Vanity Fair (68 page)

Besides her pension of fifty pounds a year, there had been five
hundred pounds, as her husband's executor stated, left in the
agent's hands at the time of Osborne's demise, which sum, as
George's guardian, Dobbin proposed to put out at 8 per cent in an
Indian house of agency. Mr. Sedley, who thought the Major had some
roguish intentions of his own about the money, was strongly against
this plan; and he went to the agents to protest personally against
the employment of the money in question, when he learned, to his
surprise, that there had been no such sum in their hands, that all
the late Captain's assets did not amount to a hundred pounds, and
that the five hundred pounds in question must be a separate sum, of
which Major Dobbin knew the particulars. More than ever convinced
that there was some roguery, old Sedley pursued the Major. As his
daughter's nearest friend, he demanded with a high hand a statement
of the late Captain's accounts. Dobbin's stammering, blushing, and
awkwardness added to the other's convictions that he had a rogue to
deal with, and in a majestic tone he told that officer a piece of
his mind, as he called it, simply stating his belief that the Major
was unlawfully detaining his late son-in-law's money.

Dobbin at this lost all patience, and if his accuser had not been so
old and so broken, a quarrel might have ensued between them at the
Slaughters' Coffee-house, in a box of which place of entertainment
the gentlemen had their colloquy. "Come upstairs, sir," lisped out
the Major. "I insist on your coming up the stairs, and I will show
which is the injured party, poor George or I"; and, dragging the old
gentleman up to his bedroom, he produced from his desk Osborne's
accounts, and a bundle of IOU's which the latter had given, who, to
do him justice, was always ready to give an IOU. "He paid his bills
in England," Dobbin added, "but he had not a hundred pounds in the
world when he fell. I and one or two of his brother officers made
up the little sum, which was all that we could spare, and you dare
tell us that we are trying to cheat the widow and the orphan."
Sedley was very contrite and humbled, though the fact is that
William Dobbin had told a great falsehood to the old gentleman;
having himself given every shilling of the money, having buried his
friend, and paid all the fees and charges incident upon the calamity
and removal of poor Amelia.

About these expenses old Osborne had never given himself any trouble
to think, nor any other relative of Amelia, nor Amelia herself,
indeed. She trusted to Major Dobbin as an accountant, took his
somewhat confused calculations for granted, and never once suspected
how much she was in his debt.

Twice or thrice in the year, according to her promise, she wrote him
letters to Madras, letters all about little Georgy. How he
treasured these papers! Whenever Amelia wrote he answered, and not
until then. But he sent over endless remembrances of himself to his
godson and to her. He ordered and sent a box of scarfs and a grand
ivory set of chess-men from China. The pawns were little green and
white men, with real swords and shields; the knights were on
horseback, the castles were on the backs of elephants. "Mrs.
Mango's own set at the Pineries was not so fine," Mr. Pestler
remarked. These chess-men were the delight of Georgy's life, who
printed his first letter in acknowledgement of this gift of his
godpapa. He sent over preserves and pickles, which latter the young
gentleman tried surreptitiously in the sideboard and half-killed
himself with eating. He thought it was a judgement upon him for
stealing, they were so hot. Emmy wrote a comical little account of
this mishap to the Major: it pleased him to think that her spirits
were rallying and that she could be merry sometimes now. He sent
over a pair of shawls, a white one for her and a black one with
palm-leaves for her mother, and a pair of red scarfs, as winter
wrappers, for old Mr. Sedley and George. The shawls were worth fifty
guineas apiece at the very least, as Mrs. Sedley knew. She wore
hers in state at church at Brompton, and was congratulated by her
female friends upon the splendid acquisition. Emmy's, too, became
prettily her modest black gown. "What a pity it is she won't think
of him!" Mrs. Sedley remarked to Mrs. Clapp and to all her friends
of Brompton. "Jos never sent us such presents, I am sure, and
grudges us everything. It is evident that the Major is over head
and ears in love with her; and yet, whenever I so much as hint it,
she turns red and begins to cry and goes and sits upstairs with her
miniature. I'm sick of that miniature. I wish we had never seen
those odious purse-proud Osbornes."

Amidst such humble scenes and associates George's early youth was
passed, and the boy grew up delicate, sensitive, imperious, woman-
bred—domineering the gentle mother whom he loved with passionate
affection. He ruled all the rest of the little world round about
him. As he grew, the elders were amazed at his haughty manner and
his constant likeness to his father. He asked questions about
everything, as inquiring youth will do. The profundity of his
remarks and interrogatories astonished his old grandfather, who
perfectly bored the club at the tavern with stories about the little
lad's learning and genius. He suffered his grandmother with a good-
humoured indifference. The small circle round about him believed
that the equal of the boy did not exist upon the earth. Georgy
inherited his father's pride, and perhaps thought they were not
wrong.

When he grew to be about six years old, Dobbin began to write to him
very much. The Major wanted to hear that Georgy was going to a
school and hoped he would acquit himself with credit there: or
would he have a good tutor at home? It was time that he should begin
to learn; and his godfather and guardian hinted that he hoped to be
allowed to defray the charges of the boy's education, which would
fall heavily upon his mother's straitened income. The Major, in a
word, was always thinking about Amelia and her little boy, and by
orders to his agents kept the latter provided with picture-books,
paint-boxes, desks, and all conceivable implements of amusement and
instruction. Three days before George's sixth birthday a gentleman
in a gig, accompanied by a servant, drove up to Mr. Sedley's house
and asked to see Master George Osborne: it was Mr. Woolsey,
military tailor, of Conduit Street, who came at the Major's order to
measure the young gentleman for a suit of clothes. He had had the
honour of making for the Captain, the young gentleman's father.
Sometimes, too, and by the Major's desire no doubt, his sisters, the
Misses Dobbin, would call in the family carriage to take Amelia and
the little boy to drive if they were so inclined. The patronage and
kindness of these ladies was very uncomfortable to Amelia, but she
bore it meekly enough, for her nature was to yield; and, besides,
the carriage and its splendours gave little Georgy immense pleasure.
The ladies begged occasionally that the child might pass a day with
them, and he was always glad to go to that fine garden-house at
Denmark Hill, where they lived, and where there were such fine
grapes in the hot-houses and peaches on the walls.

One day they kindly came over to Amelia with news which they were
SURE would delight her—something VERY interesting about their dear
William.

"What was it: was he coming home?" she asked with pleasure beaming
in her eyes.

"Oh, no—not the least—but they had very good reason to believe
that dear William was about to be married—and to a relation of a
very dear friend of Amelia's—to Miss Glorvina O'Dowd, Sir Michael
O'Dowd's sister, who had gone out to join Lady O'Dowd at Madras—a
very beautiful and accomplished girl, everybody said."

Amelia said "Oh!" Amelia was very VERY happy indeed. But she
supposed Glorvina could not be like her old acquaintance, who was
most kind—but—but she was very happy indeed. And by some impulse
of which I cannot explain the meaning, she took George in her arms
and kissed him with an extraordinary tenderness. Her eyes were
quite moist when she put the child down; and she scarcely spoke a
word during the whole of the drive—though she was so very happy
indeed.

A Cynical Chapter

Our duty now takes us back for a brief space to some old Hampshire
acquaintances of ours, whose hopes respecting the disposal of their
rich kinswoman's property were so woefully disappointed. After
counting upon thirty thousand pounds from his sister, it was a heavy
blow. to Bute Crawley to receive but five; out of which sum, when
he had paid his own debts and those of Jim, his son at college, a
very small fragment remained to portion off his four plain
daughters. Mrs. Bute never knew, or at least never acknowledged,
how far her own tyrannous behaviour had tended to ruin her husband.
All that woman could do, she vowed and protested she had done. Was
it her fault if she did not possess those sycophantic arts which her
hypocritical nephew, Pitt Crawley, practised? She wished him all the
happiness which he merited out of his ill-gotten gains. "At least
the money will remain in the family," she said charitably. "Pitt
will never spend it, my dear, that is quite certain; for a greater
miser does not exist in England, and he is as odious, though in a
different way, as his spendthrift brother, the abandoned Rawdon."

So Mrs. Bute, after the first shock of rage and disappointment,
began to accommodate herself as best she could to her altered
fortunes and to save and retrench with all her might. She
instructed her daughters how to bear poverty cheerfully, and
invented a thousand notable methods to conceal or evade it. She
took them about to balls and public places in the neighbourhood,
with praiseworthy energy; nay, she entertained her friends in a
hospitable comfortable manner at the Rectory, and much more
frequently than before dear Miss Crawley's legacy had fallen in.
From her outward bearing nobody would have supposed that the family
had been disappointed in their expectations, or have guessed from
her frequent appearance in public how she pinched and starved at
home. Her girls had more milliners' furniture than they had ever
enjoyed before. They appeared perseveringly at the Winchester and
Southampton assemblies; they penetrated to Cowes for the race-balls
and regatta-gaieties there; and their carriage, with the horses
taken from the plough, was at work perpetually, until it began
almost to be believed that the four sisters had had fortunes left
them by their aunt, whose name the family never mentioned in public
but with the most tender gratitude and regard. I know no sort of
lying which is more frequent in Vanity Fair than this, and it may be
remarked how people who practise it take credit to themselves for
their hypocrisy, and fancy that they are exceedingly virtuous and
praiseworthy, because they are able to deceive the world with regard
to the extent of their means.

Mrs. Bute certainly thought herself one of the most virtuous women
in England, and the sight of her happy family was an edifying one to
strangers. They were so cheerful, so loving, so well-educated, so
simple! Martha painted flowers exquisitely and furnished half the
charity bazaars in the county. Emma was a regular County Bulbul,
and her verses in the Hampshire Telegraph were the glory of its
Poet's Corner. Fanny and Matilda sang duets together, Mamma playing
the piano, and the other two sisters sitting with their arms round
each other's waists and listening affectionately. Nobody saw the
poor girls drumming at the duets in private. No one saw Mamma
drilling them rigidly hour after hour. In a word, Mrs. Bute put a
good face against fortune and kept up appearances in the most
virtuous manner.

Everything that a good and respectable mother could do Mrs. Bute
did. She got over yachting men from Southampton, parsons from the
Cathedral Close at Winchester, and officers from the barracks there.
She tried to inveigle the young barristers at assizes and encouraged
Jim to bring home friends with whom he went out hunting with the H.
H. What will not a mother do for the benefit of her beloved ones?

Between such a woman and her brother-in-law, the odious Baronet at
the Hall, it is manifest that there could be very little in common.
The rupture between Bute and his brother Sir Pitt was complete;
indeed, between Sir Pitt and the whole county, to which the old man
was a scandal. His dislike for respectable society increased with
age, and the lodge-gates had not opened to a gentleman's carriage-
wheels since Pitt and Lady Jane came to pay their visit of duty
after their marriage.

That was an awful and unfortunate visit, never to be thought of by
the family without horror. Pitt begged his wife, with a ghastly
countenance, never to speak of it, and it was only through Mrs. Bute
herself, who still knew everything which took place at the Hall,
that the circumstances of Sir Pitt's reception of his son and
daughter-in-law were ever known at all.

As they drove up the avenue of the park in their neat and well-
appointed carriage, Pitt remarked with dismay and wrath great gaps
among the trees—his trees—which the old Baronet was felling
entirely without license. The park wore an aspect of utter
dreariness and ruin. The drives were ill kept, and the neat
carriage splashed and floundered in muddy pools along the road. The
great sweep in front of the terrace and entrance stair was black and
covered with mosses; the once trim flower-beds rank and weedy.
Shutters were up along almost the whole line of the house; the great
hall-door was unbarred after much ringing of the bell; an individual
in ribbons was seen flitting up the black oak stair, as Horrocks at
length admitted the heir of Queen's Crawley and his bride into the
halls of their fathers. He led the way into Sir Pitt's "Library,"
as it was called, the fumes of tobacco growing stronger as Pitt and
Lady Jane approached that apartment, "Sir Pitt ain't very well,"
Horrocks remarked apologetically and hinted that his master was
afflicted with lumbago.