Vanity Fair (67 page)

Amelia flung the bottle crashing into the fire-place. "I will NOT
have baby poisoned, Mamma," cried Emmy, rocking the infant about
violently with both her arms round him and turning with flashing
eyes at her mother.

"Poisoned, Amelia!" said the old lady; "this language to me?"

"He shall not have any medicine but that which Mr. Pestler sends for
hi n. He told me that Daffy's Elixir was poison."

"Very good: you think I'm a murderess then," replied Mrs. Sedley.
"This is the language you use to your mother. I have met with
misfortunes: I have sunk low in life: I have kept my carriage, and
now walk on foot: but I did not know I was a murderess before, and
thank you for the NEWS."

"Mamma," said the poor girl, who was always ready for tears—"you
shouldn't be hard upon me. I—I didn't mean—I mean, I did not wish
to say you would to any wrong to this dear child, only—"

"Oh, no, my love,—only that I was a murderess; in which case I had
better go to the Old Bailey. Though I didn't poison YOU, when you
were a child, but gave you the best of education and the most
expensive masters money could procure. Yes; I've nursed five
children and buried three; and the one I loved the best of all, and
tended through croup, and teething, and measles, and hooping-cough,
and brought up with foreign masters, regardless of expense, and with
accomplishments at Minerva House—which I never had when I was a
girl—when I was too glad to honour my father and mother, that I
might live long in the land, and to be useful, and not to mope all
day in my room and act the fine lady—says I'm a murderess. Ah,
Mrs. Osborne! may YOU never nourish a viper in your bosom, that's MY
prayer."

"Mamma, Mamma!" cried the bewildered girl; and the child in her arms
set up a frantic chorus of shouts. "A murderess, indeed! Go down on
your knees and pray to God to cleanse your wicked ungrateful heart,
Amelia, and may He forgive you as I do." And Mrs. Sedley tossed out
of the room, hissing out the word poison once more, and so ending
her charitable benediction.

Till the termination of her natural life, this breach between Mrs.
Sedley and her daughter was never thoroughly mended. The quarrel
gave the elder lady numberless advantages which she did not fail to
turn to account with female ingenuity and perseverance. For
instance, she scarcely spoke to Amelia for many weeks afterwards.
She warned the domestics not to touch the child, as Mrs. Osborne
might be offended. She asked her daughter to see and satisfy
herself that there was no poison prepared in the little daily messes
that were concocted for Georgy. When neighbours asked after the
boy's health, she referred them pointedly to Mrs. Osborne. SHE
never ventured to ask whether the baby was well or not. SHE would
not touch the child although he was her grandson, and own precious
darling, for she was not USED to children, and might kill it. And
whenever Mr. Pestler came upon his healing inquisition, she received
the doctor with such a sarcastic and scornful demeanour, as made the
surgeon declare that not Lady Thistlewood herself, whom he had the
honour of attending professionally, could give herself greater airs
than old Mrs. Sedley, from whom he never took a fee. And very
likely Emmy was jealous too, upon her own part, as what mother is
not, of those who would manage her children for her, or become
candidates for the first place in their affections. It is certain
that when anybody nursed the child, she was uneasy, and that she
would no more allow Mrs. Clapp or the domestic to dress or tend him
than she would have let them wash her husband's miniature which hung
up over her little bed—the same little bed from which the poor girl
had gone to his; and to which she retired now for many long, silent,
tearful, but happy years.

In this room was all Amelia's heart and treasure. Here it was that
she tended her boy and watched him through the many ills of
childhood, with a constant passion of love. The elder George
returned in him somehow, only improved, and as if come back from
heaven. In a hundred little tones, looks, and movements, the child
was so like his father that the widow's heart thrilled as she held
him to it; and he would often ask the cause of her tears. It was
because of his likeness to his father, she did not scruple to tell
him. She talked constantly to him about this dead father, and spoke
of her love for George to the innocent and wondering child; much
more than she ever had done to George himself, or to any confidante
of her youth. To her parents she never talked about this matter,
shrinking from baring her heart to them. Little George very likely
could understand no better than they, but into his ears she poured
her sentimental secrets unreservedly, and into his only. The very
joy of this woman was a sort of grief, or so tender, at least, that
its expression was tears. Her sensibilities were so weak and
tremulous that perhaps they ought not to be talked about in a book.
I was told by Dr. Pestler (now a most flourishing lady's physician,
with a sumptuous dark green carriage, a prospect of speedy
knighthood, and a house in Manchester Square) that her grief at
weaning the child was a sight that would have unmanned a Herod. He
was very soft-hearted many years ago, and his wife was mortally
jealous of Mrs. Amelia, then and long afterwards.

Perhaps the doctor's lady had good reason for her jealousy: most
women shared it, of those who formed the small circle of Amelia's
acquaintance, and were quite angry at the enthusiasm with which the
other sex regarded her. For almost all men who came near her loved
her; though no doubt they would be at a loss to tell you why. She
was not brilliant, nor witty, nor wise over much, nor
extraordinarily handsome. But wherever she went she touched and
charmed every one of the male sex, as invariably as she awakened the
scorn and incredulity of her own sisterhood. I think it was her
weakness which was her principal charm—a kind of sweet submission
and softness, which seemed to appeal to each man she met for his
sympathy and protection. We have seen how in the regiment, though
she spoke but to few of George's comrades there, all the swords of
the young fellows at the mess-table would have leapt from their
scabbards to fight round her; and so it was in the little narrow
lodging-house and circle at Fulham, she interested and pleased
everybody. If she had been Mrs. Mango herself, of the great house
of Mango, Plantain, and Co., Crutched Friars, and the magnificent
proprietress of the Pineries, Fulham, who gave summer dejeuners
frequented by Dukes and Earls, and drove about the parish with
magnificent yellow liveries and bay horses, such as the royal
stables at Kensington themselves could not turn out—I say had she
been Mrs. Mango herself, or her son's wife, Lady Mary Mango
(daughter of the Earl of Castlemouldy, who condescended to marry the
head of the firm), the tradesmen of the neighbourhood could not pay
her more honour than they invariably showed to the gentle young
widow, when she passed by their doors, or made her humble purchases
at their shops.

Thus it was not only Mr. Pestler, the medical man, but Mr. Linton
the young assistant, who doctored the servant maids and small
tradesmen, and might be seen any day reading the Times in the
surgery, who openly declared himself the slave of Mrs. Osborne. He
was a personable young gentleman, more welcome at Mrs. Sedley's
lodgings than his principal; and if anything went wrong with Georgy,
he would drop in twice or thrice in the day to see the little chap,
and without so much as the thought of a fee. He would abstract
lozenges, tamarinds, and other produce from the surgery-drawers for
little Georgy's benefit, and compounded draughts and mixtures for
him of miraculous sweetness, so that it was quite a pleasure to the
child to be ailing. He and Pestler, his chief, sat up two whole
nights by the boy in that momentous and awful week when Georgy had
the measles; and when you would have thought, from the mother's
terror, that there had never been measles in the world before. Would
they have done as much for other people? Did they sit up for the
folks at the Pineries, when Ralph Plantagenet, and Gwendoline, and
Guinever Mango had the same juvenile complaint? Did they sit up for
little Mary Clapp, the landlord's daughter, who actually caught the
disease of little Georgy? Truth compels one to say, no. They slept
quite undisturbed, at least as far as she was concerned—pronounced
hers to be a slight case, which would almost cure itself, sent her
in a draught or two, and threw in bark when the child rallied, with
perfect indifference, and just for form's sake.

Again, there was the little French chevalier opposite, who gave
lessons in his native tongue at various schools in the
neighbourhood, and who might be heard in his apartment of nights
playing tremulous old gavottes and minuets on a wheezy old fiddle.
Whenever this powdered and courteous old man, who never missed a
Sunday at the convent chapel at Hammersmith, and who was in all
respects, thoughts, conduct, and bearing utterly unlike the bearded
savages of his nation, who curse perfidious Albion, and scowl at you
from over their cigars, in the Quadrant arcades at the present day—
whenever the old Chevalier de Talonrouge spoke of Mistress Osborne,
he would first finish his pinch of snuff, flick away the remaining
particles of dust with a graceful wave of his hand, gather up his
fingers again into a bunch, and, bringing them up to his mouth, blow
them open with a kiss, exclaiming, Ah! la divine creature! He vowed
and protested that when Amelia walked in the Brompton Lanes flowers
grew in profusion under her feet. He called little Georgy Cupid,
and asked him news of Venus, his mamma; and told the astonished
Betty Flanagan that she was one of the Graces, and the favourite
attendant of the Reine des Amours.

Instances might be multiplied of this easily gained and unconscious
popularity. Did not Mr. Binny, the mild and genteel curate of the
district chapel, which the family attended, call assiduously upon
the widow, dandle the little boy on his knee, and offer to teach him
Latin, to the anger of the elderly virgin, his sister, who kept
house for him? "There is nothing in her, Beilby," the latter lady
would say. "When she comes to tea here she does not speak a word
during the whole evening. She is but a poor lackadaisical creature,
and it is my belief has no heart at all. It is only her pretty face
which all you gentlemen admire so. Miss Grits, who has five
thousand pounds, and expectations besides, has twice as much
character, and is a thousand times more agreeable to my taste; and
if she were good-looking I know that you would think her
perfection."

Very likely Miss Binny was right to a great extent. It IS the
pretty face which creates sympathy in the hearts of men, those
wicked rogues. A woman may possess the wisdom and chastity of
Minerva, and we give no heed to her, if she has a plain face. What
folly will not a pair of bright eyes make pardonable? What dulness
may not red lips and sweet accents render pleasant? And so, with
their usual sense of justice, ladies argue that because a woman is
handsome, therefore she is a fool. O ladies, ladies! there are some
of you who are neither handsome nor wise.

These are but trivial incidents to recount in the life of our
heroine. Her tale does not deal in wonders, as the gentle reader
has already no doubt perceived; and if a journal had been kept of
her proceedings during the seven years after the birth of her son,
there would be found few incidents more remarkable in it than that
of the measles, recorded in the foregoing page. Yes, one day, and
greatly to her wonder, the Reverend Mr. Binny, just mentioned, asked
her to change her name of Osborne for his own; when, with deep
blushes and tears in her eyes and voice, she thanked him for his
regard for her, expressed gratitude for his attentions to her and to
her poor little boy, but said that she never, never could think of
any but—but the husband whom she had lost.

On the twenty-fifth of April, and the eighteenth of June, the days
of marriage and widowhood, she kept her room entirely, consecrating
them (and we do not know how many hours of solitary night-thought,
her little boy sleeping in his crib by her bedside) to the memory of
that departed friend. During the day she was more active. She had
to teach George to read and to write and a little to draw. She read
books, in order that she might tell him stories from them. As his
eyes opened and his mind expanded under the influence of the outward
nature round about him, she taught the child, to the best of her
humble power, to acknowledge the Maker of all, and every night and
every morning he and she—(in that awful and touching communion
which I think must bring a thrill to the heart of every man who
witnesses or who remembers it)—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. To wash and dress this young gentleman—to
take him for a run of the mornings, before breakfast, and the
retreat of grandpapa for "business"—to make for him the most
wonderful and ingenious dresses, for which end the thrifty widow cut
up and altered every available little bit of finery which she
possessed out of her wardrobe during her marriage—for Mrs. Osborne
herself (greatly to her mother's vexation, who preferred fine
clothes, especially since her misfortunes) always wore a black gown
and a straw bonnet with a black ribbon—occupied her many hours of
the day. Others she had to spare, at the service of her mother and
her old father. She had taken the pains to learn, and used to play
cribbage with this gentleman on the nights when he did not go to his
club. She sang for him when he was so minded, and it was a good
sign, for he invariably fell into a comfortable sleep during the
music. She wrote out his numerous memorials, letters, prospectuses,
and projects. It was in her handwriting that most of the old
gentleman's former acquaintances were informed that he had become an
agent for the Black Diamond and Anti-Cinder Coal Company and could
supply his friends and the public with the best coals at —s. per
chaldron. All he did was to sign the circulars with his flourish
and signature, and direct them in a shaky, clerklike hand. One of
these papers was sent to Major Dobbin,—Regt., care of Messrs. Cox
and Greenwood; but the Major being in Madras at the time, had no
particular call for coals. He knew, though, the hand which had
written the prospectus. Good God! what would he not have given to
hold it in his own! A second prospectus came out, informing the
Major that J. Sedley and Company, having established agencies at
Oporto, Bordeaux, and St. Mary's, were enabled to offer to their
friends and the public generally the finest and most celebrated
growths of ports, sherries, and claret wines at reasonable prices
and under extraordinary advantages. Acting upon this hint, Dobbin
furiously canvassed the governor, the commander-in-chief, the
judges, the regiments, and everybody whom he knew in the Presidency,
and sent home to Sedley and Co. orders for wine which perfectly
astonished Mr. Sedley and Mr. Clapp, who was the Co. in the
business. But no more orders came after that first burst of good
fortune, on which poor old Sedley was about to build a house in the
City, a regiment of clerks, a dock to himself, and correspondents
all over the world. The old gentleman's former taste in wine had
gone: the curses of the mess-room assailed Major Dobbin for the
vile drinks he had been the means of introducing there; and he
bought back a great quantity of the wine and sold it at public
outcry, at an enormous loss to himself. As for Jos, who was by this
time promoted to a seat at the Revenue Board at Calcutta, he was
wild with rage when the post brought him out a bundle of these
Bacchanalian prospectuses, with a private note from his father,
telling Jos that his senior counted upon him in this enterprise, and
had consigned a quantity of select wines to him, as per invoice,
drawing bills upon him for the amount of the same. Jos, who would
no more have it supposed that his father, Jos Sedley's father, of
the Board of Revenue, was a wine merchant asking for orders, than
that he was Jack Ketch, refused the bills with scorn, wrote back
contumeliously to the old gentleman, bidding him to mind his own
affairs; and the protested paper coming back, Sedley and Co. had to
take it up, with the profits which they had made out of the Madras
venture, and with a little portion of Emmy's savings.