[Illustration: GEORGE OSBORNE AND RAWDON CRAWLEY.]
Rebecca sharp, the teacher of French at Miss Pinkerton's Academy for
young ladies, and intimate friend of Miss Amelia Sedley, the most popular
scholar in Miss Pinkerton's select establishment, left the institution at
the same time to become a governess in the family of Sir Pitt Crawley.
Amelia was the only daughter of John Sedley, a wealthy London stock
broker, and upon leaving school was to take her place in fashionable
society. Being the sweetest, most kind-hearted girl in the world, Amelia
invited Becky to visit her in London before taking up her new duties as
governess; which invitation Becky was only too glad to accept.
Now, Miss Sharp was in no way like the gentle Amelia, but as keen,
brilliant, and selfish a young person of eighteen as ever schemed to have
events turn to her advantage. These characteristics she showed so plainly
while visiting at the Sedleys' that she left anything but a good
impression behind her. In fact, her visit was cut short because of some
unpleasant circumstances connected with her behaviour.
From that time she and Amelia did not meet for many months, during which
Amelia had become the wife of George Osborne, and Rebecca Sharp had
married Rawdon Crawley, son of Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet.
The circumstances of Amelia's life during these months altered greatly,
for shortly after she left school honest John Sedley met with such severe
losses that his family were obliged to live in a much more modest way
than formerly. Because of this misfortune, the course of Amelia's love
affair with young Lieutenant Osborne did not run smoothly; for his father
was far too ambitious to consent to his only son's marriage with the
daughter of a ruined man, although John Sedley was his son's godfather,
and George had been devoted to Amelia since early boyhood.
Lieutenant Osborne therefore went away with his regiment, and poor little
Amelia was left behind, to pine and mourn until it seemed there was no
hope of saving her life unless happiness should speedily come to her.
Then it was that Major Dobbin, George Osborne's staunch friend of
schooldays, and also an ardent admirer of Amelia's, saw how she was
grieving and took upon himself to inform George Osborne of the state of
affairs. The young lieutenant came hurrying home just in time to save a
gentle little heart from wearing itself away with sorrowing, and married
Amelia without his father's consent. This so enraged the old gentleman
that he refused to have his name mentioned in the home where the boy had
grown up; the veriest tyrant and idol of his sisters and father.
To Brighton George and Amelia went on their honeymoon, and there they met
Becky Sharp and her husband. Though the circumstances of the two young
women's career had altered, Amelia and Becky were unchanged in character,
but that is of small concern to us, except as it affects their children,
to whose lives we now turn with keen interest, noting how they reflect
the dispositions, and are affected by the characters of their mothers.
As for little Rawdon Crawley, Becky's only child, he had few early happy
recollections of his mother. She had not, to say the truth, seen much of
the young gentleman since his birth. After the amiable fashion of French
mothers, she had placed him out at nurse in a village in the
neighbourhood of Paris, where little Rawdon lived, not unhappily, with a
numerous family of foster brothers in wooden shoes. His father, who was
devotedly attached to the little fellow, would ride over many a time to
see him here, and the elder Rawdon's paternal heart glowed to see him
rosy and dirty, shouting lustily, and happy in the making of mud-pies
under the superintendence of the gardener's wife, his nurse.
Rebecca, however, did not care much to go and see her son and heir, who
as a result preferred his nurse's caresses to his mamma's, and when
finally he quitted that jolly nurse, he cried loudly for hours. He was
only consoled by his mother's promise that he should return to his nurse
the next day; which promise, it is needless to say, was not kept; instead
the boy was consigned to the care of a French maid, Genevieve, while his
mother was seldom with him, and the French woman was so neglectful of her
young charge that at one time he very narrowly escaped drowning on Calais
sands, where Genevieve had left and lost him.
So with little care and less love his childhood passed until presently
he went with his father and mother, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley, to London,
to their new home in Curzon Street, Mayfair. There little Rawdon's time
was mostly spent hidden upstairs in a garret somewhere, or crawling
below into the kitchen for companionship. His mother scarcely ever took
notice of him. He passed the days with his French nurse as long as she
remained in the family, and when she went away, a housemaid took
compassion on the little fellow, who was howling in the loneliness of
the night, and got him out of his solitary nursery into her bed in the
garret and comforted him.
Rebecca, her friend, my Lord Steyne, and one or two more were in the
drawing-room taking tea after the opera, when this shouting was heard
overhead. "It's my cherub crying for his nurse," said his mother, who did
not offer to move and go and see the child. "Don't agitate your feelings
by going to look after him," said Lord Steyne sardonically. "Bah!"
exclaimed Becky, with a sort of blush. "He'll cry himself to sleep"; and
they fell to talking about the opera.
Mr. Rawdon Crawley had stolen off, however, to look after his son and
heir; and came back to the company when he found that honest Dolly was
consoling the child. The Colonel's dressing-room was in those upper
regions. He used to see the boy there in private. They had interviews
together every morning when he shaved; Rawdon minor sitting on a box by
his father's side, and watching the operation with never-ceasing
pleasure. He and the sire were great friends. The father would bring him
sweet-meats from the dessert, and hide them in a certain old epaulet box
where the child went to seek them, and laughed with joy on discovering
the treasure; laughed, but not too loud; for mamma was asleep and must
not be disturbed. She did not go to rest until very late, and seldom rose
until afternoon.
His father bought the boy plenty of picture books, and crammed his
nursery with toys. Its walls were covered with pictures pasted up by the
father's own hand. He passed hours with the boy, who rode on his chest,
pulled his great moustaches as if they were driving reins, and spent days
with him in indefatigable gambols. The room was a low one, and once, when
the child was not five years old, his father, who was tossing him wildly
up in his arms, hit the poor little chap's scull so violently against the
ceiling that he almost dropped him, so terrified was he at the disaster.
Rawdon minor had made up his face for a tremendous howl, but just as he
was going to begin, the father interposed.
"For God's sake, Rawdy, don't wake mamma," he cried. And the child,
looking in a very hard and piteous way at his father, bit his lips,
clenched his hands, and didn't cry a bit. Rawdon told that story at the
clubs, at the mess, to everybody in town. "By Gad, sir," he explained to
the public in general, "what a good plucky one that boy of mine is. What
a trump he is! I half sent his head through the ceiling, and he wouldn't
cry for fear of disturbing mother!"
Sometimes, once or twice in a week, that lady visited the upper regions
in which the child lived. She came like a vivified picture, blandly
smiling in the most beautiful new clothes and little gloves and boots.
Wonderful scarfs, laces, and jewels glittered about her. She had always a
new bonnet on; and flowers bloomed perpetually in it, or else magnificent
curling ostrich feathers, soft and snowy as camellias. She nodded twice
or thrice patronisingly to the little boy, who looked up from his dinner
or from the pictures of soldiers he was painting. When she left the room,
an odour of rose, or some other magical fragrance, lingered about the
nursery. She was an unearthly being in his eyes, superior to his father,
to all the world, to be worshipped and admired at a distance. To drive
with that lady in a carriage was an awful rite. He sat in the back seat,
and did not dare to speak; he gazed with all his eyes at the beautifully
dressed princess opposite to him. Gentlemen on splendid prancing horses
came up, and smiled and talked with her. How her eyes beamed upon all of
them! Her hand used to quiver and wave gracefully as they passed. When he
went out with her he had his new red dress on. His old brown holland was
good enough when he stayed at home. Sometimes, when she was away, and
Dolly the maid was making his bed, he came into his mother's room. It was
as the abode of a fairy to him--a mystic chamber of splendour and
delight. There in the wardrobe hung those wonderful robes--pink and blue
and many-tinted. There was the jewel case, silver clasped; and a hundred
rings on the dressing table. There was a cheval glass, that miracle of
art, in which he could just see his own wondering head, and the
reflection of Dolly, plumping and patting the pillows of the bed. Poor
lonely little benighted boy! Mother is the name for God in the lips and
hearts of little children; and here was one who was worshipping a stone!
His father used to take him out of mornings, when they would go to the
stables together and to the park. Little Lord Southdown, the best natured
of men, who would make you a present of a hat from his head, and whose
main occupation in life was to buy nicknacks that he might give them away
afterwards, bought the little chap a pony, not much bigger than a large
rat, and on this little black Shetland pony young Rawdon's great father
would mount the boy, and walk by his side in the Park.
One Sunday morning as Rawdon Crawley, his little son, and the pony were
taking their accustomed walk, they passed an old acquaintance of the
Colonel's, Corporal Clink, who was in conversation with an old gentleman,
who held a boy in his arms about the age of little Rawdon. The other
youngster had seized hold of the Waterloo medal which the Corporal wore,
and was examining it with delight.
"Good-morning, your honour," said Clink, in reply to the "How do,
Clink?" of the Colonel. "This 'ere young gentleman is about the little
Colonel's age, sir," continued the Corporal.
"His father was a Waterloo man, too," said the old gentleman who carried
the boy. "Wasn't he, Georgie?"
"Yes, sir," said Georgie. He and the little chap on the pony were looking
at each other with all their might, solemnly scanning each other as
children do.
"His father was a captain in the--the regiment," said the old gentleman
rather pompously. "Captain George Osborne, sir--perhaps you knew him. He
died the death of a hero, sir, fighting against the Corsican tyrant"
"I knew him very well, sir," said Colonel Crawley, "and his wife, his
dear little wife, sir--how is she?"
"She is my daughter, sir," said the old gentleman proudly, putting down
the boy, and taking out his card, which he handed to the Colonel, while
little Georgie went up and looked at the Shetland pony.
"Should you like to have a ride?" said Rawdon minor from the saddle.
"Yes," said Georgie. The Colonel, who had been looking at him with some
interest, took up the child and put him on the pony behind Rawdon minor.
"Take hold of him, Georgie," he said; "take my little boy around the
waist; his name is Rawdon." And both the children began to laugh.
"You won't see a prettier pair, I think, this summer's day, sir," said
the good-natured Corporal; and the Colonel, the Corporal, and old Mr.
Sedley, with his umbrella, walked by the side of the children, who
enjoyed each other and the pony enormously. In later years they often
talked of that first meeting.
But this is anticipating our story, for between the time of their first
ride together, and the time when circumstances brought them together
again, the little chaps saw nothing of one another for a number of years,
during which the incidents of their lives differed as widely as did the
lives of their parents.
About the time when the little boys first met, Sir Pitt Crawley,
Baronet, father of Pitt and Rawdon Crawley, died, and Rebecca and her
husband hastened to Queen's Crawley, the old family home, where Rebecca
had once been governess, to shed a last tear over the departed Baronet.
Rebecca was not bowed down with grief, we must confess, but keenly alive
to the benefits which might come to herself and Rawdon if she could
please Sir Pitt Crawley, the new Baronet, and Lady Jane his wife, a
simple-minded woman mostly absorbed in the affairs of her nursery. This
interest aroused Becky's private scorn, but the first thing that clever
little lady did was to attack Lady Jane at her vulnerable point. After
being conducted to the apartments prepared for her, and having taken off
her bonnet and cloak, Becky asked her sister-in-law in what more she
could be useful.
"What I should like best," she added, "would be to see your dear little
nursery," at which the two ladies looked very kindly at each other, and
went to the nursery hand in hand.
Becky admired little Matilda, who was not quite four years old, as the
most charming little love in the world; and the boy, Pitt Blinkie
Southdown, a little fellow of two years, pale, heavy-eyed, and
large-headed, she pronounced to be a perfect prodigy in size,
intelligence and beauty.
The funeral over, Rebecca and her husband remained for a visit at Queen's
Crawley, which assumed its wonted aspect. Rawdon senior received constant
bulletins respecting little Rawdon, who was left behind in London, and
sent messages of his own. "I am very well," he wrote. "I hope you are
very well. I hope mamma is very well. The pony is very well. Grey takes
me to ride in the Park. I can canter. I met the little boy who rode
before. He cried when he cantered. I do not cry."
Rawdon read these letters to his brother, and Lady Jane, who was
delighted with them, gave Rebecca a banknote, begging her to buy a
present with it for her little nephew.
Like all other good things, the visit came to an end, and one night the
London lamps flashed joyfully as the stage rolled into Piccadilly, and
Briggs had made a beautiful fire on the hearth in Curzon Street, and
little Rawdon was up to welcome back his papa and mamma.
At this time he was a fine open-faced boy, with blue eyes and waving
flaxen hair, sturdy in limb, but generous and soft in heart, fondly
attaching himself to all who were good to him: to the pony, to Lord
Southdown, who gave him the horse; to the groom who had charge of the
pony; to Molly the cook, who crammed him with ghost stories at night and
with good things from the dinner; to Briggs, his meek, devoted attendant,
whom he plagued and laughed at; and to his father especially. Here, as he
grew to be about eight years old, his attachment may be said to have
ended. The beautiful mother vision had faded away after a while. During
nearly two years his mother had scarcely spoken to the child. She
disliked him. He had the measles and the whooping cough. He bored her.
One day when he was standing at the landing-place, having crept down from
the upper regions, attracted by the sound of his mother's voice, who was
singing to Lord Steyne, the drawing-room door opening suddenly discovered
the little spy, who but a moment before had been rapt in delight and
listening to the music.
His mother came out and struck him violently a couple of boxes on the
ear. He heard a laugh from the Marquis in the inner room, and fled down
below to his friends of the kitchen, bursting in an agony of grief.
"It is not because it hurts me," little Rawdon gasped out,
"only--only--" sobs and tears wound up the sentence in a storm. It was
the little boy's heart that was bleeding. "Why mayn't I hear her
singing? Why don't she ever sing to me, as she does to that bald-headed
man with the large teeth?" He gasped out at various intervals these
exclamations of grief and rage. The cook looked at the housemaid; the
housemaid looked knowingly at the footman, who all sat in judgment on
Rebecca from that moment.
After this incident the mother's dislike increased to hatred; the
consciousness that the child was in the house was a reproach and a pain
to her. His very sight annoyed her. Fear, doubt, and resistance sprang up
too, in the boy's own bosom.
He and his mother were separated from that day of the boxes on the ear.
Lord Steyne also disliked the boy. When they met he made sarcastic bows
or remarks to the child, or glared at him with savage-looking eyes.
Rawdon used to stare him in the face and double his little fists in
return. Had it not been for his father, the child would have been
desolate indeed, in his own home.
But an unexpected good time came to him a day or two before Christmas,
when he was taken by his father and mother to pass the holidays at
Queen's Crawley. Becky would have liked to leave him at home, but for
Lady Jane's urgent invitation to the youngster; and the symptoms of
revolt and discontent manifested by Rawdon at her neglect of her son. "He
is the finest boy in England," the father said reproachfully, "and you
don't seem to care for him as much as you do for your spaniel. He shan't
bother you much; at home he will be away from you in the nursery, and he
shall go outside on the coach with me."
So little Rawdon was wrapped up in shawls and comforters for the winter's
journey, and hoisted respectfully onto the roof of the coach in the dark
morning; with no small delight watched the dawn arise, and made his first
journey to the place which his father still called home. It was a journey
of infinite pleasure to the boy, to whom the incidents of the road
afforded endless interest; his father answering all questions connected
with it, and telling him who lived in the great white house to the right,
and whom the park belonged to.
Presently the boy fell asleep, and it was dark when he was wakened up to
enter his uncle's carriage at Mudbury, and he sat and looked out of it
wondering as the great iron gates flew open, and at the white trunks of
the limes as they swept by, until they stopped at length before the
lighted windows of the Hall, which were blazing and comfortable with
Christmas welcome. The hall-door was flung open; a big fire was burning
in the great old fireplace, a carpet was down over the chequered black
flags, and the next instant Becky was kissing Lady Jane.
She and Sir Pitt performed the same salute with great gravity, while Sir
Pitt's two children came up to their cousin. Matilda held out her hand
and kissed him. Pitt Blinkie Southdown, the son and heir, stood aloof,
and examined him as a little dog does a big one.
Then the kind hostess conducted her guests to snug apartments blazing
with cheerful fires, and after some conversation with the fine young
ladies of the house, the great dinner bell having rung, the family
assembled at dinner, at which meal Rawdon junior was placed by his aunt,
and exhibited not only a fine appetite, but a gentlemanlike behaviour.
"I like to dine here," he said to his aunt when he had completed his
meal, at the conclusion of which, and after a decent grace by Sir Pitt,
the younger son and heir was introduced and was perched on a high chair
by the Baronet's side, while the daughter took possession of the place
prepared for her, near her mother. "I like to dine here," said Rawdon
minor, looking up at his relation's kind face.
"Why?" said the good Lady Jane.
"I dine in the kitchen when I am at home," replied Rawdon minor, "or else
with Briggs." This honest confession was fortunately not heard by Becky,
who was deep in conversation with the Baronet, or it might have been
worse for little Rawdon.
As a guest, and it being the first night of his arrival, he was allowed
to sit up until the hour when, tea being over and a great gilt book being
laid on the table before Sir Pitt, all the domestics of the family
streamed in and Sir Pitt read prayers. It was the first time the poor
little boy had ever witnessed or heard of such a ceremonial.
Queen's Crawley had been much improved since the young Baronet's brief
reign, and was pronounced by Becky to be perfect, charming, delightful,
when she surveyed it in his company. As for little Rawdon, who examined
it with the children for his guides, it seemed to him a perfect palace of
enchantment and wonder. There were long galleries, and ancient state
bed-rooms; there were pictures and old china and armour which enchanted
little Rawdon, who had never seen their like before, and who, poor child,
had never before been in such an atmosphere of kindness and good cheer.
On Christmas day a great family gathering took place, and one and all
agreed that little Rawdon was a fine boy. They respected a possible
Baronet in the boy between whom and the title there was only the little
sickly, pale Pitt Blinkie.
The children were very good friends. Pitt Blinkie was too little a dog
for such a big dog as Rawdon to play with, and Matilda, being only a
girl, of course not fit companion for a young gentleman who was near
eight years old, and going into jackets very soon. He took the command of
this small party at once, the little girl and the little boy following
him about with great reverence at such times as he condescended to sport
with them. His happiness and pleasure in the country were extreme. The
kitchen-garden pleased him hugely, the flowers moderately; but the
pigeons and the poultry, and the stables, when he was allowed to visit
them, were delightful objects to him. He resisted being kissed by the
Misses Crawley; but he allowed Lady Jane sometimes to embrace him, and it
was by her side that he liked to sit rather than by his mother. Rebecca,
seeing that tenderness was the fashion, called Rawdon to her one evening,
and stooped down and kissed him in the presence of all the ladies.
He looked her full in the face after the operation, trembling and turning
very red, as his wont was when moved. "You never kiss me at home, Mamma,"
he said; at which there was a general silence and consternation, and by
no means a pleasant look in Becky's eyes; but she was obliged to allow
the incident to pass in silence.
But the greatest day of all was that on which Sir Huddlestone
Fuddlestone's hounds met upon the lawn at Queen's Crawley.
That was a famous sight for little Rawdon. At half-past ten Tom Moody,
Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone's huntsman, was seen trotting up the avenue,
followed by the noble pack of hounds in a compact body, the rear being
brought up by the two whips clad in stained scarlet frocks, light,
hard-featured lads on well-bred lean horses, possessing marvellous
dexterity in casting the points of their long, heavy whips at the
thinnest part of any dog's skin who dared to straggle from the main body,
or to take the slightest notice, or even so much as wink at the hares and
rabbits starting under their noses.
Next came boy Jack, Tom Moody's son, who weighed five stone, measured
eight and forty inches, and would never be any bigger. He was perched on
a large raw-boned hunter, half covered by a capacious saddle. This animal
was Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone's favourite horse, the Nob. Other horses
ridden by other small boys arrived from time to time, awaiting their
masters, who came cantering on anon.
Tom Moody rode up presently, and he and his pack drew off into a
sheltered corner of the lawn, where the dogs rolled on the grass, and
played or growled angrily at one another, ever and anon breaking out into
furious fights, speedily to be quelled by Tom's voice, unmatched at
rating, or the snaky thongs of the whips.
Many young gentlemen cantered up on thoroughbred hacks, spatter-dashed to
the knee, and entered the house to pay their respects to the ladies, or,
more modest and sportsmanlike, divested themselves of their mud-boots,
exchanged their hacks for their hunters, and warmed their blood by a
preliminary gallop round the lawn. Then they collected round the pack in
the corner, and talked with Tom Moody of past sport, and the merits of
Sniveller and Diamond, and of the state of the country and of the
wretched breed of foxes.
Sir Huddlestone presently appears mounted on a clever cob, and rides up
to the Hall, where he enters and does the civil thing by the ladies,
after which, being a man of few words, he proceeds to business. The
hounds are drawn up to the hall-door, and little Rawdon descends among
them, excited yet half alarmed by the caresses which they bestow upon
him, at the thumps he receives from their waving tails, and at their
canine bickerings, scarcely restrained by Tom Moody's tongue and lash.
Meanwhile, Sir Huddlestone has hoisted himself unwieldily on the Nob.
"Let's try Sowster's Spinney, Tom," says the Baronet; "Farmer Mangle
tells me there are two foxes in it." Tom blows his horn and trots off,
followed by the pack, by the whips, by the young gents from Winchester,
by the farmers of the neighbourhood, by the labourers of the parish on
foot, with whom the day is a great holiday; Sir Huddlestone bringing up
the rear with Colonel Crawley; and the whole train of hounds and horsemen
disappears down the avenue, leaving little Rawdon alone on the doorsteps,
wondering and happy.
During the progress of this memorable holiday little Rawdon, if he had
got no special liking for his uncle, always awful and cold, and locked up
in his study, plunged in justice business and surrounded by bailiffs and
farmers, has gained the good graces of his married and maiden aunts, of
the two little folks of the Hall, and of Jim of the Rectory, and he had
become extremely fond of Lady Jane, who told such beautiful stories with
the children clustered about her knees. Naturally, after having his first
glimpse of happy home life and his first taste of genuine motherly
affection, it was a sad day to little Rawdon when he was obliged to
return to Curzon Street. But there was an unexpected pleasure awaiting
him on his return. Lord Steyne, though he wasted no affection upon the
boy, yet for reasons of his own concerning only himself and Mrs. Becky,
extended his good will to little Rawdon. Wishing to have the boy out of
his way, he pointed out to Rawdon's parents the necessity of sending him
to a public school; that he was of an age now when emulation, the first
principles of the Latin language, pugilistic exercises, and the society
of his fellow boys would be of the greatest benefit to him. His father
objected that he was not rich enough to send the child to a good school;
his mother, that Briggs was a capital mistress for him, and had brought
him on, as indeed was the fact, famously in English, Latin, and in
general learning; but all these objections were overruled by the Marquis
of Steyne. His lordship was one of the Governors of that famous old
collegiate institution called the White Friars, where he desired that
little Rawdon should be sent, and sent he was; for Rawdon Crawley, though
the only book which he studied was the racing calendar, and though his
chief recollections of learning were connected with the floggings which
he received at Eton in his early youth, had that reverence for classical
learning which all English gentlemen feel, and was glad to think that his
son was to have the chance of becoming a scholar. And although his boy
was his chief solace and companion, he agreed at once to part with him
for the sake of the welfare of the little lad.
It was honest Briggs who made up the little kit for the boy which he was
to take to school. Molly, the housemaid, blubbered in the passage when he
went away. Mrs. Becky could not let her husband have the carriage to take
the boy to school. Take the horses into the city! Such a thing was never
heard of. Let a cab be brought. She did not offer to kiss him when he
went, nor did the child propose to embrace her, but gave a kiss to old
Briggs and consoled her by pointing out that he was to come home on
Saturdays, when she would have the benefit of seeing him. As the cab
rolled towards the city Becky's carriage rattled off to the park. She
gave no thought to either of them when the father and son entered at the
old gates of the school, where Rawdon left the child, then walked home
very dismally, and dined alone with Briggs, to whom he was grateful for
her love and watchfulness over the boy. They talked about little Rawdon a
long time, and Mr. Crawley went off to drink tea with Lady Jane, who was
very fond of Rawdon, as was her little girl, who cried bitterly when the
time for her cousin's departure came. Rawdon senior now told Lady Jane
how little Rawdon went off like a trump, and how he was to wear a gown
and little knee breeches, and Jack Blackball's son of the old regiment
had taken him in charge and promised to be kind to him.
The Colonel went to see his son a short time afterwards, and found the
lad sufficiently well and happy, grinning and laughing in his little
black gown and little breeches. As a protege of the great Lord Steyne,
the nephew of a county member, and son of a Colonel and C.B. whose
names appeared in some of the most fashionable parties in the Morning
Post, perhaps the school authorities were disposed not to look unkindly
on the child.
He had plenty of pocket-money, which he spent in treating his comrades
royally to raspberry tarts, and he was often allowed to come home on
Saturdays to his father, who always made a jubilee of that day. When
free, Rawdon would take him to the play, or send him thither with the
footman; and on Sundays he went to church with Briggs and Lady Jane and
his cousins. Rawdon marvelled over his stories about school, and fights,
and fagging. Before long he knew the names of all the masters and the
principal boys as well as little Rawdon himself. He invited little
Rawdon's crony from school and made both the children sick with pastry,
and oysters, and porter after the play. He tried to look knowing over the
Latin grammar when little Rawdon showed him what part of that work he was
"in." "Stick to it, my boy," he said to him with much gravity, "there's
nothing like a good classical education! Nothing!"
While little Rawdon was still one of the fifty gown-boys of White Friar
school, the Colonel, his poor father, got into great trouble through no
fault of his own, but as a result of which Mrs. Becky was obliged to make
her exit from Curzon Street forever, and the Colonel in bitter dejection
and humiliation accepted an appointment as Governor of Coventry Island.
For some time he resisted the idea of taking this place, because it had
been procured for him through the influence of Lord Steyne, whose
patronage was odious to him, as he had been the means of ruining the
Colonel's homelife. The Colonel's instinct also was for at once removing
the boy from the school where Lord Steyne's interest had placed him. He
was induced, however, not to do this, and little Rawden was allowed to
round out his days in the school, where he was very happy. After his
mother's departure from Curzon Street she disappeared entirely from her
son's life, and never made any movement to see the child.
He went home to his aunt, Lady Jane, for Sundays and holidays; and soon
knew every bird's-nest about Queen's Crawley, and rode out with Sir
Huddlestone's hounds, which he had admired so on his first
well-remembered visit to the home of his ancestor. In fact, Rawdon was
consigned to the entire guardianship of his aunt and uncle, to whom he
was fortunately deeply devoted; and although he received several letters
at various times from his mother, they made little impression upon him,
and indeed it was easy to see where his affections were placed. When Sir
Pitt's only boy died of whooping-cough and measles--then Mrs. Becky wrote
the most affectionate letter to her darling son, who was made heir of
Queen's Crawley by this accident, and drawn more closely than ever by it
to Lady Jane, whose tender heart had already adopted him. Rawdon Crawley,
then grown a tall, fine lad, blushed when he got the letter.
"Oh, Aunt Jane, you are my mother!" he said; "and not--and not _that_
one!" But he wrote a kind and respectful letter in response to Mrs.
Becky, and the incident was closed. As for the Colonel, he wrote to the
boy regularly every mail from his post on Coventry Island, and little
Rawdon used to like to get the papers and read about his Excellency, his
father, of whom he had been truly fond. But the image gradually faded as
the images of childhood do fade, and each year he grew more tenderly
attached to Lady Jane and her husband, who had become father and mother
to him in his hour of need.
As for George Osborne, the little boy whom Rawdon Crawley had given a
ride on his pony long years before, the fates had been much kinder to him
than to Rawdon. He had had no lonely childhood, for although he had no
recollection of his handsome young father, from baby days he was
surrounded by the utmost adoration by a doting mother. Poor Amelia,
deprived of the husband whom she adored, lavished all the pent-up love of
her gentle bosom upon the little boy with the eyes of George who was
gone--a little boy as beautiful as a cherub, and there was never a moment
when the child missed any office which love or affection could give him.
His grandfather Sedley also adored the child, and it was the old man's
delight to take out his little grandson to the neighbouring parks of
Kensington Gardens, to see the soldiers or to feed the ducks. Georgie
loved the red coats, and his grandpapa told him how his father had been a
famous soldier, and introduced him to many sergeants and others with
Waterloo medals on their breasts, to whom the old grandfather pompously
presented the child; as on the occasion of their meeting with Colonel
Rawdon Crawley and his little son.
Old Sedley was disposed to spoil little Georgie, sadly gorging the boy
with apples and peppermint to the detriment of his health, until Amelia
declared that Georgie should never go out with his grandpapa again unless
the latter solemnly promised on his honour not to give the child any
cakes, lollipops, or stall produce whatever.
Amelia's days were full of active employment, for besides caring for
Georgie, she devoted much time to her old father and mother, with whom
she and the child lived, and who were much broken by their financial
reverses. She also personally superintended her little son's education
for several years. She taught him to read and to write, and a little to
draw. She read books, in order that she might tell him stories. As his
eyes opened, and his mind expanded, she taught him to the best of her
humble power to acknowledge the Maker of All; and every night and every
morning he and she--the mother and the little boy--prayed to our Father
together, the mother pleading with all her gentle heart, the child
lisping after her as she spoke. And each time they prayed to God to bless
dear papa, as if he were alive and in the room with them.
Besides her pension of fifty pounds a year, as an army officer's widow,
there had been five hundred pounds left with the agent of her estate for
her, for which Amelia did not know that she was indebted to Major Dobbin,
until years later. This same Major, by the way, was stationed at Madras,
where twice or thrice in the year she wrote to him about herself and the
boy, and he in turn sent over endless remembrances to his godson and to
her. He 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. These chessmen were the delight of Georgie's life, who printed
his first letter of acknowledgment of this gift of his godpapa. Major
Dobbin also 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 judgment upon him for stealing, they
were so hot. Amelia 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. Amelia's, too,
became prettily her modest black gown.
Amidst humble scenes and associates Georgie's early youth was passed, and
the boy grew up delicate, sensitive, imperious, woman-bred--domineering
over 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 questions 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. Georgie
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 Georgie 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
Georgie's sixth birthday a gentleman in a gig, accompanied by a servant,
drove up to Mrs. Sedley's house and asked to be conducted to Master
George Osborne. It was Woolsey, military tailor, who came at the Major's
order, to measure George for a suit of clothes. He had had the honour of
making for the Captain, the young gentleman's father.
Sometimes, too, the Major's sisters, the Misses Dobbin, would call in the
family carriage to take Amelia and the little boy a drive. The patronage
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 Georgie 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 villa on Denmark Hill, where there were such
fine grapes in the hot-house and peaches on the walls.
Miss Osborne, Georgie's aunt, who, since old Osborne's quarrel with his
son, had not been allowed to have any intercourse with Amelia or little
Georgie, was kept acquainted with the state of Amelia's affairs by the
Misses Dobbin, who told how she was living with her father and mother;
how poor they were; but how the boy was really the noblest little boy
ever seen; which praise raised a great desire to see the child in the
heart of his maiden aunt, and one night when he came back from Denmark
Hill in the pony carriage in which he rejoiced, he had round his neck a
fine gold chain and watch. He said an old lady, not pretty, had been
there and had given it to him, who cried and kissed him a great deal. But
he didn't like her. He liked grapes very much and he only liked his
mamma. Amelia shrunk and started; she felt a presentiment of terror, for
she knew that Georgie's relations had seen him.
Miss Osborne,--for it was indeed she who had seen Georgie,--went home
that night to give her father his dinner. He was in rather a good-humour,
and chanced to remark her excitement "What's the matter, Miss Osborne?"
he deigned to ask.
The woman burst into tears. "Oh, sir," she said, "I've seen little
Georgie. He is as beautiful as an angel--and so like _him!_"
The old man opposite to her did not say a word, but flushed up, and began
to tremble in every limb, and that night he bade his daughter good-night
in rather a kindly voice. And he must have made some inquiries of the
Misses Dobbin regarding her visit to them when she had seen Georgie, for
a fortnight afterwards he asked her where was her little French watch and
chain she used to wear.
"I bought it with my money, sir," she said in a great fright, not daring
to tell what she had done with it.
"Go and order another like it, or a better, if you can get it," said the
old gentleman, and lapsed again into silence.
After that time the Misses Dobbin frequently invited Georgie to visit
them, and hinted to Amelia that his aunt had shown her inclination;
perhaps his grandfather himself might be disposed to be reconciled to him
in time. Surely, Amelia could not refuse such advantageous chances for
the boy. Nor could she; but she acceded to their overtures with a very
heavy and suspicious heart, was always uneasy during the child's absence
from her, and welcomed him back as if he was rescued out of some danger.
He brought back money and toys, at which the widow looked with alarm and
jealousy; she asked him always if he had seen any gentleman. "Only old
Sir William, who drove him about in the four-wheeled chaise, and Mr.
Dobbin, who arrived on the beautiful bay horse in the afternoon, in the
green coat and pink neckcloth, with the gold-headed whip, who promised to
show him the Tower of London and take him out with the Surrey hounds." At
last he said: "There was an old gentleman, with thick eyebrows and a
brown hat and large chain and seals. He came one day as the coachman was
leading Georgie around the lawn on the grey pony. He looked at me very
much. He shook very much. I said, 'My name is Norval,' after dinner. My
aunt began to cry. She is always crying." Such was George's report on
that night.
Then Amelia knew that the boy had seen his grandfather; and looked out
feverishly for a proposal which she was sure would follow, and which
came, in fact, a few days afterwards. Mr. Osborne formally offered to
take the boy, and make him heir to the fortune which he had intended
that his father should inherit. He would make Mrs. George Osborne an
allowance, such as to assure her a decent competency. But it must be
understood that the child would live entirely with his grandfather and be
only occasionally permitted to see Mrs. George Osborne at her own home.
This message was brought to her in a letter one day. She had only been
seen angry a few times in her life, but now Mr. Osborne's lawyer so
beheld her. She rose up trembling and flushing very much after reading
the letter, and she tore the paper into a hundred fragments, which she
trod on. "_I_ take money to part from my child! Who dares insult me
proposing such a thing? Tell Mr. Osborne it is a cowardly letter, sir--a
cowardly letter--I will not answer it! I wish you good-morning," and she
bowed the lawyer out of the room like a tragedy queen.
Her parents did not remark her agitation on that day. They were absorbed
in their own affairs, and the old gentleman, her father, was deep in
speculation, in which he was sinking the remittances regularly sent from
India by his son, Joseph, for the support of his aged parents; and also
that portion of Amelia's slender income which she gave each month to her
father. Of this dangerous pastime of her father's Amelia was kept in
ignorance, until the day came when he was obliged to confess that he was
penniless. At once Amelia handed over to him what little money she had
retained for her own and Georgie's expenses. She did this without a word
of regret, but returned to her room to cry her eyes out, for she had made
plans which would now be impossible, to have a new suit made for Georgie.
This she was obliged to countermand, and, hardest of all, she had to
break the matter to Georgie, who made a loud outcry. Everybody had new
clothes at Christmas. The other boys would laugh at him. He would have
new clothes, she had promised them to him. The poor widow had only
kisses to give him. She cast about among her little ornaments to see if
she could sell anything to procure the desired novelties. She remembered
her India shawl that Dobbin sent her, which might be of value to a
merchant with whom ladies had all sorts of dealings and bargains in these
articles. She smiled brightly as she kissed away Georgie to school in the
morning, and the boy felt that there was good news in her look.
As soon as he had gone she hurried away to the merchant with her shawl
hidden under her cloak. As she walked she calculated how, with the
proceeds of her shawl, besides the clothes, she would buy the books that
he wanted, and pay his half year's schooling at the little school to
which he went; and how she would buy a new coat for her father. She was
not mistaken as to the value of the shawl. It was a very fine one, for
which the merchant gave her twenty guineas. She ran on, amazed and
flurried with her riches, to a shop where she purchased the books Georgie
longed for, and went home exulting. And she pleased herself by writing in
the fly leaf in her neatest little hand, "George Osborne, A Christmas
gift from his affectionate mother."
She was going to place the books on Georgie's table, when in the passage
she and her mother met. The gilt bindings of the little volumes caught
the old lady's eye.
"What are those?" she said.
"Some books for Georgie," Amelia replied. "I--I promised them to him at
Christmas."
"Books!" cried the old lady indignantly; books! when the whole house
wants bread! Oh, Amelia! You break my heart with your books, and that boy
of yours, whom you are ruining, though part with him you will not! Oh,
Amelia, may God send you a more dutiful child than I have had! There's
Joseph deserts his father in his old age; and there's George, who might
be rich, going to school like a lord, with a gold watch and chain round
his neck, while my dear, dear, old man is without a sh-shilling."
Hysterical sobs ended Mrs. Sedley's grief, which quite melted Amelia's
tender heart.
"Oh, mother, mother!" she cried. "You told me nothing. I--I promised
him the books. I--I only sold my shawl this morning. Take the money--take
everything--" taking out her precious golden sovereigns, which she
thrust into her mother's hands, and then went into her room, and sank
down in despair and utter misery. She saw it all. Her selfishness was
sacrificing the boy. But for her, he might have wealth, station,
education, and his father's place, which the elder George had forfeited
for her sake. She had but to speak the words, and her father was restored
to comfort, and the boy raised to fortune. Oh, what a conviction it was
to that tender and stricken heart!
The combat between inclination and duty lasted for many weeks in poor
Amelia's heart. Meanwhile by every means in her power she attempted to
earn money, but was always unsuccessful. Then, when matters had become
tragic in the little family circle, she could bear the burden of pain no
longer. Her decision was made. For the sake of others the child must go
from her. She must give him up,--she must--she must.
She put on her bonnet, scarcely knowing what she did, and went out to
walk in the lanes, where she was in the habit of going to meet Georgie on
his return from school. 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 sad."
"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 is it 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 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.
Her mind being made up, the widow began at once to take such measures as
seemed right to her for achieving her purpose. One day, Miss Osborne, in
Russell Square, 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 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. At last he flung it down:
and scowling at his daughter, as his wont was, went out of the room and
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. She sank
quite pale on the little bed. "This is blessed news, ma'am--indeed,
ma'am," the housekeeper said; "the good old times is returning! The dear
little feller, to be sure, ma'am; how happy he will be! But some folks in
Mayfair, ma'am, will owe him a grudge!" 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 lookout. She don't come in _here_, mind. 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.
That night, when Amelia kissed her father, she put a bill for a hundred
pounds into his hands, adding, "And--and, mamma, don't be harsh with
Georgie. He--he is not going to stop with us long." She could say nothing
more, and walked away silently to her room.
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 there need be no
fear lest she should take the first place in her son's affection. She
was cold, sensible, not unkind. Miss Osborne, on the other hand, could
not but be touched with the poor mother's situation, and their
arrangements were made together with kindness on both sides.
Georgie was kept from school the next day, and saw his aunt. Days were
passed in talks, visits, preparations. The widow broke the matter to him
with great caution; and was saddened to find him rather elated than
otherwise. 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.
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. Days before Amelia 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 would have everything she wanted.
George stood by his mother, watching her final arrangements without the
least concern, then said a gay farewell, went away smiling, and the widow
was quite alone.
The boy came to see her often, after that, to be sure. He rode on a pony
with the coachman behind him, to the delight of his old grandfather,
Sedley, who walked proudly down the lane by his side. Amelia saw him, but
he was not her boy any more. Why, he rode to see the boys at the little
school, too, and to show off before them his new wealth and splendour. In
two days he had adopted a slightly imperious air and patronising manner,
and once fairly established in his grandfather Osborne's mansion in
Russell Square, won the grandsire's heart by his good looks, gallant
bearing, and gentlemanlike appearance. Mr. Osborne was as proud of him as
ever he had been of the elder George, and the child had many more
luxuries and indulgences than had been awarded to his father. Osborne's
wealth and importance in the city had very much increased of late years.
He had been glad enough to put the elder George in a good private school,
and a commission in the army for his son had been a source of no small
pride to him; but for little George and his future prospects the old man
looked much higher. He would make a gentleman of the little chap, a
collegian, a parliament man--a baronet, perhaps. He would have none but a
tip-top college man to educate him. He would mourn in a solemn manner
that his own education had been neglected, and repeatedly point out the
necessity of classical acquirements.
When they met at dinner the grandfather used to ask the lad what he had
been reading during the day, and was greatly interested at the report the
boy gave of his studies, pretending to understand little George when he
spoke regarding them. He made a hundred blunders, and showed his
ignorance many a time, which George was quick to see and which did not
increase the respect which the child had for his senior.
In fact, as young George had lorded it over the tender, yielding nature
of his mother, so the coarse pomposity of the dull old man with whom he
next came in contact, made him lord over the latter, too. If he had been
a prince royal, he could not have been better brought up to think well of
himself, and while his mother was yearning after him at home, he was
having a number of pleasures and consolations administered to him which
made the separation from Amelia a very easy matter to him. In fact,
Master George Osborne had every comfort and luxury that a wealthy and
lavish old grandfather thought fit to provide. He had the handsomest pony
which could be bought, and on this was taught to ride, first at a
riding-school, then in state to Regent's Park, and then to Hyde Park with
Martin the coachman behind him.
Though he was scarcely eleven years of age, Master George wore straps,
and the most beautiful little boots, like a man. He had gilt spurs and a
gold-headed whip and a fine pin in his neckerchief, and the neatest
little kid gloves which could be bought. His mother had given him a
couple of neckcloths, and carefully made some little shirts for him; but
when her Samuel came to see the widow, they were replaced by much finer
linen. He had little jewelled buttons in the lawn shirt fronts. Her
humble presents had been put aside--I believe Miss Osborne had given them
to the coachman's boy.
Amelia tried to think she was pleased at the change. Indeed, she was
happy and charmed to see the boy looking so beautiful. She had a little
black profile of him done for a shilling, which was hung over her bed.
One day the boy came galloping down on his accustomed visit to her, and
with great eagerness pulled a red morocco case out of his coat pocket.
"I bought it with my own money, mamma," he said. "I thought you'd like
it."
Amelia opened the case, and giving a little cry of delighted affection,
seized him and embraced him a hundred times. It was a miniature of
himself, very prettily done by an artist who had just executed his
portrait for his grandfather. Georgie, who had plenty of money, bethought
him to ask the painter how much a copy of the portrait would cost, saying
that he would pay for it out of his own money, and that he wanted to give
it to his mother. The pleased painter executed it for a small price, and
old Osborne himself, when he heard of the incident, growled out his
satisfaction, and gave the boy twice as many sovereigns as he paid for
the miniature.
At his new home Master George ruled like a lord, and charmed his old
grandfather by his ways. "Look at him," the old man would say, nudging
his neighbour with a delighted purple face, "did you ever see such a
chap? Lord, Lord! he'll be ordering a dressing-case next, and razors to
shave with; I'm blessed if he won't."
The antics of the lad did not, however, delight Mr. Osborne's friends so
much as they pleased the old gentleman. It gave Mr. Justice Coffin no
pleasure to hear Georgie cut into the conversation and spoil his stories.
Mr. Sergeant Toffy's lady felt no particular gratitude when he tilted a
glass of port wine over her yellow satin, and laughed at the disaster;
nor was she better pleased, although old Osborne was highly delighted,
when Georgie "whopped" her third boy, a young gentleman a year older than
Georgie, and by chance home for the holidays. George's grandfather gave
the boy a couple of sovereigns for that feat, and promised to reward him
further for every boy above his own size and age whom he whopped in a
similar manner. It is difficult to say what good the old man saw in these
combats; he had a vague notion that quarrelling made boys hardy, and that
tyranny was a useful accomplishment for them to learn. Flushed with
praise and victory over Master Toffy, George wished naturally to pursue
his conquests further, and one day as he was strutting about in new
clothes, near St. Paneras, and a young baker's boy made sarcastic
comments upon his appearance, the youthful patrician pulled off his dandy
jacket with great spirit, and giving it in charge to the friend who
accompanied him (Master Todd, of Great Coram Street, Russell Square, son
of the junior partner of the house of Osborne & Co.), tried to whop the
little baker. But the chances of war were unfavourable this time, and the
little baker whopped Georgie, who came home with a rueful black eye and
all his fine shirt frill dabbled with the claret drawn from his own
little nose. He told his grandfather that he had been in combat with a
giant; and frightened his poor mother at Brampton with long, and by no
means authentic, accounts of the battle.
This young Todd, of Coram Street, Russell Square, was Master George's
great friend and admirer. They both had a taste for painting theatrical
characters; for hardbake and raspberry tarts; for sliding and skating in
the Regent's Park and the Serpentine, when the weather permitted; for
going to the play, whither they were often conducted, by Mr. Osborne's
orders, by Rowson, Master George's appointed body-servant, with whom they
sate in great comfort in the pit.
In the company of this gentleman they visited all the principal theatres
of the metropolis--knew the names of all the actors from Drury Lane to
Sadler's Wells; and performed, indeed, many of the plays to the Todd
family and their youthful friends, with West's famous characters, on
their pasteboard theatre.
A famous tailor from the West End of the town was summoned to ornament
little Georgie's person, and was told to spare no expense in so doing.
So, Mr. Woolsey, of Conduit Street, gave a loose rein to his imagination,
and sent the child home fancy trowsers, fancy waistcoats, and fancy
jackets enough to furnish a school of little dandies. George had little
white waistcoats for evening parties, and little cut velvet waistcoats
for evening parties, and little cut velvet waistcoats for dinners, and a
dear little darling shawl dressing-gown, for all the world like a little
man. He dressed for dinner every day, "like a regular West End swell," as
his grandfather remarked; one of the domestics was affected to his
special service, attended him at his toilette, answered his bell, and
brought him his letters always on a silver tray.
Georgie, after breakfast, would sit in the arm-chair in the dining-room,
and read the Morning Post, just like a grown-up man. Those who remembered
the Captain, his father, declared Master George was his pa, every inch of
him. He made the house lively by his activity, his imperiousness, his
scolding, and his good-nature.
George's education was confided to the Reverend Lawrence Veal, a private
pedagogue who "prepared young noblemen and gentlemen for the
Universities, the Senate, and the learned professions; whose system did
not embrace the degrading corporal severities still practised at the
ancient places of education, and in whose family the pupils would find
the elegances of refined society and the confidence and affection of a
home," as his prospectus stated.
Georgie was only a day pupil; he arrived in the morning, and if it was
fine would ride away in the afternoon, on his pony. The wealth of his
grandfather was reported in the school to be prodigious. The Reverend Mr.
Veal used to compliment Georgie upon it personally, warning him that he
was destined for a high station; that it became him to prepare for the
lofty duties to which he would be called later; that obedience in the
child was the best preparation for command in the man; and that he
therefore begged George would not bring toffee into the school and ruin
the health of the other pupils, who had everything they wanted at the
elegant and abundant table of Mrs. Veal.
Whenever Mr. Veal spoke he took care to produce the very finest and
longest words of which the vocabulary gave him the use, and his manner
was so pompous that little Georgie, who had considerable humour, used to
mimic him to his face with great spirit and dexterity, without ever being
discovered. Amelia was bewildered by Mr. Veal's phrases, but thought him
a prodigy of learning, and made friends with his wife, that she might be
asked to Mrs. Veal's receptions, which took place once a month, and where
the professor welcomed his pupils and their friends to weak tea and
scientific conversation. Poor little Amelia never missed one of these
entertainments, and thought them delicious so long as she might have
George sitting by her.
As for the learning which George imbibed under Mr. Veal, to judge from
the weekly reports which the lad took home, his progress was remarkable.
The name of a score or more of desirable branches of knowledge were
printed in a table, and the pupil's progress in each was marked by the
professor. In Greek Georgie was pronounced _Aristos_, in Latin
_Optimus_, in French _Très bien_, etc.; and everybody had prizes for
everything at the end of the year. Even that idle young scapegrace of a
Master Todd, godson of Mr. Osborne, received a little eighteen-penny
book, with _Athene_ engraved on it, and a pompous Latin inscription from
the professor to his young friend. An example of Georgie's facility in
the art of composition is still treasured by his proud mother, and reads
as follows:
_Example_: The selfishness of Achilles, as remarked by the poet Homer,
occasioned a thousand woes to the Greeks (Hom. II A 2). The selfishness
of the late Napoleon Bonaparte occasioned innumerable wars in Europe, and
caused him to perish himself in a miserable island--that of St. Helena in
the Atlantic Ocean.
We see by these examples that we are not to consult our own interest
and ambition, but that we are to consider the interests of others as
well as our own.