rebelled against him wickedly.

He had died without even so much as confessing he was wrong.

Let him take the consequences of his undutifulness and folly.

As for himself,

Mr. Osborne,

he was a man of his word.

He had sworn never to speak to that woman,

or to recognize her as his son's wife.

"And that's what you may tell her,"

he concluded with an oath;

"and that's what I will stick to to the last day of my life."

There was no hope from that quarter then.

The widow must live on her slender pittance,

or on such aid as Jos could give her.

"I might tell her,

and she would not heed it,"

thought Dobbin,

sadly: for the poor girl's thoughts were not here at all since her catastrophe,


stupefied under the pressure of her sorrow,

good and evil were alike indifferent to her.



were even friendship and kindness.

She received them both uncomplainingly,

and having accepted them,

relapsed into her grief.

Suppose some twelve months after the above conversation took place to have passed in the life of our poor Amelia.

She has spent the first portion of that time in a sorrow so profound and pitiable,

that we who have been watching and describing some of the emotions of that weak and tender heart,

must draw back in the presence of the cruel grief under which it is bleeding.

Tread silently round the hapless couch of the poor prostrate soul.

Shut gently the door of the dark chamber wherein she suffers,

as those kind people did who nursed her through the first months of her pain,

and never left her until heaven had sent her consolation.

A day came --of almost terrified delight and wonder --when the poor widowed girl pressed a child upon her breast --a child,

with the eyes of George who was gone --a little boy,

as beautiful as a cherub.

What a miracle it was to hear its first cry!

How she laughed and wept over it --how love,

and hope,

and prayer woke again in her bosom as the baby nestled there.

She was safe.

The doctors who attended her,

and had feared for her life or for her brain,

had waited anxiously for this crisis before they could pronounce that either was secure.

It was worth the long months of doubt and dread which the persons who had constantly been with her had passed,

to see her eyes once more beaming tenderly upon them.

Our friend Dobbin was one of them.

It was he who brought her back to England and to her mother's house;

when Mrs. O'Dowd,

receiving a peremptory summons from her Colonel,

had been forced to quit her patient.

To see Dobbin holding the infant,

and to hear Amelia's laugh of triumph as she watched him,

would have done any man good who had a sense of humour.

William was the godfather of the child,

and exerted his ingenuity in the purchase of cups,



and corals for this little Christian.

How his mother nursed him,

and dressed him,

and lived upon him;

how she drove away all nurses,

and would scarce allow any hand but her own to touch him;

how she considered that the greatest favour she could confer upon his godfather,

Major Dobbin,

was to allow the Major occasionally to dandle him,

need not be told here.

This child was her being.

Her existence was a maternal caress.

She enveloped the feeble and unconscious creature with love and worship.

It was her life which the baby drank in from her bosom.

Of nights,

and when alone,

she had stealthy and intense raptures of motherly love,

such as God's marvellous care has awarded to the female instinct --joys how far higher and lower than reason --blind beautiful devotions which only women's hearts know.

It was William Dobbin's task to muse upon these movements of Amelia's,

and to watch her heart;

and if his love made him divine almost all the feelings which agitated it,


he could see with a fatal perspicuity that there was no place there for him.

And so,


he bore his fate,

knowing it,

and content to bear it.

I suppose Amelia's father and mother saw through the intentions of the Major,

and were not ill-disposed to encourage him;

for Dobbin visited their house daily,

and stayed for hours with them,

or with Amelia,

or with the honest landlord,

Mr. Clapp,

and his family.

He brought,

on one pretext or another,

presents to everybody,

and almost every day;

and went,

with the landlord's little girl,

who was rather a favourite with Amelia,

by the name of Major Sugarplums.

It was this little child who commonly acted as mistress of the ceremonies to introduce him to Mrs. Osborne.

She laughed one day when Major Sugarplums' cab drove up to Fulham,

and he descended from it,

bringing out a wooden horse,

a drum,

a trumpet,

and other warlike toys,

for little Georgy,

who was scarcely six months old,

and for whom the articles in question were entirely premature.

The child was asleep.


said Amelia,



at the creaking of the Major's boots;

and she held out her hand;

smiling because William could not take it until he had rid himself of his cargo of toys.

"Go downstairs,

little Mary,"

said he presently to the child,

"I want to speak to Mrs. Osborne."

She looked up rather astonished,

and laid down the infant on its bed.

"I am come to say good-bye,


said he,

taking her slender little white hand gently.


and where are you going?"

she said,

with a smile.

"Send the letters to the agents,"

he said;

"they will forward them;

for you will write to me,

won't you?

I shall be away a long time."

"I'll write to you about Georgy,"

she said.

"Dear' William,

how good you have been to him and to me.

Look at him.

Isn't he like an angel?"

The little pink hands of the child closed mechanically round the honest soldier's finger,

and Amelia looked up in his face with bright maternal pleasure.

The cruellest looks could not have wounded him more than that glance of hopeless kindness.

He bent over the child and mother.

He could not speak for a moment.

And it was only with all his strength that he could force himself to say a God bless you.

"God bless you,"

said Amelia,

and held up her face and kissed him.


Don't wake Georgy!"

she added,

as William Dobbin went to the door with heavy steps.

She did not hear the noise of his cab-wheels as he drove away: she was looking at the child,

who was laughing in his sleep.


How to Live Well on Nothing a Year

I suppose there is no man in this Vanity Fair of ours so little observant as not to think sometimes about the worldly affairs of his acquaintances,

or so extremely charitable as not to wonder how his neighbour Jones,

or his neighbour Smith,

can make both ends meet at the end of the year.

With the utmost regard for the family,

for instance (for I dine with them twice or thrice in the season),

I cannot but own that the appearance of the Jenkinses in the park,

in the large barouche with the grenadier-footmen,

will surprise and mystify me to my dying day: for though I know the equipage is only jobbed,

and all the Jenkins people are on board wages,

yet those three men and the carriage must represent an expense of six hundred a year at the very least --and then there are the splendid dinners,

the two boys at Eton,

the prize governess and masters for the girls,

the trip abroad,

or to Eastbourne or Worthing,

in the autumn,

the annual ball with a supper from Gunter's (who,

by the way,

supplies most of the first-rate dinners which J. gives,

as I know very well,

having been invited to one of them to fill a vacant place,

when I saw at once that these repasts are very superior to the common run of entertainments for which the humbler sort of J.'s acquaintances get cards) --who,

I say,

with the most good-natured feelings in the world,

can help wondering how the Jenkinses make out matters?

What is Jenkins?

We all know --Commissioner of the Tape and Sealing Wax Office,

with 1200 pounds a year for a salary.

Had his wife a private fortune?


--Miss Flint --one of eleven children of a small squire in Buckinghamshire.

All she ever gets from her family is a turkey at Christmas,

in exchange for which she has to board two or three of her sisters in the off season,

and lodge and feed her brothers when they come to town.

How does Jenkins balance his income?

I say,

as every friend of his must say,

How is it that he has not been outlawed long since,

and that he ever came back (as he did to the surprise of everybody) last year from Boulogne?

"I" is here introduced to personify the world in general --the Mrs. Grundy of each respected reader's private circle --every one of whom can point to some families of his acquaintance who live nobody knows how.

Many a glass of wine have we all of us drunk,

I have very little doubt,

hob-and-nobbing with the hospitable giver and wondering how the deuce he paid for it.

Some three or four years after his stay in Paris,

when Rawdon Crawley and his wife were established in a very small comfortable house in Curzon Street,

May Fair,

there was scarcely one of the numerous friends whom they entertained at dinner that did not ask the above question regarding them.

The novelist,

it has been said before,

knows everything,

and as I am in a situation to be able to tell the public how Crawley and his wife lived without any income,

may I entreat the public newspapers which are in the habit of extracting portions of the various periodical works now published not to reprint the following exact narrative and calculations --of which I ought,

as the discoverer (and at some expense,


to have the benefit?

My son,

I would say,

were I blessed with a child --you may by deep inquiry and constant intercourse with him learn how a man lives comfortably on nothing a year.

But it is best not to be intimate with gentlemen of this profession and to take the calculations at second hand,

as you do logarithms,

for to work them yourself,

depend upon it,

will cost you something considerable.

On nothing per annum then,

and during a course of some two or three years,

of which we can afford to give but a very brief history,

Crawley and his wife lived very happily and comfortably at Paris.

It was in this period that he quitted the Guards and sold out of the army.

When we find him again,

his mustachios and the title of Colonel on his card are the only relics of his military profession.

It has been mentioned that Rebecca,

soon after her arrival in Paris,

took a very smart and leading position in the society of that capital,

and was welcomed at some of the most distinguished houses of the restored French nobility.

The English men of fashion in Paris courted her,


to the disgust of the ladies their wives,

who could not bear the parvenue.

For some months the salons of the Faubourg St. Germain,

in which her place was secured,

and the splendours of the new Court,

where she was received with much distinction,

delighted and perhaps a little intoxicated Mrs. Crawley,

who may have been disposed during this period of elation to slight the people --honest young military men mostly --who formed her husband's chief society.

But the Colonel yawned sadly among the Duchesses and great ladies of the Court.

The old women who played ecarte made such a noise about a five-franc piece that it was not worth Colonel Crawley's while to sit down at a card-table.

The wit of their conversation he could not appreciate,

being ignorant of their language.

And what good could his wife get,

he urged,

by making curtsies every night to a whole circle of Princesses?

He left Rebecca presently to frequent these parties alone,

resuming his own simple pursuits and amusements amongst the amiable friends of his own choice.

The truth is,

when we say of a gentleman that he lives elegantly on nothing a year,

we use the word "nothing" to signify something unknown;



that we don't know how the gentleman in question defrays the expenses of his establishment.


our friend the Colonel had a great aptitude for all games of chance: and exercising himself,

as he continually did,

with the cards,

the dice-box,

or the cue,

it is natural to suppose that he attained a much greater skill in the use of these articles than men can possess who only occasionally handle them.

To use a cue at billiards well is like using a pencil,

or a German flute,

or a small-sword --you cannot master any one of these implements at first,

and it is only by repeated study and perseverance,

joined to a natural taste,

that a man can excel in the handling of either.

Now Crawley,

from being only a brilliant amateur,

had grown to be a consummate master of billiards.

Like a great General,

his genius used to rise with the danger,

and when the luck had been unfavourable to him for a whole game,

and the bets were consequently against him,

he would,

with consummate skill and boldness,

make some prodigious hits which would restore the battle,

and come in a victor at the end,

to the astonishment of everybody --of everybody,

that is,

who was a stranger to his play.

Those who were accustomed to see it were cautious how they staked their money against a man of such sudden resources and brilliant and overpowering skill.

At games of cards he was equally skilful;

for though he would constantly lose money at the commencement of an evening,

playing so carelessly and making such blunders,

that newcomers were often inclined to think meanly of his talent;

yet when roused to action and awakened to caution by repeated small losses,

it was remarked that Crawley's play became quite different,

and that he was pretty sure of beating his enemy thoroughly before the night was over.


very few men could say that they ever had the better of him.

His successes were so repeated that no wonder the envious and the vanquished spoke sometimes with bitterness regarding them.

And as the French say of the Duke of Wellington,

who never suffered a defeat,

that only an astonishing series of lucky accidents enabled him to be an invariable winner;

yet even they allow that he cheated at Waterloo,

and was enabled to win the last great trick: so it was hinted at headquarters in England that some foul play must have taken place in order to account for the continuous successes of Colonel Crawley.

Though Frascati's and the Salon were open at that time in Paris,

the mania for play was so widely spread that the public gambling-rooms did not suffice for the general ardour,

and gambling went on in private houses as much as if there had been no public means for gratifying the passion.

At Crawley's charming little reunions of an evening this fatal amusement commonly was practised --much to good-natured little Mrs. Crawley's annoyance.

She spoke about her husband's passion for dice with the deepest grief;

she bewailed it to everybody who came to her house.

She besought the young fellows never,

never to touch a box;

and when young Green,

of the Rifles,

lost a very considerable sum of money,

Rebecca passed a whole night in tears,

as the servant told the unfortunate young gentleman,

and actually went on her knees to her husband to beseech him to remit the debt,

and burn the acknowledgement.

How could he?

He had lost just as much himself to Blackstone of the Hussars,

and Count Punter of the Hanoverian Cavalry.

Green might have any decent time;

but pay?

--of course he must pay;

to talk of burning IOU's was child's play.

Other officers,

chiefly young --for the young fellows gathered round Mrs. Crawley --came from her parties with long faces,

having dropped more or less money at her fatal card-tables.

Her house began to have an unfortunate reputation.

The old hands warned the less experienced of their danger.

Colonel O'Dowd,

of the  --th regiment,

one of those occupying in Paris,

warned Lieutenant Spooney of that corps.

A loud and violent fracas took place between the infantry Colonel and his lady,

who were dining at the Cafe de Paris,

and Colonel and Mrs. Crawley;

who were also taking their meal there.

The ladies engaged on both sides.

Mrs. O'Dowd snapped her fingers in Mrs. Crawley's face and called her husband "no betther than a black-leg."

Colonel Crawley challenged Colonel O'Dowd,


The Commander-in-Chief hearing of the dispute sent for Colonel Crawley,

who was getting ready the same pistols "which he shot Captain Marker,"

and had such a conversation with him that no duel took place.

If Rebecca had not gone on her knees to General Tufto,

Crawley would have been sent back to England;

and he did not play,

except with civilians,

for some weeks after.


in spite of Rawdon's undoubted skill and constant successes,

it became evident to Rebecca,

considering these things,

that their position was but a precarious one,

and that,

even although they paid scarcely anybody,

their little capital would end one day by dwindling into zero.


she would say,


is good to help your income,

but not as an income itself.

Some day people may be tired of play,

and then where are we?"

Rawdon acquiesced in the justice of her opinion;

and in truth he had remarked that after a few nights of his little suppers,


gentlemen were tired of play with him,


in spite of Rebecca's charms,

did not present themselves very eagerly.

Easy and pleasant as their life at Paris was,

it was after all only an idle dalliance and amiable trifling;

and Rebecca saw that she must push Rawdon's fortune in their own country.

She must get him a place or appointment at home or in the colonies,

and she determined to make a move upon England as soon as the way could be cleared for her.

As a first step she had made Crawley sell out of the Guards and go on half-pay.

His function as aide-de-camp to General Tufto had ceased previously.

Rebecca laughed in all companies at that officer,

at his toupee (which he mounted on coming to Paris),

at his waistband,

at his false teeth,

at his pretensions to be a lady-killer above all,

and his absurd vanity in fancying every woman whom he came near was in love with him.

It was to Mrs. Brent,

the beetle-browed wife of Mr. Commissary Brent,

to whom the general transferred his attentions now --his bouquets,

his dinners at the restaurateurs',

his opera-boxes,

and his knick-knacks.

Poor Mrs. Tufto was no more happy than before,

and had still to pass long evenings alone with her daughters,

knowing that her General was gone off scented and curled to stand behind Mrs. Brent's chair at the play.

Becky had a dozen admirers in his place,

to be sure,

and could cut her rival to pieces with her wit.


as we have said,

she was growing tired of this idle social life: opera-boxes and restaurateur dinners palled upon her: nosegays could not be laid by as a provision for future years: and she could not live upon knick-knacks,

laced handkerchiefs,

and kid gloves.

She felt the frivolity of pleasure and longed for more substantial benefits.

At this juncture news arrived which was spread among the many creditors of the Colonel at Paris,

and which caused them great satisfaction.

Miss Crawley,

the rich aunt from whom he expected his immense inheritance,

was dying;

the Colonel must haste to her bedside.

Mrs. Crawley and her child would remain behind until he came to reclaim them.

He departed for Calais,

and having reached that place in safety,

it might have been supposed that he went to Dover;

but instead he took the diligence to Dunkirk,

and thence travelled to Brussels,

for which place he had a former predilection.

The fact is,

he owed more money at London than at Paris;

and he preferred the quiet little Belgian city to either of the more noisy capitals.

Her aunt was dead.

Mrs. Crawley ordered the most intense mourning for herself and little Rawdon.

The Colonel was busy arranging the affairs of the inheritance.

They could take the premier now,

instead of the little entresol of the hotel which they occupied.

Mrs. Crawley and the landlord had a consultation about the new hangings,

an amicable wrangle about the carpets,

and a final adjustment of everything except the bill.

She went off in one of his carriages;

her French bonne with her;

the child by her side;

the admirable landlord and landlady smiling farewell to her from the gate.

General Tufto was furious when he heard she was gone,

and Mrs. Brent furious with him for being furious;

Lieutenant Spooney was cut to the heart;

and the landlord got ready his best apartments previous to the return of the fascinating little woman and her husband.

He _serred_ the trunks which she left in his charge with the greatest care.

They had been especially recommended to him by Madame Crawley.

They were not,


found to be particularly valuable when opened some time after.

But before she went to join her husband in the Belgic capital,

Mrs. Crawley made an expedition into England,

leaving behind her her little son upon the continent,

under the care of her French maid.

The parting between Rebecca and the little Rawdon did not cause either party much pain.

She had not,

to say truth,

seen much of the young gentleman since his birth.

After the amiable fashion of French mothers,

she had placed him out at nurse in a village in the neighbourhood of Paris,

where little Rawdon passed the first months of his life,

not unhappily,

with a numerous family of foster-brothers in wooden shoes.

His father would ride over many a time to see him here,

and the elder Rawdon's paternal heart glowed to see him rosy and dirty,

shouting lustily,

and happy in the making of mud-pies under the superintendence of the gardener's wife,

his nurse.

Rebecca did not care much to go and see the son and heir.

Once he spoiled a new dove-coloured pelisse of hers.

He preferred his nurse's caresses to his mamma's,

and when finally he quitted that jolly nurse and almost parent,

he cried loudly for hours.

He was only consoled by his mother's promise that he should return to his nurse the next day;

indeed the nurse herself,

who probably would have been pained at the parting too,

was told that the child would immediately be restored to her,

and for some time awaited quite anxiously his return.

In fact,

our friends may be said to have been among the first of that brood of hardy English adventurers who have subsequently invaded the Continent and swindled in all the capitals of Europe.

The respect in those happy days of 1817-18 was very great for the wealth and honour of Britons.

They had not then learned,

as I am told,

to haggle for bargains with the pertinacity which now distinguishes them.

The great cities of Europe had not been as yet open to the enterprise of our rascals.

And whereas there is now hardly a town of France or Italy in which you shall not see some noble countryman of our own,

with that happy swagger and insolence of demeanour which we carry everywhere,

swindling inn-landlords,

passing fictitious cheques upon credulous bankers,

robbing coach-makers of their carriages,

goldsmiths of their trinkets,

easy travellers of their money at cards,

even public libraries of their books --thirty years ago you needed but to be a Milor Anglais,

travelling in a private carriage,

and credit was at your hand wherever you chose to seek it,

and gentlemen,

instead of cheating,

were cheated.

It was not for some weeks after the Crawleys' departure that the landlord of the hotel which they occupied during their residence at Paris found out the losses which he had sustained: not until Madame Marabou,

the milliner,

made repeated visits with her little bill for articles supplied to Madame Crawley;

not until Monsieur Didelot from Boule d'Or in the Palais Royal had asked half a dozen times whether cette charmante Miladi who had bought watches and bracelets of him was de retour.

It is a fact that even the poor gardener's wife,

who had nursed madame's child,

was never paid after the first six months for that supply of the milk of human kindness with which she had furnished the lusty and healthy little Rawdon.


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.



he would add --"ils m'ont affreusement vole."

It was melancholy to hear his accents as he spoke of that catastrophe.

Rebecca's object in her journey to London was to effect a kind of compromise with her husband's numerous creditors,

and by offering them a dividend of ninepence or a shilling in the pound,

to secure a return for him into his own country.

It does not become us to trace the steps which she took in the conduct of this most difficult negotiation;


having shown them to their satisfaction that the sum which she was empowered to offer was all her husband's available capital,

and having convinced them that Colonel Crawley would prefer a perpetual retirement on the Continent to a residence in this country with his debts unsettled;

having proved to them that there was no possibility of money accruing to him from other quarters,

and no earthly chance of their getting a larger dividend than that which she was empowered to offer,

she brought the Colonel's creditors unanimously to accept her proposals,

and purchased with fifteen hundred pounds of ready money more than ten times that amount of debts.

Mrs. Crawley employed no lawyer in the transaction.

The matter was so simple,

to have or to leave,

as she justly observed,

that she made the lawyers of the creditors themselves do the business.

And Mr. Lewis representing Mr. Davids,

of Red Lion Square,

and Mr. Moss acting for Mr. Manasseh of Cursitor Street (chief creditors of the Colonel's),

complimented his lady upon the brilliant way in which she did business,

and declared that there was no professional man who could beat her.

Rebecca received their congratulations with perfect modesty;

ordered a bottle of sherry and a bread cake to the little dingy lodgings where she dwelt,

while conducting the business,

to treat the enemy's lawyers: shook hands with them at parting,

in excellent good humour,

and returned straightway to the Continent,

to rejoin her husband and son and acquaint the former with the glad news of his entire liberation.

As for the latter,

he had been considerably neglected during his mother's absence by Mademoiselle Genevieve,

her French maid;

for that young woman,

contracting an attachment for a soldier in the garrison of Calais,

forgot her charge in the society of this militaire,

and little Rawdon very narrowly escaped drowning on Calais sands at this period,

where the absent Genevieve had left and lost him.

And so,

Colonel and Mrs. Crawley came to London: and it is at their house in Curzon Street,

May Fair,

that they really showed the skill which must be possessed by those who would live on the resources above named.


The Subject Continued

In the first place,

and as a matter of the greatest necessity,

we are bound to describe how a house may be got for nothing a year.

These mansions are to be had either unfurnished,


if you have credit with Messrs.

Gillows or Bantings,

you can get them splendidly montees and decorated entirely according to your own fancy;

or they are to be let furnished,

a less troublesome and complicated arrangement to most parties.

It was so that Crawley and his wife preferred to hire their house.

Before Mr. Bowls came to preside over Miss Crawley's house and cellar in Park Lane,

that lady had had for a butler a Mr. Raggles,

who was born on the family estate of Queen's Crawley,

and indeed was a younger son of a gardener there.

By good conduct,

a handsome person and calves,

and a grave demeanour,

Raggles rose from the knife-board to the footboard of the carriage;

from the footboard to the butler's pantry.

When he had been a certain number of years at the head of Miss Crawley's establishment,

where he had had good wages,

fat perquisites,

and plenty of opportunities of saving,

he announced that he was about to contract a matrimonial alliance with a late cook of Miss Crawley's,

who had subsisted in an honourable manner by the exercise of a mangle,

and the keeping of a small greengrocer's shop in the neighbourhood.

The truth is,

that the ceremony had been clandestinely performed some years back;

although the news of Mr. Raggles' marriage was first brought to Miss Crawley by a little boy and girl of seven and eight years of age,

whose continual presence in the kitchen had attracted the attention of Miss Briggs.

Mr. Raggles then retired and personally undertook the superintendence of the small shop and the greens.

He added milk and cream,

eggs and country-fed pork to his stores,

contenting himself whilst other retired butlers were vending spirits in public houses,

by dealing in the simplest country produce.

And having a good connection amongst the butlers in the neighbourhood,

and a snug back parlour where he and Mrs. Raggles received them,

his milk,


and eggs got to be adopted by many of the fraternity,

and his profits increased every year.

Year after year he quietly and modestly amassed money,

and when at length that snug and complete bachelor's residence at No. 201,

Curzon Street,

May Fair,

lately the residence of the Honourable Frederick Deuceace,

gone abroad,

with its rich and appropriate furniture by the first makers,

was brought to the hammer,

who should go in and purchase the lease and furniture of the house but Charles Raggles?

A part of the money he borrowed,

it is true,

and at rather a high interest,

from a brother butler,

but the chief part he paid down,

and it was with no small pride that Mrs. Raggles found herself sleeping in a bed of carved mahogany,

with silk curtains,

with a prodigious cheval glass opposite to her,

and a wardrobe which would contain her,

and Raggles,

and all the family.

Of course,

they did not intend to occupy permanently an apartment so splendid.

It was in order to let the house again that Raggles purchased it.

As soon as a tenant was found,

he subsided into the greengrocer's shop once more;

but a happy thing it was for him to walk out of that tenement and into Curzon Street,

and there survey his house --his own house --with geraniums in the window and a carved bronze knocker.

The footman occasionally lounging at the area railing,

treated him with respect;

the cook took her green stuff at his house and called him Mr. Landlord,

and there was not one thing the tenants did,

or one dish which they had for dinner,

that Raggles might not know of,

if he liked.

He was a good man;

good and happy.

The house brought him in so handsome a yearly income that he was determined to send his children to good schools,

and accordingly,

regardless of expense,

Charles was sent to boarding at Dr. Swishtail's,

Sugar-cane Lodge,

and little Matilda to Miss Peckover's,

Laurentinum House,


Raggles loved and adored the Crawley family as the author of all his prosperity in life.

He had a silhouette of his mistress in his back shop,

and a drawing of the Porter's Lodge at Queen's Crawley,

done by that spinster herself in India ink --and the only addition he made to the decorations of the Curzon Street House was a print of Queen's Crawley in Hampshire,

the seat of Sir Walpole Crawley,


who was represented in a gilded car drawn by six white horses,

and passing by a lake covered with swans,

and barges containing ladies in hoops,

and musicians with flags and penwigs.

Indeed Raggles thought there was no such palace in all the world,

and no such august family.

As luck would have it,

Raggles' house in Curzon Street was to let when Rawdon and his wife returned to London.

The Colonel knew it and its owner quite well;

the latter's connection with the Crawley family had been kept up constantly,

for Raggles helped Mr. Bowls whenever Miss Crawley received friends.

And the old man not only let his house to the Colonel but officiated as his butler whenever he had company;

Mrs. Raggles operating in the kitchen below and sending up dinners of which old Miss Crawley herself might have approved.

This was the way,


Crawley got his house for nothing;

for though Raggles had to pay taxes and rates,

and the interest of the mortgage to the brother butler;

and the insurance of his life;

and the charges for his children at school;

and the value of the meat and drink which his own family --and for a time that of Colonel Crawley too --consumed;

and though the poor wretch was utterly ruined by the transaction,

his children being flung on the streets,

and himself driven into the Fleet Prison: yet somebody must pay even for gentlemen who live for nothing a year --and so it was this unlucky Raggles was made the representative of Colonel Crawley's defective capital.

I wonder how many families are driven to roguery and to ruin by great practitioners in Crawlers way?

--how many great noblemen rob their petty tradesmen,

condescend to swindle their poor retainers out of wretched little sums and cheat for a few shillings?

When we read that a noble nobleman has left for the Continent,

or that another noble nobleman has an execution in his house --and that one or other owes six or seven millions,

the defeat seems glorious even,

and we respect the victim in the vastness of his ruin.

But who pities a poor barber who can't get his money for powdering the footmen's heads;

or a poor carpenter who has ruined himself by fixing up ornaments and pavilions for my lady's dejeuner;

or the poor devil of a tailor whom the steward patronizes,

and who has pledged all he is worth,

and more,

to get the liveries ready,

which my lord has done him the honour to bespeak?

When the great house tumbles down,

these miserable wretches fall under it unnoticed: as they say in the old legends,

before a man goes to the devil himself,

he sends plenty of other souls thither.

Rawdon and his wife generously gave their patronage to all such of Miss Crawley's tradesmen and purveyors as chose to serve them.

Some were willing enough,

especially the poor ones.

It was wonderful to see the pertinacity with which the washerwoman from Tooting brought the cart every Saturday,

and her bills week after week.

Mr. Raggles himself had to supply the greengroceries.

The bill for servants' porter at the Fortune of War public house is a curiosity in the chronicles of beer.

Every servant also was owed the greater part of his wages,

and thus kept up perforce an interest in the house.

Nobody in fact was paid.

Not the blacksmith who opened the lock;

nor the glazier who mended the pane;

nor the jobber who let the carriage;

nor the groom who drove it;

nor the butcher who provided the leg of mutton;

nor the coals which roasted it;

nor the cook who basted it;

nor the servants who ate it: and this I am given to understand is not unfrequently the way in which people live elegantly on nothing a year.

In a little town such things cannot be done without remark.

We know there the quantity of milk our neighbour takes and espy the joint or the fowls which are going in for his dinner.



200 and 202 in Curzon Street might know what was going on in the house between them,

the servants communicating through the area-railings;

but Crawley and his wife and his friends did not know 200 and 202.

When you came to 201 there was a hearty welcome,

a kind smile,

a good dinner,

and a jolly shake of the hand from the host and hostess there,

just for all the world as if they had been undisputed masters of three or four thousand a year --and so they were,

not in money,

but in produce and labour --if they did not pay for the mutton,

they had it: if they did not give bullion in exchange for their wine,

how should we know?

Never was better claret at any man's table than at honest Rawdon's;

dinners more gay and neatly served.

His drawing-rooms were the prettiest,


modest salons conceivable: they were decorated with the greatest taste,

and a thousand knick-knacks from Paris,

by Rebecca: and when she sat at her piano trilling songs with a lightsome heart,

the stranger voted himself in a little paradise of domestic comfort and agreed that,

if the husband was rather stupid,

the wife was charming,

and the dinners the pleasantest in the world.

Rebecca's wit,


and flippancy made her speedily the vogue in London among a certain class.

You saw demure chariots at her door,

out of which stepped very great people.

You beheld her carriage in the park,

surrounded by dandies of note.

The little box in the third tier of the opera was crowded with heads constantly changing;

but it must be confessed that the ladies held aloof from her,

and that their doors were shut to our little adventurer.

With regard to the world of female fashion and its customs,

the present writer of course can only speak at second hand.

A man can no more penetrate or understand those mysteries than he can know what the ladies talk about when they go upstairs after dinner.

It is only by inquiry and perseverance that one sometimes gets hints of those secrets;

and by a similar diligence every person who treads the Pall Mall pavement and frequents the clubs of this metropolis knows,

either through his own experience or through some acquaintance with whom he plays at billiards or shares the joint,

something about the genteel world of London,

and how,

as there are men (such as Rawdon Crawley,

whose position we mentioned before) who cut a good figure to the eyes of the ignorant world and to the apprentices in the park,

who behold them consorting with the most notorious dandies there,

so there are ladies,

who may be called men's women,

being welcomed entirely by all the gentlemen and cut or slighted by all their wives.

Mrs. Firebrace is of this sort;

the lady with the beautiful fair ringlets whom you see every day in Hyde Park,

surrounded by the greatest and most famous dandies of this empire.

Mrs. Rockwood is another,

whose parties are announced laboriously in the fashionable newspapers and with whom you see that all sorts of ambassadors and great noblemen dine;

and many more might be mentioned had they to do with the history at present in hand.

But while simple folks who are out of the world,

or country people with a taste for the genteel,

behold these ladies in their seeming glory in public places,

or envy them from afar off,

persons who are better instructed could inform them that these envied ladies have no more chance of establishing themselves in "society,"

than the benighted squire's wife in Somersetshire who reads of their doings in the Morning Post.

Men living about London are aware of these awful truths.

You hear how pitilessly many ladies of seeming rank and wealth are excluded from this "society."

The frantic efforts which they make to enter this circle,

the meannesses to which they submit,

the insults which they undergo,

are matters of wonder to those who take human or womankind for a study;

and the pursuit of fashion under difficulties would be a fine theme for any very great person who had the wit,

the leisure,

and the knowledge of the English language necessary for the compiling of such a history.

Now the few female acquaintances whom Mrs. Crawley had known abroad not only declined to visit her when she came to this side of the Channel,

but cut her severely when they met in public places.

It was curious to see how the great ladies forgot her,

and no doubt not altogether a pleasant study to Rebecca.

When Lady Bareacres met her in the waiting-room at the opera,

she gathered her daughters about her as if they would be contaminated by a touch of Becky,

and retreating a step or two,

placed herself in front of them,

and stared at her little enemy.

To stare Becky out of countenance required a severer glance than even the frigid old Bareacres could shoot out of her dismal eyes.

When Lady de la Mole,

who had ridden a score of times by Becky's side at Brussels,

met Mrs. Crawley's open carriage in Hyde Park,

her Ladyship was quite blind,

and could not in the least recognize her former friend.

Even Mrs. Blenkinsop,

the banker's wife,

cut her at church.

Becky went regularly to church now;

it was edifying to see her enter there with Rawdon by her side,

carrying a couple of large gilt prayer-books,

and afterwards going through the ceremony with the gravest resignation.

Rawdon at first felt very acutely the slights which were passed upon his wife,

and was inclined to be gloomy and savage.

He talked of calling out the husbands or brothers of every one of the insolent women who did not pay a proper respect to his wife;

and it was only by the strongest commands and entreaties on her part that he was brought into keeping a decent behaviour.

"You can't shoot me into society,"

she said good-naturedly.


my dear,

that I was but a governess,

and you,

you poor silly old man,

have the worst reputation for debt,

and dice,

and all sorts of wickedness.

We shall get quite as many friends as we want by and by,

and in the meanwhile you must be a good boy and obey your schoolmistress in everything she tells you to do.

When we heard that your aunt had left almost everything to Pitt and his wife,

do you remember what a rage you were in?

You would have told all Paris,

if I had not made you keep your temper,

and where would you have been now?

--in prison at Ste.

Pelagie for debt,

and not established in London in a handsome house,

with every comfort about you --you were in such a fury you were ready to murder your brother,

you wicked Cain you,

and what good would have come of remaining angry?

All the rage in the world won't get us your aunt's money;

and it is much better that we should be friends with your brother's family than enemies,

as those foolish Butes are.

When your father dies,

Queen's Crawley will be a pleasant house for you and me to pass the winter in.

If we are ruined,

you can carve and take charge of the stable,

and I can be a governess to Lady Jane's children.



I will get you a good place before that;

or Pitt and his little boy will die,

and we will be Sir Rawdon and my lady.

While there is life,

there is hope,

my dear,

and I intend to make a man of you yet.

Who sold your horses for you?

Who paid your debts for you?"

Rawdon was obliged to confess that he owed all these benefits to his wife,

and to trust himself to her guidance for the future.


when Miss Crawley quitted the world,

and that money for which all her relatives had been fighting so eagerly was finally left to Pitt,

Bute Crawley,

who found that only five thousand pounds had been left to him instead of the twenty upon which he calculated,

was in such a fury at his disappointment that he vented it in savage abuse upon his nephew;

and the quarrel always rankling between them ended in an utter breach of intercourse.

Rawdon Crawley's conduct,

on the other hand,

who got but a hundred pounds,

was such as to astonish his brother and delight his sister-in-law,

who was disposed to look kindly upon all the members of her husband's family.

He wrote to his brother a very frank,


good-humoured letter from Paris.

He was aware,

he said,

that by his own marriage he had forfeited his aunt's favour;

and though he did not disguise his disappointment that she should have been so entirely relentless towards him,

he was glad that the money was still kept in their branch of the family,

and heartily congratulated his brother on his good fortune.

He sent his affectionate remembrances to his sister,

and hoped to have her good-will for Mrs. Rawdon;

and the letter concluded with a postscript to Pitt in the latter lady's own handwriting.



begged to join in her husband's congratulations.

She should ever remember Mr. Crawley's kindness to her in early days when she was a friendless orphan,

the instructress of his little sisters,

in whose welfare she still took the tenderest interest.

She wished him every happiness in his married life,


asking his permission to offer her remembrances to Lady Jane (of whose goodness all the world informed her),

she hoped that one day she might be allowed to present her little boy to his uncle and aunt,

and begged to bespeak for him their good-will and protection.

Pitt Crawley received this communication very graciously --more graciously than Miss Crawley had received some of Rebecca's previous compositions in Rawdon's handwriting;

and as for Lady Jane,

she was so charmed with the letter that she expected her husband would instantly divide his aunt's legacy into two equal portions and send off one-half to his brother at Paris.

To her Ladyship's surprise,


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;


thanking Mrs. Crawley for her good opinion of himself and Lady Jane,

he graciously pronounced his willingness to take any opportunity to serve her little boy.

Thus an almost reconciliation was brought about between the brothers.

When Rebecca came to town Pitt and his wife were not in London.

Many a time she drove by the old door in Park Lane to see whether they had taken possession of Miss Crawley's house there.

But the new family did not make its appearance;

it was only through Raggles that she heard of their movements --how Miss Crawley's domestics had been dismissed with decent gratuities,

and how Mr. Pitt had only once made his appearance in London,

when he stopped for a few days at the house,

did business with his lawyers there,

and sold off all Miss Crawley's French novels to a bookseller out of Bond Street.

Becky had reasons of her own which caused her to long for the arrival of her new relation.

"When Lady Jane comes,"

thought she,

"she shall be my sponsor in London society;

and as for the women!


the women will ask me when they find the men want to see me."

An article as necessary to a lady in this position as her brougham or her bouquet is her companion.

I have always admired the way in which the tender creatures,

who cannot exist without sympathy,

hire an exceedingly plain friend of their own sex from whom they are almost inseparable.

The sight of that inevitable woman in her faded gown seated behind her dear friend in the opera-box,

or occupying the back seat of the barouche,

is always a wholesome and moral one to me,

as jolly a reminder as that of the Death's-head which figured in the repasts of Egyptian bon-vivants,

a strange sardonic memorial of Vanity Fair.


even battered,





Mrs. Firebrace,

whose father died of her shame: even lovely,

daring Mrs. Mantrap,

who will ride at any fence which any man in England will take,

and who drives her greys in the park,

while her mother keeps a huckster's stall in Bath still --even those who are so bold,

one might fancy they could face anything dare not face the world without a female friend.

They must have somebody to cling to,

the affectionate creatures!

And you will hardly see them in any public place without a shabby companion in a dyed silk,

sitting somewhere in the shade close behind them.


said Becky,

very late one night,

as a party of gentlemen were seated round her crackling drawing-room fire (for the men came to her house to finish the night;

and she had ice and coffee for them,

the best in London):

"I must have a sheep-dog."

"A what?"

said Rawdon,

looking up from an ecarte table.

"A sheep-dog!"

said young Lord Southdown.

"My dear Mrs. Crawley,

what a fancy!

Why not have a Danish dog?

I know of one as big as a camel-leopard,

by Jove.

It would almost pull your brougham.

Or a Persian greyhound,


(I propose,

if you please);

or a little pug that would go into one of Lord Steyne's snuff-boxes?

There's a man at Bayswater got one with such a nose that you might --I mark the king and play --that you might hang your hat on it."

"I mark the trick,"

Rawdon gravely said.

He attended to his game commonly and didn't much meddle with the conversation,

except when it was about horses and betting.

"What CAN you want with a shepherd's dog?"

the lively little Southdown continued.

"I mean a MORAL shepherd's dog,"

said Becky,

laughing and looking up at Lord Steyne.

"What the devil's that?"

said his Lordship.

"A dog to keep the wolves off me,"

Rebecca continued.

"A companion."

"Dear little innocent lamb,

you want one,"

said the marquis;

and his jaw thrust out,

and he began to grin hideously,

his little eyes leering towards Rebecca.

The great Lord of Steyne was standing by the fire sipping coffee.

The fire crackled and blazed pleasantly.

There was a score of candles sparkling round the mantel piece,

in all sorts of quaint sconces,

of gilt and bronze and porcelain.

They lighted up Rebecca's figure to admiration,

as she sat on a sofa covered with a pattern of gaudy flowers.

She was in a pink dress that looked as fresh as a rose;

her dazzling white arms and shoulders were half-covered with a thin hazy scarf through which they sparkled;

her hair hung in curls round her neck;

one of her little feet peeped out from the fresh crisp folds of the silk: the prettiest little foot in the prettiest little sandal in the finest silk stocking in the world.

The candles lighted up Lord Steyne's shining bald head,

which was fringed with red hair.

He had thick bushy eyebrows,

with little twinkling bloodshot eyes,

surrounded by a thousand wrinkles.

His jaw was underhung,

and when he laughed,

two white buck-teeth protruded themselves and glistened savagely in the midst of the grin.

He had been dining with royal personages,

and wore his garter and ribbon.

A short man was his Lordship,

broad-chested and bow-legged,

but proud of the fineness of his foot and ankle,

and always caressing his garter-knee.

"And so the shepherd is not enough,"

said he,

"to defend his lambkin?"

"The shepherd is too fond of playing at cards and going to his clubs,"

answered Becky,



what a debauched Corydon!"

said my lord --"what a mouth for a pipe!"

"I take your three to two,"

here said Rawdon,

at the card-table.

"Hark at Meliboeus,"

snarled the noble marquis;

"he's pastorally occupied too: he's shearing a Southdown.

What an innocent mutton,



what a snowy fleece!"

Rebecca's eyes shot out gleams of scornful humour.

"My lord,"

she said,

"you are a knight of the Order."

He had the collar round his neck,

indeed --a gift of the restored princes of Spain.

Lord Steyne in early life had been notorious for his daring and his success at play.

He had sat up two days and two nights with Mr. Fox at hazard.

He had won money of the most august personages of the realm: he had won his marquisate,

it was said,

at the gaming-table;

but he did not like an allusion to those bygone fredaines.

Rebecca saw the scowl gathering over his heavy brow.

She rose up from her sofa and went and took his coffee cup out of his hand with a little curtsey.


she said,

"I must get a watchdog.

But he won't bark at YOU."


going into the other drawing-room,

she sat down to the piano and began to sing little French songs in such a charming,

thrilling voice that the mollified nobleman speedily followed her into that chamber,

and might be seen nodding his head and bowing time over her.

Rawdon and his friend meanwhile played ecarte until they had enough.

The Colonel won;


say that he won ever so much and often,

nights like these,

which occurred many times in the week --his wife having all the talk and all the admiration,

and he sitting silent without the circle,

not comprehending a word of the jokes,

the allusions,

the mystical language within --must have been rather wearisome to the ex-dragoon.

"How is Mrs. Crawley's husband?"

Lord Steyne used to say to him by way of a good day when they met;

and indeed that was now his avocation in life.

He was Colonel Crawley no more.

He was Mrs. Crawley's husband.

About the little Rawdon,

if nothing has been said all this while,

it is because he is hidden upstairs in a garret somewhere,

or has crawled below into the kitchen for companionship.

His mother scarcely ever took notice of him.

He passed the days with his French bonne as long as that domestic remained in Mr. Crawley's family,

and when the Frenchwoman went away,

the little fellow,

howling in the loneliness of the night,

had compassion taken on him by a housemaid,

who took him out of his solitary nursery into her bed in the garret hard by and comforted him.


my Lord Steyne,

and one or two more were in the drawing-room taking tea after the opera,

when this shouting was heard overhead.

"It's my cherub crying for his nurse,"

she said.

She did not offer to move to go and see the child.

"Don't agitate your feelings by going to look for him,"

said Lord Steyne sardonically.


replied the other,

with a sort of blush,

"he'll cry himself to sleep";

and they fell to talking about the opera.

Rawdon had stolen off though,

to look after his son and heir;

and came back to the company when he found that honest Dolly was consoling the child.

The Colonel's dressing-room was in those upper regions.

He used to see the boy there in private.

They had interviews together every morning when he shaved;

Rawdon minor sitting on a box by his father's side and watching the operation with never-ceasing pleasure.

He and the sire were great friends.

The father would bring him sweetmeats from the dessert and hide them in a certain old epaulet box,

where the child went to seek them,

and laughed with joy on discovering the treasure;


but not too loud: for mamma was below asleep and must not be disturbed.

She did not go to rest till very late and seldom rose till after noon.

Rawdon bought the boy plenty of picture-books and crammed his nursery with toys.

Its walls were covered with pictures pasted up by the father's own hand and purchased by him for ready money.

When he was off duty with Mrs. Rawdon in the park,

he would sit up here,

passing hours with the boy;

who rode on his chest,

who pulled his great mustachios as if they were driving-reins,

and spent days with him in indefatigable gambols.

The room was a low room,

and once,

when the child was not five years old,

his father,

who was tossing him wildly up in his arms,

hit the poor little chap's skull so violently against the ceiling that he almost dropped the child,

so terrified was he at the disaster.

Rawdon minor had made up his face for a tremendous howl --the severity of the blow indeed authorized that indulgence;

but just as he was going to begin,

the father interposed.

"For God's sake,


don't wake Mamma,"

he cried.

And the child,

looking in a very hard and piteous way at his father,

bit his lips,

clenched his hands,

and didn't cry a bit.

Rawdon told that story at the clubs,

at the mess,

to everybody in town.

"By Gad,


he explained to the public in general,

"what a good plucked one that boy of mine is --what a trump he is!

I half-sent his head through the ceiling,

by Gad,

and he wouldn't cry for fear of disturbing his mother."

Sometimes --once or twice in a week --that lady visited the upper regions in which the child lived.

She came like a vivified figure out of the Magasin des Modes --blandly smiling in the most beautiful new clothes and little gloves and boots.

Wonderful scarfs,


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.


when she was away,

and Dolly his maid was making his bed,

he came into his mother's room.

It was as the abode of a fairy to him --a mystic chamber of splendour and delights.

There in the wardrobe hung those wonderful robes --pink and blue and many-tinted.

There was the jewel-case,


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.


thou poor lonely little benighted boy!

Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children;

and here was one who was worshipping a stone!

Now Rawdon Crawley,

rascal as the Colonel was,

had certain manly tendencies of affection in his heart and could love a child and a woman still.

For Rawdon minor he had a great secret tenderness then,

which did not escape Rebecca,

though she did not talk about it to her husband.

It did not annoy her: she was too good-natured.

It only increased her scorn for him.

He felt somehow ashamed of this paternal softness and hid it from his wife --only indulging in it when alone with the boy.

He used to take him out of mornings when they would go to the stables together and to the park.

Little Lord Southdown,

the best-natured of men,

who would make you a present of the hat from his head,

and whose main occupation in life was to buy knick-knacks that he might give them away afterwards,

bought the little chap a pony not much bigger than a large rat,

the donor said,

and on this little black Shetland pygmy young Rawdon's great father was pleased to mount the boy,

and to walk by his side in the park.

It pleased him to see his old quarters,

and his old fellow-guardsmen at Knightsbridge: he had begun to think of his bachelorhood with something like regret.

The old troopers were glad to recognize their ancient officer and dandle the little colonel.

Colonel Crawley found dining at mess and with his brother-officers very pleasant.

"Hang it,

I ain't clever enough for her --I know it.

She won't miss me,"

he used to say: and he was right,

his wife did not miss him.

Rebecca was fond of her husband.

She was always perfectly good-humoured and kind to him.

She did not even show her scorn much for him;

perhaps she liked him the better for being a fool.

He was her upper servant and maitre d'hotel.

He went on her errands;

obeyed her orders without question;

drove in the carriage in the ring with her without repining;

took her to the opera-box,

solaced himself at his club during the performance,

and came punctually back to fetch her when due.

He would have liked her to be a little fonder of the boy,

but even to that he reconciled himself.

"Hang it,

you know she's so clever,"

he said,

"and I'm not literary and that,

you know."


as we have said before,

it requires no great wisdom to be able to win at cards and billiards,

and Rawdon made no pretensions to any other sort of skill.

When the companion came,

his domestic duties became very light.

His wife encouraged him to dine abroad: she would let him off duty at the opera.

"Don't stay and stupefy yourself at home to-night,

my dear,"

she would say.

"Some men are coming who will only bore you.

I would not ask them,

but you know it's for your good,

and now I have a sheep-dog,

I need not be afraid to be alone."

"A sheep-dog --a companion!

Becky Sharp with a companion!

Isn't it good fun?"

thought Mrs. Crawley to herself.

The notion tickled hugely her sense of humour.

One Sunday morning,

as Rawdon Crawley,

his little son,

and the pony were taking their accustomed walk in the park,

they passed by an old acquaintance of the Colonel's,

Corporal Clink,

of the regiment,

who was in conversation with a friend,

an old gentleman,

who held a boy in his arms about the age of little Rawdon.

This other youngster had seized hold of the Waterloo medal which the Corporal wore,

and was examining it with delight.

"Good morning,

your Honour,"

said Clink,

in reply to the "How do,


of the Colonel.

"This ere young gentleman is about the little Colonel's age,


continued the corporal.

"His father was a Waterloo man,


said the old gentleman,

who carried the boy.

"Wasn't he,



said Georgy.

He and the little chap on the pony were looking at each other with all their might --solemnly scanning each other as children do.

"In a line regiment,"

Clink said with a patronizing air.

"He was a Captain in the  --th regiment,"

said the old gentleman rather pompously.

"Captain George Osborne,

sir --perhaps you knew him.

He died the death of a hero,


fighting against the Corsican tyrant."

Colonel Crawley blushed quite red.

"I knew him very well,


he said,

"and his wife,

his dear little wife,

sir --how is she?"

"She is my daughter,


said the old gentleman,

putting down the boy and taking out a card with great solemnity,

which he handed to the Colonel.

On it written --

"Mr. Sedley,

Sole Agent for the Black Diamond and Anti-Cinder Coal Association,

Bunker's Wharf,

Thames Street,

and Anna-Maria Cottages,

Fulham Road West."

Little Georgy went up and looked at the Shetland pony.

"Should you like to have a ride?"

said Rawdon minor from the saddle.


said Georgy.

The Colonel,

who had been looking at him with some interest,

took up the child and put him on the pony behind Rawdon minor.

"Take hold of him,


he said --"take my little boy round the waist --his name is Rawdon."

And both the children began to laugh.

"You won't see a prettier pair I think,

THIS summer's day,


said the good-natured Corporal;

and the Colonel,

the Corporal,

and old Mr. Sedley with his umbrella,

walked by the side of the children.


A Family in a Very Small Way

We must suppose little George Osborne has ridden from Knightsbridge towards Fulham,

and will stop and make inquiries at that village regarding some friends whom we have left there.

How is Mrs. Amelia after the storm of Waterloo?

Is she living and thriving?

What has come of Major Dobbin,

whose cab was always hankering about her premises?

And is there any news of the Collector of Boggley Wollah?

The facts concerning the latter are briefly these:

Our worthy fat friend Joseph Sedley returned to India not long after his escape from Brussels.

Either his furlough was up,

or he dreaded to meet any witnesses of his Waterloo flight.

However it might be,

he went back to his duties in Bengal very soon after Napoleon had taken up his residence at St. Helena,

where Jos saw the ex-Emperor.

To hear Mr. Sedley talk on board ship you would have supposed that it was not the first time he and the Corsican had met,

and that the civilian had bearded the French General at Mount St. John.

He had a thousand anecdotes about the famous battles;

he knew the position of every regiment and the loss which each had incurred.

He did not deny that he had been concerned in those victories --that he had been with the army and carried despatches for the Duke of Wellington.

And he described what the Duke did and said on every conceivable moment of the day of Waterloo,

with such an accurate knowledge of his Grace's sentiments and proceedings that it was clear he must have been by the conqueror's side throughout the day;


as a non-combatant,

his name was not mentioned in the public documents relative to the battle.

Perhaps he actually worked himself up to believe that he had been engaged with the army;

certain it is that he made a prodigious sensation for some time at Calcutta,

and was called Waterloo Sedley during the whole of his subsequent stay in Bengal.

The bills which Jos had given for the purchase of those unlucky horses were paid without question by him and his agents.

He never was heard to allude to the bargain,

and nobody knows for a certainty what became of the horses,

or how he got rid of them,

or of Isidor,

his Belgian servant,

who sold a grey horse,

very like the one which Jos rode,

at Valenciennes sometime during the autumn of 1815.

Jos's London agents had orders to pay one hundred and twenty pounds yearly to his parents at Fulham.

It was the chief support of the old couple;

for Mr. Sedley's speculations in life subsequent to his bankruptcy did not by any means retrieve the broken old gentleman's fortune.

He tried to be a wine-merchant,

a coal-merchant,

a commission lottery agent,



He sent round prospectuses to his friends whenever he took a new trade,

and ordered a new brass plate for the door,

and talked pompously about making his fortune still.

But Fortune never came back to the feeble and stricken old man.

One by one his friends dropped off,

and were weary of buying dear coals and bad wine from him;

and there was only his wife in all the world who fancied,

when he tottered off to the City of a morning,

that he was still doing any business there.

At evening he crawled slowly back;

and he used to go of nights to a little club at a tavern,

where he disposed of the finances of the nation.

It was wonderful to hear him talk about millions,

and agios,

and discounts,

and what Rothschild was doing,

and Baring Brothers.

He talked of such vast sums that the gentlemen of the club (the apothecary,

the undertaker,

the great carpenter and builder,

the parish clerk,

who was allowed to come stealthily,

and Mr. Clapp,

our old acquaintance,) respected the old gentleman.

"I was better off once,


he did not fail to tell everybody who "used the room."

"My son,


is at this minute chief magistrate of Ramgunge in the Presidency of Bengal,

and touching his four thousand rupees per mensem.

My daughter might be a Colonel's lady if she liked.

I might draw upon my son,

the first magistrate,


for two thousand pounds to-morrow,

and Alexander would cash my bill,

down sir,

down on the counter,


But the Sedleys were always a proud family."

You and I,

my dear reader,

may drop into this condition one day: for have not many of our friends attained it?

Our luck may fail: our powers forsake us: our place on the boards be taken by better and younger mimes --the chance of life roll away and leave us shattered and stranded.

Then men will walk across the road when they meet you --or,

worse still,

hold you out a couple of fingers and patronize you in a pitying way --then you will know,

as soon as your back is turned,

that your friend begins with a "Poor devil,

what imprudences he has committed,

what chances that chap has thrown away!"


well --a carriage and three thousand a year is not the summit of the reward nor the end of God's judgment of men.

If quacks prosper as often as they go to the wall --if zanies succeed and knaves arrive at fortune,


vice versa,

sharing ill luck and prosperity for all the world like the ablest and most honest amongst us --I say,


the gifts and pleasures of Vanity Fair cannot be held of any great account,

and that it is probable ...but we are wandering out of the domain of the story.

Had Mrs. Sedley been a woman of energy,

she would have exerted it after her husband's ruin and,

occupying a large house,

would have taken in boarders.

The broken Sedley would have acted well as the boarding-house landlady's husband;

the Munoz of private life;

the titular lord and master: the carver,


and humble husband of the occupier of the dingy throne.

I have seen men of good brains and breeding,

and of good hopes and vigour once,

who feasted squires and kept hunters in their youth,

meekly cutting up legs of mutton for rancorous old harridans and pretending to preside over their dreary tables --but Mrs. Sedley,

we say,

had not spirit enough to bustle about for "a few select inmates to join a cheerful musical family,"

such as one reads of in the Times.

She was content to lie on the shore where fortune had stranded her --and you could see that the career of this old couple was over.

I don't think they were unhappy.

Perhaps they were a little prouder in their downfall than in their prosperity.

Mrs. Sedley was always a great person for her landlady,

Mrs. Clapp,

when she descended and passed many hours with her in the basement or ornamented kitchen.

The Irish maid Betty Flanagan's bonnets and ribbons,

her sauciness,

her idleness,

her reckless prodigality of kitchen candles,

her consumption of tea and sugar,

and so forth occupied and amused the old lady almost as much as the doings of her former household,

when she had Sambo and the coachman,

and a groom,

and a footboy,

and a housekeeper with a regiment of female domestics --her former household,

about which the good lady talked a hundred times a day.

And besides Betty Flanagan,

Mrs. Sedley had all the maids-of-all-work in the street to superintend.

She knew how each tenant of the cottages paid or owed his little rent.

She stepped aside when Mrs. Rougemont the actress passed with her dubious family.

She flung up her head when Mrs. Pestler,

the apothecary's lady,

drove by in her husband's professional one-horse chaise.

She had colloquies with the greengrocer about the pennorth of turnips which Mr. Sedley loved;

she kept an eye upon the milkman and the baker's boy;

and made visitations to the butcher,

who sold hundreds of oxen very likely with less ado than was made about Mrs. Sedley's loin of mutton: and she counted the potatoes under the joint on Sundays,

on which days,

dressed in her best,

she went to church twice and read Blair's Sermons in the evening.

On that day,

for "business" prevented him on weekdays from taking such a pleasure,

it was old Sedley's delight to take out his little grandson Georgy to the neighbouring parks or Kensington Gardens,

to see the soldiers or to feed the ducks.

Georgy loved the redcoats,

and his grandpapa told him how his father had been a famous soldier,

and introduced him to many sergeants and others with Waterloo medals on their breasts,

to whom the old grandfather pompously presented the child as the son of Captain Osborne of the  --th,

who died gloriously on the glorious eighteenth.

He has been known to treat some of these non-commissioned gentlemen to a glass of porter,



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,


or stall produce whatever.

Between Mrs. Sedley and her daughter there was a sort of coolness about this boy,

and a secret jealousy --for one evening in George's very early days,


who had been seated at work in their little parlour scarcely remarking that the old lady had quitted the room,

ran upstairs instinctively to the nursery at the cries of the child,

who had been asleep until that moment --and there found Mrs. Sedley in the act of surreptitiously administering Daffy's Elixir to the infant.


the gentlest and sweetest of everyday mortals,

when she found this meddling with her maternal authority,

thrilled and trembled all over with anger.

Her cheeks,

ordinarily pale,

now flushed up,

until they were as red as they used to be when she was a child of twelve years old.

She seized the baby out of her mother's arms and then grasped at the bottle,

leaving the old lady gaping at her,


and holding the guilty tea-spoon.

Amelia flung the bottle crashing into the fire-place.

"I will NOT have baby poisoned,


cried Emmy,

rocking the infant about violently with both her arms round him and turning with flashing eyes at her mother.



said the old lady;

"this language to me?"

"He shall not have any medicine but that which Mr. Pestler sends for hi n.

He told me that Daffy's Elixir was poison."

"Very good: you think I'm a murderess then,"

replied Mrs. Sedley.

"This is the language you use to your mother.

I have met with misfortunes: I have sunk low in life: I have kept my carriage,

and now walk on foot: but I did not know I was a murderess before,

and thank you for the NEWS."


said the poor girl,

who was always ready for tears --"you shouldn't be hard upon me.

I --I didn't mean --I mean,

I did not wish to say you would to any wrong to this dear child,

only --"



my love,

--only that I was a murderess;

in which case I had better go to the Old Bailey.

Though I didn't poison YOU,

when you were a child,

but gave you the best of education and the most expensive masters money could procure.


I've nursed five children and buried three;

and the one I loved the best of all,

and tended through croup,

and teething,

and measles,

and hooping-cough,

and brought up with foreign masters,

regardless of expense,

and with accomplishments at Minerva House --which I never had when I was a girl --when I was too glad to honour my father and mother,

that I might live long in the land,

and to be useful,

and not to mope all day in my room and act the fine lady --says I'm a murderess.


Mrs. Osborne!

may YOU never nourish a viper in your bosom,

that's MY prayer."



cried the bewildered girl;

and the child in her arms set up a frantic chorus of shouts.

"A murderess,


Go down on your knees and pray to God to cleanse your wicked ungrateful heart,


and may He forgive you as I do."

And Mrs. Sedley tossed out of the room,

hissing out the word poison once more,

and so ending her charitable benediction.

Till the termination of her natural life,

this breach between Mrs. Sedley and her daughter was never thoroughly mended.

The quarrel gave the elder lady numberless advantages which she did not fail to turn to account with female ingenuity and perseverance.

For instance,

she scarcely spoke to Amelia for many weeks afterwards.

She warned the domestics not to touch the child,

as Mrs. Osborne might be offended.

She asked her daughter to see and satisfy herself that there was no poison prepared in the little daily messes that were concocted for Georgy.

When neighbours asked after the boy's health,

she referred them pointedly to Mrs. Osborne.

SHE never ventured to ask whether the baby was well or not.

SHE would not touch the child although he was her grandson,

and own precious darling,

for she was not USED to children,

and might kill it.

And whenever Mr. Pestler came upon his healing inquisition,

she received the doctor with such a sarcastic and scornful demeanour,

as made the surgeon declare that not Lady Thistlewood herself,

whom he had the honour of attending professionally,

could give herself greater airs than old Mrs. Sedley,

from whom he never took a fee.

And very likely Emmy was jealous too,

upon her own part,

as what mother is not,

of those who would manage her children for her,

or become candidates for the first place in their affections.

It is certain that when anybody nursed the child,

she was uneasy,

and that she would no more allow Mrs. Clapp or the domestic to dress or tend him than she would have let them wash her husband's miniature which hung up over her little bed --the same little bed from which the poor girl had gone to his;

and to which she retired now for many long,



but happy years.

In this room was all Amelia's heart and treasure.

Here it was that she tended her boy and watched him through the many ills of childhood,

with a constant passion of love.

The elder George returned in him somehow,

only improved,

and as if come back from heaven.

In a hundred little tones,


and movements,

the child was so like his father that the widow's heart thrilled as she held him to it;

and he would often ask the cause of her tears.

It was because of his likeness to his father,

she did not scruple to tell him.

She talked constantly to him about this dead father,

and spoke of her love for George to the innocent and wondering child;

much more than she ever had done to George himself,

or to any confidante of her youth.

To her parents she never talked about this matter,

shrinking from baring her heart to them.

Little George very likely could understand no better than they,

but into his ears she poured her sentimental secrets unreservedly,

and into his only.

The very joy of this woman was a sort of grief,

or so tender,

at least,

that its expression was tears.

Her sensibilities were so weak and tremulous that perhaps they ought not to be talked about in a book.

I was told by Dr. Pestler (now a most flourishing lady's physician,

with a sumptuous dark green carriage,

a prospect of speedy knighthood,

and a house in Manchester Square) that her grief at weaning the child was a sight that would have unmanned a Herod.

He was very soft-hearted many years ago,

and his wife was mortally jealous of Mrs. Amelia,

then and long afterwards.

Perhaps the doctor's lady had good reason for her jealousy: most women shared it,

of those who formed the small circle of Amelia's acquaintance,

and were quite angry at the enthusiasm with which the other sex regarded her.

For almost all men who came near her loved her;

though no doubt they would be at a loss to tell you why.

She was not brilliant,

nor witty,

nor wise over much,

nor extraordinarily handsome.

But wherever she went she touched and charmed every one of the male sex,

as invariably as she awakened the scorn and incredulity of her own sisterhood.

I think it was her weakness which was her principal charm --a kind of sweet submission and softness,

which seemed to appeal to each man she met for his sympathy and protection.

We have seen how in the regiment,

though she spoke but to few of George's comrades there,

all the swords of the young fellows at the mess-table would have leapt from their scabbards to fight round her;

and so it was in the little narrow lodging-house and circle at Fulham,

she interested and pleased everybody.

If she had been Mrs. Mango herself,

of the great house of Mango,


and Co.,

Crutched Friars,

and the magnificent proprietress of the Pineries,


who gave summer dejeuners frequented by Dukes and Earls,

and drove about the parish with magnificent yellow liveries and bay horses,

such as the royal stables at Kensington themselves could not turn out --I say had she been Mrs. Mango herself,

or her son's wife,

Lady Mary Mango (daughter of the Earl of Castlemouldy,

who condescended to marry the head of the firm),

the tradesmen of the neighbourhood could not pay her more honour than they invariably showed to the gentle young widow,

when she passed by their doors,

or made her humble purchases at their shops.

Thus it was not only Mr. Pestler,

the medical man,

but Mr. Linton the young assistant,

who doctored the servant maids and small tradesmen,

and might be seen any day reading the Times in the surgery,

who openly declared himself the slave of Mrs. Osborne.

He was a personable young gentleman,

more welcome at Mrs. Sedley's lodgings than his principal;

and if anything went wrong with Georgy,

he would drop in twice or thrice in the day to see the little chap,

and without so much as the thought of a fee.

He would abstract lozenges,


and other produce from the surgery-drawers for little Georgy's benefit,

and compounded draughts and mixtures for him of miraculous sweetness,

so that it was quite a pleasure to the child to be ailing.

He and Pestler,

his chief,

sat up two whole nights by the boy in that momentous and awful week when Georgy had the measles;

and when you would have thought,

from the mother's terror,

that there had never been measles in the world before.

Would they have done as much for other people?

Did they sit up for the folks at the Pineries,

when Ralph Plantagenet,

and Gwendoline,

and Guinever Mango had the same juvenile complaint?

Did they sit up for little Mary Clapp,

the landlord's daughter,

who actually caught the disease of little Georgy?

Truth compels one to say,


They slept quite undisturbed,

at least as far as she was concerned --pronounced hers to be a slight case,

which would almost cure itself,

sent her in a draught or two,

and threw in bark when the child rallied,

with perfect indifference,

and just for form's sake.


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,



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,


bringing them up to his mouth,

blow them open with a kiss,



la divine creature!

He vowed and protested that when Amelia walked in the Brompton Lanes flowers grew in profusion under her feet.

He called little Georgy Cupid,

and asked him news of Venus,

his mamma;

and told the astonished Betty Flanagan that she was one of the Graces,

and the favourite attendant of the Reine des Amours.

Instances might be multiplied of this easily gained and unconscious popularity.

Did not Mr. Binny,

the mild and genteel curate of the district chapel,

which the family attended,

call assiduously upon the widow,

dandle the little boy on his knee,

and offer to teach him Latin,

to the anger of the elderly virgin,

his sister,

who kept house for him?

"There is nothing in her,


the latter lady would say.

"When she comes to tea here she does not speak a word during the whole evening.

She is but a poor lackadaisical creature,

and it is my belief has no heart at all.

It is only her pretty face which all you gentlemen admire so.

Miss Grits,

who has five thousand pounds,

and expectations besides,

has twice as much character,

and is a thousand times more agreeable to my taste;

and if she were good-looking I know that you would think her perfection."

Very likely Miss Binny was right to a great extent.

It IS the pretty face which creates sympathy in the hearts of men,

those wicked rogues.

A woman may possess the wisdom and chastity of Minerva,

and we give no heed to her,

if she has a plain face.

What folly will not a pair of bright eyes make pardonable?

What dulness may not red lips and sweet accents render pleasant?

And so,

with their usual sense of justice,

ladies argue that because a woman is handsome,

therefore she is a fool.

O ladies,


there are some of you who are neither handsome nor wise.

These are but trivial incidents to recount in the life of our heroine.

Her tale does not deal in wonders,

as the gentle reader has already no doubt perceived;

and if a journal had been kept of her proceedings during the seven years after the birth of her son,

there would be found few incidents more remarkable in it than that of the measles,

recorded in the foregoing page.


one day,

and greatly to her wonder,

the Reverend Mr. Binny,

just mentioned,

asked her to change her name of Osborne for his own;


with deep blushes and tears in her eyes and voice,

she thanked him for his regard for her,

expressed gratitude for his attentions to her and to her poor little boy,

but said that she never,

never could think of any but --but the husband whom she had lost.

On the twenty-fifth of April,

and the eighteenth of June,

the days of marriage and widowhood,

she kept her room entirely,

consecrating them (and we do not know how many hours of solitary night-thought,

her little boy sleeping in his crib by her bedside) to the memory of that departed friend.

During the day she was more active.

She had to teach George to read and to write and a little to draw.

She read books,

in order that she might tell him stories from them.

As his eyes opened and his mind expanded under the influence of the outward nature round about him,

she taught the child,

to the best of her humble power,

to acknowledge the Maker of all,

and every night and every morning he and she --(in that awful and touching communion which I think must bring a thrill to the heart of every man who witnesses or who remembers it) --the mother and the little boy --prayed to Our Father together,

the mother pleading with all her gentle heart,

the child lisping after her as she spoke.

And each time they prayed to God to bless dear Papa,

as if he were alive and in the room with them.

To wash and dress this young gentleman --to take him for a run of the mornings,

before breakfast,

and the retreat of grandpapa for "business" --to make for him the most wonderful and ingenious dresses,

for which end the thrifty widow cut up and altered every available little bit of finery which she possessed out of her wardrobe during her marriage --for Mrs. Osborne herself (greatly to her mother's vexation,

who preferred fine clothes,

especially since her misfortunes) always wore a black gown and a straw bonnet with a black ribbon --occupied her many hours of the day.

Others she had to spare,

at the service of her mother and her old father.

She had taken the pains to learn,

and used to play cribbage with this gentleman on the nights when he did not go to his club.

She sang for him when he was so minded,

and it was a good sign,

for he invariably fell into a comfortable sleep during the music.

She wrote out his numerous memorials,



and projects.

It was in her handwriting that most of the old gentleman's former acquaintances were informed that he had become an agent for the Black Diamond and Anti-Cinder Coal Company and could supply his friends and the public with the best coals at  --s.

per chaldron.

All he did was to sign the circulars with his flourish and signature,

and direct them in a shaky,

clerklike hand.

One of these papers was sent to Major Dobbin,


care of Messrs.

Cox and Greenwood;

but the Major being in Madras at the time,

had no particular call for coals.

He knew,


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,


and St. Mary's,

were enabled to offer to their friends and the public generally the finest and most celebrated growths of ports,


and claret wines at reasonable prices and under extraordinary advantages.

Acting upon this hint,

Dobbin furiously canvassed the governor,

the commander-in-chief,

the judges,

the regiments,

and everybody whom he knew in the Presidency,

and sent home to Sedley and Co.

orders for wine which perfectly astonished Mr. Sedley and Mr. Clapp,

who was the Co.

in the business.

But no more orders came after that first burst of good fortune,

on which poor old Sedley was about to build a house in the City,

a regiment of clerks,

a dock to himself,

and correspondents all over the world.

The old gentleman's former taste in wine had gone: the curses of the mess-room assailed Major Dobbin for the vile drinks he had been the means of introducing there;

and he bought back a great quantity of the wine and sold it at public outcry,

at an enormous loss to himself.

As for Jos,

who was by this time promoted to a seat at the Revenue Board at Calcutta,

he was wild with rage when the post brought him out a bundle of these Bacchanalian prospectuses,

with a private note from his father,

telling Jos that his senior counted upon him in this enterprise,

and had consigned a quantity of select wines to him,

as per invoice,

drawing bills upon him for the amount of the same.


who would no more have it supposed that his father,

Jos Sedley's father,

of the Board of Revenue,

was a wine merchant asking for orders,

than that he was Jack Ketch,

refused the bills with scorn,

wrote back contumeliously to the old gentleman,

bidding him to mind his own affairs;

and the protested paper coming back,

Sedley and Co.

had to take it up,

with the profits which they had made out of the Madras venture,

and with a little portion of Emmy's savings.

Besides her pension of fifty pounds a year,

there had been five hundred pounds,

as her husband's executor stated,

left in the agent's hands at the time of Osborne's demise,

which sum,

as George's guardian,

Dobbin proposed to put out at 8 per cent in an Indian house of agency.

Mr. Sedley,

who thought the Major had some roguish intentions of his own about the money,

was strongly against this plan;

and he went to the agents to protest personally against the employment of the money in question,

when he learned,

to his surprise,

that there had been no such sum in their hands,

that all the late Captain's assets did not amount to a hundred pounds,

and that the five hundred pounds in question must be a separate sum,

of which Major Dobbin knew the particulars.

More than ever convinced that there was some roguery,

old Sedley pursued the Major.

As his daughter's nearest friend,

he demanded with a high hand a statement of the late Captain's accounts.

Dobbin's stammering,


and awkwardness added to the other's convictions that he had a rogue to deal with,

and in a majestic tone he told that officer a piece of his mind,

as he called it,

simply stating his belief that the Major was unlawfully detaining his late son-in-law's money.

Dobbin at this lost all patience,

and if his accuser had not been so old and so broken,

a quarrel might have ensued between them at the Slaughters' Coffee-house,

in a box of which place of entertainment the gentlemen had their colloquy.

"Come upstairs,


lisped out the Major.

"I insist on your coming up the stairs,

and I will show which is the injured party,

poor George or I";


dragging the old gentleman up to his bedroom,

he produced from his desk Osborne's accounts,

and a bundle of IOU's which the latter had given,


to do him justice,

was always ready to give an IOU.

"He paid his bills in England,"

Dobbin added,

"but he had not a hundred pounds in the world when he fell.

I and one or two of his brother officers made up the little sum,

which was all that we could spare,

and you dare tell us that we are trying to cheat the widow and the orphan."

Sedley was very contrite and humbled,

though the fact is that William Dobbin had told a great falsehood to the old gentleman;

having himself given every shilling of the money,

having buried his friend,

and paid all the fees and charges incident upon the calamity and removal of poor Amelia.

About these expenses old Osborne had never given himself any trouble to think,

nor any other relative of Amelia,

nor Amelia herself,


She trusted to Major Dobbin as an accountant,

took his somewhat confused calculations for granted,

and never once suspected how much she was in his debt.

Twice or thrice in the year,

according to her promise,

she wrote him letters to Madras,

letters all about little Georgy.

How he treasured these papers!

Whenever Amelia wrote he answered,

and not until then.

But he sent over endless remembrances of himself to his godson and to her.

He ordered and sent a box of scarfs and a grand ivory set of chess-men from China.

The pawns were little green and white men,

with real swords and shields;

the knights were on horseback,

the castles were on the backs of elephants.

"Mrs. Mango's own set at the Pineries was not so fine,"

Mr. Pestler remarked.

These chess-men were the delight of Georgy's life,

who printed his first letter in acknowledgement of this gift of his godpapa.

He sent over preserves and pickles,

which latter the young gentleman tried surreptitiously in the sideboard and half-killed himself with eating.

He thought it was a judgement upon him for stealing,

they were so hot.

Emmy wrote a comical little account of this mishap to the Major: it pleased him to think that her spirits were rallying and that she could be merry sometimes now.

He sent over a pair of shawls,

a white one for her and a black one with palm-leaves for her mother,

and a pair of red scarfs,

as winter wrappers,

for old Mr. Sedley and George.

The shawls were worth fifty guineas apiece at the very least,

as Mrs. Sedley knew.

She wore hers in state at church at Brompton,

and was congratulated by her female friends upon the splendid acquisition.



became prettily her modest black gown.

"What a pity it is she won't think of him!"

Mrs. Sedley remarked to Mrs. Clapp and to all her friends of Brompton.

"Jos never sent us such presents,

I am sure,

and grudges us everything.

It is evident that the Major is over head and ears in love with her;

and yet,

whenever I so much as hint it,

she turns red and begins to cry and goes and sits upstairs with her miniature.

I'm sick of that miniature.

I wish we had never seen those odious purse-proud Osbornes."

Amidst such humble scenes and associates George's early youth was passed,

and the boy grew up delicate,



woman-bred --domineering the gentle mother whom he loved with passionate affection.

He ruled all the rest of the little world round about him.

As he grew,

the elders were amazed at his haughty manner and his constant likeness to his father.

He asked questions about everything,

as inquiring youth will do.

The profundity of his remarks and interrogatories astonished his old grandfather,

who perfectly bored the club at the tavern with stories about the little lad's learning and genius.

He suffered his grandmother with a good-humoured indifference.

The small circle round about him believed that the equal of the boy did not exist upon the earth.

Georgy inherited his father's pride,

and perhaps thought they were not wrong.

When he grew to be about six years old,

Dobbin began to write to him very much.

The Major wanted to hear that Georgy was going to a school and hoped he would acquit himself with credit there: or would he have a good tutor at home?

It was time that he should begin to learn;

and his godfather and guardian hinted that he hoped to be allowed to defray the charges of the boy's education,

which would fall heavily upon his mother's straitened income.

The Major,

in a word,

was always thinking about Amelia and her little boy,

and by orders to his agents kept the latter provided with picture-books,



and all conceivable implements of amusement and instruction.

Three days before George's sixth birthday a gentleman in a gig,

accompanied by a servant,

drove up to Mr. Sedley's house and asked to see Master George Osborne: it was Mr. Woolsey,

military tailor,

of Conduit Street,

who came at the Major's order to measure the young gentleman for a suit of clothes.

He had had the honour of making for the Captain,

the young gentleman's father.



and by the Major's desire no doubt,

his sisters,

the Misses Dobbin,

would call in the family carriage to take Amelia and the little boy to drive if they were so inclined.

The patronage and kindness of these ladies was very uncomfortable to Amelia,

but she bore it meekly enough,

for her nature was to yield;



the carriage and its splendours gave little Georgy immense pleasure.

The ladies begged occasionally that the child might pass a day with them,

and he was always glad to go to that fine garden-house at Denmark Hill,

where they lived,

and where there were such fine grapes in the hot-houses and peaches on the walls.

One day they kindly came over to Amelia with news which they were SURE would delight her --something VERY interesting about their dear William.

"What was it: was he coming home?"

she asked with pleasure beaming in her eyes.


no --not the least --but they had very good reason to believe that dear William was about to be married --and to a relation of a very dear friend of Amelia's --to Miss Glorvina O'Dowd,

Sir Michael O'Dowd's sister,

who had gone out to join Lady O'Dowd at Madras --a very beautiful and accomplished girl,

everybody said."

Amelia said "Oh!"

Amelia was very VERY happy indeed.

But she supposed Glorvina could not be like her old acquaintance,

who was most kind --but --but she was very happy indeed.

And by some impulse of which I cannot explain the meaning,

she took George in her arms and kissed him with an extraordinary tenderness.

Her eyes were quite moist when she put the child down;

and she scarcely spoke a word during the whole of the drive --though she was so very happy indeed.


A Cynical Chapter

Our duty now takes us back for a brief space to some old Hampshire acquaintances of ours,

whose hopes respecting the disposal of their rich kinswoman's property were so woefully disappointed.

After counting upon thirty thousand pounds from his sister,

it was a heavy blow to Bute Crawley to receive but five;

out of which sum,

when he had paid his own debts and those of Jim,

his son at college,

a very small fragment remained to portion off his four plain daughters.

Mrs. Bute never knew,

or at least never acknowledged,

how far her own tyrannous behaviour had tended to ruin her husband.

All that woman could do,

she vowed and protested she had done.

Was it her fault if she did not possess those sycophantic arts which her hypocritical nephew,

Pitt Crawley,


She wished him all the happiness which he merited out of his ill-gotten gains.

"At least the money will remain in the family,"

she said charitably.

"Pitt will never spend it,

my dear,

that is quite certain;

for a greater miser does not exist in England,

and he is as odious,

though in a different way,

as his spendthrift brother,

the abandoned Rawdon."

So Mrs. Bute,

after the first shock of rage and disappointment,

began to accommodate herself as best she could to her altered fortunes and to save and retrench with all her might.

She instructed her daughters how to bear poverty cheerfully,

and invented a thousand notable methods to conceal or evade it.

She took them about to balls and public places in the neighbourhood,

with praiseworthy energy;


she entertained her friends in a hospitable comfortable manner at the Rectory,

and much more frequently than before dear Miss Crawley's legacy had fallen in.

From her outward bearing nobody would have supposed that the family had been disappointed in their expectations,

or have guessed from her frequent appearance in public how she pinched and starved at home.

Her girls had more milliners' furniture than they had ever enjoyed before.

They appeared perseveringly at the Winchester and Southampton assemblies;

they penetrated to Cowes for the race-balls and regatta-gaieties there;

and their carriage,

with the horses taken from the plough,

was at work perpetually,

until it began almost to be believed that the four sisters had had fortunes left them by their aunt,

whose name the family never mentioned in public but with the most tender gratitude and regard.

I know no sort of lying which is more frequent in Vanity Fair than this,

and it may be remarked how people who practise it take credit to themselves for their hypocrisy,

and fancy that they are exceedingly virtuous and praiseworthy,

because they are able to deceive the world with regard to the extent of their means.

Mrs. Bute certainly thought herself one of the most virtuous women in England,

and the sight of her happy family was an edifying one to strangers.

They were so cheerful,

so loving,

so well-educated,

so simple!

Martha painted flowers exquisitely and furnished half the charity bazaars in the county.

Emma was a regular County Bulbul,

and her verses in the Hampshire Telegraph were the glory of its Poet's Corner.

Fanny and Matilda sang duets together,

Mamma playing the piano,

and the other two sisters sitting with their arms round each other's waists and listening affectionately.

Nobody saw the poor girls drumming at the duets in private.

No one saw Mamma drilling them rigidly hour after hour.

In a word,

Mrs. Bute put a good face against fortune and kept up appearances in the most virtuous manner.

Everything that a good and respectable mother could do Mrs. Bute did.

She got over yachting men from Southampton,

parsons from the Cathedral Close at Winchester,

and officers from the barracks there.

She tried to inveigle the young barristers at assizes and encouraged Jim to bring home friends with whom he went out hunting with the H. H.

What will not a mother do for the benefit of her beloved ones?

Between such a woman and her brother-in-law,

the odious Baronet at the Hall,

it is manifest that there could be very little in common.

The rupture between Bute and his brother Sir Pitt was complete;


between Sir Pitt and the whole county,

to which the old man was a scandal.

His dislike for respectable society increased with age,

and the lodge-gates had not opened to a gentleman's carriage-wheels since Pitt and Lady Jane came to pay their visit of duty after their marriage.

That was an awful and unfortunate visit,

never to be thought of by the family without horror.

Pitt begged his wife,

with a ghastly countenance,

never to speak of it,

and it was only through Mrs. Bute herself,

who still knew everything which took place at the Hall,

that the circumstances of Sir Pitt's reception of his son and daughter-in-law were ever known at all.

As they drove up the avenue of the park in their neat and well-appointed carriage,

Pitt remarked with dismay and wrath great gaps among the trees --his trees --which the old Baronet was felling entirely without license.

The park wore an aspect of utter dreariness and ruin.

The drives were ill kept,

and the neat carriage splashed and floundered in muddy pools along the road.

The great sweep in front of the terrace and entrance stair was black and covered with mosses;

the once trim flower-beds rank and weedy.

Shutters were up along almost the whole line of the house;

the great hall-door was unbarred after much ringing of the bell;

an individual in ribbons was seen flitting up the black oak stair,

as Horrocks at length admitted the heir of Queen's Crawley and his bride into the halls of their fathers.

He led the way into Sir Pitt's "Library,"

as it was called,

the fumes of tobacco growing stronger as Pitt and Lady Jane approached that apartment,

"Sir Pitt ain't very well,"

Horrocks remarked apologetically and hinted that his master was afflicted with lumbago.

The library looked out on the front walk and park.

Sir Pitt had opened one of the windows,

and was bawling out thence to the postilion and Pitt's servant,

who seemed to be about to take the baggage down.

"Don't move none of them trunks,"

he cried,

pointing with a pipe which he held in his hand.

"It's only a morning visit,


you fool.


what cracks that off hoss has in his heels!

Ain't there no one at the King's Head to rub

'em a little?

How do,


How do,

my dear?

Come to see the old man,


'Gad --you've a pretty face,


You ain't like that old horse-godmother,

your mother.

Come and give old Pitt a kiss,

like a good little gal."

The embrace disconcerted the daughter-in-law somewhat,

as the caresses of the old gentleman,

unshorn and perfumed with tobacco,

might well do.

But she remembered that her brother Southdown had mustachios,

and smoked cigars,

and submitted to the Baronet with a tolerable grace.

"Pitt has got vat,"

said the Baronet,

after this mark of affection.

"Does he read ee very long zermons,

my dear?

Hundredth Psalm,

Evening Hymn,

hay Pitt?

Go and get a glass of Malmsey and a cake for my Lady Jane,


you great big booby,

and don't stand stearing there like a fat pig.

I won't ask you to stop,

my dear;

you'll find it too stoopid,

and so should I too along a Pitt.

I'm an old man now,

and like my own ways,

and my pipe and backgammon of a night."

"I can play at backgammon,


said Lady Jane,


"I used to play with Papa and Miss Crawley,

didn't I,

Mr. Crawley?"

"Lady Jane can play,


at the game to which you state that you are so partial,"

Pitt said haughtily.

"But she wawn't stop for all that.



goo back to Mudbury and give Mrs. Rincer a benefit;

or drive down to the Rectory and ask Buty for a dinner.

He'll be charmed to see you,

you know;

he's so much obliged to you for gettin' the old woman's money.



Some of it will do to patch up the Hall when I'm gone."

"I perceive,


said Pitt with a heightened voice,

"that your people will cut down the timber."



very fine weather,

and seasonable for the time of year,"

Sir Pitt answered,

who had suddenly grown deaf.

"But I'm gittin' old,



Law bless you,

you ain't far from fifty yourself.

But he wears well,

my pretty Lady Jane,

don't he?

It's all godliness,


and a moral life.

Look at me,

I'm not very fur from fowr-score --he,


and he laughed,

and took snuff,

and leered at her and pinched her hand.

Pitt once more brought the conversation back to the timber,

but the Baronet was deaf again in an instant.

"I'm gittin' very old,

and have been cruel bad this year with the lumbago.

I shan't be here now for long;

but I'm glad ee've come,


I like your face,

Lady Jane: it's got none of the damned high-boned Binkie look in it;

and I'll give ee something pretty,

my dear,

to go to Court in."

And he shuffled across the room to a cupboard,

from which he took a little old case containing jewels of some value.

"Take that,"

said he,

"my dear;

it belonged to my mother,

and afterwards to the first Lady Binkie.

Pretty pearls --never gave

'em the ironmonger's daughter.




'em and put

'em up quick,"

said he,

thrusting the case into his daughter's hand,

and clapping the door of the cabinet to,

as Horrocks entered with a salver and refreshments.

"What have you a been and given Pitt's wife?"

said the individual in ribbons,

when Pitt and Lady Jane had taken leave of the old gentleman.

It was Miss Horrocks,

the butler's daughter --the cause of the scandal throughout the county --the lady who reigned now almost supreme at Queen's Crawley.

The rise and progress of those Ribbons had been marked with dismay by the county and family.

The Ribbons opened an account at the Mudbury Branch Savings Bank;

the Ribbons drove to church,

monopolising the pony-chaise,

which was for the use of the servants at the Hall.

The domestics were dismissed at her pleasure.

The Scotch gardener,

who still lingered on the premises,

taking a pride in his walls and hot-houses,

and indeed making a pretty good livelihood by the garden,

which he farmed,

and of which he sold the produce at Southampton,

found the Ribbons eating peaches on a sunshiny morning at the south-wall,

and had his ears boxed when he remonstrated about this attack on his property.

He and his Scotch wife and his Scotch children,

the only respectable inhabitants of Queen's Crawley,

were forced to migrate,

with their goods and their chattels,

and left the stately comfortable gardens to go to waste,

and the flower-beds to run to seed.

Poor Lady Crawley's rose-garden became the dreariest wilderness.

Only two or three domestics shuddered in the bleak old servants' hall.

The stables and offices were vacant,

and shut up,

and half ruined.

Sir Pitt lived in private,

and boozed nightly with Horrocks,

his butler or house-steward (as he now began to be called),

and the abandoned Ribbons.

The times were very much changed since the period when she drove to Mudbury in the spring-cart and called the small tradesmen "Sir."

It may have been shame,

or it may have been dislike of his neighbours,

but the old Cynic of Queen's Crawley hardly issued from his park-gates at all now.

He quarrelled with his agents and screwed his tenants by letter.

His days were passed in conducting his own correspondence;

the lawyers and farm-bailiffs who had to do business with him could not reach him but through the Ribbons,

who received them at the door of the housekeeper's room,

which commanded the back entrance by which they were admitted;

and so the Baronet's daily perplexities increased,

and his embarrassments multiplied round him.

The horror of Pitt Crawley may be imagined,

as these reports of his father's dotage reached the most exemplary and correct of gentlemen.

He trembled daily lest he should hear that the Ribbons was proclaimed his second legal mother-in-law.

After that first and last visit,

his father's name was never mentioned in Pitt's polite and genteel establishment.

It was the skeleton in his house,

and all the family walked by it in terror and silence.

The Countess Southdown kept on dropping per coach at the lodge-gate the most exciting tracts,

tracts which ought to frighten the hair off your head.

Mrs. Bute at the parsonage nightly looked out to see if the sky was red over the elms behind which the Hall stood,

and the mansion was on fire.

Sir G. Wapshot and Sir H. Fuddlestone,

old friends of the house,

wouldn't sit on the bench with Sir Pitt at Quarter Sessions,

and cut him dead in the High Street of Southampton,

where the reprobate stood offering his dirty old hands to them.

Nothing had any effect upon him;

he put his hands into his pockets,

and burst out laughing,

as he scrambled into his carriage and four;

he used to burst out laughing at Lady Southdown's tracts;

and he laughed at his sons,

and at the world,

and at the Ribbons when she was angry,

which was not seldom.

Miss Horrocks was installed as housekeeper at Queen's Crawley,

and ruled all the domestics there with great majesty and rigour.

All the servants were instructed to address her as "Mum,"

or "Madam" --and there was one little maid,

on her promotion,

who persisted in calling her "My Lady,"

without any rebuke on the part of the housekeeper.

"There has been better ladies,

and there has been worser,


was Miss Horrocks' reply to this compliment of her inferior;

so she ruled,

having supreme power over all except her father,



she treated with considerable haughtiness,

warning him not to be too familiar in his behaviour to one "as was to be a Baronet's lady."


she rehearsed that exalted part in life with great satisfaction to herself,

and to the amusement of old Sir Pitt,

who chuckled at her airs and graces,

and would laugh by the hour together at her assumptions of dignity and imitations of genteel life.

He swore it was as good as a play to see her in the character of a fine dame,

and he made her put on one of the first Lady Crawley's court-dresses,

swearing (entirely to Miss Horrocks' own concurrence) that the dress became her prodigiously,

and threatening to drive her off that very instant to Court in a coach-and-four.

She had the ransacking of the wardrobes of the two defunct ladies,

and cut and hacked their posthumous finery so as to suit her own tastes and figure.

And she would have liked to take possession of their jewels and trinkets too;

but the old Baronet had locked them away in his private cabinet;

nor could she coax or wheedle him out of the keys.

And it is a fact,

that some time after she left Queen's Crawley a copy-book belonging to this lady was discovered,

which showed that she had taken great pains in private to learn the art of writing in general,

and especially of writing her own name as Lady Crawley,

Lady Betsy Horrocks,

Lady Elizabeth Crawley,


Though the good people of the Parsonage never went to the Hall and shunned the horrid old dotard its owner,

yet they kept a strict knowledge of all that happened there,

and were looking out every day for the catastrophe for which Miss Horrocks was also eager.

But Fate intervened enviously and prevented her from receiving the reward due to such immaculate love and virtue.

One day the Baronet surprised "her ladyship,"

as he jocularly called her,

seated at that old and tuneless piano in the drawing-room,

which had scarcely been touched since Becky Sharp played quadrilles upon it --seated at the piano with the utmost gravity and squalling to the best of her power in imitation of the music which she had sometimes heard.

The little kitchen-maid on her promotion was standing at her mistress's side,

quite delighted during the operation,

and wagging her head up and down and crying,



'tis bittiful" --just like a genteel sycophant in a real drawing-room.

This incident made the old Baronet roar with laughter,

as usual.

He narrated the circumstance a dozen times to Horrocks in the course of the evening,

and greatly to the discomfiture of Miss Horrocks.

He thrummed on the table as if it had been a musical instrument,

and squalled in imitation of her manner of singing.

He vowed that such a beautiful voice ought to be cultivated and declared she ought to have singing-masters,

in which proposals she saw nothing ridiculous.

He was in great spirits that night,

and drank with his friend and butler an extraordinary quantity of rum-and-water --at a very late hour the faithful friend and domestic conducted his master to his bedroom.

Half an hour afterwards there was a great hurry and bustle in the house.

Lights went about from window to window in the lonely desolate old Hall,

whereof but two or three rooms were ordinarily occupied by its owner.


a boy on a pony went galloping off to Mudbury,

to the Doctor's house there.

And in another hour (by which fact we ascertain how carefully the excellent Mrs. Bute Crawley had always kept up an understanding with the great house),

that lady in her clogs and calash,

the Reverend Bute Crawley,

and James Crawley,

her son,

had walked over from the Rectory through the park,

and had entered the mansion by the open hall-door.

They passed through the hall and the small oak parlour,

on the table of which stood the three tumblers and the empty rum-bottle which had served for Sir Pitt's carouse,

and through that apartment into Sir Pitt's study,

where they found Miss Horrocks,

of the guilty ribbons,

with a wild air,

trying at the presses and escritoires with a bunch of keys.

She dropped them with a scream of terror,

as little Mrs. Bute's eyes flashed out at her from under her black calash.

"Look at that,

James and Mr. Crawley,"

cried Mrs. Bute,

pointing at the scared figure of the black-eyed,

guilty wench.

"He gave

'em me;

he gave

'em me!"

she cried.

"Gave them you,

you abandoned creature!"

screamed Mrs. Bute.

"Bear witness,

Mr. Crawley,

we found this good-for-nothing woman in the act of stealing your brother's property;

and she will be hanged,

as I always said she would."

Betsy Horrocks,

quite daunted,

flung herself down on her knees,

bursting into tears.

But those who know a really good woman are aware that she is not in a hurry to forgive,

and that the humiliation of an enemy is a triumph to her soul.

"Ring the bell,


Mrs. Bute said.

"Go on ringing it till the people come."

The three or four domestics resident in the deserted old house came presently at that jangling and continued summons.

"Put that woman in the strong-room,"

she said.

"We caught her in the act of robbing Sir Pitt.

Mr. Crawley,

you'll make out her committal --and,


you'll drive her over in the spring cart,

in the morning,

to Southampton Gaol."

"My dear,"

interposed the Magistrate and Rector --"she's only --"

"Are there no handcuffs?"

Mrs. Bute continued,

stamping in her clogs.

"There used to be handcuffs.

Where's the creature's abominable father?"

"He DID give

'em me,"

still cried poor Betsy;

"didn't he,


You saw Sir Pitt --you know you did --give

'em me,

ever so long ago --the day after Mudbury fair: not that I want



'em if you think they ain't mine."

And here the unhappy wretch pulled out from her pocket a large pair of paste shoe-buckles which had excited her admiration,

and which she had just appropriated out of one of the bookcases in the study,

where they had lain.



how could you go for to tell such a wicked story!"

said Hester,

the little kitchen-maid late on her promotion --"and to Madame Crawley,

so good and kind,

and his Rev'rince (with a curtsey),

and you may search all MY boxes,


I'm sure,

and here's my keys as I'm an honest girl,

though of pore parents and workhouse bred --and if you find so much as a beggarly bit of lace or a silk stocking out of all the gownds as YOU'VE had the picking of,

may I never go to church agin."

"Give up your keys,

you hardened hussy,"

hissed out the virtuous little lady in the calash.

"And here's a candle,


and if you please,


I can show you her room,


and the press in the housekeeper's room,


where she keeps heaps and heaps of things,


cried out the eager little Hester with a profusion of curtseys.

"Hold your tongue,

if you please.

I know the room which the creature occupies perfectly well.

Mrs. Brown,

have the goodness to come with me,

and Beddoes don't you lose sight of that woman,"

said Mrs. Bute,

seizing the candle.

"Mr. Crawley,

you had better go upstairs and see that they are not murdering your unfortunate brother" --and the calash,

escorted by Mrs. Brown,

walked away to the apartment which,

as she said truly,

she knew perfectly well.

Bute went upstairs and found the Doctor from Mudbury,

with the frightened Horrocks over his master in a chair.

They were trying to bleed Sir Pitt Crawley.

With the early morning an express was sent off to Mr. Pitt Crawley by the Rector's lady,

who assumed the command of everything,

and had watched the old Baronet through the night.

He had been brought back to a sort of life;

he could not speak,

but seemed to recognize people.

Mrs. Bute kept resolutely by his bedside.

She never seemed to want to sleep,

that little woman,

and did not close her fiery black eyes once,

though the Doctor snored in the arm-chair.

Horrocks made some wild efforts to assert his authority and assist his master;

but Mrs. Bute called him a tipsy old wretch and bade him never show his face again in that house,

or he should be transported like his abominable daughter.

Terrified by her manner,

he slunk down to the oak parlour where Mr. James was,


having tried the bottle standing there and found no liquor in it,

ordered Mr. Horrocks to get another bottle of rum,

which he fetched,

with clean glasses,

and to which the Rector and his son sat down,

ordering Horrocks to put down the keys at that instant and never to show his face again.

Cowed by this behaviour,

Horrocks gave up the keys,

and he and his daughter slunk off silently through the night and gave up possession of the house of Queen's Crawley.


In Which Becky Is Recognized by the Family

The heir of Crawley arrived at home,

in due time,

after this catastrophe,

and henceforth may be said to have reigned in Queen's Crawley.

For though the old Baronet survived many months,

he never recovered the use of his intellect or his speech completely,

and the government of the estate devolved upon his elder son.

In a strange condition Pitt found it.

Sir Pitt was always buying and mortgaging;

he had twenty men of business,

and quarrels with each;

quarrels with all his tenants,

and lawsuits with them;

lawsuits with the lawyers;

lawsuits with the Mining and Dock Companies in which he was proprietor;

and with every person with whom he had business.

To unravel these difficulties and to set the estate clear was a task worthy of the orderly and persevering diplomatist of Pumpernickel,

and he set himself to work with prodigious assiduity.

His whole family,

of course,

was transported to Queen's Crawley,

whither Lady Southdown,

of course,

came too;

and she set about converting the parish under the Rector's nose,

and brought down her irregular clergy to the dismay of the angry Mrs Bute.

Sir Pitt had concluded no bargain for the sale of the living of Queen's Crawley;

when it should drop,

her Ladyship proposed to take the patronage into her own hands and present a young protege to the Rectory,

on which subject the diplomatic Pitt said nothing.

Mrs. Bute's intentions with regard to Miss Betsy Horrocks were not carried into effect,

and she paid no visit to Southampton Gaol.

She and her father left the Hall when the latter took possession of the Crawley Arms in the village,

of which he had got a lease from Sir Pitt.

The ex-butler had obtained a small freehold there likewise,

which gave him a vote for the borough.

The Rector had another of these votes,

and these and four others formed the representative body which returned the two members for Queen's Crawley.

There was a show of courtesy kept up between the Rectory and the Hall ladies,

between the younger ones at least,

for Mrs. Bute and Lady Southdown never could meet without battles,

and gradually ceased seeing each other.

Her Ladyship kept her room when the ladies from the Rectory visited their cousins at the Hall.

Perhaps Mr. Pitt was not very much displeased at these occasional absences of his mamma-in-law.

He believed the Binkie family to be the greatest and wisest and most interesting in the world,

and her Ladyship and his aunt had long held ascendency over him;

but sometimes he felt that she commanded him too much.

To be considered young was complimentary,


but at six-and-forty to be treated as a boy was sometimes mortifying.

Lady Jane yielded up everything,


to her mother.

She was only fond of her children in private,

and it was lucky for her that Lady Southdown's multifarious business,

her conferences with ministers,

and her correspondence with all the missionaries of Africa,


and Australasia,


occupied the venerable Countess a great deal,

so that she had but little time to devote to her granddaughter,

the little Matilda,

and her grandson,

Master Pitt Crawley.

The latter was a feeble child,

and it was only by prodigious quantities of calomel that Lady Southdown was able to keep him in life at all.

As for Sir Pitt he retired into those very apartments where Lady Crawley had been previously extinguished,

and here was tended by Miss Hester,

the girl upon her promotion,

with constant care and assiduity.

What love,

what fidelity,

what constancy is there equal to that of a nurse with good wages?

They smooth pillows;

and make arrowroot;

they get up at nights;

they bear complaints and querulousness;

they see the sun shining out of doors and don't want to go abroad;

they sleep on arm-chairs and eat their meals in solitude;

they pass long long evenings doing nothing,

watching the embers,

and the patient's drink simmering in the jug;

they read the weekly paper the whole week through;

and Law's Serious Call or the Whole Duty of Man suffices them for literature for the year --and we quarrel with them because,

when their relations come to see them once a week,

a little gin is smuggled in in their linen basket.


what man's love is there that would stand a year's nursing of the object of his affection?

Whereas a nurse will stand by you for ten pounds a quarter,

and we think her too highly paid.

At least Mr. Crawley grumbled a good deal about paying half as much to Miss Hester for her constant attendance upon the Baronet his father.

Of sunshiny days this old gentleman was taken out in a chair on the terrace --the very chair which Miss Crawley had had at Brighton,

and which had been transported thence with a number of Lady Southdown's effects to Queen's Crawley.

Lady Jane always walked by the old man,

and was an evident favourite with him.

He used to nod many times to her and smile when she came in,

and utter inarticulate deprecatory moans when she was going away.

When the door shut upon her he would cry and sob --whereupon Hester's face and manner,

which was always exceedingly bland and gentle while her lady was present,

would change at once,

and she would make faces at him and clench her fist and scream out "Hold your tongue,

you stoopid old fool,"

and twirl away his chair from the fire which he loved to look at --at which he would cry more.

For this was all that was left after more than seventy years of cunning,

and struggling,

and drinking,

and scheming,

and sin and selfishness --a whimpering old idiot put in and out of bed and cleaned and fed like a baby.

At last a day came when the nurse's occupation was over.

Early one morning,

as Pitt Crawley was at his steward's and bailiff's books in the study,

a knock came to the door,

and Hester presented herself,

dropping a curtsey,

and said,

"If you please,

Sir Pitt,

Sir Pitt died this morning,

Sir Pitt.

I was a-making of his toast,

Sir Pitt,

for his gruel,

Sir Pitt,

which he took every morning regular at six,

Sir Pitt,

and --I thought I heard a moan-like,

Sir Pitt --and --and --and --" She dropped another curtsey.

What was it that made Pitt's pale face flush quite red?

Was it because he was Sir Pitt at last,

with a seat in Parliament,

and perhaps future honours in prospect?

"I'll clear the estate now with the ready money,"

he thought and rapidly calculated its incumbrances and the improvements which he would make.

He would not use his aunt's money previously lest Sir Pitt should recover and his outlay be in vain.

All the blinds were pulled down at the Hall and Rectory: the church bell was tolled,

and the chancel hung in black;

and Bute Crawley didn't go to a coursing meeting,

but went and dined quietly at Fuddleston,

where they talked about his deceased brother and young Sir Pitt over their port.

Miss Betsy,

who was by this time married to a saddler at Mudbury,

cried a good deal.

The family surgeon rode over and paid his respectful compliments,

and inquiries for the health of their ladyships.

The death was talked about at Mudbury and at the Crawley Arms,

the landlord whereof had become reconciled with the Rector of late,

who was occasionally known to step into the parlour and taste Mr. Horrocks' mild beer.

"Shall I write to your brother --or will you?"

asked Lady Jane of her husband,

Sir Pitt.

"I will write,

of course,"

Sir Pitt said,

"and invite him to the funeral: it will be but becoming."

"And --and --Mrs. Rawdon,"

said Lady Jane timidly.


said Lady Southdown,

"how can you think of such a thing?"

"Mrs. Rawdon must of course be asked,"

said Sir Pitt,


"Not whilst I am in the house!"

said Lady Southdown.

"Your Ladyship will be pleased to recollect that I am the head of this family,"

Sir Pitt replied.

"If you please,

Lady Jane,

you will write a letter to Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,

requesting her presence upon this melancholy occasion."


I forbid you to put pen to paper!"

cried the Countess.

"I believe I am the head of this family,"

Sir Pitt repeated;

"and however much I may regret any circumstance which may lead to your Ladyship quitting this house,


if you please,

continue to govern it as I see fit."

Lady Southdown rose up as magnificent as Mrs. Siddons in Lady Macbeth and ordered that horses might be put to her carriage.

If her son and daughter turned her out of their house,

she would hide her sorrows somewhere in loneliness and pray for their conversion to better thoughts.

"We don't turn you out of our house,


said the timid Lady Jane imploringly.

"You invite such company to it as no Christian lady should meet,

and I will have my horses to-morrow morning."

"Have the goodness to write,


under my dictation,"

said Sir Pitt,

rising and throwing himself into an attitude of command,

like the portrait of a Gentleman in the Exhibition,

"and begin.

'Queen's Crawley,

September 14,


--My dear brother --'"

Hearing these decisive and terrible words,

Lady Macbeth,

who had been waiting for a sign of weakness or vacillation on the part of her son-in-law,

rose and,

with a scared look,

left the library.

Lady Jane looked up to her husband as if she would fain follow and soothe her mamma,

but Pitt forbade his wife to move.

"She won't go away,"

he said.

"She has let her house at Brighton and has spent her last half-year's dividends.

A Countess living at an inn is a ruined woman.

I have been waiting long for an opportunity --to take this --this decisive step,

my love;


as you must perceive,

it is impossible that there should be two chiefs in a family: and now,

if you please,

we will resume the dictation.

'My dear brother,

the melancholy intelligence which it is my duty to convey to my family must have been long anticipated by,'" &c.

In a word,

Pitt having come to his kingdom,

and having by good luck,

or desert rather,

as he considered,

assumed almost all the fortune which his other relatives had expected,

was determined to treat his family kindly and respectably and make a house of Queen's Crawley once more.

It pleased him to think that he should be its chief.

He proposed to use the vast influence that his commanding talents and position must speedily acquire for him in the county to get his brother placed and his cousins decently provided for,

and perhaps had a little sting of repentance as he thought that he was the proprietor of all that they had hoped for.

In the course of three or four days' reign his bearing was changed and his plans quite fixed: he determined to rule justly and honestly,

to depose Lady Southdown,

and to be on the friendliest possible terms with all the relations of his blood.

So he dictated a letter to his brother Rawdon --a solemn and elaborate letter,

containing the profoundest observations,

couched in the longest words,

and filling with wonder the simple little secretary,

who wrote under her husband's order.

"What an orator this will be,"

thought she,

"when he enters the House of Commons" (on which point,

and on the tyranny of Lady Southdown,

Pitt had sometimes dropped hints to his wife in bed);

"how wise and good,

and what a genius my husband is!

I fancied him a little cold;

but how good,

and what a genius!"

The fact is,

Pitt Crawley had got every word of the letter by heart and had studied it,

with diplomatic secrecy,

deeply and perfectly,

long before he thought fit to communicate it to his astonished wife.

This letter,

with a huge black border and seal,

was accordingly despatched by Sir Pitt Crawley to his brother the Colonel,

in London.

Rawdon Crawley was but half-pleased at the receipt of it.

"What's the use of going down to that stupid place?"

thought he.

"I can't stand being alone with Pitt after dinner,

and horses there and back will cost us twenty pound."

He carried the letter,

as he did all difficulties,

to Becky,

upstairs in her bedroom --with her chocolate,

which he always made and took to her of a morning.

He put the tray with the breakfast and the letter on the dressing-table,

before which Becky sat combing her yellow hair.

She took up the black-edged missive,

and having read it,

she jumped up from the chair,

crying "Hurray!"

and waving the note round her head.


said Rawdon,

wondering at the little figure capering about in a streaming flannel dressing-gown,

with tawny locks dishevelled.

"He's not left us anything,


I had my share when I came of age."

"You'll never be of age,

you silly old man,"

Becky replied.

"Run out now to Madam Brunoy's,

for I must have some mourning: and get a crape on your hat,

and a black waistcoat --I don't think you've got one;

order it to be brought home to-morrow,

so that we may be able to start on Thursday."

"You don't mean to go?"

Rawdon interposed.

"Of course I mean to go.

I mean that Lady Jane shall present me at Court next year.

I mean that your brother shall give you a seat in Parliament,

you stupid old creature.

I mean that Lord Steyne shall have your vote and his,

my dear,

old silly man;

and that you shall be an Irish Secretary,

or a West Indian Governor: or a Treasurer,

or a Consul,

or some such thing."

"Posting will cost a dooce of a lot of money,"

grumbled Rawdon.

"We might take Southdown's carriage,

which ought to be present at the funeral,

as he is a relation of the family: but,

no --I intend that we shall go by the coach.

They'll like it better.

It seems more humble --"

"Rawdy goes,

of course?"

the Colonel asked.

"No such thing;

why pay an extra place?

He's too big to travel bodkin between you and me.

Let him stay here in the nursery,

and Briggs can make him a black frock.

Go you,

and do as I bid you.

And you had best tell Sparks,

your man,

that old Sir Pitt is dead and that you will come in for something considerable when the affairs are arranged.

He'll tell this to Raggles,

who has been pressing for money,

and it will console poor Raggles."

And so Becky began sipping her chocolate.

When the faithful Lord Steyne arrived in the evening,

he found Becky and her companion,

who was no other than our friend Briggs,

busy cutting,



and tearing all sorts of black stuffs available for the melancholy occasion.

"Miss Briggs and I are plunged in grief and despondency for the death of our Papa,"

Rebecca said.

"Sir Pitt Crawley is dead,

my lord.

We have been tearing our hair all the morning,

and now we are tearing up our old clothes."



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



how can you --" echoed my Lord.

"So that old scoundrel's dead,

is he?

He might have been a Peer if he had played his cards better.

Mr. Pitt had very nearly made him;

but he ratted always at the wrong time.

What an old Silenus it was!"

"I might have been Silenus's widow,"

said Rebecca.

"Don't you remember,

Miss Briggs,

how you peeped in at the door and saw old Sir Pitt on his knees to me?"

Miss Briggs,

our old friend,

blushed very much at this reminiscence,

and was glad when Lord Steyne ordered her to go downstairs and make him a cup of tea.

Briggs was the house-dog whom Rebecca had provided as guardian of her innocence and reputation.

Miss Crawley had left her a little annuity.

She would have been content to remain in the Crawley family with Lady Jane,

who was good to her and to everybody;

but Lady Southdown dismissed poor Briggs as quickly as decency permitted;

and Mr. Pitt (who thought himself much injured by the uncalled-for generosity of his deceased relative towards a lady who had only been Miss Crawley's faithful retainer a score of years) made no objection to that exercise of the dowager's authority.

Bowls and Firkin likewise received their legacies and their dismissals,

and married and set up a lodging-house,

according to the custom of their kind.

Briggs tried to live with her relations in the country,

but found that attempt was vain after the better society to which she had been accustomed.

Briggs's friends,

small tradesmen,

in a country town,

quarrelled over Miss Briggs's forty pounds a year as eagerly and more openly than Miss Crawley's kinsfolk had for that lady's inheritance.

Briggs's brother,

a radical hatter and grocer,

called his sister a purse-proud aristocrat,

because she would not advance a part of her capital to stock his shop;

and she would have done so most likely,

but that their sister,

a dissenting shoemaker's lady,

at variance with the hatter and grocer,

who went to another chapel,

showed how their brother was on the verge of bankruptcy,

and took possession of Briggs for a while.

The dissenting shoemaker wanted Miss Briggs to send his son to college and make a gentleman of him.

Between them the two families got a great portion of her private savings out of her,

and finally she fled to London followed by the anathemas of both,

and determined to seek for servitude again as infinitely less onerous than liberty.

And advertising in the papers that a "Gentlewoman of agreeable manners,

and accustomed to the best society,

was anxious to,"


she took up her residence with Mr. Bowls in Half Moon Street,

and waited the result of the advertisement.

So it was that she fell in with Rebecca.

Mrs. Rawdon's dashing little carriage and ponies was whirling down the street one day,

just as Miss Briggs,


had reached Mr. Bowls's door,

after a weary walk to the Times Office in the City to insert her advertisement for the sixth time.

Rebecca was driving,

and at once recognized the gentlewoman with agreeable manners,

and being a perfectly good-humoured woman,

as we have seen,

and having a regard for Briggs,

she pulled up the ponies at the doorsteps,

gave the reins to the groom,

and jumping out,

had hold of both Briggs's hands,

before she of the agreeable manners had recovered from the shock of seeing an old friend.

Briggs cried,

and Becky laughed a great deal and kissed the gentlewoman as soon as they got into the passage;

and thence into Mrs. Bowls's front parlour,

with the red moreen curtains,

and the round looking-glass,

with the chained eagle above,

gazing upon the back of the ticket in the window which announced "Apartments to Let."

Briggs told all her history amidst those perfectly uncalled-for sobs and ejaculations of wonder with which women of her soft nature salute an old acquaintance,

or regard a rencontre in the street;

for though people meet other people every day,

yet some there are who insist upon discovering miracles;

and women,

even though they have disliked each other,

begin to cry when they meet,

deploring and remembering the time when they last quarrelled.


in a word,

Briggs told all her history,

and Becky gave a narrative of her own life,

with her usual artlessness and candour.

Mrs. Bowls,

late Firkin,

came and listened grimly in the passage to the hysterical sniffling and giggling which went on in the front parlour.

Becky had never been a favourite of hers.

Since the establishment of the married couple in London they had frequented their former friends of the house of Raggles,

and did not like the latter's account of the Colonel's menage.

"I wouldn't trust him,


my boy,"

Bowls remarked;

and his wife,

when Mrs. Rawdon issued from the parlour,

only saluted the lady with a very sour curtsey;

and her fingers were like so many sausages,

cold and lifeless,

when she held them out in deference to Mrs. Rawdon,

who persisted in shaking hands with the retired lady's maid.

She whirled away into Piccadilly,

nodding with the sweetest of smiles towards Miss Briggs,

who hung nodding at the window close under the advertisement-card,

and at the next moment was in the park with a half-dozen of dandies cantering after her carriage.

When she found how her friend was situated,

and how having a snug legacy from Miss Crawley,

salary was no object to our gentlewoman,

Becky instantly formed some benevolent little domestic plans concerning her.

This was just such a companion as would suit her establishment,

and she invited Briggs to come to dinner with her that very evening,

when she should see Becky's dear little darling Rawdon.

Mrs. Bowls cautioned her lodger against venturing into the lion's den,

"wherein you will rue it,

Miss B.,

mark my words,

and as sure as my name is Bowls."

And Briggs promised to be very cautious.

The upshot of which caution was that she went to live with Mrs. Rawdon the next week,

and had lent Rawdon Crawley six hundred pounds upon annuity before six months were over.


In Which Becky Revisits the Halls of Her Ancestors

So the mourning being ready,

and Sir Pitt Crawley warned of their arrival,

Colonel Crawley and his wife took a couple of places in the same old High-flyer coach by which Rebecca had travelled in the defunct Baronet's company,

on her first journey into the world some nine years before.

How well she remembered the Inn Yard,

and the ostler to whom she refused money,

and the insinuating Cambridge lad who wrapped her in his coat on the journey!

Rawdon took his place outside,

and would have liked to drive,

but his grief forbade him.

He sat by the coachman and talked about horses and the road the whole way;

and who kept the inns,

and who horsed the coach by which he had travelled so many a time,

when he and Pitt were boys going to Eton.

At Mudbury a carriage and a pair of horses received them,

with a coachman in black.

"It's the old drag,


Rebecca said as they got in.

"The worms have eaten the cloth a good deal --there's the stain which Sir Pitt --ha!

I see Dawson the Ironmonger has his shutters up --which Sir Pitt made such a noise about.

It was a bottle of cherry brandy he broke which we went to fetch for your aunt from Southampton.

How time flies,

to be sure!

That can't be Polly Talboys,

that bouncing girl standing by her mother at the cottage there.

I remember her a mangy little urchin picking weeds in the garden."

"Fine gal,"

said Rawdon,

returning the salute which the cottage gave him,

by two fingers applied to his crape hatband.

Becky bowed and saluted,

and recognized people here and there graciously.

These recognitions were inexpressibly pleasant to her.

It seemed as if she was not an imposter any more,

and was coming to the home of her ancestors.

Rawdon was rather abashed and cast down,

on the other hand.

What recollections of boyhood and innocence might have been flitting across his brain?

What pangs of dim remorse and doubt and shame?

"Your sisters must be young women now,"

Rebecca said,

thinking of those girls for the first time perhaps since she had left them.

"Don't know,

I'm shaw,"

replied the Colonel.


here's old Mother Lock.


Mrs. Lock?

Remember me,

don't you?

Master Rawdon,


Dammy how those old women last;

she was a hundred when I was a boy."

They were going through the lodge-gates kept by old Mrs. Lock,

whose hand Rebecca insisted upon shaking,

as she flung open the creaking old iron gate,

and the carriage passed between the two moss-grown pillars surmounted by the dove and serpent.

"The governor has cut into the timber,"

Rawdon said,

looking about,

and then was silent --so was Becky.

Both of them were rather agitated,

and thinking of old times.

He about Eton,

and his mother,

whom he remembered,

a frigid demure woman,

and a sister who died,

of whom he had been passionately fond;

and how he used to thrash Pitt;

and about little Rawdy at home.

And Rebecca thought about her own youth and the dark secrets of those early tainted days;

and of her entrance into life by yonder gates;

and of Miss Pinkerton,

and Joe,

and Amelia.

The gravel walk and terrace had been scraped quite clean.

A grand painted hatchment was already over the great entrance,

and two very solemn and tall personages in black flung open each a leaf of the door as the carriage pulled up at the familiar steps.

Rawdon turned red,

and Becky somewhat pale,

as they passed through the old hall,

arm in arm.

She pinched her husband's arm as they entered the oak parlour,

where Sir Pitt and his wife were ready to receive them.

Sir Pitt in black,

Lady Jane in black,

and my Lady Southdown with a large black head-piece of bugles and feathers,

which waved on her Ladyship's head like an undertaker's tray.

Sir Pitt had judged correctly,

that she would not quit the premises.

She contented herself by preserving a solemn and stony silence,

when in company of Pitt and his rebellious wife,

and by frightening the children in the nursery by the ghastly gloom of her demeanour.

Only a very faint bending of the head-dress and plumes welcomed Rawdon and his wife,

as those prodigals returned to their family.

To say the truth,

they were not affected very much one way or other by this coolness.

Her Ladyship was a person only of secondary consideration in their minds just then --they were intent upon the reception which the reigning brother and sister would afford them.


with rather a heightened colour,

went up and shook his brother by the hand,

and saluted Rebecca with a hand-shake and a very low bow.

But Lady Jane took both the hands of her sister-in-law and kissed her affectionately.

The embrace somehow brought tears into the eyes of the little adventuress --which ornaments,

as we know,

she wore very seldom.

The artless mark of kindness and confidence touched and pleased her;

and Rawdon,

encouraged by this demonstration on his sister's part,

twirled up his mustachios and took leave to salute Lady Jane with a kiss,

which caused her Ladyship to blush exceedingly.

"Dev'lish nice little woman,

Lady Jane,"

was his verdict,

when he and his wife were together again.

"Pitt's got fat,


and is doing the thing handsomely."

"He can afford it,"

said Rebecca and agreed in her husband's farther opinion "that the mother-in-law was a tremendous old Guy --and that the sisters were rather well-looking young women."



had been summoned from school to attend the funeral ceremonies.

It seemed Sir Pitt Crawley,

for the dignity of the house and family,

had thought right to have about the place as many persons in black as could possibly be assembled.

All the men and maids of the house,

the old women of the Alms House,

whom the elder Sir Pitt had cheated out of a great portion of their due,

the parish clerk's family,

and the special retainers of both Hall and Rectory were habited in sable;

added to these,

the undertaker's men,

at least a score,

with crapes and hatbands,

and who made goodly show when the great burying show took place --but these are mute personages in our drama;

and having nothing to do or say,

need occupy a very little space here.

With regard to her sisters-in-law Rebecca did not attempt to forget her former position of Governess towards them,

but recalled it frankly and kindly,

and asked them about their studies with great gravity,

and told them that she had thought of them many and many a day,

and longed to know of their welfare.

In fact you would have supposed that ever since she had left them she had not ceased to keep them uppermost in her thoughts and to take the tenderest interest in their welfare.

So supposed Lady Crawley herself and her young sisters.

"She's hardly changed since eight years,"

said Miss Rosalind to Miss Violet,

as they were preparing for dinner.

"Those red-haired women look wonderfully well,"

replied the other.

"Hers is much darker than it was;

I think she must dye it,"

Miss Rosalind added.

"She is stouter,


and altogether improved,"

continued Miss Rosalind,

who was disposed to be very fat.

"At least she gives herself no airs and remembers that she was our Governess once,"

Miss Violet said,

intimating that it befitted all governesses to keep their proper place,

and forgetting altogether that she was granddaughter not only of Sir Walpole Crawley,

but of Mr. Dawson of Mudbury,

and so had a coal-scuttle in her scutcheon.

There are other very well-meaning people whom one meets every day in Vanity Fair who are surely equally oblivious.

"It can't be true what the girls at the Rectory said,

that her mother was an opera-dancer --"

"A person can't help their birth,"

Rosalind replied with great liberality.

"And I agree with our brother,

that as she is in the family,

of course we are bound to notice her.

I am sure Aunt Bute need not talk;

she wants to marry Kate to young Hooper,

the wine-merchant,

and absolutely asked him to come to the Rectory for orders."

"I wonder whether Lady Southdown will go away,

she looked very glum upon Mrs. Rawdon,"

the other said.

"I wish she would.

I won't read the Washerwoman of Finchley Common,"

vowed Violet;

and so saying,

and avoiding a passage at the end of which a certain coffin was placed with a couple of watchers,

and lights perpetually burning in the closed room,

these young women came down to the family dinner,

for which the bell rang as usual.

But before this,

Lady Jane conducted Rebecca to the apartments prepared for her,


with the rest of the house,

had assumed a very much improved appearance of order and comfort during Pitt's regency,

and here beholding that Mrs. Rawdon's modest little trunks had arrived,

and were placed in the bedroom and dressing-room adjoining,

helped her to take off her neat black bonnet and cloak,

and asked her sister-in-law in what more she could be useful.

"What I should like best,"

said Rebecca,

"would be to go to the nursery and see your dear little children."

On which the two ladies looked very kindly at each other and went to that apartment hand in hand.

Becky admired little Matilda,

who was not quite four years old,

as the most charming little love in the world;

and the boy,

a little fellow of two years --pale,


and large-headed --she pronounced to be a perfect prodigy in point of size,


and beauty.

"I wish Mamma would not insist on giving him so much medicine,"

Lady Jane said with a sigh.

"I often think we should all be better without it."

And then Lady Jane and her new-found friend had one of those confidential medical conversations about the children,

which all mothers,

and most women,

as I am given to understand,

delight in.

Fifty years ago,

and when the present writer,

being an interesting little boy,

was ordered out of the room with the ladies after dinner,

I remember quite well that their talk was chiefly about their ailments;

and putting this question directly to two or three since,

I have always got from them the acknowledgement that times are not changed.

Let my fair readers remark for themselves this very evening when they quit the dessert-table and assemble to celebrate the drawing-room mysteries.

Well --in half an hour Becky and Lady Jane were close and intimate friends --and in the course of the evening her Ladyship informed Sir Pitt that she thought her new sister-in-law was a kind,



and affectionate young woman.

And so having easily won the daughter's good-will,

the indefatigable little woman bent herself to conciliate the august Lady Southdown.

As soon as she found her Ladyship alone,

Rebecca attacked her on the nursery question at once and said that her own little boy was saved,

actually saved,

by calomel,

freely administered,

when all the physicians in Paris had given the dear child up.

And then she mentioned how often she had heard of Lady Southdown from that excellent man the Reverend Lawrence Grills,

Minister of the chapel in May Fair,

which she frequented;

and how her views were very much changed by circumstances and misfortunes;

and how she hoped that a past life spent in worldliness and error might not incapacitate her from more serious thought for the future.

She described how in former days she had been indebted to Mr. Crawley for religious instruction,

touched upon the Washerwoman of Finchley Common,

which she had read with the greatest profit,

and asked about Lady Emily,

its gifted author,

now Lady Emily Hornblower,

at Cape Town,

where her husband had strong hopes of becoming Bishop of Caffraria.

But she crowned all,

and confirmed herself in Lady Southdown's favour,

by feeling very much agitated and unwell after the funeral and requesting her Ladyship's medical advice,

which the Dowager not only gave,


wrapped up in a bed-gown and looking more like Lady Macbeth than ever,

came privately in the night to Becky's room with a parcel of favourite tracts,

and a medicine of her own composition,

which she insisted that Mrs. Rawdon should take.

Becky first accepted the tracts and began to examine them with great interest,

engaging the Dowager in a conversation concerning them and the welfare of her soul,

by which means she hoped that her body might escape medication.

But after the religious topics were exhausted,

Lady Macbeth would not quit Becky's chamber until her cup of night-drink was emptied too;

and poor Mrs. Rawdon was compelled actually to assume a look of gratitude,

and to swallow the medicine under the unyielding old Dowager's nose,

who left her victim finally with a benediction.

It did not much comfort Mrs. Rawdon;

her countenance was very queer when Rawdon came in and heard what had happened;

and his explosions of laughter were as loud as usual,

when Becky,

with a fun which she could not disguise,

even though it was at her own expense,

described the occurrence and how she had been victimized by Lady Southdown.

Lord Steyne,

and her son in London,

had many a laugh over the story when Rawdon and his wife returned to their quarters in May Fair.

Becky acted the whole scene for them.

She put on a night-cap and gown.

She preached a great sermon in the true serious manner;

she lectured on the virtue of the medicine which she pretended to administer,

with a gravity of imitation so perfect that you would have thought it was the Countess's own Roman nose through which she snuffled.

"Give us Lady Southdown and the black dose,"

was a constant cry amongst the folks in Becky's little drawing-room in May Fair.

And for the first time in her life the Dowager Countess of Southdown was made amusing.

Sir Pitt remembered the testimonies of respect and veneration which Rebecca had paid personally to himself in early days,

and was tolerably well disposed towards her.

The marriage,

ill-advised as it was,

had improved Rawdon very much --that was clear from the Colonel's altered habits and demeanour --and had it not been a lucky union as regarded Pitt himself?

The cunning diplomatist smiled inwardly as he owned that he owed his fortune to it,

and acknowledged that he at least ought not to cry out against it.

His satisfaction was not removed by Rebecca's own statements,


and conversation.

She doubled the deference which before had charmed him,

calling out his conversational powers in such a manner as quite to surprise Pitt himself,


always inclined to respect his own talents,

admired them the more when Rebecca pointed them out to him.

With her sister-in-law,

Rebecca was satisfactorily able to prove that it was Mrs. Bute Crawley who brought about the marriage which she afterwards so calumniated;

that it was Mrs. Bute's avarice --who hoped to gain all Miss Crawley's fortune and deprive Rawdon of his aunt's favour --which caused and invented all the wicked reports against Rebecca.

"She succeeded in making us poor,"

Rebecca said with an air of angelical patience;

"but how can I be angry with a woman who has given me one of the best husbands in the world?

And has not her own avarice been sufficiently punished by the ruin of her own hopes and the loss of the property by which she set so much store?


she cried.

"Dear Lady Jane,

what care we for poverty?

I am used to it from childhood,

and I am often thankful that Miss Crawley's money has gone to restore the splendour of the noble old family of which I am so proud to be a member.

I am sure Sir Pitt will make a much better use of it than Rawdon would."

All these speeches were reported to Sir Pitt by the most faithful of wives,

and increased the favourable impression which Rebecca made;

so much so that when,

on the third day after the funeral,

the family party were at dinner,

Sir Pitt Crawley,

carving fowls at the head of the table,

actually said to Mrs. Rawdon,



may I give you a wing?"

--a speech which made the little woman's eyes sparkle with pleasure.

While Rebecca was prosecuting the above schemes and hopes,

and Pitt Crawley arranging the funeral ceremonial and other matters connected with his future progress and dignity,

and Lady Jane busy with her nursery,

as far as her mother would let her,

and the sun rising and setting,

and the clock-tower bell of the Hall ringing to dinner and to prayers as usual,

the body of the late owner of Queen's Crawley lay in the apartment which he had occupied,

watched unceasingly by the professional attendants who were engaged for that rite.

A woman or two,

and three or four undertaker's men,

the best whom Southampton could furnish,

dressed in black,

and of a proper stealthy and tragical demeanour,

had charge of the remains which they watched turn about,

having the housekeeper's room for their place of rendezvous when off duty,

where they played at cards in privacy and drank their beer.

The members of the family and servants of the house kept away from the gloomy spot,

where the bones of the descendant of an ancient line of knights and gentlemen lay,

awaiting their final consignment to the family crypt.

No regrets attended them,

save those of the poor woman who had hoped to be Sir Pitt's wife and widow and who had fled in disgrace from the Hall over which she had so nearly been a ruler.

Beyond her and a favourite old pointer he had,

and between whom and himself an attachment subsisted during the period of his imbecility,

the old man had not a single friend to mourn him,

having indeed,

during the whole course of his life,

never taken the least pains to secure one.

Could the best and kindest of us who depart from the earth have an opportunity of revisiting it,

I suppose he or she (assuming that any Vanity Fair feelings subsist in the sphere whither we are bound) would have a pang of mortification at finding how soon our survivors were consoled.

And so Sir Pitt was forgotten --like the kindest and best of us --only a few weeks sooner.

Those who will may follow his remains to the grave,

whither they were borne on the appointed day,

in the most becoming manner,

the family in black coaches,

with their handkerchiefs up to their noses,

ready for the tears which did not come;

the undertaker and his gentlemen in deep tribulation;

the select tenantry mourning out of compliment to the new landlord;

the neighbouring gentry's carriages at three miles an hour,


and in profound affliction;

the parson speaking out the formula about "our dear brother departed."

As long as we have a man's body,

we play our Vanities upon it,

surrounding it with humbug and ceremonies,

laying it in state,

and packing it up in gilt nails and velvet;

and we finish our duty by placing over it a stone,

written all over with lies.

Bute's curate,

a smart young fellow from Oxford,

and Sir Pitt Crawley composed between them an appropriate Latin epitaph for the late lamented Baronet,

and the former preached a classical sermon,

exhorting the survivors not to give way to grief and informing them in the most respectful terms that they also would be one day called upon to pass that gloomy and mysterious portal which had just closed upon the remains of their lamented brother.

Then the tenantry mounted on horseback again,

or stayed and refreshed themselves at the Crawley Arms.


after a lunch in the servants' hall at Queen's Crawley,

the gentry's carriages wheeled off to their different destinations: then the undertaker's men,

taking the ropes,



ostrich feathers,

and other mortuary properties,

clambered up on the roof of the hearse and rode off to Southampton.

Their faces relapsed into a natural expression as the horses,

clearing the lodge-gates,

got into a brisker trot on the open road;

and squads of them might have been seen,

speckling with black the public-house entrances,

with pewter-pots flashing in the sunshine.

Sir Pitt's invalid chair was wheeled away into a tool-house in the garden;

the old pointer used to howl sometimes at first,

but these were the only accents of grief which were heard in the Hall of which Sir Pitt Crawley,


had been master for some threescore years.

As the birds were pretty plentiful,

and partridge shooting is as it were the duty of an English gentleman of statesmanlike propensities,

Sir Pitt Crawley,

the first shock of grief over,

went out a little and partook of that diversion in a white hat with crape round it.

The sight of those fields of stubble and turnips,

now his own,

gave him many secret joys.


and with an exquisite humility,

he took no gun,

but went out with a peaceful bamboo cane;


his big brother,

and the keepers blazing away at his side.

Pitt's money and acres had a great effect upon his brother.

The penniless Colonel became quite obsequious and respectful to the head of his house,

and despised the milksop Pitt no longer.

Rawdon listened with sympathy to his senior's prospects of planting and draining,

gave his advice about the stables and cattle,

rode over to Mudbury to look at a mare,

which he thought would carry Lady Jane,

and offered to break her,

&c.: the rebellious dragoon was quite humbled and subdued,

and became a most creditable younger brother.

He had constant bulletins from Miss Briggs in London respecting little Rawdon,

who was left behind there,

who sent messages of his own.

"I am very well,"

he wrote.

"I hope you are very well.

I hope Mamma is very well.

The pony is very well.

Grey takes me to ride in the park.

I can canter.

I met the little boy who rode before.

He cried when he cantered.

I do not cry."

Rawdon read these letters to his brother and Lady Jane,

who was delighted with them.

The Baronet promised to take charge of the lad at school,

and his kind-hearted wife gave Rebecca a bank-note,

begging her to buy a present with it for her little nephew.

One day followed another,

and the ladies of the house passed their life in those calm pursuits and amusements which satisfy country ladies.

Bells rang to meals and to prayers.

The young ladies took exercise on the pianoforte every morning after breakfast,

Rebecca giving them the benefit of her instruction.

Then they put on thick shoes and walked in the park or shrubberies,

or beyond the palings into the village,

descending upon the cottages,

with Lady Southdown's medicine and tracts for the sick people there.

Lady Southdown drove out in a pony-chaise,

when Rebecca would take her place by the Dowager's side and listen to her solemn talk with the utmost interest.

She sang Handel and Haydn to the family of evenings,

and engaged in a large piece of worsted work,

as if she had been born to the business and as if this kind of life was to continue with her until she should sink to the grave in a polite old age,

leaving regrets and a great quantity of consols behind her --as if there were not cares and duns,



and poverty waiting outside the park gates,

to pounce upon her when she issued into the world again.

"It isn't difficult to be a country gentleman's wife,"

Rebecca thought.

"I think I could be a good woman if I had five thousand a year.

I could dawdle about in the nursery and count the apricots on the wall.

I could water plants in a green-house and pick off dead leaves from the geraniums.

I could ask old women about their rheumatisms and order half-a-crown's worth of soup for the poor.

I shouldn't miss it much,

out of five thousand a year.

I could even drive out ten miles to dine at a neighbour's,

and dress in the fashions of the year before last.

I could go to church and keep awake in the great family pew,

or go to sleep behind the curtains,

with my veil down,

if I only had practice.

I could pay everybody,

if I had but the money.

This is what the conjurors here pride themselves upon doing.

They look down with pity upon us miserable sinners who have none.

They think themselves generous if they give our children a five-pound note,

and us contemptible if we are without one."

And who knows but Rebecca was right in her speculations --and that it was only a question of money and fortune which made the difference between her and an honest woman?

If you take temptations into account,

who is to say that he is better than his neighbour?

A comfortable career of prosperity,

if it does not make people honest,

at least keeps them so.

An alderman coming from a turtle feast will not step out of his carnage to steal a leg of mutton;

but put him to starve,

and see if he will not purloin a loaf.

Becky consoled herself by so balancing the chances and equalizing the distribution of good and evil in the world.

The old haunts,

the old fields and woods,

the copses,


and gardens,

the rooms of the old house where she had spent a couple of years seven years ago,

were all carefully revisited by her.

She had been young there,

or comparatively so,

for she forgot the time when she ever WAS young --but she remembered her thoughts and feelings seven years back and contrasted them with those which she had at present,

now that she had seen the world,

and lived with great people,

and raised herself far beyond her original humble station.

"I have passed beyond it,

because I have brains,"

Becky thought,

"and almost all the rest of the world are fools.

I could not go back and consort with those people now,

whom I used to meet in my father's studio.

Lords come up to my door with stars and garters,

instead of poor artists with screws of tobacco in their pockets.

I have a gentleman for my husband,

and an Earl's daughter for my sister,

in the very house where I was little better than a servant a few years ago.

But am I much better to do now in the world than I was when I was the poor painter's daughter and wheedled the grocer round the corner for sugar and tea?

Suppose I had married Francis who was so fond of me --I couldn't have been much poorer than I am now.


I wish I could exchange my position in society,

and all my relations for a snug sum in the Three Per Cent.


for so it was that Becky felt the Vanity of human affairs,

and it was in those securities that she would have liked to cast anchor.

It may,


have struck her that to have been honest and humble,

to have done her duty,

and to have marched straightforward on her way,

would have brought her as near happiness as that path by which she was striving to attain it.

But --just as the children at Queen's Crawley went round the room where the body of their father lay --if ever Becky had these thoughts,

she was accustomed to walk round them and not look in.

She eluded them and despised them --or at least she was committed to the other path from which retreat was now impossible.

And for my part I believe that remorse is the least active of all a man's moral senses --the very easiest to be deadened when wakened,

and in some never wakened at all.

We grieve at being found out and at the idea of shame or punishment,

but the mere sense of wrong makes very few people unhappy in Vanity Fair.

So Rebecca,

during her stay at Queen's Crawley,

made as many friends of the Mammon of Unrighteousness as she could possibly bring under control.

Lady Jane and her husband bade her farewell with the warmest demonstrations of good-will.

They looked forward with pleasure to the time when,

the family house in Gaunt Street being repaired and beautified,

they were to meet again in London.

Lady Southdown made her up a packet of medicine and sent a letter by her to the Rev. Lawrence Grills,

exhorting that gentleman to save the brand who "honoured" the letter from the burning.

Pitt accompanied them with four horses in the carriage to Mudbury,

having sent on their baggage in a cart previously,

accompanied with loads of game.

"How happy you will be to see your darling little boy again!"

Lady Crawley said,

taking leave of her kinswoman.

"Oh so happy!"

said Rebecca,

throwing up the green eyes.

She was immensely happy to be free of the place,

and yet loath to go.

Queen's Crawley was abominably stupid,

and yet the air there was somehow purer than that which she had been accustomed to breathe.

Everybody had been dull,

but had been kind in their way.

"It is all the influence of a long course of Three Per Cents,"

Becky said to herself,

and was right very likely.


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.