Vanity Fair
soon after his master's disaster to find other employment for himself.
"Such a little fish as me can swim in any bucket," he used to remark,
and a member of the house from which old Sedley had seceded was very
glad to make use of Mr. Clapp's services and to reward them with a
comfortable salary. In fine, all Sedley's wealthy friends had dropped
off one by one, and this poor ex-dependent still remained faithfully
attached to him.
Out of the small residue of her income which Amelia kept back for
herself, the widow had need of all the thrift and care possible in
order to enable her to keep her darling boy dressed in such a manner as
became George Osborne's son, and to defray the expenses of the little
school to which, after much misgiving and reluctance and many secret
pangs and fears on her own part, she had been induced to send the lad.
She had sat up of nights conning lessons and spelling over crabbed
grammars and geography books in order to teach them to Georgy. She had
worked even at the Latin accidence, fondly hoping that she might be
capable of instructing him in that language. To part with him all day,
to send him out to the mercy of a schoolmaster's cane and his
schoolfellows' roughness, was almost like weaning him over again to
that weak mother, so tremulous and full of sensibility. He, for his
part, rushed off to the school with the utmost happiness. He was
longing for the change. That childish gladness wounded his mother, who
was herself so grieved to part with him. She would rather have had him
more sorry, she thought, and then was deeply repentant within herself
for daring to be so selfish as to wish her own son to be unhappy.
Georgy made great progress in the school, which was kept by a friend of
his mother's constant admirer, the Rev. Mr. Binny. He brought home
numberless prizes and testimonials of ability. He told his mother
countless stories every night about his school-companions: and what a
fine fellow Lyons was, and what a sneak Sniffin was, and how Steel's
father actually supplied the meat for the establishment, whereas
Golding's mother came in a carriage to fetch him every Saturday, and
how Neat had straps to his trowsers--might he have straps?--and how
Bull Major was so strong (though only in Eutropius) that it was
believed he could lick the Usher, Mr. Ward, himself. So Amelia learned
to know every one of the boys in that school as well as Georgy himself,
and of nights she used to help him in his exercises and puzzle her
little head over his lessons as eagerly as if she was herself going in
the morning into the presence of the master. Once, after a certain
combat with Master Smith, George came home to his mother with a black
eye, and bragged prodigiously to his parent and his delighted old
grandfather about his valour in the fight, in which, if the truth was
known he did not behave with particular heroism, and in which he
decidedly had the worst. But Amelia has never forgiven that Smith to
this day, though he is now a peaceful apothecary near Leicester Square.
In these quiet labours and harmless cares the gentle widow's life was
passing away, a silver hair or two marking the progress of time on her
head and a line deepening ever so little on her fair forehead. She
used to smile at these marks of time. "What matters it," she asked,
"For an old woman like me?" All she hoped for was to live to see her
son great, famous, and glorious, as he deserved to be. She kept his
copy-books, his drawings, and compositions, and showed them about in
her little circle as if they were miracles of genius. She confided
some of these specimens to Miss Dobbin, to show them to Miss Osborne,
George's aunt, to show them to Mr. Osborne himself--to make that old
man repent of his cruelty and ill feeling towards him who was gone.
All her husband's faults and foibles she had buried in the grave with
him: she only remembered the lover, who had married her at all
sacrifices, the noble husband, so brave and beautiful, in whose arms
she had hung on the morning when he had gone away to fight, and die
gloriously for his king. From heaven the hero must be smiling down upon
that paragon of a boy whom he had left to comfort and console her. We
have seen how one of George's grandfathers (Mr. Osborne), in his easy
chair in Russell Square, daily grew more violent and moody, and how his
daughter, with her fine carriage, and her fine horses, and her name on
half the public charity-lists of the town, was a lonely, miserable,
persecuted old maid. She thought again and again of the beautiful
little boy, her brother's son, whom she had seen. She longed to be
allowed to drive in the fine carriage to the house in which he lived,
and she used to look out day after day as she took her solitary drive
in the park, in hopes that she might see him. Her sister, the banker's
lady, occasionally condescended to pay her old home and companion a
visit in Russell Square. She brought a couple of sickly children
attended by a prim nurse, and in a faint genteel giggling tone cackled
to her sister about her fine acquaintance, and how her little Frederick
was the image of Lord Claud Lollypop and her sweet Maria had been
noticed by the Baroness as they were driving in their donkey-chaise at
Roehampton. She urged her to make her papa do something for the
darlings. Frederick she had determined should go into the Guards; and
if they made an elder son of him (and Mr. Bullock was positively
ruining and pinching himself to death to buy land), how was the darling
girl to be provided for? "I expect YOU, dear," Mrs. Bullock would say,
"for of course my share of our Papa's property must go to the head of
the house, you know. Dear Rhoda McMull will disengage the whole of the
Castletoddy property as soon as poor dear Lord Castletoddy dies, who is
quite epileptic; and little Macduff McMull will be Viscount
Castletoddy. Both the Mr. Bludyers of Mincing Lane have settled their
fortunes on Fanny Bludyer's little boy. My darling Frederick must
positively be an eldest son; and--and do ask Papa to bring us back his
account in Lombard Street, will you, dear? It doesn't look well, his
going to Stumpy and Rowdy's." After which kind of speeches, in which
fashion and the main chance were blended together, and after a kiss,
which was like the contact of an oyster--Mrs. Frederick Bullock would
gather her starched nurslings and simper back into her carriage.
Every visit which this leader of ton paid to her family was more
unlucky for her. Her father paid more money into Stumpy and Rowdy's.
Her patronage became more and more insufferable. The poor widow in the
little cottage at Brompton, guarding her treasure there, little knew
how eagerly some people coveted it.
On that night when Jane Osborne had told her father that she had seen
his grandson, the old man had made her no reply, but he had shown no
anger--and had bade her good-night on going himself to his room in
rather a kindly voice. And he must have meditated on what she said and
have made some inquiries of the Dobbin family regarding her visit, for
a fortnight after it took place, 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.
"Go and order another like it, or a better if you can get it," said the
old gentleman and lapsed again into silence.
Of late the Misses Dobbin more than once repeated their entreaties to
Amelia, to allow George to visit them. His aunt had shown her
inclination; perhaps his grandfather himself, they hinted, might be
disposed to be reconciled to him. 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
neck-cloth, 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 broad
hat, and large chain and seals." He came one day as the coachman was
lunging Georgy round the lawn on the gray 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, in 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. If Mrs. George
Osborne proposed to marry again, as Mr. O. heard was her intention, he
would not withdraw that allowance. But it must be understood that the
child would live entirely with his grandfather in Russell Square, or at
whatever other place Mr. O. should select, and that he would be
occasionally permitted to see Mrs. George Osborne at her own residence.
This message was brought or read to her in a letter one day, when her
mother was from home and her father absent as usual in the City.
She was never seen angry but twice or thrice in her life, and it was in
one of these moods that Mr. Osborne's attorney had the fortune to
behold her. She rose up trembling and flushing very much as soon as,
after reading the letter, Mr. Poe handed it to her, and she tore the
paper into a hundred fragments, which she trod on. "I marry again! I
take money to part from my child! Who dares insult me by 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, sir--and she
bowed me out of the room like a tragedy Queen," said the lawyer who
told the story.
Her parents never remarked her agitation on that day, and she never
told them of the interview. They had their own affairs to interest
them, affairs which deeply interested this innocent and unconscious
lady. The old gentleman, her father, was always dabbling in
speculation. We have seen how the wine company and the coal company had
failed him. But, prowling about the City always eagerly and restlessly
still, he lighted upon some other scheme, of which he thought so well
that he embarked in it in spite of the remonstrances of Mr. Clapp, to
whom indeed he never dared to tell how far he had engaged himself in
it. And as it was always Mr. Sedley's maxim not to talk about money
matters before women, they had no inkling of the misfortunes that were
in store for them until the unhappy old gentleman was forced to make
gradual confessions.
The bills of the little household, which had been settled weekly, first
fell into arrear. The remittances had not arrived from India, Mr.
Sedley told his wife with a disturbed face. As she had paid her bills
very regularly hitherto, one or two of the tradesmen to whom the poor
lady was obliged to go round asking for time were very angry at a delay
to which they were perfectly used from more irregular customers.
Emmy's contribution, paid over cheerfully without any questions, kept
the little company in half-rations however. And the first six months
passed away pretty easily, old Sedley still keeping up with the notion
that his shares must rise and that all would be well.