their colloquy. "Come upstairs, sir," lisped out the
Major. "I insist on your coming up the stairs, and I will
show which is the injured party, poor George or I"; and,
dragging the old gentleman up to his bedroom, he
produced from his desk Osborne's accounts, and a bundle
of IOU's which the latter had given, who, to do him
justice, was always ready to give an IOU. "He paid
his bills in England," Dobbin added, "but he had not a
hundred pounds in the world when he fell. I and one or
two of his brother officers made up the little sum, which
was all that we could spare, and you dare tell us that
we are trying to cheat the widow and the orphan."
Sedley was very contrite and humbled, though the fact is
that William Dobbin had told a great falsehood to the old
gentleman; having himself given every shilling of the
money, having buried his friend, and paid all the fees and
charges incident upon the calamity and removal of poor
Amelia.
About these expenses old Osborne had never given
himself any trouble to think, nor any other relative of
Amelia, nor Amelia herself, indeed. She trusted to Major
Dobbin as an accountant, took his somewhat confused
calculations for granted, and never once suspected how
much she was in his debt.
Twice or thrice in the year, according to her promise,
she wrote him letters to Madras, letters all about
little Georgy. How he treasured these papers! Whenever
Amelia wrote he answered, and not until then. But
he sent over endless remembrances of himself to his
godson and to her. He ordered and sent a box of scarfs
and a grand ivory set of chess-men from China. The
pawns were little green and white men, with real swords
and shields; the knights were on horseback, the castles
were on the backs of elephants. "Mrs. Mango's own set at
the Pineries was not so fine," Mr. Pestler remarked. These
chess-men were the delight of Georgy's life, who printed
his first letter in acknowledgement of this gift of his
godpapa. He sent over preserves and pickles, which latter
the young gentleman tried surreptitiously in the sideboard
and half-killed himself with eating. He thought it was a
judgement upon him for stealing, they were so hot. Emmy
wrote a comical little account of this mishap to the
Major: it pleased him to think that her spirits were rallying
and that she could be merry sometimes now. He
sent over a pair of shawls, a white one for her and a black
one with palm-leaves for her mother, and a pair of red
scarfs, as winter wrappers, for old Mr. Sedley and George.
The shawls were worth fifty guineas apiece at the very
least, as Mrs. Sedley knew. She wore hers in state at
church at Brompton, and was congratulated by her
female friends upon the splendid acquisition. Emmy's, too,
became prettily her modest black gown. "What a pity it
is she won't think of him!" Mrs. Sedley remarked to
Mrs. Clapp and to all her friends of Brompton. "Jos never
sent us such presents, I am sure, and grudges us
everything. It is evident that the Major is over head and ears
in love with her; and yet, whenever I so much as hint it,
she turns red and begins to cry and goes and sits upstairs
with her miniature. I'm sick of that miniature. I wish we
had never seen those odious purse-proud Osbornes."
Amidst such humble scenes and associates George's
early youth was passed, and the boy grew up delicate,
sensitive, imperious, woman-bred--domineering the
gentle mother whom he loved with passionate affection. He
ruled all the rest of the little world round about him.
As he grew, the elders were amazed at his haughty
manner and his constant likeness to his father. He asked
questions about everything, as inquiring youth will do. The
profundity of his remarks and interrogatories astonished
his old grandfather, who perfectly bored the club at the
tavern with stories about the little lad's learning and
genius. He suffered his grandmother with a good-humoured
indifference. The small circle round about him
believed that the equal of the boy did not exist upon the
earth. Georgy inherited his father's pride, and perhaps
thought they were not wrong.
When he grew to be about six years old, Dobbin began
to write to him very much. The Major wanted to hear
that Georgy was going to a school and hoped he would
acquit himself with credit there: or would he have a good
tutor at home? It was time that he should begin to learn;
and his godfather and guardian hinted that he hoped to
be allowed to defray the charges of the boy's education,
which would fall heavily upon his mother's straitened
income. The Major, in a word, was always thinking about
Amelia and her little boy, and by orders to his agents
kept the latter provided with picture-books, paint-boxes,
desks, and all conceivable implements of amusement and
instruction. Three days before George's sixth birthday a
gentleman in a gig, accompanied by a servant, drove
up to Mr. Sedley's house and asked to see Master George
Osborne: it was Mr. Woolsey, military tailor, of Conduit
Street, who came at the Major's order to measure the
young gentleman for a suit of clothes. He had had the
honour of making for the Captain, the young
gentleman's father.
Sometimes, too, and by the Major's desire no doubt,
his sisters, the Misses Dobbin, would call in the family
carriage to take Amelia and the little boy to drive if they
were so inclined. The patronage and kindness of these
ladies was very uncomfortable to Amelia, but she bore it
meekly enough, for her nature was to yield; and, besides,
the carriage and its splendours gave little Georgy
immense pleasure. The ladies begged occasionally that the
child might pass a day with them, and he was always glad
to go to that fine garden-house at Denmark Hill, where
they lived, and where there were such fine grapes in the
hot-houses and peaches on the walls.
One day they kindly came over to Amelia with news
which they were SURE would delight her--something VERY
interesting about their dear William.
"What was it: was he coming home?" she asked with
pleasure beaming in her eyes.
"Oh, no--not the least--but they had very good reason
to believe that dear William was about to be married--
and to a relation of a very dear friend of Amelia's--to
Miss Glorvina O'Dowd, Sir Michael O'Dowd's sister,
who had gone out to join Lady O'Dowd at Madras--a very
beautiful and accomplished girl, everybody said."
Amelia said "Oh!" Amelia was very VERY happy indeed.
But she supposed Glorvina could not be like her old
acquaintance, who was most kind--but--but she was
very happy indeed. And by some impulse of which I
cannot explain the meaning, she took George in her arms
and kissed him with an extraordinary tenderness. Her
eyes were quite moist when she put the child down; and
she scarcely spoke a word during the whole of the
drive--though she was so very happy indeed.
CHAPTER XXXIX
A Cynical Chapter
Our duty now takes us back for a brief space to some old
Hampshire acquaintances of ours, whose hopes respecting
the disposal of their rich kinswoman's property were so
woefully disappointed. After counting upon thirty thousand
pounds from his sister, it was a heavy blow. to Bute Crawley
to receive but five; out of which sum, when he had paid
his own debts and those of Jim, his son at college, a very
small fragment remained to portion off his four plain
daughters. Mrs. Bute never knew, or at least never
acknowledged, how far her own tyrannous behaviour had
tended to ruin her husband. All that woman could do, she
vowed and protested she had done. Was it her fault if
she did not possess those sycophantic arts which her
hypocritical nephew, Pitt Crawley, practised? She wished
him all the happiness which he merited out of his
ill-gotten gains. "At least the money will remain in the
family," she said charitably. "Pitt will never spend it, my
dear, that is quite certain; for a greater miser does not
exist in England, and he is as odious, though in a
different way, as his spendthrift brother, the abandoned
Rawdon."
So Mrs. Bute, after the first shock of rage and
disappointment, began to accommodate herself as best
she could to her altered fortunes and to save and retrench
with all her might. She instructed her daughters how to
bear poverty cheerfully, and invented a thousand notable
methods to conceal or evade it. She took them about to
balls and public places in the neighbourhood, with
praiseworthy energy; nay, she entertained her friends in a
hospitable comfortable manner at the Rectory, and much
more frequently than before dear Miss Crawley's legacy
had fallen in. From her outward bearing nobody would
have supposed that the family had been disappointed
in their expectations, or have guessed from her frequent
appearance in public how she pinched and starved at
home. Her girls had more milliners' furniture than they
had ever enjoyed before. They appeared perseveringly
at the Winchester and Southampton assemblies; they
penetrated to Cowes for the race-balls and regatta-gaieties
there; and their carriage, with the horses taken from the
plough, was at work perpetually, until it began almost to
be believed that the four sisters had had fortunes left them
by their aunt, whose name the family never mentioned in
public but with the most tender gratitude and regard. I
know no sort of lying which is more frequent in Vanity
Fair than this, and it may be remarked how people who
practise it take credit to themselves for their hypocrisy,
and fancy that they are exceedingly virtuous and
praiseworthy, because they are able to deceive the world
with regard to the extent of their means.
Mrs. Bute certainly thought herself one of the most
virtuous women in England, and the sight of her happy
family was an edifying one to strangers. They were so
cheerful, so loving, so well-educated, so simple! Martha
painted flowers exquisitely and furnished half the charity
bazaars in the county. Emma was a regular County Bulbul,
and her verses in the Hampshire Telegraph were
the glory of its Poet's Corner. Fanny and Matilda sang
duets together, Mamma playing the piano, and the other
two sisters sitting with their arms round each other's waists
and listening affectionately. Nobody saw the poor girls
drumming at the duets in private. No one saw Mamma
drilling them rigidly hour after hour. In a word, Mrs. Bute
put a good face against fortune and kept up appearances
in the most virtuous manner.
Everything that a good and respectable mother could
do Mrs. Bute did. She got over yachting men from
Southampton, parsons from the Cathedral Close at Winchester,
and officers from the barracks there. She tried to inveigle
the young barristers at assizes and encouraged Jim to
bring home friends with whom he went out hunting with
the H. H. What will not a mother do for the benefit of
her beloved ones?
Between such a woman and her brother-in-law, the
odious Baronet at the Hall, it is manifest that there could
be very little in common. The rupture between Bute and
his brother Sir Pitt was complete; indeed, between Sir
Pitt and the whole county, to which the old man was a
scandal. His dislike for respectable society increased with
age, and the lodge-gates had not opened to a gentleman's
carriage-wheels since Pitt and Lady Jane came to pay their
visit of duty after their marriage.
That was an awful and unfortunate visit, never to be
thought of by the family without horror. Pitt begged his
wife, with a ghastly countenance, never to speak of it,
and it was only through Mrs. Bute herself, who still
knew everything which took place at the Hall, that the
circumstances of Sir Pitt's reception of his son and
daughter-in-law were ever known at all.
As they drove up the avenue of the park in their neat
and well-appointed carriage, Pitt remarked with dismay
and wrath great gaps among the trees--his trees--which
the old Baronet was felling entirely without license. The
park wore an aspect of utter dreariness and ruin. The
drives were ill kept, and the neat carriage splashed and
floundered in muddy pools along the road. The great
sweep in front of the terrace and entrance stair was
black and covered with mosses; the once trim flower-beds
rank and weedy. Shutters were up along almost the
whole line of the house; the great hall-door was unbarred
after much ringing of the bell; an individual in ribbons
was seen flitting up the black oak stair, as Horrocks at
length admitted the heir of Queen's Crawley and his bride
into the halls of their fathers. He led the way into Sir
Pitt's "Library," as it was called, the fumes of tobacco
growing stronger as Pitt and Lady Jane approached that
apartment, "Sir Pitt ain't very well," Horrocks remarked
apologetically and hinted that his master was afflicted
with lumbago.
The library looked out on the front walk and park.
Sir Pitt had opened one of the windows, and was bawling
out thence to the postilion and Pitt's servant, who seemed
to be about to take the baggage down.
"Don't move none of them trunks," he cried, pointing
with a pipe which he held in his hand. "It's only a morning
visit, Tucker, you fool. Lor, what cracks that off hoss
has in his heels! Ain't there no one at the King's Head to
rub 'em a little? How do, Pitt? How do, my dear? Come
to see the old man, hay? 'Gad--you've a pretty face, too.
You ain't like that old horse-godmother, your mother.
Come and give old Pitt a kiss, like a good little gal."
The embrace disconcerted the daughter-in-law
somewhat, as the caresses of the old gentleman, unshorn and
