alone together, and Amelia thought to comfort her father
by telling him what she had done. She had written to
Joseph--an answer must come in three or four months.
He was always generous, though careless. He could not
refuse, when he knew how straitened were the
circumstances of his parents.
Then the poor old gentleman revealed the whole truth
to her--that his son was still paying the annuity, which
his own imprudence had flung away. He had not dared
to tell it sooner. He thought Amelia's ghastly and terrified
look, when, with a trembling, miserable voice he made
the confession, conveyed reproaches to him for his
concealment. "Ah!" said he with quivering lips and turning
away, "you despise your old father now!"
"Oh, papal it is not that," Amelia cried out, falling
on his neck and kissing him many times. "You are
always good and kind. You did it for the best. It is not
for the money--it is--my God! my God! have mercy
upon me, and give me strength to bear this trial"; and
she kissed him again wildly and went away.
Still the father did not know what that explanation
meant, and the burst of anguish with which the poor
girl left him. It was that she was conquered. The sentence
was passed. The child must go from her--to others--to
forget her. Her heart and her treasure--her joy, hope,
love, worship--her God, almost! She must give him up,
and then--and then she would go to George, and they
would watch over the child and wait for him until he
came to them in Heaven.
She put on her bonnet, scarcely knowing what she did,
and went out to walk in the lanes by which George used
to come back from school, and where she was in the
habit of going on his return to meet the boy. It was
May, a half-holiday. The leaves were all coming out,
the weather was brilliant; the boy came running to her
flushed with health, singing, his bundle of school-books
hanging by a thong. There he was. Both her arms were
round him. No, it was impossible. They could not be
going to part. "What is the matter, Mother?" said he;
"you look very pale."
"Nothing, my child," she said and stooped down and
kissed him.
That night Amelia made the boy read the story of
Samuel to her, and how Hannah, his mother, having
weaned him, brought him to Eli the High Priest to
minister before the Lord. And he read the song of gratitude
which Hannah sang, and which says, who it is who
maketh poor and maketh rich, and bringeth low and
exalteth--how the poor shall be raised up out of the
dust, and how, in his own might, no man shall be strong.
Then he read how Samuel's mother made him a little
coat and brought it to him from year to year when she
came up to offer the yearly sacrifice. And then, in her
sweet simple way, George's mother made commentaries
to the boy upon this affecting story. How Hannah, though
she loved her son so much, yet gave him up because
of her vow. And how she must always have thought of
him as she sat at home, far away, making the little
coat; and Samuel, she was sure, never forgot his mother;
and how happy she must have been as the time came
(and the years pass away very quick) when she should
see her boy and how good and wise he had grown. This
little sermon she spoke with a gentle solemn voice, and
dry eyes, until she came to the account of their
meeting--then the discourse broke off suddenly, the tender
heart overflowed, and taking the boy to her breast, she
rocked him in her arms and wept silently over him in
a sainted agony of tears.
Her mind being made up, the widow began to take
such measures as seemed right to her for advancing the
end which she proposed. One day, Miss Osborne, in
Russell Square (Amelia had not written the name or number
of the house for ten years--her youth, her early story
came back to her as she wrote the superscription) one
day Miss Osborne got a letter from Amelia which made
her blush very much and look towards her father, sitting
glooming in his place at the other end of the table.
In simple terms, Amelia told her the reasons which
had induced her to change her mind respecting her boy.
Her father had met with fresh misfortunes which had
entirely ruined him. Her own pittance was so small that
it would barely enable her to support her parents and
would not suffice to give George the advantages which
were his due. Great as her sufferings would be at parting
with him she would, by God's help, endure them for the
boy's sake. She knew that those to whom he was going
would do all in their power to make him happy. She
described his disposition, such as she fancied it--quick
and impatient of control or harshness, easily to be moved
by love and kindness. In a postscript, she stipulated that
she should have a written agreement, that she should
see the child as often as she wished--she could not
part with him under any other terms.
"What? Mrs. Pride has come down, has she?" old
Osborne said, when with a tremulous eager voice Miss
Osborne read him the letter. "Reg'lar starved out, hey?
Ha, ha! I knew she would." He tried to keep his dignity
and to read his paper as usual--but he could not follow
it. He chuckled and swore to himself behind the sheet.
At last he flung it down and, scowling at his daughter,
as his wont was, went out of the room into his study
adjoining, from whence he presently returned with a
key. He flung it to Miss Osborne.
"Get the room over mine--his room that was--ready,"
he said. "Yes, sir," his daughter replied in a tremble.
It was George's room. It had not been opened for more
than ten years. Some of his clothes, papers, handkerchiefs,
whips and caps, fishing-rods and sporting gear,
were still there. An Army list of 1814, with his name
written on the cover; a little dictionary he was wont to
use in writing; and the Bible his mother had given him,
were on the mantelpiece, with a pair of spurs and a
dried inkstand covered with the dust of ten years. Ah!
since that ink was wet, what days and people had passed
away! The writing-book, still on the table, was blotted
with his hand.
Miss Osborne was much affected when she first
entered this room with the servants under her. She sank
quite pale on the little bed. "This is blessed news, m'am
--indeed, m'am," the housekeeper said; "and the good
old times is returning, m'am. The dear little feller, to be
sure, m'am; how happy he will be! But some folks in
May Fair, m'am, will owe him a grudge, m'am"; and
she clicked back the bolt which held the window-sash
and let the air into the chamber.
"You had better send that woman some money," Mr.
Osborne said, before he went out. "She shan't want for
nothing. Send her a hundred pound."
"And I'll go and see her to-morrow?" Miss Osborne
asked.
"That's your look out. She don't come in here, mind.
No, by --, not for all the money in London. But she
mustn't want now. So look out, and get things right." With
which brief speeches Mr. Osborne took leave of his
daughter and went on his accustomed way into the City.
"Here, Papa, is some money," Amelia said that
night, kissing the old man, her father, and putting a bill
for a hundred pounds into his hands. "And--and, Mamma,
don't be harsh with Georgy. He--he is not going to stop
with us long." She could say nothing more, and walked
away silently to her room. Let us close it upon her
prayers and her sorrow. I think we had best speak little
about so much love and grief.
Miss Osborne came the next day, according to the
promise contained in her note, and saw Amelia. The
meeting between them was friendly. A look and a few words
from Miss Osborne showed the poor widow that, with
regard to this woman at least, there need be no fear
lest she should take the first place in her son's affection.
She was cold, sensible, not unkind. The mother had
not been so well pleased, perhaps, had the rival been
better looking, younger, more affectionate, warmer-
hearted. Miss Osborne, on the other hand, thought of old
times and memories and could not but be touched with
the poor mother's pitiful situation. She was conquered,
and laying down her arms, as it were, she humbly
submitted. That day they arranged together the
preliminaries of the treaty of capitulation.
George was kept from school the next day, and saw
his aunt. Amelia left them alone together and went to
her room. She was trying the separation--as that poor
gentle Lady Jane Grey felt the edge of the axe that was
to come down and sever her slender life. Days were
passed in parleys, visits, preparations. The widow broke
the matter to Georgy with great caution; she looked to
see him very much affected by the intelligence. He was
rather elated than otherwise, and the poor woman
turned sadly away. He bragged about the news that day
to the boys at school; told them how he was going to
live with his grandpapa his father's father, not the one
who comes here sometimes; and that he would be very
rich, and have a carriage, and a pony, and go to a much
finer school, and when he was rich he would buy Leader's
pencil-case and pay the tart-woman. The boy was the
image of his father, as his fond mother thought.
Indeed I have no heart, on account of our dear
Amelia's sake, to go through the story of George's last
days at home.
At last the day came, the carriage drove up, the little
humble packets containing tokens of love and remembrance
were ready and disposed in the hall long since
--George was in his new suit, for which the tailor had
come previously to measure him. He had sprung up with
the sun and put on the new clothes, his mother hearing
him from the room close by, in which she had been
lying, in speechless grief and watching. Days before she
had been making preparations for the end, purchasing
little stores for the boy's use, marking his books and
linen, talking with him and preparing him for the change
--fondly fancying that he needed preparation.
So that he had change, what cared he? He was longing
for it. By a thousand eager declarations as to what
he would do, when he went to live with his grandfather,
he had shown the poor widow how little the idea of
parting had cast him down. "He would come and see
his mamma often on the pony," he said. "He would
come and fetch her in the carriage; they would drive
in the park, and she should have everything she wanted."
The poor mother was fain to content herself with these
selfish demonstrations of attachment, and tried to
convince herself how sincerely her son loved her. He must
love her. All children were so: a little anxious for novelty,
and--no, not selfish, but self-willed. Her child must
have his enjoyments and ambition in the world. She
herself, by her own selfishness and imprudent love for him
had denied him his just rights and pleasures hitherto.
I know few things more affecting than that timorous
debasement and self-humiliation of a woman. How she
owns that it is she and not the man who is guilty; how
she takes all the faults on her side; how she courts in a
manner punishment for the wrongs which she has not
committed and persists in shielding the real culprit! It
is those who injure women who get the most kindness
from them--they are born timid and tyrants and
maltreat those who are humblest before them.
So poor Amelia had been getting ready in silent misery
for her son's departure, and had passed many and many
a long solitary hour in making preparations for the end.
George stood by his mother, watching her arrangements
without the least concern. Tears had fallen into his boxes;
passages had been scored in his favourite books; old toys,
relics, treasures had been hoarded away for him, and
packed with strange neatness and care--and of all these
things the boy took no note. The child goes away smiling
as the mother breaks her heart. By heavens it is pitiful,
the bootless love of women for children in Vanity Fair.
A few days are past, and the great event of Amelia's
life is consummated. No angel has intervened. The child
is sacrificed and offered up to fate, and the widow is
quite alone.
The boy comes to see her often, to be sure. He rides
on a pony with a coachman behind him, to the delight
of his old grandfather, Sedley, who walks proudly down
the lane by his side. She sees him, but he is not her boy
any more. Why, he rides to see the boys at the little
school, too, and to show off before them his new wealth
and splendour. In two days he has adopted a slightly
imperious air and patronizing manner. He was born to
command, his mother thinks, as his father was before
him.
It is fine weather now. Of evenings on the days when
he does not come, she takes a long walk into London
--yes, as far as Russell Square, and rests on the stone
by the railing of the garden opposite Mr. Osborne's house.
It is so pleasant and cool. She can look up and see the
drawing-room windows illuminated, and, at about nine
o'clock, the chamber in the upper story where Georgy
sleeps. She knows--he has told her. She prays there
as the light goes out, prays with an humble heart,
and walks home shrinking and silent. She is very tired
when she comes home. Perhaps she will sleep the better
for that long weary walk, and she may dream about
Georgy.
One Sunday she happened to be walking in Russell
Square, at some distance from Mr. Osborne's house (she
could see it from a distance though) when all the bells
of Sabbath were ringing, and George and his aunt came
out to go to church; a little sweep asked for charity,
and the footman, who carried the books, tried to drive
