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with the General of the division, his friend, and had not
seen this last parting. George went away then with the
bouquet; but when he gave it to the owner, there lay a
note, coiled like a snake among the flowers. Rebecca's
eye caught it at once. She had been used to deal with
notes in early life. She put out her hand and took the
nosegay. He saw by her eyes as they met, that she was
aware what she should find there. Her husband hurried her
away, still too intent upon his own thoughts, seemingly,
to take note of any marks of recognition which might
pass between his friend and his wife. These were,
however, but trifling. Rebecca gave George her hand with one
of her usual quick knowing glances, and made a curtsey
and walked away. George bowed over the hand, said
nothing in reply to a remark of Crawley's, did not hear it
even, his brain was so throbbing with triumph and
excitement, and allowed them to go away without a word.
His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet-scene.
It was quite natural that George should come at Rebecca's
request to get her her scarf and flowers: it was no
more than he had done twenty times before in the course
of the last few days; but now it was too much for her.
"William," she said, suddenly clinging to Dobbin, who was
near her, "you've always been very kind to me--I'm--
I'm not well. Take me home." She did not know she called
him by his Christian name, as George was accustomed to
do. He went away with her quickly. Her lodgings were
hard by; and they threaded through the crowd without,
where everything seemed to be more astir than even in the
ball-room within.
George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his
wife up on his return from the parties which he
frequented: so she went straight to bed now; but although
she did not sleep, and although the din and clatter, and
the galloping of horsemen were incessant, she never heard
any of these noises, having quite other disturbances to
keep her awake.
Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a
play-table, and began to bet frantically. He won repeatedly. "Everything succeeds with me to-night," he said.
But his luck at play even did not cure him of his restlessness,
and he started up after awhile, pocketing his winnings,
and went to a buffet, where he drank off many
bumpers of wine.
Here, as he was rattling away to the people around,
laughing loudly and wild with spirits, Dobbin found him.
He had been to the card-tables to look there for his
friend. Dobbin looked as pale and grave as his comrade
was flushed and jovial.
''Hullo, Dob! Come and drink, old Dob! The Duke's
wine is famous. Give me some more, you sir"; and he
held out a trembling glass for the liquor.
"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely; "don't
drink."
"Drink! there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and
light up your lantern jaws, old boy. Here's to you."
Dobbin went up and whispered something to him, at
which George, giving a start and a wild hurray, tossed off
his glass, clapped it on the table, and walked away
speedily on his friend's arm. "The enemy has passed the
Sambre," William said, "and our left is already engaged.
Come away. We are to march in three hours."
Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement
at the news so long looked for, so sudden when it
came. What were love and intrigue now? He thought
about a thousand things but these in his rapid walk to his
quarters--his past life and future chances--the fate which
might be before him--the wife, the child perhaps, from
whom unseen he might be about to part. Oh, how he
wished that night's work undone! and that with a clear
conscience at least he might say farewell to the tender
and guileless being by whose love he had set such little
store!
He thought over his brief married life. In those few
weeks he had frightfully dissipated his little capital. How
wild and reckless he had been! Should any mischance
befall him: what was then left for her? How unworthy he
was of her. Why had he married her? He was not fit for
marriage. Why had he disobeyed his father, who had been
always so generous to him? Hope, remorse, ambition,
tenderness, and selfish regret filled his heart. He sate
down and wrote to his father, remembering what he had
said once before, when he was engaged to fight a duel.
Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell
letter. He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He
thought how he had deserted that generous father, and of
the thousand kindnesses which the stern old man had
done him.
He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered;
she lay quiet, and her eyes seemed closed, and he
was glad that she was asleep. On arriving at his quarters
from the ball, he had found his regimental servant already
making preparations for his departure: the man
had understood his signal to be still, and these arrangements
were very quickly and silently made. Should he go
in and wake Amelia, he thought, or leave a note for her
brother to break the news of departure to her? He went
in to look at her once again.
She had been awake when he first entered her room,
but had kept her eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness
should not seem to reproach him. But when he had
returned, so soon after herself, too, this timid little heart
had felt more at ease, and turning towards him as he
stept softly out of the room, she had fallen into a light
sleep. George came in and looked at her again, entering
still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could see her
sweet, pale face--the purple eyelids were fringed and
closed, and one round arm, smooth and white, lay outside
of the coverlet. Good God! how pure she was; how
gentle, how tender, and how friendless! and he, how
selfish, brutal, and black with crime! Heart-stained, and
shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's foot, and looked at
the sleeping girl. How dared he--who was he, to pray for
one so spotless! God bless her! God bless her! He came to
the bedside, and looked at the hand, the little soft hand,
lying asleep; and he bent over the pillow noiselessly
towards the gentle pale face.
Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he
stooped down. "I am awake, George," the poor child said,
with a sob fit to break the little heart that nestled so
closely by his own. She was awake, poor soul, and to
railings and the beadle: who, if she walked ever so short
a distance to buy a ribbon in Southampton Row, was
followed by Black Sambo with an enormous cane: who
was always cared for, dressed, put to bed, and watched
over by ever so many guardian angels, with and without
wages? Bon Dieu, I say, is it not hard that the fateful
rush of the great Imperial struggle can't take place without
affecting a poor little harmless girl of eighteen, who
is occupied in billing and cooing, or working muslin
collars in Russell Square? You too, kindly, homely flower!
--is the great roaring war tempest coming to sweep you
down, here, although cowering under the shelter of
Holborn? Yes; Napoleon is flinging his last stake, and poor
little Emmy Sedley's happiness forms, somehow, part of it.
In the first place, her father's fortune was swept down
with that fatal news. All his speculations had of late gone
wrong with the luckless old gentleman. Ventures had
failed; merchants had broken; funds had risen when he
calculated they would fall. What need to particularize?
If success is rare and slow, everybody knows how quick
and easy ruin is. Old Sedley had kept his own sad counsel.
Everything seemed to go on as usual in the quiet,
opulent house; the good-natured mistress pursuing, quite
unsuspiciously, her bustling idleness, and daily easy
avocations; the daughter absorbed still in one selfish, tender
thought, and quite regardless of all the world besides,
when that final crash came, under which the worthy
family fell.
One night Mrs. Sedley was writing cards for a party;
the Osbornes had given one, and she must not be
behindhand; John Sedley, who had come home very late from
the City, sate silent at the chimney side, while his wife
was prattling to him; Emmy had gone up to her room
ailing and low-spirited. "She's not happy," the mother
went on. "George Osborne neglects her. I've no patience
with the airs of those people. The girls have not been in
the house these three weeks; and George has been twice
in town without coming. Edward Dale saw him at the
Opera. Edward would marry her I'm sure: and there's
Captain Dobbin who, I think, would--only I hate all
army men. Such a dandy as George has become. With
his military airs, indeed! We must show some folks that
we're as good as they. Only give Edward Dale any
encouragement, and you'll see. We must have a party, Mr.
S. Why don't you speak, John? Shall I say Tuesday fortnight?
Why don't you answer? Good God, John, what has happened?"
John Sedley sprang up out of his chair to meet his
wife, who ran to him. He seized her in his arms, and
said with a hasty voice, "We're ruined, Mary. We've
got the world to begin over again, dear. It's best that you
should know all, and at once." As he spoke, he trembled
in every limb, and almost fell. He thought the news would
have overpowered his wife--his wife, to whom he had
never said a hard word. But it was he that was the most
moved, sudden as the shock was to her. When he sank
back into his seat, it was the wife that took the office of
consoler. She took his trembling hand, and kissed it, and
put it round her neck: she called him her John--her dear
John--her old man--her kind old man; she poured out a
hundred words of incoherent love and tenderness; her
faithful voice and simple caresses wrought this sad heart
up to an inexpressible delight and anguish, and cheered
and solaced his over-burdened soul.
Only once in the course of the long night as they sate
together, and poor Sedley opened his pent-up soul, and
told the story of his losses and embarrassments--the
treason of some of his oldest friends, the manly kindness
of some, from whom he never could have expected it--in
a general confession--only once did the faithful wife give
way to emotion.
"My God, my God, it will break Emmy's heart," she
said.
The father had forgotten the poor girl. She was lying,
awake and unhappy, overhead. In the midst of friends,
home, and kind parents, she was alone. To how many
people can any one tell all? Who will be open where there
is no sympathy, or has call to speak to those who never
can understand? Our gentle Amelia was thus solitary. She
had no confidante, so to speak, ever since she had anything
to confide. She could not tell the old mother her
doubts and cares; the would-be sisters seemed every day
more strange to her. And she had misgivings and fears
which she dared not acknowledge to herself, though she
was always secretly brooding over them.
Her heart tried to persist in asserting that George
Osborne was worthy and faithful to her, though she knew
otherwise. How many a thing had she said, and got no
echo from him. How many suspicions of selfishness and
indifference had she to encounter and obstinately
overcome. To whom could the poor little martyr tell these
daily struggles and tortures? Her hero himself only half
understood her. She did not dare to own that the man she
loved was her inferior; or to feel that she had given her
heart away too soon. Given once, the pure bashful
maiden was too modest, too tender, too trustful, too
weak, too much woman to recall it. We are Turks with
the affections of our women; and have made them
subscribe to our doctrine too. We let their bodies go abroad
liberally enough, with smiles and ringlets and pink
bonnets to disguise them instead of veils and yakmaks. But
their souls must be seen by only one man, and they obey
not unwillingly, and consent to remain at home as our
slaves--ministering to us and doing drudgery for us.
So imprisoned and tortured was this gentle little heart,
when in the month of March, Anno Domini 1815,
Napoleon landed at Cannes, and Louis XVIII fled, and all
Europe was in alarm, and the funds fell, and old John
Sedley was ruined.
We are not going to follow the worthy old stockbroker
through those last pangs and agonies of ruin through
which he passed before his commercial demise befell.
They declared him at the Stock Exchange; he was
absent from his house of business: his bills were protested:
his act of bankruptcy formal. The house and furniture of
Russell Square were seized and sold up, and he and his
family were thrust away, as we have seen, to hide their
heads where they might.
John Sedley had not the heart to review the domestic
establishment who have appeared now and anon in our
pages and of whom he was now forced by poverty to
take leave. The wages of those worthy people were
discharged with that punctuality which men frequently show
who only owe in great sums--they were sorry to leave
good places--but they did not break their hearts at parting
from their adored master and mistress. Amelia's maid
was profuse in condolences, but went off quite resigned
to better herself in a genteeler quarter of the town. Black
Sambo, with the infatuation of his profession, determined
on setting up a public-house. Honest old Mrs. Blenkinsop
indeed, who had seen the birth of Jos and Amelia, and
the wooing of John Sedley and his wife, was for staying
by them without wages, having amassed a considerable
sum in their service: and she accompanied the fallen
people into their new and humble place of refuge, where
she tended them and grumbled against them for a while.
Of all Sedley's opponents in his debates with his creditors
which now ensued, and harassed the feelings of the
humiliated old gentleman so severely, that in six weeks he
oldened more than he had done for fifteen years before--
the most determined and obstinate seemed to be John
Osborne, his old friend and neighbour--John Osborne,
whom he had set up in life--who was under a hundred
obligations to him--and whose son was to marry Sedley's
daughter. Any one of these circumstances would account
for the bitterness of Osborne's opposition.
When one man has been under very remarkable
obligations to another, with whom he subsequently quarrels,
a common sense of decency, as it were, makes of the
former a much severer enemy than a mere stranger
would be. To account for your own hard-heartedness and
ingratitude in such a case, you are bound to prove the
other party's crime. It is not that you are selfish, brutal,
and angry at the failure of a speculation--no, no--it is
that your partner has led you into it by the basest treachery
and with the most sinister motives. From a mere
sense of consistency, a persecutor is bound to show that
the fallen man is a villain--otherwise he, the persecutor,
is a wretch himself.
And as a general rule, which may make all creditors
who are inclined to be severe pretty comfortable in their
minds, no men embarrassed are altogether honest, very
likely. They conceal something; they exaggerate chances
of good luck; hide away the real state of affairs; say that
things are flourishing when they are hopeless, keep a
smiling face (a dreary smile it is) upon the verge of
bankruptcy--are ready to lay hold of any pretext for
delay or of any money, so as to stave off the inevitable
ruin a few days longer. "Down with such dishonesty,"
says the creditor in triumph, and reviles his sinking
enemy. "You fool, why do you catch at a straw?" calm
good sense says to the man that is drowning. "You villain,
why do you shrink from plunging into the irretrievable
Gazette?" says prosperity to the poor devil battling in
that black gulf. Who has not remarked the readiness with
which the closest of friends and honestest of men suspect
and accuse each other of cheating when they fall out
on money matters? Everybody does it. Everybody is right,
I suppose, and the world is a rogue.
Then Osborne had the intolerable sense of former
benefits to goad and irritate him: these are always a
cause of hostility aggravated. Finally, he had to break off
the match between Sedley's daughter and his son; and
as it had gone very far indeed, and as the poor girl's
happiness and perhaps character were compromised, it was
necessary to show the strongest reasons for the rupture,
and for John Osborne to prove John Sedley to be a very
bad character indeed.
At the meetings of creditors, then, he comported himself
with a savageness and scorn towards Sedley, which
almost succeeded in breaking the heart of that ruined
bankrupt man. On George's intercourse with Amelia he
put an instant veto--menacing the youth with maledictions
if he broke his commands, and vilipending the
poor innocent girl as the basest and most artful of vixens.
One of the great conditions of anger and hatred is, that
you must tell and believe lies against the hated object, in
order, as we said, to be consistent.
When the great crash came--the announcement of
ruin, and the departure from Russell Square, and the
declaration that all was over between her and George--all
over between her and love, her and happiness, her and
faith in the world--a brutal letter from John Osborne
told her in a few curt lines that her father's conduct had
been of such a nature that all engagements between the
families were at an end--when the final award came, it
did not shock her so much as her parents, as her mother
rather expected (for John Sedley himself was entirely
prostrate in the ruins of his own affairs and shattered
honour). Amelia took the news very palely and calmly.
It was only the confirmation of the dark presages which
had long gone before. It was the mere reading of the
sentence--of the crime she had long ago been guilty--the
crime of loving wrongly, too violently, against reason.
She told no more of her thoughts now than she had
before. She seemed scarcely more unhappy now when
convinced all hope was over, than before when she felt but
dared not confess that it was gone. So she changed from
the large house to the small one without any mark or
difference; remained in her little room for the most part;
pined silently; and died away day by day. I do not mean
to say that all females are so. My dear Miss Bullock, I
do not think your heart would break in this way. You are
a strong-minded young woman with proper principles.
I do not venture to say that mine would; it has suffered,
and, it must be confessed, survived. But there are some
souls thus gently constituted, thus frail, and delicate, and
tender.
Whenever old John Sedley thought of the affair
between George and Amelia, or alluded to it, it was with
bitterness almost as great as Mr. Osborne himself had
shown. He cursed Osborne and his family as heartless,
wicked, and ungrateful. No power on earth, he swore,
would induce him to marry his daughter to the son of
such a villain, and he ordered Emmy to banish George
from her mind, and to return all the presents and letters
which she had ever had from him.
She promised acquiescence, and tried to obey. She put
up the two or three trinkets: and, as for the letters, she
drew them out of the place.where she kept them; and
read them over--as if she did not know them by heart
already: but she could not part with them. That effort
was too much for her; she placed them back in her
bosom again--as you have seen a woman nurse a child
that is dead. Young Amelia felt that she would die or lose
her senses outright, if torn away from this last consolation.
How she used to blush and lighten up when those
letters came! How she used to trip away with a beating
heart, so that she might read unseen! If they were cold,
yet how perversely this fond little soul interpreted them
into warmth. If they were short or selfish, what excuses
she found for the writer!
It was over these few worthless papers that she brooded
and brooded. She lived in her past life--every letter
seemed to recall some circumstance of it. How well she
remembered them all! His looks and tones, his dress,
what he said and how--these relics and remembrances
of dead affection were all that were left her in the world.
And the business of her life, was--to watch the corpse
of Love.
To death she looked with inexpressible longing. Then,
she thought, I shall always be able to follow him. I am not
praising her conduct or setting her up as a model for
Miss Bullock to imitate. Miss B. knows how to regulate
her feelings better than this poor little creature. Miss B.
would never have committed herself as that imprudent
Amelia had done; pledged her love irretrievably;
confessed her heart away, and got back nothing--only a
brittle promise which was snapt and worthless in a
moment. A long engagement is a partnership which one
party is free to keep or to break, but which involves all
the capital of the other.
Be cautious then, young ladies; be wary how you
engage. Be shy of loving frankly; never tell all you feel, or
(a better way still), feel very little. See the consequences
of being prematurely honest and confiding, and mistrust
yourselves and everybody. Get yourselves married as they
do in France, where the lawyers are the bridesmaids and
confidantes. At any rate, never have any feelings which
may make you uncomfortable, or make any promises
which you cannot at any required moment command and
withdraw. That is the way to get on, and be respected,
and have a virtuous character in Vanity Fair.
If Amelia could have heard the comments regarding
her which were made in the circle from which her father's
ruin had just driven her, she would have seen what her
own crimes were, and how entirely her character was
jeopardised. Such criminal imprudence Mrs. Smith never
knew of; such horrid familiarities Mrs. Brown had
always condemned, and the end might be a warning to HER
daughters. "Captain Osborne, of course, could not marry
a bankrupt's daughter," the Misses Dobbin said. "It was
quite enough to have been swindled by the father. As for
that little Amelia, her folly had really passed all--"
"All what?" Captain Dobbin roared out. "Haven't they
been engaged ever since they were children? Wasn't it
as good as a marriage? Dare any soul on earth breathe a
word against the sweetest, the purest, the tenderest, the
most angelical of young women?"
"La, William, don't be so highty-tighty with US. We're
not men. We can't fight you," Miss Jane said. "We've said
nothing against Miss Sedley: but that her conduct
throughout was MOST IMPRUDENT, not to call it by any
worse name; and that her parents are people who
certainly merit their misfortunes."
"Hadn't you better, now that Miss Sedley is free,
propose for her yourself, William?" Miss Ann asked
sarcastically. "It would be a most eligible family
connection. He! he!"
"I marry her!" Dobbin said, blushing very much, and
talking quick. "If you are so ready, young ladies, to chop
and change, do you suppose that she is? Laugh and sneer
at that angel. She can't hear it; and she's miserable and
unfortunate, and deserves to be laughed at. Go on
joking, Ann. You're the wit of the family, and the others
like to hear it."
"I must tell you again we're not in a barrack, William,"
Miss Ann remarked.
"In a barrack, by Jove--I wish anybody in a barrack
would say what you do," cried out this uproused British
lion. "I should like to hear a man breathe a word against
her, by Jupiter. But men don't talk in this way, Ann: it's
only women, who get together and hiss, and shriek, and
cackle. There, get away--don't begin to cry. I only said
you were a couple of geese," Will Dobbin said, perceiving
Miss Ann's pink eyes were beginning to moisten as
usual. "Well, you're not geese, you're swans--anything
you like, only do, do leave Miss Sedley alone."
Anything like William's infatuation about that silly little
flirting, ogling thing was never known, the mamma
and sisters agreed together in thinking: and they trembled
lest, her engagement being off with Osborne, she should
take up immediately her other admirer and Captain.
In which forebodings these worthy young women no
doubt judged according to the best of their experience; or
rather (for as yet they had had no opportunities of
marrying or of jilting) according to their own notions of
right and wrong.
"It is a mercy, Mamma, that the regiment is ordered
abroad," the girls said. "THIS danger, at any rate, is
spared our brother."
Such, indeed, was the fact; and so it is that the French
Emperor comes in to perform a part in this domestic
comedy of Vanity Fair which we are now playing, and
which would never have been enacted without the
intervention of this august mute personage. It was he
that ruined the Bourbons and Mr. John Sedley. It was
he whose arrival in his capital called up all France in
arms to defend him there; and all Europe to oust him.
While the French nation and army were swearing fidelity
round the eagles in the Champ de Mars, four mighty
European hosts were getting in motion for the great
chasse a l'aigle; and one of these was a British army, of
which two heroes of ours, Captain Dobbin and Captain
Osborne, formed a portion.
The news of Napoleon's escape and landing was
received by the gallant --th with a fiery delight and
enthusiasm, which everybody can understand who knows
that famous corps. From the colonel to the smallest
drummer in the regiment, all were filled with hope and
ambition and patriotic fury; and thanked the French Emperor
as for a personal kindness in coming to disturb the peace
of Europe. Now was the time the --th had so long
panted for, to show their comrades in arms that they
could fight as well as the Peninsular veterans, and that
all the pluck and valour of the --th had not been killed
by the West Indies and the yellow fever. Stubble and
Spooney looked to get their companies without purchase.
Before the end of the campaign (which she resolved
to share), Mrs. Major O'Dowd hoped to write
herself Mrs. Colonel O'Dowd, C.B. Our two friends
(Dobbin and Osborne) were quite as much excited as the
rest: and each in his way--Mr. Dobbin very quietly, Mr.
Osborne very loudly and energetically--was bent upon
doing his duty, and gaining his share of honour and
distinction.
The agitation thrilling through the country and army
in consequence of this news was so great, that private
matters were little heeded: and hence probably George
Osborne, just gazetted to his company, busy with preparations
for the march, which must come inevitably, and
panting for further promotion--was not so much affected
by other incidents which would have interested him at a
more quiet period. He was not, it must be confessed,
very much cast down by good old Mr. Sedley's catastrophe.
He tried his new uniform, which became him
very handsomely, on the day when the first meeting of
the creditors of the unfortunate gentleman took place.
His father told him of the wicked, rascally, shameful
conduct of the bankrupt, reminded him of what he had
said about Amelia, and that their connection was broken
off for ever; and gave him that evening a good sum of
money to pay for the new clothes and epaulets in which
he looked so well. Money was always useful to this free-
handed young fellow, and he took it without many words.
The bills were up in the Sedley house, where he had
passed so many, many happy hours. He could see
them as he walked from home that night (to the Old
Slaughters', where he put up when in town) shining white
in the moon. That comfortable home was shut, then, upon
Amelia and her parents: where had they taken refuge?
The thought of their ruin affected him not a little. He
was very melancholy that night in the coffee-room at
the Slaughters'; and drank a good deal, as his comrades
remarked there.
Dobbin came in presently, cautioned him about the
drink, which he only took, he said, because he was
deuced low; but when his friend began to put to him
clumsy inquiries, and asked him for news in a significant
manner, Osborne declined entering into conversation with
him, avowing, however, that he was devilish disturbed
and unhappy.
Three days afterwards, Dobbin found Osborne in his
room at the barracks--his head on the table, a number
of papers about, the young Captain evidently in a state
of great despondency. "She--she's sent me back some
things I gave her--some damned trinkets. Look here!"
There was a little packet directed in the well-known hand
to Captain George Osborne, and some things lying about
--a ring, a silver knife he had bought, as a boy, for her
at a fair; a gold chain, and a locket with hair in it. "It's
all over," said he, with a groan of sickening remorse.
"Look, Will, you may read it if you like."
There was a little letter of a few lines, to which he
pointed, which said:
My papa has ordered me to return to you these
presents, which you made in happier days to me; and I
am to write to you for the last time. I think, I know you
feel as much as I do the blow which has come upon us.
It is I that absolve you from an engagement which is
impossible in our present misery. I am sure you had no
share in it, or in the cruel suspicions of Mr. Osborne,
which are the hardest of all our griefs to bear. Farewell.
Farewell. I pray God to strengthen me to bear this and
other calamities, and to bless you always. A.
I shall often play upon the piano--your piano. It was
like you to send it.
Dobbin was very soft-hearted. The sight of women
and children in pain always used to melt him. The idea
of Amelia broken-hearted and lonely tore that good-
natured soul with anguish. And he broke out into an
emotion, which anybody who likes may consider unmanly.
He swore that Amelia was an angel, to which Osborne
said aye with all his heart. He, too, had been reviewing
the history of their lives--and had seen her from her
childhood to her present age, so sweet, so innocent,
so charmingly simple, and artlessly fond and tender.
What a pang it was to lose all that: to have had it and
not prized it! A thousand homely scenes and recollections
crowded on him--in which he always saw her good
and beautiful. And for himself, he blushed with remorse
and shame, as the remembrance of his own selfishness
and indifference contrasted with that perfect purity. For
a while, glory, war, everything was forgotten, and the
pair of friends talked about her only.
"Where are they?" Osborne asked, after a long talk,
and a long pause--and, in truth, with no little shame at
thinking that he had taken no steps to follow her. "Where
are they? There's no address to the note."
Dobbin knew. He had not merely sent the piano; but
had written a note to Mrs. Sedley, and asked permission
to come and see her--and he had seen her, and Amelia
too, yesterday, before he came down to Chatham; and,
what is more, he had brought that farewell letter and
packet which had so moved them.
The good-natured fellow had found Mrs. Sedley only
too willing to receive him, and greatly agitated by the
arrival of the piano, which, as she conjectured, MUST have
come from George, and was a signal of amity on his
part. Captain Dobbin did not correct this error of the
worthy lady, but listened to all her story of complaints
and misfortunes with great sympathy--condoled with
her losses and privations, and agreed in reprehending the
cruel conduct of Mr. Osborne towards his first benefactor.
When she had eased her overflowing bosom somewhat,
and poured forth many of her sorrows, he had the
courage to ask actually to see Amelia, who was above in
her room as usual, and whom her mother led trembling
downstairs.
Her appearance was so ghastly, and her look of despair
so pathetic, that honest William Dobbin was frightened
as he beheld it; and read the most fatal forebodings in
that pale fixed face. After sitting in his company a minute
or two, she put the packet into his hand, and said,
"Take this to Captain Osborne, if you please, and--and I
hope he's quite well--and it was very kind of you to
come and see us--and we like our new house very much.
And I--I think I'll go upstairs, Mamma, for I'm not very
strong." And with this, and a curtsey and a smile, the
poor child went her way. The mother, as she led her up,
cast back looks of anguish towards Dobbin. The good
fellow wanted no such appeal. He loved her himself too
fondly for that. Inexpressible grief, and pity, and terror
pursued him, and he came away as if he was a criminal
after seeing her.
When Osborne heard that his friend had found her,
he made hot and anxious inquiries regarding the poor
child. How was she? How did she look? What did she
say? His comrade took his hand, and looked him in the
face.
"George, she's dying," William Dobbin said--and could
speak no more.
There was a buxom Irish servant-girl, who performed
all the duties of the little house where the Sedley family
had found refuge: and this girl had in vain, on many
previous days, striven to give Amelia aid or consolation.
Emmy was much too sad to answer, or even to be aware
of the attempts the other was making in her favour.
Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne,
this servant-maid came into Amelia's room, where she
sate as usual, brooding silently over her letters--her
little treasures. The girl, smiling, and looking arch and
happy, made many trials to attract poor Emmy's
attention, who, however, took no heed of her.
"Miss Emmy," said the girl.
"I'm coming," Emmy said, not looking round.
"There's a message," the maid went on. "There's
something--somebody--sure, here's a new letter for you--
don't be reading them old ones any more." And she gave
her a letter, which Emmy took, and read.
"I must see you," the letter said. "Dearest Emmy--
dearest love--dearest wife, come to me."
George and her mother were outside, waiting until she
had read the letter.
CHAPTER XIX
Miss Crawley at Nurse
We have seen how Mrs. Firkin, the lady's maid, as soon
as any event of importance to the Crawley family came
to her knowledge, felt bound to communicate it to Mrs.
Bute Crawley, at the Rectory; and have before
mentioned how particularly kind and attentive that good-
natured lady was to Miss Crawley's confidential servant.
She had been a gracious friend to Miss Briggs, the
companion, also; and had secured the latter's good-will by a
number of those attentions and promises, which cost so
little in the making, and are yet so valuable and agreeable to
the recipient. Indeed every good economist and
manager of a household must know how cheap and yet
how amiable these professions are, and what a flavour
they give to the most homely dish in life. Who was the
blundering idiot who said that "fine words butter no
parsnips"? Half the parsnips of society are served and
rendered palatable with no other sauce. As the immortal
Alexis Soyer can make more delicious soup for a half-
penny than an ignorant cook can concoct with pounds of
vegetables and meat, so a skilful artist will make a few
simple and pleasing phrases go farther than ever so much
substantial benefit-stock in the hands of a mere bungler.
Nay, we know that substantial benefits often sicken some
stomachs; whereas, most will digest any amount of fine
words, and be always eager for more of the same food.
Mrs. Bute had told Briggs and Firkin so often of the
depth of her affection for them; and what she would do,
if she had Miss Crawley's fortune, for friends so excellent
and attached, that the ladies in question had the deepest
regard for her; and felt as much gratitude and
confidence as if Mrs. Bute had loaded them with the most
expensive favours.
Rawdon Crawley, on the other hand, like a selfish
heavy dragoon as he was, never took the least trouble to
conciliate his aunt's aides-de-camp, showed his contempt
for the pair with entire frankness--made Firkin pull off
his boots on one occasion--sent her out in the rain on
ignominious messages--and if he gave her a guinea, flung
it to her as if it were a box on the ear. As his aunt, too,
made a butt of Briggs, the Captain followed the
example, and levelled his jokes at her--jokes about as
delicate as a kick from his charger. Whereas, Mrs. Bute
consulted her in matters of taste or difficulty, admired
her poetry, and by a thousand acts of kindness and
politeness, showed her appreciation of Briggs; and if she
made Firkin a twopenny-halfpenny present, accompanied
it with so many compliments, that the twopence-half-
penny was transmuted into gold in the heart of the grateful
waiting-maid, who, besides, was looking forwards
quite contentedly to some prodigious benefit which must
happen to her on the day when Mrs. Bute came into her
fortune.
The different conduct of these two people is pointed
out respectfully to the attention of persons commencing
the world. Praise everybody, I say to such: never be
squeamish, but speak out your compliment both point-
blank in a man's face, and behind his back, when
you know there is a reasonable chance of his hearing it
again. Never lose a chance of saying a kind word. As
Collingwood never saw a vacant place in his estate but
he took an acorn out of his pocket and popped it in;
so deal with your compliments through life. An acorn
costs nothing; but it may sprout into a prodigious bit of
timber.
In a word, during Rawdon Crawley's prosperity, he was
only obeyed with sulky acquiescence; when his disgrace
came, there was nobody to help or pity him. Whereas,
when Mrs. Bute took the command at Miss Crawley's
house, the garrison there were charmed to act under
such a leader, expecting all sorts of promotion from her
promises, her generosity, and her kind words.
That he would consider himself beaten, after one defeat,
and make no attempt to regain the position he had
lost, Mrs. Bute Crawley never allowed herself to suppose.
She knew Rebecca to be too clever and spirited and
desperate a woman to submit without a struggle; and felt
that she must prepare for that combat, and be incessantly
watchful against assault; or mine, or surprise.
In the first place, though she held the town, was she
sure of the principal inhabitant? Would Miss Crawley
herself hold out; and had she not a secret longing to
welcome back the ousted adversary? The old lady liked
Rawdon, and Rebecca, who amused her. Mrs. Bute could
not disguise from herself the fact that none of her party
could so contribute to the pleasures of the town-bred
lady. "My girls' singing, after that little odious governess's,
I know is unbearable," the candid Rector's wife
owned to herself. "She always used to go to sleep when
Martha and Louisa played their duets. Jim's stiff
college manners and poor dear Bute's talk about his dogs
and horses always annoyed her. If I took her to the
Rectory, she would grow angry with us all, and fly, I
know she would; and might fall into that horrid
Rawdon's clutches again, and be the victim of that little
viper of a Sharp. Meanwhile, it is clear to me that she is
exceedingly unwell, and cannot move for some weeks, at
any rate; during which we must think of some plan to
protect her from the arts of those unprincipled people."
In the very best-of moments, if anybody told Miss
Crawley that she was, or looked ill, the trembling old
lady sent off for her doctor; and I daresay she was very
unwell after the sudden family event, which might serve
to shake stronger nerves than hers. At least, Mrs. Bute
thought it was her duty to inform the physician, and the
apothecary, and the dame-de-compagnie, and the domestics,
that Miss Crawley was in a most critical state, and
that they were to act accordingly. She had the street laid
knee-deep with straw; and the knocker put by with Mr.
Bowls's plate. She insisted that the Doctor should call
twice a day; and deluged her patient with draughts every
two hours. When anybody entered the room, she uttered
a shshshsh so sibilant and ominous, that it frightened the
poor old lady in her bed, from which she could
not look without seeing Mrs. Bute's beady eyes eagerly
fixed on her, as the latter sate steadfast in the arm-chair
by the bedside. They seemed to lighten in the dark (for
she kept the curtains closed) as she moved about the
room on velvet paws like a cat. There Miss Crawley lay
for days--ever so many days--Mr. Bute reading books
of devotion to her: for nights, long nights, during which
she had to hear the watchman sing, the night-light sputter;
visited at midnight, the last thing, by the stealthy apothecary;
and then left to look at Mrs. Bute's twinkling eyes,
or the flicks of yellow that the rushlight threw on the
dreary darkened ceiling. Hygeia herself would have
fallen sick under such a regimen; and how much more
this poor old nervous victim? It has been said that when
she was in health and good spirits, this venerable
inhabitant of Vanity Fair had as free notions about religion
and morals as Monsieur de Voltaire himself could desire,
but when illness overtook her, it was aggravated by
the most dreadful terrors of death, and an utter cowardice
took possession of the prostrate old sinner.
Sick-bed homilies and pious reflections are, to be sure,
out of place in mere story-books, and we are not going
(after the fashion of some novelists of the present day)
to cajole the.public into a sermon, when it is only a
comedy that the reader pays his money to witness. But,
without preaching, the truth may surely be borne in mind,
that the bustle, and triumph, and laughter, and gaiety
which Vanity Fair exhibits in public, do not always pursue
the performer into private life, and that the most
dreary depression of spirits and dismal repentances
sometimes overcome him. Recollection of the best ordained
banquets will scarcely cheer sick epicures. Reminiscences
of the most becoming dresses and brilliant ball triumphs
will go very little way to console faded beauties. Perhaps
statesmen, at a particular period of existence, are
not much gratified at thinking over the most triumphant
divisions; and the success or the pleasure of yesterday
becomes of very small account when a certain
(albeit uncertain) morrow is in view, about which all of
us must some day or other be speculating. O brother
wearers of motley! Are there not moments when one
grows sick of grinning and tumbling, and the jingling of
cap and bells? This, dear friends and companions, is my
amiable object--to walk with you through the Fair, to
examine the shops and the shows there; and that we
should all come home after the flare, and the noise, and
the gaiety, and be perfectly miserable in private.
"If that poor man of mine had a head on his shoulders,"
Mrs. Bute Crawley thought to herself, "how useful he
might be, under present circumstances, to this unhappy
old lady! He might make her repent of her shocking
free-thinking ways; he might urge her to do her duty,
and cast off that odious reprobate who has disgraced
himself and his family; and he might induce her to do
justice to my dear girls and the two boys, who require
and deserve, I am sure, every assistance which their
relatives can give them."
And, as the hatred of vice is always a progress towards
virtue, Mrs. Bute Crawley endeavoured to instil
her sister-in-law a proper abhorrence for all Rawdon
Crawley's manifold sins: of which his uncle's wife brought
forward such a catalogue as indeed would have served
to condemn a whole regiment of young officers. If a man
has committed wrong in life, I don't know any moralist
more anxious to point his errors out to the world than
his own relations; so Mrs. Bute showed a perfect family
interest and knowledge of Rawdon's history. She had all
the particulars of that ugly quarrel with Captain Marker,
in which Rawdon, wrong from the beginning, ended in
shooting the Captain. She knew how the unhappy Lord
Dovedale, whose mamma had taken a house at Oxford,
so that he might be educated there, and who had never
touched a card in his life till he came to London, was
perverted by Rawdon at the Cocoa-Tree, made helplessly
tipsy by this abominable seducer and perverter of youth,
and fleeced of four thousand pounds. She described with
the most vivid minuteness the agonies of the country
families whom he had ruined--the sons whom he had
plunged into dishonour and poverty--the daughters
whom he had inveigled into perdition. She knew the poor
tradesmen who were bankrupt by his extravagance--the
mean shifts and rogueries with which he had ministered
to it--the astounding falsehoods by which he had imposed
upon the most generous of aunts, and the ingratitude and
ridicule by which he had repaid her sacrifices. She
imparted these stories gradually to Miss Crawley; gave her
the whole benefit of them; felt it to be her bounden duty
as a Christian woman and mother of a family to do so;
had not the smallest remorse or compunction for the
victim whom her tongue was immolating; nay, very likely
thought her act was quite meritorious, and plumed
herself upon her resolute manner of performing it. Yes,
if a man's character is to be abused, say what you will,
there's nobody like a relation to do the business. And one
is bound to own, regarding this unfortunate wretch of a
Rawdon Crawley, that the mere truth was enough to
condemn him, and that all inventions of scandal were quite
superfluous pains on his friends' parts.
Rebecca, too, being now a relative, came in for the
fullest share of Mrs. Bute's kind inquiries. This indefatigable
pursuer of truth (having given strict orders that the
door was to be denied to all emissaries or letters
from Rawdon), took Miss Crawley's carriage, and drove
to her old friend Miss Pinkerton, at Minerva House,
Chiswick Mall, to whom she announced the dreadful
intelligence of Captain Rawdon's seduction by Miss Sharp,
and from whom she got sundry strange particulars
regarding the ex-governess's birth and early history. The
friend of the Lexicographer had plenty of information
to give. Miss Jemima was made to fetch the drawing-
master's receipts and letters. This one was from a
spunging-house: that entreated an advance: another was
seen this last parting. George went away then with the
bouquet; but when he gave it to the owner, there lay a
note, coiled like a snake among the flowers. Rebecca's
eye caught it at once. She had been used to deal with
notes in early life. She put out her hand and took the
nosegay. He saw by her eyes as they met, that she was
aware what she should find there. Her husband hurried her
away, still too intent upon his own thoughts, seemingly,
to take note of any marks of recognition which might
pass between his friend and his wife. These were,
however, but trifling. Rebecca gave George her hand with one
of her usual quick knowing glances, and made a curtsey
and walked away. George bowed over the hand, said
nothing in reply to a remark of Crawley's, did not hear it
even, his brain was so throbbing with triumph and
excitement, and allowed them to go away without a word.
His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet-scene.
It was quite natural that George should come at Rebecca's
request to get her her scarf and flowers: it was no
more than he had done twenty times before in the course
of the last few days; but now it was too much for her.
"William," she said, suddenly clinging to Dobbin, who was
near her, "you've always been very kind to me--I'm--
I'm not well. Take me home." She did not know she called
him by his Christian name, as George was accustomed to
do. He went away with her quickly. Her lodgings were
hard by; and they threaded through the crowd without,
where everything seemed to be more astir than even in the
ball-room within.
George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his
wife up on his return from the parties which he
frequented: so she went straight to bed now; but although
she did not sleep, and although the din and clatter, and
the galloping of horsemen were incessant, she never heard
any of these noises, having quite other disturbances to
keep her awake.
Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a
play-table, and began to bet frantically. He won repeatedly. "Everything succeeds with me to-night," he said.
But his luck at play even did not cure him of his restlessness,
and he started up after awhile, pocketing his winnings,
and went to a buffet, where he drank off many
bumpers of wine.
Here, as he was rattling away to the people around,
laughing loudly and wild with spirits, Dobbin found him.
He had been to the card-tables to look there for his
friend. Dobbin looked as pale and grave as his comrade
was flushed and jovial.
''Hullo, Dob! Come and drink, old Dob! The Duke's
wine is famous. Give me some more, you sir"; and he
held out a trembling glass for the liquor.
"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely; "don't
drink."
"Drink! there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and
light up your lantern jaws, old boy. Here's to you."
Dobbin went up and whispered something to him, at
which George, giving a start and a wild hurray, tossed off
his glass, clapped it on the table, and walked away
speedily on his friend's arm. "The enemy has passed the
Sambre," William said, "and our left is already engaged.
Come away. We are to march in three hours."
Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement
at the news so long looked for, so sudden when it
came. What were love and intrigue now? He thought
about a thousand things but these in his rapid walk to his
quarters--his past life and future chances--the fate which
might be before him--the wife, the child perhaps, from
whom unseen he might be about to part. Oh, how he
wished that night's work undone! and that with a clear
conscience at least he might say farewell to the tender
and guileless being by whose love he had set such little
store!
He thought over his brief married life. In those few
weeks he had frightfully dissipated his little capital. How
wild and reckless he had been! Should any mischance
befall him: what was then left for her? How unworthy he
was of her. Why had he married her? He was not fit for
marriage. Why had he disobeyed his father, who had been
always so generous to him? Hope, remorse, ambition,
tenderness, and selfish regret filled his heart. He sate
down and wrote to his father, remembering what he had
said once before, when he was engaged to fight a duel.
Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell
letter. He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He
thought how he had deserted that generous father, and of
the thousand kindnesses which the stern old man had
done him.
He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered;
she lay quiet, and her eyes seemed closed, and he
was glad that she was asleep. On arriving at his quarters
from the ball, he had found his regimental servant already
making preparations for his departure: the man
had understood his signal to be still, and these arrangements
were very quickly and silently made. Should he go
in and wake Amelia, he thought, or leave a note for her
brother to break the news of departure to her? He went
in to look at her once again.
She had been awake when he first entered her room,
but had kept her eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness
should not seem to reproach him. But when he had
returned, so soon after herself, too, this timid little heart
had felt more at ease, and turning towards him as he
stept softly out of the room, she had fallen into a light
sleep. George came in and looked at her again, entering
still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could see her
sweet, pale face--the purple eyelids were fringed and
closed, and one round arm, smooth and white, lay outside
of the coverlet. Good God! how pure she was; how
gentle, how tender, and how friendless! and he, how
selfish, brutal, and black with crime! Heart-stained, and
shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's foot, and looked at
the sleeping girl. How dared he--who was he, to pray for
one so spotless! God bless her! God bless her! He came to
the bedside, and looked at the hand, the little soft hand,
lying asleep; and he bent over the pillow noiselessly
towards the gentle pale face.
Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he
stooped down. "I am awake, George," the poor child said,
with a sob fit to break the little heart that nestled so
closely by his own. She was awake, poor soul, and to
railings and the beadle: who, if she walked ever so short
a distance to buy a ribbon in Southampton Row, was
followed by Black Sambo with an enormous cane: who
was always cared for, dressed, put to bed, and watched
over by ever so many guardian angels, with and without
wages? Bon Dieu, I say, is it not hard that the fateful
rush of the great Imperial struggle can't take place without
affecting a poor little harmless girl of eighteen, who
is occupied in billing and cooing, or working muslin
collars in Russell Square? You too, kindly, homely flower!
--is the great roaring war tempest coming to sweep you
down, here, although cowering under the shelter of
Holborn? Yes; Napoleon is flinging his last stake, and poor
little Emmy Sedley's happiness forms, somehow, part of it.
In the first place, her father's fortune was swept down
with that fatal news. All his speculations had of late gone
wrong with the luckless old gentleman. Ventures had
failed; merchants had broken; funds had risen when he
calculated they would fall. What need to particularize?
If success is rare and slow, everybody knows how quick
and easy ruin is. Old Sedley had kept his own sad counsel.
Everything seemed to go on as usual in the quiet,
opulent house; the good-natured mistress pursuing, quite
unsuspiciously, her bustling idleness, and daily easy
avocations; the daughter absorbed still in one selfish, tender
thought, and quite regardless of all the world besides,
when that final crash came, under which the worthy
family fell.
One night Mrs. Sedley was writing cards for a party;
the Osbornes had given one, and she must not be
behindhand; John Sedley, who had come home very late from
the City, sate silent at the chimney side, while his wife
was prattling to him; Emmy had gone up to her room
ailing and low-spirited. "She's not happy," the mother
went on. "George Osborne neglects her. I've no patience
with the airs of those people. The girls have not been in
the house these three weeks; and George has been twice
in town without coming. Edward Dale saw him at the
Opera. Edward would marry her I'm sure: and there's
Captain Dobbin who, I think, would--only I hate all
army men. Such a dandy as George has become. With
his military airs, indeed! We must show some folks that
we're as good as they. Only give Edward Dale any
encouragement, and you'll see. We must have a party, Mr.
S. Why don't you speak, John? Shall I say Tuesday fortnight?
Why don't you answer? Good God, John, what has happened?"
John Sedley sprang up out of his chair to meet his
wife, who ran to him. He seized her in his arms, and
said with a hasty voice, "We're ruined, Mary. We've
got the world to begin over again, dear. It's best that you
should know all, and at once." As he spoke, he trembled
in every limb, and almost fell. He thought the news would
have overpowered his wife--his wife, to whom he had
never said a hard word. But it was he that was the most
moved, sudden as the shock was to her. When he sank
back into his seat, it was the wife that took the office of
consoler. She took his trembling hand, and kissed it, and
put it round her neck: she called him her John--her dear
John--her old man--her kind old man; she poured out a
hundred words of incoherent love and tenderness; her
faithful voice and simple caresses wrought this sad heart
up to an inexpressible delight and anguish, and cheered
and solaced his over-burdened soul.
Only once in the course of the long night as they sate
together, and poor Sedley opened his pent-up soul, and
told the story of his losses and embarrassments--the
treason of some of his oldest friends, the manly kindness
of some, from whom he never could have expected it--in
a general confession--only once did the faithful wife give
way to emotion.
"My God, my God, it will break Emmy's heart," she
said.
The father had forgotten the poor girl. She was lying,
awake and unhappy, overhead. In the midst of friends,
home, and kind parents, she was alone. To how many
people can any one tell all? Who will be open where there
is no sympathy, or has call to speak to those who never
can understand? Our gentle Amelia was thus solitary. She
had no confidante, so to speak, ever since she had anything
to confide. She could not tell the old mother her
doubts and cares; the would-be sisters seemed every day
more strange to her. And she had misgivings and fears
which she dared not acknowledge to herself, though she
was always secretly brooding over them.
Her heart tried to persist in asserting that George
Osborne was worthy and faithful to her, though she knew
otherwise. How many a thing had she said, and got no
echo from him. How many suspicions of selfishness and
indifference had she to encounter and obstinately
overcome. To whom could the poor little martyr tell these
daily struggles and tortures? Her hero himself only half
understood her. She did not dare to own that the man she
loved was her inferior; or to feel that she had given her
heart away too soon. Given once, the pure bashful
maiden was too modest, too tender, too trustful, too
weak, too much woman to recall it. We are Turks with
the affections of our women; and have made them
subscribe to our doctrine too. We let their bodies go abroad
liberally enough, with smiles and ringlets and pink
bonnets to disguise them instead of veils and yakmaks. But
their souls must be seen by only one man, and they obey
not unwillingly, and consent to remain at home as our
slaves--ministering to us and doing drudgery for us.
So imprisoned and tortured was this gentle little heart,
when in the month of March, Anno Domini 1815,
Napoleon landed at Cannes, and Louis XVIII fled, and all
Europe was in alarm, and the funds fell, and old John
Sedley was ruined.
We are not going to follow the worthy old stockbroker
through those last pangs and agonies of ruin through
which he passed before his commercial demise befell.
They declared him at the Stock Exchange; he was
absent from his house of business: his bills were protested:
his act of bankruptcy formal. The house and furniture of
Russell Square were seized and sold up, and he and his
family were thrust away, as we have seen, to hide their
heads where they might.
John Sedley had not the heart to review the domestic
establishment who have appeared now and anon in our
pages and of whom he was now forced by poverty to
take leave. The wages of those worthy people were
discharged with that punctuality which men frequently show
who only owe in great sums--they were sorry to leave
good places--but they did not break their hearts at parting
from their adored master and mistress. Amelia's maid
was profuse in condolences, but went off quite resigned
to better herself in a genteeler quarter of the town. Black
Sambo, with the infatuation of his profession, determined
on setting up a public-house. Honest old Mrs. Blenkinsop
indeed, who had seen the birth of Jos and Amelia, and
the wooing of John Sedley and his wife, was for staying
by them without wages, having amassed a considerable
sum in their service: and she accompanied the fallen
people into their new and humble place of refuge, where
she tended them and grumbled against them for a while.
Of all Sedley's opponents in his debates with his creditors
which now ensued, and harassed the feelings of the
humiliated old gentleman so severely, that in six weeks he
oldened more than he had done for fifteen years before--
the most determined and obstinate seemed to be John
Osborne, his old friend and neighbour--John Osborne,
whom he had set up in life--who was under a hundred
obligations to him--and whose son was to marry Sedley's
daughter. Any one of these circumstances would account
for the bitterness of Osborne's opposition.
When one man has been under very remarkable
obligations to another, with whom he subsequently quarrels,
a common sense of decency, as it were, makes of the
former a much severer enemy than a mere stranger
would be. To account for your own hard-heartedness and
ingratitude in such a case, you are bound to prove the
other party's crime. It is not that you are selfish, brutal,
and angry at the failure of a speculation--no, no--it is
that your partner has led you into it by the basest treachery
and with the most sinister motives. From a mere
sense of consistency, a persecutor is bound to show that
the fallen man is a villain--otherwise he, the persecutor,
is a wretch himself.
And as a general rule, which may make all creditors
who are inclined to be severe pretty comfortable in their
minds, no men embarrassed are altogether honest, very
likely. They conceal something; they exaggerate chances
of good luck; hide away the real state of affairs; say that
things are flourishing when they are hopeless, keep a
smiling face (a dreary smile it is) upon the verge of
bankruptcy--are ready to lay hold of any pretext for
delay or of any money, so as to stave off the inevitable
ruin a few days longer. "Down with such dishonesty,"
says the creditor in triumph, and reviles his sinking
enemy. "You fool, why do you catch at a straw?" calm
good sense says to the man that is drowning. "You villain,
why do you shrink from plunging into the irretrievable
Gazette?" says prosperity to the poor devil battling in
that black gulf. Who has not remarked the readiness with
which the closest of friends and honestest of men suspect
and accuse each other of cheating when they fall out
on money matters? Everybody does it. Everybody is right,
I suppose, and the world is a rogue.
Then Osborne had the intolerable sense of former
benefits to goad and irritate him: these are always a
cause of hostility aggravated. Finally, he had to break off
the match between Sedley's daughter and his son; and
as it had gone very far indeed, and as the poor girl's
happiness and perhaps character were compromised, it was
necessary to show the strongest reasons for the rupture,
and for John Osborne to prove John Sedley to be a very
bad character indeed.
At the meetings of creditors, then, he comported himself
with a savageness and scorn towards Sedley, which
almost succeeded in breaking the heart of that ruined
bankrupt man. On George's intercourse with Amelia he
put an instant veto--menacing the youth with maledictions
if he broke his commands, and vilipending the
poor innocent girl as the basest and most artful of vixens.
One of the great conditions of anger and hatred is, that
you must tell and believe lies against the hated object, in
order, as we said, to be consistent.
When the great crash came--the announcement of
ruin, and the departure from Russell Square, and the
declaration that all was over between her and George--all
over between her and love, her and happiness, her and
faith in the world--a brutal letter from John Osborne
told her in a few curt lines that her father's conduct had
been of such a nature that all engagements between the
families were at an end--when the final award came, it
did not shock her so much as her parents, as her mother
rather expected (for John Sedley himself was entirely
prostrate in the ruins of his own affairs and shattered
honour). Amelia took the news very palely and calmly.
It was only the confirmation of the dark presages which
had long gone before. It was the mere reading of the
sentence--of the crime she had long ago been guilty--the
crime of loving wrongly, too violently, against reason.
She told no more of her thoughts now than she had
before. She seemed scarcely more unhappy now when
convinced all hope was over, than before when she felt but
dared not confess that it was gone. So she changed from
the large house to the small one without any mark or
difference; remained in her little room for the most part;
pined silently; and died away day by day. I do not mean
to say that all females are so. My dear Miss Bullock, I
do not think your heart would break in this way. You are
a strong-minded young woman with proper principles.
I do not venture to say that mine would; it has suffered,
and, it must be confessed, survived. But there are some
souls thus gently constituted, thus frail, and delicate, and
tender.
Whenever old John Sedley thought of the affair
between George and Amelia, or alluded to it, it was with
bitterness almost as great as Mr. Osborne himself had
shown. He cursed Osborne and his family as heartless,
wicked, and ungrateful. No power on earth, he swore,
would induce him to marry his daughter to the son of
such a villain, and he ordered Emmy to banish George
from her mind, and to return all the presents and letters
which she had ever had from him.
She promised acquiescence, and tried to obey. She put
up the two or three trinkets: and, as for the letters, she
drew them out of the place.where she kept them; and
read them over--as if she did not know them by heart
already: but she could not part with them. That effort
was too much for her; she placed them back in her
bosom again--as you have seen a woman nurse a child
that is dead. Young Amelia felt that she would die or lose
her senses outright, if torn away from this last consolation.
How she used to blush and lighten up when those
letters came! How she used to trip away with a beating
heart, so that she might read unseen! If they were cold,
yet how perversely this fond little soul interpreted them
into warmth. If they were short or selfish, what excuses
she found for the writer!
It was over these few worthless papers that she brooded
and brooded. She lived in her past life--every letter
seemed to recall some circumstance of it. How well she
remembered them all! His looks and tones, his dress,
what he said and how--these relics and remembrances
of dead affection were all that were left her in the world.
And the business of her life, was--to watch the corpse
of Love.
To death she looked with inexpressible longing. Then,
she thought, I shall always be able to follow him. I am not
praising her conduct or setting her up as a model for
Miss Bullock to imitate. Miss B. knows how to regulate
her feelings better than this poor little creature. Miss B.
would never have committed herself as that imprudent
Amelia had done; pledged her love irretrievably;
confessed her heart away, and got back nothing--only a
brittle promise which was snapt and worthless in a
moment. A long engagement is a partnership which one
party is free to keep or to break, but which involves all
the capital of the other.
Be cautious then, young ladies; be wary how you
engage. Be shy of loving frankly; never tell all you feel, or
(a better way still), feel very little. See the consequences
of being prematurely honest and confiding, and mistrust
yourselves and everybody. Get yourselves married as they
do in France, where the lawyers are the bridesmaids and
confidantes. At any rate, never have any feelings which
may make you uncomfortable, or make any promises
which you cannot at any required moment command and
withdraw. That is the way to get on, and be respected,
and have a virtuous character in Vanity Fair.
If Amelia could have heard the comments regarding
her which were made in the circle from which her father's
ruin had just driven her, she would have seen what her
own crimes were, and how entirely her character was
jeopardised. Such criminal imprudence Mrs. Smith never
knew of; such horrid familiarities Mrs. Brown had
always condemned, and the end might be a warning to HER
daughters. "Captain Osborne, of course, could not marry
a bankrupt's daughter," the Misses Dobbin said. "It was
quite enough to have been swindled by the father. As for
that little Amelia, her folly had really passed all--"
"All what?" Captain Dobbin roared out. "Haven't they
been engaged ever since they were children? Wasn't it
as good as a marriage? Dare any soul on earth breathe a
word against the sweetest, the purest, the tenderest, the
most angelical of young women?"
"La, William, don't be so highty-tighty with US. We're
not men. We can't fight you," Miss Jane said. "We've said
nothing against Miss Sedley: but that her conduct
throughout was MOST IMPRUDENT, not to call it by any
worse name; and that her parents are people who
certainly merit their misfortunes."
"Hadn't you better, now that Miss Sedley is free,
propose for her yourself, William?" Miss Ann asked
sarcastically. "It would be a most eligible family
connection. He! he!"
"I marry her!" Dobbin said, blushing very much, and
talking quick. "If you are so ready, young ladies, to chop
and change, do you suppose that she is? Laugh and sneer
at that angel. She can't hear it; and she's miserable and
unfortunate, and deserves to be laughed at. Go on
joking, Ann. You're the wit of the family, and the others
like to hear it."
"I must tell you again we're not in a barrack, William,"
Miss Ann remarked.
"In a barrack, by Jove--I wish anybody in a barrack
would say what you do," cried out this uproused British
lion. "I should like to hear a man breathe a word against
her, by Jupiter. But men don't talk in this way, Ann: it's
only women, who get together and hiss, and shriek, and
cackle. There, get away--don't begin to cry. I only said
you were a couple of geese," Will Dobbin said, perceiving
Miss Ann's pink eyes were beginning to moisten as
usual. "Well, you're not geese, you're swans--anything
you like, only do, do leave Miss Sedley alone."
Anything like William's infatuation about that silly little
flirting, ogling thing was never known, the mamma
and sisters agreed together in thinking: and they trembled
lest, her engagement being off with Osborne, she should
take up immediately her other admirer and Captain.
In which forebodings these worthy young women no
doubt judged according to the best of their experience; or
rather (for as yet they had had no opportunities of
marrying or of jilting) according to their own notions of
right and wrong.
"It is a mercy, Mamma, that the regiment is ordered
abroad," the girls said. "THIS danger, at any rate, is
spared our brother."
Such, indeed, was the fact; and so it is that the French
Emperor comes in to perform a part in this domestic
comedy of Vanity Fair which we are now playing, and
which would never have been enacted without the
intervention of this august mute personage. It was he
that ruined the Bourbons and Mr. John Sedley. It was
he whose arrival in his capital called up all France in
arms to defend him there; and all Europe to oust him.
While the French nation and army were swearing fidelity
round the eagles in the Champ de Mars, four mighty
European hosts were getting in motion for the great
chasse a l'aigle; and one of these was a British army, of
which two heroes of ours, Captain Dobbin and Captain
Osborne, formed a portion.
The news of Napoleon's escape and landing was
received by the gallant --th with a fiery delight and
enthusiasm, which everybody can understand who knows
that famous corps. From the colonel to the smallest
drummer in the regiment, all were filled with hope and
ambition and patriotic fury; and thanked the French Emperor
as for a personal kindness in coming to disturb the peace
of Europe. Now was the time the --th had so long
panted for, to show their comrades in arms that they
could fight as well as the Peninsular veterans, and that
all the pluck and valour of the --th had not been killed
by the West Indies and the yellow fever. Stubble and
Spooney looked to get their companies without purchase.
Before the end of the campaign (which she resolved
to share), Mrs. Major O'Dowd hoped to write
herself Mrs. Colonel O'Dowd, C.B. Our two friends
(Dobbin and Osborne) were quite as much excited as the
rest: and each in his way--Mr. Dobbin very quietly, Mr.
Osborne very loudly and energetically--was bent upon
doing his duty, and gaining his share of honour and
distinction.
The agitation thrilling through the country and army
in consequence of this news was so great, that private
matters were little heeded: and hence probably George
Osborne, just gazetted to his company, busy with preparations
for the march, which must come inevitably, and
panting for further promotion--was not so much affected
by other incidents which would have interested him at a
more quiet period. He was not, it must be confessed,
very much cast down by good old Mr. Sedley's catastrophe.
He tried his new uniform, which became him
very handsomely, on the day when the first meeting of
the creditors of the unfortunate gentleman took place.
His father told him of the wicked, rascally, shameful
conduct of the bankrupt, reminded him of what he had
said about Amelia, and that their connection was broken
off for ever; and gave him that evening a good sum of
money to pay for the new clothes and epaulets in which
he looked so well. Money was always useful to this free-
handed young fellow, and he took it without many words.
The bills were up in the Sedley house, where he had
passed so many, many happy hours. He could see
them as he walked from home that night (to the Old
Slaughters', where he put up when in town) shining white
in the moon. That comfortable home was shut, then, upon
Amelia and her parents: where had they taken refuge?
The thought of their ruin affected him not a little. He
was very melancholy that night in the coffee-room at
the Slaughters'; and drank a good deal, as his comrades
remarked there.
Dobbin came in presently, cautioned him about the
drink, which he only took, he said, because he was
deuced low; but when his friend began to put to him
clumsy inquiries, and asked him for news in a significant
manner, Osborne declined entering into conversation with
him, avowing, however, that he was devilish disturbed
and unhappy.
Three days afterwards, Dobbin found Osborne in his
room at the barracks--his head on the table, a number
of papers about, the young Captain evidently in a state
of great despondency. "She--she's sent me back some
things I gave her--some damned trinkets. Look here!"
There was a little packet directed in the well-known hand
to Captain George Osborne, and some things lying about
--a ring, a silver knife he had bought, as a boy, for her
at a fair; a gold chain, and a locket with hair in it. "It's
all over," said he, with a groan of sickening remorse.
"Look, Will, you may read it if you like."
There was a little letter of a few lines, to which he
pointed, which said:
My papa has ordered me to return to you these
presents, which you made in happier days to me; and I
am to write to you for the last time. I think, I know you
feel as much as I do the blow which has come upon us.
It is I that absolve you from an engagement which is
impossible in our present misery. I am sure you had no
share in it, or in the cruel suspicions of Mr. Osborne,
which are the hardest of all our griefs to bear. Farewell.
Farewell. I pray God to strengthen me to bear this and
other calamities, and to bless you always. A.
I shall often play upon the piano--your piano. It was
like you to send it.
Dobbin was very soft-hearted. The sight of women
and children in pain always used to melt him. The idea
of Amelia broken-hearted and lonely tore that good-
natured soul with anguish. And he broke out into an
emotion, which anybody who likes may consider unmanly.
He swore that Amelia was an angel, to which Osborne
said aye with all his heart. He, too, had been reviewing
the history of their lives--and had seen her from her
childhood to her present age, so sweet, so innocent,
so charmingly simple, and artlessly fond and tender.
What a pang it was to lose all that: to have had it and
not prized it! A thousand homely scenes and recollections
crowded on him--in which he always saw her good
and beautiful. And for himself, he blushed with remorse
and shame, as the remembrance of his own selfishness
and indifference contrasted with that perfect purity. For
a while, glory, war, everything was forgotten, and the
pair of friends talked about her only.
"Where are they?" Osborne asked, after a long talk,
and a long pause--and, in truth, with no little shame at
thinking that he had taken no steps to follow her. "Where
are they? There's no address to the note."
Dobbin knew. He had not merely sent the piano; but
had written a note to Mrs. Sedley, and asked permission
to come and see her--and he had seen her, and Amelia
too, yesterday, before he came down to Chatham; and,
what is more, he had brought that farewell letter and
packet which had so moved them.
The good-natured fellow had found Mrs. Sedley only
too willing to receive him, and greatly agitated by the
arrival of the piano, which, as she conjectured, MUST have
come from George, and was a signal of amity on his
part. Captain Dobbin did not correct this error of the
worthy lady, but listened to all her story of complaints
and misfortunes with great sympathy--condoled with
her losses and privations, and agreed in reprehending the
cruel conduct of Mr. Osborne towards his first benefactor.
When she had eased her overflowing bosom somewhat,
and poured forth many of her sorrows, he had the
courage to ask actually to see Amelia, who was above in
her room as usual, and whom her mother led trembling
downstairs.
Her appearance was so ghastly, and her look of despair
so pathetic, that honest William Dobbin was frightened
as he beheld it; and read the most fatal forebodings in
that pale fixed face. After sitting in his company a minute
or two, she put the packet into his hand, and said,
"Take this to Captain Osborne, if you please, and--and I
hope he's quite well--and it was very kind of you to
come and see us--and we like our new house very much.
And I--I think I'll go upstairs, Mamma, for I'm not very
strong." And with this, and a curtsey and a smile, the
poor child went her way. The mother, as she led her up,
cast back looks of anguish towards Dobbin. The good
fellow wanted no such appeal. He loved her himself too
fondly for that. Inexpressible grief, and pity, and terror
pursued him, and he came away as if he was a criminal
after seeing her.
When Osborne heard that his friend had found her,
he made hot and anxious inquiries regarding the poor
child. How was she? How did she look? What did she
say? His comrade took his hand, and looked him in the
face.
"George, she's dying," William Dobbin said--and could
speak no more.
There was a buxom Irish servant-girl, who performed
all the duties of the little house where the Sedley family
had found refuge: and this girl had in vain, on many
previous days, striven to give Amelia aid or consolation.
Emmy was much too sad to answer, or even to be aware
of the attempts the other was making in her favour.
Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne,
this servant-maid came into Amelia's room, where she
sate as usual, brooding silently over her letters--her
little treasures. The girl, smiling, and looking arch and
happy, made many trials to attract poor Emmy's
attention, who, however, took no heed of her.
"Miss Emmy," said the girl.
"I'm coming," Emmy said, not looking round.
"There's a message," the maid went on. "There's
something--somebody--sure, here's a new letter for you--
don't be reading them old ones any more." And she gave
her a letter, which Emmy took, and read.
"I must see you," the letter said. "Dearest Emmy--
dearest love--dearest wife, come to me."
George and her mother were outside, waiting until she
had read the letter.
CHAPTER XIX
Miss Crawley at Nurse
We have seen how Mrs. Firkin, the lady's maid, as soon
as any event of importance to the Crawley family came
to her knowledge, felt bound to communicate it to Mrs.
Bute Crawley, at the Rectory; and have before
mentioned how particularly kind and attentive that good-
natured lady was to Miss Crawley's confidential servant.
She had been a gracious friend to Miss Briggs, the
companion, also; and had secured the latter's good-will by a
number of those attentions and promises, which cost so
little in the making, and are yet so valuable and agreeable to
the recipient. Indeed every good economist and
manager of a household must know how cheap and yet
how amiable these professions are, and what a flavour
they give to the most homely dish in life. Who was the
blundering idiot who said that "fine words butter no
parsnips"? Half the parsnips of society are served and
rendered palatable with no other sauce. As the immortal
Alexis Soyer can make more delicious soup for a half-
penny than an ignorant cook can concoct with pounds of
vegetables and meat, so a skilful artist will make a few
simple and pleasing phrases go farther than ever so much
substantial benefit-stock in the hands of a mere bungler.
Nay, we know that substantial benefits often sicken some
stomachs; whereas, most will digest any amount of fine
words, and be always eager for more of the same food.
Mrs. Bute had told Briggs and Firkin so often of the
depth of her affection for them; and what she would do,
if she had Miss Crawley's fortune, for friends so excellent
and attached, that the ladies in question had the deepest
regard for her; and felt as much gratitude and
confidence as if Mrs. Bute had loaded them with the most
expensive favours.
Rawdon Crawley, on the other hand, like a selfish
heavy dragoon as he was, never took the least trouble to
conciliate his aunt's aides-de-camp, showed his contempt
for the pair with entire frankness--made Firkin pull off
his boots on one occasion--sent her out in the rain on
ignominious messages--and if he gave her a guinea, flung
it to her as if it were a box on the ear. As his aunt, too,
made a butt of Briggs, the Captain followed the
example, and levelled his jokes at her--jokes about as
delicate as a kick from his charger. Whereas, Mrs. Bute
consulted her in matters of taste or difficulty, admired
her poetry, and by a thousand acts of kindness and
politeness, showed her appreciation of Briggs; and if she
made Firkin a twopenny-halfpenny present, accompanied
it with so many compliments, that the twopence-half-
penny was transmuted into gold in the heart of the grateful
waiting-maid, who, besides, was looking forwards
quite contentedly to some prodigious benefit which must
happen to her on the day when Mrs. Bute came into her
fortune.
The different conduct of these two people is pointed
out respectfully to the attention of persons commencing
the world. Praise everybody, I say to such: never be
squeamish, but speak out your compliment both point-
blank in a man's face, and behind his back, when
you know there is a reasonable chance of his hearing it
again. Never lose a chance of saying a kind word. As
Collingwood never saw a vacant place in his estate but
he took an acorn out of his pocket and popped it in;
so deal with your compliments through life. An acorn
costs nothing; but it may sprout into a prodigious bit of
timber.
In a word, during Rawdon Crawley's prosperity, he was
only obeyed with sulky acquiescence; when his disgrace
came, there was nobody to help or pity him. Whereas,
when Mrs. Bute took the command at Miss Crawley's
house, the garrison there were charmed to act under
such a leader, expecting all sorts of promotion from her
promises, her generosity, and her kind words.
That he would consider himself beaten, after one defeat,
and make no attempt to regain the position he had
lost, Mrs. Bute Crawley never allowed herself to suppose.
She knew Rebecca to be too clever and spirited and
desperate a woman to submit without a struggle; and felt
that she must prepare for that combat, and be incessantly
watchful against assault; or mine, or surprise.
In the first place, though she held the town, was she
sure of the principal inhabitant? Would Miss Crawley
herself hold out; and had she not a secret longing to
welcome back the ousted adversary? The old lady liked
Rawdon, and Rebecca, who amused her. Mrs. Bute could
not disguise from herself the fact that none of her party
could so contribute to the pleasures of the town-bred
lady. "My girls' singing, after that little odious governess's,
I know is unbearable," the candid Rector's wife
owned to herself. "She always used to go to sleep when
Martha and Louisa played their duets. Jim's stiff
college manners and poor dear Bute's talk about his dogs
and horses always annoyed her. If I took her to the
Rectory, she would grow angry with us all, and fly, I
know she would; and might fall into that horrid
Rawdon's clutches again, and be the victim of that little
viper of a Sharp. Meanwhile, it is clear to me that she is
exceedingly unwell, and cannot move for some weeks, at
any rate; during which we must think of some plan to
protect her from the arts of those unprincipled people."
In the very best-of moments, if anybody told Miss
Crawley that she was, or looked ill, the trembling old
lady sent off for her doctor; and I daresay she was very
unwell after the sudden family event, which might serve
to shake stronger nerves than hers. At least, Mrs. Bute
thought it was her duty to inform the physician, and the
apothecary, and the dame-de-compagnie, and the domestics,
that Miss Crawley was in a most critical state, and
that they were to act accordingly. She had the street laid
knee-deep with straw; and the knocker put by with Mr.
Bowls's plate. She insisted that the Doctor should call
twice a day; and deluged her patient with draughts every
two hours. When anybody entered the room, she uttered
a shshshsh so sibilant and ominous, that it frightened the
poor old lady in her bed, from which she could
not look without seeing Mrs. Bute's beady eyes eagerly
fixed on her, as the latter sate steadfast in the arm-chair
by the bedside. They seemed to lighten in the dark (for
she kept the curtains closed) as she moved about the
room on velvet paws like a cat. There Miss Crawley lay
for days--ever so many days--Mr. Bute reading books
of devotion to her: for nights, long nights, during which
she had to hear the watchman sing, the night-light sputter;
visited at midnight, the last thing, by the stealthy apothecary;
and then left to look at Mrs. Bute's twinkling eyes,
or the flicks of yellow that the rushlight threw on the
dreary darkened ceiling. Hygeia herself would have
fallen sick under such a regimen; and how much more
this poor old nervous victim? It has been said that when
she was in health and good spirits, this venerable
inhabitant of Vanity Fair had as free notions about religion
and morals as Monsieur de Voltaire himself could desire,
but when illness overtook her, it was aggravated by
the most dreadful terrors of death, and an utter cowardice
took possession of the prostrate old sinner.
Sick-bed homilies and pious reflections are, to be sure,
out of place in mere story-books, and we are not going
(after the fashion of some novelists of the present day)
to cajole the.public into a sermon, when it is only a
comedy that the reader pays his money to witness. But,
without preaching, the truth may surely be borne in mind,
that the bustle, and triumph, and laughter, and gaiety
which Vanity Fair exhibits in public, do not always pursue
the performer into private life, and that the most
dreary depression of spirits and dismal repentances
sometimes overcome him. Recollection of the best ordained
banquets will scarcely cheer sick epicures. Reminiscences
of the most becoming dresses and brilliant ball triumphs
will go very little way to console faded beauties. Perhaps
statesmen, at a particular period of existence, are
not much gratified at thinking over the most triumphant
divisions; and the success or the pleasure of yesterday
becomes of very small account when a certain
(albeit uncertain) morrow is in view, about which all of
us must some day or other be speculating. O brother
wearers of motley! Are there not moments when one
grows sick of grinning and tumbling, and the jingling of
cap and bells? This, dear friends and companions, is my
amiable object--to walk with you through the Fair, to
examine the shops and the shows there; and that we
should all come home after the flare, and the noise, and
the gaiety, and be perfectly miserable in private.
"If that poor man of mine had a head on his shoulders,"
Mrs. Bute Crawley thought to herself, "how useful he
might be, under present circumstances, to this unhappy
old lady! He might make her repent of her shocking
free-thinking ways; he might urge her to do her duty,
and cast off that odious reprobate who has disgraced
himself and his family; and he might induce her to do
justice to my dear girls and the two boys, who require
and deserve, I am sure, every assistance which their
relatives can give them."
And, as the hatred of vice is always a progress towards
virtue, Mrs. Bute Crawley endeavoured to instil
her sister-in-law a proper abhorrence for all Rawdon
Crawley's manifold sins: of which his uncle's wife brought
forward such a catalogue as indeed would have served
to condemn a whole regiment of young officers. If a man
has committed wrong in life, I don't know any moralist
more anxious to point his errors out to the world than
his own relations; so Mrs. Bute showed a perfect family
interest and knowledge of Rawdon's history. She had all
the particulars of that ugly quarrel with Captain Marker,
in which Rawdon, wrong from the beginning, ended in
shooting the Captain. She knew how the unhappy Lord
Dovedale, whose mamma had taken a house at Oxford,
so that he might be educated there, and who had never
touched a card in his life till he came to London, was
perverted by Rawdon at the Cocoa-Tree, made helplessly
tipsy by this abominable seducer and perverter of youth,
and fleeced of four thousand pounds. She described with
the most vivid minuteness the agonies of the country
families whom he had ruined--the sons whom he had
plunged into dishonour and poverty--the daughters
whom he had inveigled into perdition. She knew the poor
tradesmen who were bankrupt by his extravagance--the
mean shifts and rogueries with which he had ministered
to it--the astounding falsehoods by which he had imposed
upon the most generous of aunts, and the ingratitude and
ridicule by which he had repaid her sacrifices. She
imparted these stories gradually to Miss Crawley; gave her
the whole benefit of them; felt it to be her bounden duty
as a Christian woman and mother of a family to do so;
had not the smallest remorse or compunction for the
victim whom her tongue was immolating; nay, very likely
thought her act was quite meritorious, and plumed
herself upon her resolute manner of performing it. Yes,
if a man's character is to be abused, say what you will,
there's nobody like a relation to do the business. And one
is bound to own, regarding this unfortunate wretch of a
Rawdon Crawley, that the mere truth was enough to
condemn him, and that all inventions of scandal were quite
superfluous pains on his friends' parts.
Rebecca, too, being now a relative, came in for the
fullest share of Mrs. Bute's kind inquiries. This indefatigable
pursuer of truth (having given strict orders that the
door was to be denied to all emissaries or letters
from Rawdon), took Miss Crawley's carriage, and drove
to her old friend Miss Pinkerton, at Minerva House,
Chiswick Mall, to whom she announced the dreadful
intelligence of Captain Rawdon's seduction by Miss Sharp,
and from whom she got sundry strange particulars
regarding the ex-governess's birth and early history. The
friend of the Lexicographer had plenty of information
to give. Miss Jemima was made to fetch the drawing-
master's receipts and letters. This one was from a
spunging-house: that entreated an advance: another was