CHAPTER L

Contains a Vulgar Incident

The Muse, whoever she be, who presides over this Comic History must now

descend from the genteel heights in which she has been soaring and have

the goodness to drop down upon the lowly roof of John Sedley at

Brompton, and describe what events are taking place there. Here, too,

in this humble tenement, live care, and distrust, and dismay. Mrs.

Clapp in the kitchen is grumbling in secret to her husband about the

rent, and urging the good fellow to rebel against his old friend and

patron and his present lodger. Mrs. Sedley has ceased to visit her

landlady in the lower regions now, and indeed is in a position to

patronize Mrs. Clapp no longer. How can one be condescending to a lady

to whom one owes a matter of forty pounds, and who is perpetually

throwing out hints for the money? The Irish maidservant has not altered

in the least in her kind and respectful behaviour; but Mrs. Sedley

fancies that she is growing insolent and ungrateful, and, as the guilty

thief who fears each bush an officer, sees threatening innuendoes and

hints of capture in all the girl's speeches and answers. Miss Clapp,

grown quite a young woman now, is declared by the soured old lady to be

an unbearable and impudent little minx. Why Amelia can be so fond of

her, or have her in her room so much, or walk out with her so

constantly, Mrs. Sedley cannot conceive. The bitterness of poverty has

poisoned the life of the once cheerful and kindly woman. She is

thankless for Amelia's constant and gentle bearing towards her; carps

at her for her efforts at kindness or service; rails at her for her

silly pride in her child and her neglect of her parents. Georgy's

house is not a very lively one since Uncle Jos's annuity has been

withdrawn and the little family are almost upon famine diet.

Amelia thinks, and thinks, and racks her brain, to find some means of

increasing the small pittance upon which the household is starving.

Can she give lessons in anything? paint card-racks? do fine work? She

finds that women are working hard, and better than she can, for

twopence a day. She buys a couple of begilt Bristol boards at the

Fancy Stationer's and paints her very best upon them--a shepherd with

a red waistcoat on one, and a pink face smiling in the midst of a

pencil landscape--a shepherdess on the other, crossing a little bridge,

with a little dog, nicely shaded. The man of the Fancy Repository and

Brompton Emporium of Fine Arts (of whom she bought the screens, vainly

hoping that he would repurchase them when ornamented by her hand) can

hardly hide the sneer with which he examines these feeble works of art.

He looks askance at the lady who waits in the shop, and ties up the

cards again in their envelope of whitey-brown paper, and hands them to

the poor widow and Miss Clapp, who had never seen such beautiful things

in her life, and had been quite confident that the man must give at

least two guineas for the screens. They try at other shops in the

interior of London, with faint sickening hopes. "Don't want 'em," says

one. "Be off," says another fiercely. Three-and-sixpence has been

spent in vain--the screens retire to Miss Clapp's bedroom, who

persists in thinking them lovely.

She writes out a little card in her neatest hand, and after long

thought and labour of composition, in which the public is informed that

"A Lady who has some time at her disposal, wishes to undertake the

education of some little girls, whom she would instruct in English, in

French, in Geography, in History, and in Music--address A. O., at Mr.

Brown's"; and she confides the card to the gentleman of the Fine Art

Repository, who consents to allow it to lie upon the counter, where it

grows dingy and fly-blown. Amelia passes the door wistfully many a

time, in hopes that Mr. Brown will have some news to give her, but he

never beckons her in. When she goes to make little purchases, there is

no news for her. Poor simple lady, tender and weak--how are you to

battle with the struggling violent world?

She grows daily more care-worn and sad, fixing upon her child alarmed

eyes, whereof the little boy cannot interpret the expression. She

starts up of a night and peeps into his room stealthily, to see that he

is sleeping and not stolen away. She sleeps but little now. A

constant thought and terror is haunting her. How she weeps and prays

in the long silent nights--how she tries to hide from herself the

thought which will return to her, that she ought to part with the boy,

that she is the only barrier between him and prosperity. She can't,

she can't. Not now, at least. Some other day. Oh! it is too hard to

think of and to bear.

A thought comes over her which makes her blush and turn from

herself--her parents might keep the annuity--the curate would marry her

and give a home to her and the boy. But George's picture and dearest

memory are there to rebuke her. Shame and love say no to the

sacrifice. She shrinks from it as from something unholy, and such

thoughts never found a resting-place in that pure and gentle bosom.

The combat, which we describe in a sentence or two, lasted for many

weeks in poor Amelia's heart, during which she had no confidante;

indeed, she could never have one, as she would not allow to herself the

possibility of yielding, though she was giving way daily before the

enemy with whom she had to battle. One truth after another was

marshalling itself silently against her and keeping its ground. Poverty

and misery for all, want and degradation for her parents, injustice to

the boy--one by one the outworks of the little citadel were taken, in

which the poor soul passionately guarded her only love and treasure.

At the beginning of the struggle, she had written off a letter of

tender supplication to her brother at Calcutta, imploring him not to

withdraw the support which he had granted to their parents and painting

in terms of artless pathos their lonely and hapless condition. She did

not know the truth of the matter. The payment of Jos's annuity was

still regular, but it was a money-lender in the City who was receiving

it: old Sedley had sold it for a sum of money wherewith to prosecute

his bootless schemes. Emmy was calculating eagerly the time that would

elapse before the letter would arrive and be answered. She had written

down the date in her pocket-book of the day when she dispatched it. To

her son's guardian, the good Major at Madras, she had not communicated

any of her griefs and perplexities. She had not written to him since

she wrote to congratulate him on his approaching marriage. She thought

with sickening despondency, that that friend--the only one, the one who

had felt such a regard for her--was fallen away.

One day, when things had come to a very bad pass--when the creditors

were pressing, the mother in hysteric grief, the father in more than

usual gloom, the inmates of the family avoiding each other, each

secretly oppressed with his private unhappiness and notion of

wrong--the father and daughter happened to be left 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, papa! 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 him away; but Georgy

stopped and gave him money. May God's blessing be on the boy! Emmy

ran round the square and, coming up to the sweep, gave him her mite

too. All the bells of Sabbath were ringing, and she followed them until

she came to the Foundling Church, into which she went. There she sat

in a place whence she could see the head of the boy under his father's

tombstone. Many hundred fresh children's voices rose up there and sang

hymns to the Father Beneficent, and little George's soul thrilled with

delight at the burst of glorious psalmody. His mother could not see

him for awhile, through the mist that dimmed her eyes.