Our Major had rendered himself so popular on board the Ramchunder that when he and Mr. Sedley descended into the welcome shore-boat which was to take them from the ship, the whole crew, men and officers, the great Captain Bragg himself leading off, gave three cheers for Major Dobbin, who blushed very much and ducked his head in token of thanks. Jos, who very likely thought the cheers were for himself, took off his gold-laced cap and waved it majestically to his friends, and they were pulled to shore and landed with great dignity at the pier, whence they proceeded to the Royal George Hotel.
Although the sight of that magnificent round of beef, and the silver tankard suggestive of real British home-brewed ale and porter, which perennially greet the eyes of the traveller returning from foreign parts who enters the coffee-room of the George, are so invigorating and delightful that a man entering such a comfortable snug homely English inn might well like to stop some days there, yet Dobbin began to talk about a post-chaise instantly, and was no sooner at Southampton than he wished to be on the road to London. Jos, however, would not hear of moving that evening. Why was he to pass a night in a post-chaise instead of a great large undulating downy feather-bed which was there ready to replace the horrid little narrow crib in which the portly Bengal gentleman had been confined during the voyage? He could not think of moving till his baggage was cleared, or of travelling until he could do so with his chillum. So the Major was forced to wait over that night, and dispatched a letter to his family announcing his arrival, entreating from Jos a promise to write to his own friends. Jos promised, but didn't keep his promise. The Captain, the surgeon, and one or two passengers came and dined with our two gentlemen at the inn, Jos exerting himself in a sumptuous way in ordering the dinner and promising to go to town the next day with the Major. The landlord said it did his eyes good to see Mr. Sedley take off his first pint of porter. If I had time and dared to enter into digressions, I would write a chapter about that first pint of porter drunk upon English ground. Ah, how good it is! It is worth-while to leave home for a year, just to enjoy that one draught.
Major Dobbin made his appearance the next morning very neatly shaved and dressed, according to his wont. Indeed, it was so early in the morning that nobody was up in the house except that wonderful Boots of an inn who never seems to want sleep; and the Major could hear the snores of the various inmates of the house roaring through the corridors as he creaked about in those dim passages. Then the sleepless Boots went shirking round from door to door, gathering up at each the Bluchers, Wellingtons, Oxonians, which stood outside. Then Jos's native servant arose and began to get ready his master's ponderous dressing apparatus and prepare his hookah; then the maidservants got up, and meeting the dark man in the passages, shrieked, and mistook him for the devil. He and Dobbin stumbled over their pails in the passages as they were scouring the decks of the Royal George. When the first unshorn waiter appeared and unbarred the door of the inn, the Major thought that the time for departure was arrived, and ordered a post-chaise to be fetched instantly, that they might set off.
He then directed his steps to Mr. Sedley's room and opened the curtains of the great large family bed wherein Mr. Jos was snoring. "Come, up! Sedley," the Major said, "it's time to be off; the chaise will be at the door in half an hour."
Jos growled from under the counterpane to know what the time was; but when he at last extorted from the blushing Major (who never told fibs, however they might be to his advantage) what was the real hour of the morning, he broke out into a volley of bad language, which we will not repeat here, but by which he gave Dobbin to understand that he would jeopardy his soul if he got up at that moment, that the Major might go and be hanged, that he would not travel with Dobbin, and that it was most unkind and ungentlemanlike to disturb a man out of his sleep in that way; on which the discomfited Major was obliged to retreat, leaving Jos to resume his interrupted slumbers.
The chaise came up presently, and the Major would wait no longer.
If he had been an English nobleman travelling on a pleasure tour, or a newspaper courier bearing dispatches (government messages are generally carried much more quietly), he could not have travelled more quickly. The post-boys wondered at the fees he flung amongst them. How happy and green the country looked as the chaise whirled rapidly from mile-stone to mile-stone, through neat country towns where landlords came out to welcome him with smiles and bows; by pretty roadside inns, where the signs hung on the elms, and horses and waggoners were drinking under the chequered shadow of the trees; by old halls and parks; rustic hamlets clustered round ancient grey churches--and through the charming friendly English landscape. Is there any in the world like it? To a traveller returning home it looks so kind--it seems to shake hands with you as you pass through it. Well, Major Dobbin passed through all this from Southampton to London, and without noting much beyond the milestones along the road. You see he was so eager to see his parents at Camberwell.
He grudged the time lost between Piccadilly and his old haunt at the Slaughters', whither he drove faithfully. Long years had passed since he saw it last, since he and George, as young men, had enjoyed many a feast, and held many a revel there. He had now passed into the stage of old-fellow-hood. His hair was grizzled, and many a passion and feeling of his youth had grown grey in that interval. There, however, stood the old waiter at the door, in the same greasy black suit, with the same double chin and flaccid face, with the same huge bunch of seals at his fob, rattling his money in his pockets as before, and receiving the Major as if he had gone away only a week ago. "Put the Major's things in twenty-three, that's his room," John said, exhibiting not the least surprise. "Roast fowl for your dinner, I suppose. You ain't got married? They said you was married--the Scotch surgeon of yours was here. No, it was Captain Humby of the thirty-third, as was quartered with the --th in Injee. Like any warm water? What do you come in a chay for--ain't the coach good enough?" And with this, the faithful waiter, who knew and remembered every officer who used the house, and with whom ten years were but as yesterday, led the way up to Dobbin's old room, where stood the great moreen bed, and the shabby carpet, a thought more dingy, and all the old black furniture covered with faded chintz, just as the Major recollected them in his youth.
He remembered George pacing up and down the room, and biting his nails, and swearing that the Governor must come round, and that if he didn't, he didn't care a straw, on the day before he was married. He could fancy him walking in, banging the door of Dobbin's room, and his own hard by--
"You ain't got young," John said, calmly surveying his friend of former days.
Dobbin laughed. "Ten years and a fever don't make a man young, John," he said. "It is you that are always young--no, you are always old."
"What became of Captain Osborne's widow?" John said. "Fine young fellow that. Lord, how he used to spend his money. He never came back after that day he was marched from here. He owes me three pound at this minute. Look here, I have it in my book. 'April 10, 1815, Captain Osborne: 3 pounds.' I wonder whether his father would pay me," and so saying, John of the Slaughters' pulled out the very morocco pocket-book in which he had noted his loan to the Captain, upon a greasy faded page still extant, with many other scrawled memoranda regarding the bygone frequenters of the house.
Having inducted his customer into the room, John retired with perfect calmness; and Major Dobbin, not without a blush and a grin at his own absurdity, chose out of his kit the very smartest and most becoming civil costume he possessed, and laughed at his own tanned face and grey hair, as he surveyed them in the dreary little toilet-glass on the dressing-table.
"I'm glad old John didn't forget me," he thought. "She'll know me, too, I hope." And he sallied out of the inn, bending his steps once more in the direction of Brompton.
Every minute incident of his last meeting with Amelia was present to the constant man's mind as he walked towards her house. The arch and the Achilles statue were up since he had last been in Piccadilly; a hundred changes had occurred which his eye and mind vaguely noted. He began to tremble as he walked up the lane from Brompton, that well-remembered lane leading to the street where she lived. Was she going to be married or not? If he were to meet her with the little boy--Good God, what should he do? He saw a woman coming to him with a child of five years old--was that she? He began to shake at the mere possibility. When he came up to the row of houses, at last, where she lived, and to the gate, he caught hold of it and paused. He might have heard the thumping of his own heart. "May God Almighty bless her, whatever has happened," he thought to himself. "Psha! she may be gone from here," he said and went in through the gate.
The window of the parlour which she used to occupy was open, and there were no inmates in the room. The Major thought he recognized the piano, though, with the picture over it, as it used to be in former days, and his perturbations were renewed. Mr. Clapp's brass plate was still on the door, at the knocker of which Dobbin performed a summons.
A buxom-looking lass of sixteen, with bright eyes and purple cheeks, came to answer the knock and looked hard at the Major as he leant back against the little porch.
He was as pale as a ghost and could hardly falter out the words--"Does Mrs. Osborne live here?"
She looked him hard in the face for a moment--and then turning white too--said, "Lord bless me--it's Major Dobbin." She held out both her hands shaking--"Don't you remember me?" she said. "I used to call you Major Sugarplums." On which, and I believe it was for the first time that he ever so conducted himself in his life, the Major took the girl in his arms and kissed her. She began to laugh and cry hysterically, and calling out "Ma, Pa!" with all her voice, brought up those worthy people, who had already been surveying the Major from the casement of the ornamental kitchen, and were astonished to find their daughter in the little passage in the embrace of a great tall man in a blue frock-coat and white duck trousers.
"I'm an old friend," he said--not without blushing though. "Don't you remember me, Mrs. Clapp, and those good cakes you used to make for tea? Don't you recollect me, Clapp? I'm George's godfather, and just come back from India." A great shaking of hands ensued--Mrs. Clapp was greatly affected and delighted; she called upon heaven to interpose a vast many times in that passage.
The landlord and landlady of the house led the worthy Major into the Sedleys' room (whereof he remembered every single article of furniture, from the old brass ornamented piano, once a natty little instrument, Stothard maker, to the screens and the alabaster miniature tombstone, in the midst of which ticked Mr. Sedley's gold watch), and there, as he sat down in the lodger's vacant arm-chair, the father, the mother, and the daughter, with a thousand ejaculatory breaks in the narrative, informed Major Dobbin of what we know already, but of particulars in Amelia's history of which he was not aware--namely of Mrs. Sedley's death, of George's reconcilement with his grandfather Osborne, of the way in which the widow took on at leaving him, and of other particulars of her life. Twice or thrice he was going to ask about the marriage question, but his heart failed him. He did not care to lay it bare to these people. Finally, he was informed that Mrs. O. was gone to walk with her pa in Kensington Gardens, whither she always went with the old gentleman (who was very weak and peevish now, and led her a sad life, though she behaved to him like an angel, to be sure), of a fine afternoon, after dinner.
"I'm very much pressed for time," the Major said, "and have business to-night of importance. I should like to see Mrs. Osborne tho'. Suppose Miss Polly would come with me and show me the way?"
Miss Polly was charmed and astonished at this proposal. She knew the way. She would show Major Dobbin. She had often been with Mr. Sedley when Mrs. O. was gone--was gone Russell Square way--and knew the bench where he liked to sit. She bounced away to her apartment and appeared presently in her best bonnet and her mamma's yellow shawl and large pebble brooch, of which she assumed the loan in order to make herself a worthy companion for the Major.
That officer, then, in his blue frock-coat and buckskin gloves, gave the young lady his arm, and they walked away very gaily. He was glad to have a friend at hand for the scene which he dreaded somehow. He asked a thousand more questions from his companion about Amelia: his kind heart grieved to think that she should have had to part with her son. How did she bear it? Did she see him often? Was Mr. Sedley pretty comfortable now in a worldly point of view? Polly answered all these questions of Major Sugarplums to the very best of her power.
And in the midst of their walk an incident occurred which, though very simple in its nature, was productive of the greatest delight to Major Dobbin. A pale young man with feeble whiskers and a stiff white neckcloth came walking down the lane, en sandwich--having a lady, that is, on each arm. One was a tall and commanding middle-aged female, with features and a complexion similar to those of the clergyman of the Church of England by whose side she marched, and the other a stunted little woman with a dark face, ornamented by a fine new bonnet and white ribbons, and in a smart pelisse, with a rich gold watch in the midst of her person. The gentleman, pinioned as he was by these two ladies, carried further a parasol, shawl, and basket, so that his arms were entirely engaged, and of course he was unable to touch his hat in acknowledgement of the curtsey with which Miss Mary Clapp greeted him.
He merely bowed his head in reply to her salutation, which the two ladies returned with a patronizing air, and at the same time looking severely at the individual in the blue coat and bamboo cane who accompanied Miss Polly.
"Who's that?" asked the Major, amused by the group, and after he had made way for the three to pass up the lane. Mary looked at him rather roguishly.
"That is our curate, the Reverend Mr. Binny (a twitch from Major Dobbin), and his sister Miss B. Lord bless us, how she did use to worret us at Sunday-school; and the other lady, the little one with a cast in her eye and the handsome watch, is Mrs. Binny--Miss Grits that was; her pa was a grocer, and kept the Little Original Gold Tea Pot in Kensington Gravel Pits. They were married last month, and are just come back from Margate. She's five thousand pound to her fortune; but her and Miss B., who made the match, have quarrelled already."
If the Major had twitched before, he started now, and slapped the bamboo on the ground with an emphasis which made Miss Clapp cry, "Law," and laugh too. He stood for a moment, silent, with open mouth, looking after the retreating young couple, while Miss Mary told their history; but he did not hear beyond the announcement of the reverend gentleman's marriage; his head was swimming with felicity. After this rencontre he began to walk double quick towards the place of his destination--and yet they were too soon (for he was in a great tremor at the idea of a meeting for which he had been longing any time these ten years)--through the Brompton lanes, and entering at the little old portal in Kensington Garden wall.
"There they are," said Miss Polly, and she felt him again start back on her arm. She was a confidante at once of the whole business. She knew the story as well as if she had read it in one of her favourite novel-books--Fatherless Fanny, or the Scottish Chiefs.
"Suppose you were to run on and tell her," the Major said. Polly ran forward, her yellow shawl streaming in the breeze.
Old Sedley was seated on a bench, his handkerchief placed over his knees, prattling away, according to his wont, with some old story about old times to which Amelia had listened and awarded a patient smile many a time before. She could of late think of her own affairs, and smile or make other marks of recognition of her father's stories, scarcely hearing a word of the old man's tales. As Mary came bouncing along, and Amelia caught sight of her, she started up from her bench. Her first thought was that something had happened to Georgy, but the sight of the messenger's eager and happy face dissipated that fear in the timorous mother's bosom.
"News! News!" cried the emissary of Major Dobbin. "He's come! He's come!"
"Who is come?" said Emmy, still thinking of her son.
"Look there," answered Miss Clapp, turning round and pointing; in which direction Amelia looking, saw Dobbin's lean figure and long shadow stalking across the grass. Amelia started in her turn, blushed up, and, of course, began to cry. At all this simple little creature's fetes, the grandes eaux were accustomed to play. He looked at her--oh, how fondly--as she came running towards him, her hands before her, ready to give them to him. She wasn't changed. She was a little pale, a little stouter in figure. Her eyes were the same, the kind trustful eyes. There were scarce three lines of silver in her soft brown hair. She gave him both her hands as she looked up flushing and smiling through her tears into his honest homely face. He took the two little hands between his two and held them there. He was speechless for a moment. Why did he not take her in his arms and swear that he would never leave her? She must have yielded: she could not but have obeyed him.
"I--I've another arrival to announce," he said after a pause.
"Mrs. Dobbin?" Amelia said, making a movement back--why didn't he speak?
"No," he said, letting her hands go: "Who has told you those lies? I mean, your brother Jos came in the same ship with me, and is come home to make you all happy."
"Papa, Papa!" Emmy cried out, "here are news! My brother is in England. He is come to take care of you. Here is Major Dobbin."
Mr. Sedley started up, shaking a great deal and gathering up his thoughts. Then he stepped forward and made an old-fashioned bow to the Major, whom he called Mr. Dobbin, and hoped his worthy father, Sir William, was quite well. He proposed to call upon Sir William, who had done him the honour of a visit a short time ago. Sir William had not called upon the old gentleman for eight years--it was that visit he was thinking of returning.
"He is very much shaken," Emmy whispered as Dobbin went up and cordially shook hands with the old man.
Although he had such particular business in London that evening, the Major consented to forego it upon Mr. Sedley's invitation to him to come home and partake of tea. Amelia put her arm under that of her young friend with the yellow shawl and headed the party on their return homewards, so that Mr. Sedley fell to Dobbin's share. The old man walked very slowly and told a number of ancient histories about himself and his poor Bessy, his former prosperity, and his bankruptcy. His thoughts, as is usual with failing old men, were quite in former times. The present, with the exception of the one catastrophe which he felt, he knew little about. The Major was glad to let him talk on. His eyes were fixed upon the figure in front of him--the dear little figure always present to his imagination and in his prayers, and visiting his dreams wakeful or slumbering.
Amelia was very happy, smiling, and active all that evening, performing her duties as hostess of the little entertainment with the utmost grace and propriety, as Dobbin thought. His eyes followed her about as they sat in the twilight. How many a time had he longed for that moment and thought of her far away under hot winds and in weary marches, gentle and happy, kindly ministering to the wants of old age, and decorating poverty with sweet submission--as he saw her now. I do not say that his taste was the highest, or that it is the duty of great intellects to be content with a bread-and-butter paradise, such as sufficed our simple old friend; but his desires were of this sort, whether for good or bad, and, with Amelia to help him, he was as ready to drink as many cups of tea as Doctor Johnson.
Amelia seeing this propensity, laughingly encouraged it and looked exceedingly roguish as she administered to him cup after cup. It is true she did not know that the Major had had no dinner and that the cloth was laid for him at the Slaughters', and a plate laid thereon to mark that the table was retained, in that very box in which the Major and George had sat many a time carousing, when she was a child just come home from Miss Pinkerton's school.
The first thing Mrs. Osborne showed the Major was Georgy's miniature, for which she ran upstairs on her arrival at home. It was not half handsome enough of course for the boy, but wasn't it noble of him to think of bringing it to his mother? Whilst her papa was awake she did not talk much about Georgy. To hear about Mr. Osborne and Russell Square was not agreeable to the old man, who very likely was unconscious that he had been living for some months past mainly on the bounty of his richer rival, and lost his temper if allusion was made to the other.
Dobbin told him all, and a little more perhaps than all, that had happened on board the Ramchunder, and exaggerated Jos's benevolent dispositions towards his father and resolution to make him comfortable in his old days. The truth is that during the voyage the Major had impressed this duty most strongly upon his fellow-passenger and extorted promises from him that he would take charge of his sister and her child. He soothed Jos's irritation with regard to the bills which the old gentleman had drawn upon him, gave a laughing account of his own sufferings on the same score and of the famous consignment of wine with which the old man had favoured him, and brought Mr. Jos, who was by no means an ill-natured person when well-pleased and moderately flattered, to a very good state of feeling regarding his relatives in Europe.
And in fine I am ashamed to say that the Major stretched the truth so far as to tell old Mr. Sedley that it was mainly a desire to see his parent which brought Jos once more to Europe.
At his accustomed hour Mr. Sedley began to doze in his chair, and then it was Amelia's opportunity to commence her conversation, which she did with great eagerness--it related exclusively to Georgy. She did not talk at all about her own sufferings at breaking from him, for indeed, this worthy woman, though she was half-killed by the separation from the child, yet thought it was very wicked in her to repine at losing him; but everything concerning him, his virtues, talents, and prospects, she poured out. She described his angelic beauty; narrated a hundred instances of his generosity and greatness of mind whilst living with her; how a Royal Duchess had stopped and admired him in Kensington Gardens; how splendidly he was cared for now, and how he had a groom and a pony; what quickness and cleverness he had, and what a prodigiously well-read and delightful person the Reverend Lawrence Veal was, George's master. "He knows EVERYTHING," Amelia said. "He has the most delightful parties. You who are so learned yourself, and have read so much, and are so clever and accomplished--don't shake your head and say no--HE always used to say you were--you will be charmed with Mr. Veal's parties. The last Tuesday in every month. He says there is no place in the bar or the senate that Georgy may not aspire to. Look here," and she went to the piano-drawer and drew out a theme of Georgy's composition. This great effort of genius, which is still in the possession of George's mother, is as follows:
On Selfishness--Of all the vices which degrade the human character, Selfishness is the most odious and contemptible. An undue love of Self leads to the most monstrous crimes and occasions the greatest misfortunes both in States and Families. As a selfish man will impoverish his family and often bring them to ruin, so a selfish king brings ruin on his people and often plunges them into war.
Example: The selfishness of Achilles, as remarked by the poet Homer, occasioned a thousand woes to the Greeks--muri Achaiois alge etheke--(Hom. Il. 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 Saint 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.
George S. Osborne Athene House, 24 April, 1827
"Think of him writing such a hand, and quoting Greek too, at his age," the delighted mother said. "Oh, William," she added, holding out her hand to the Major, "what a treasure Heaven has given me in that boy! He is the comfort of my life--and he is the image of--of him that's gone!"
"Ought I to be angry with her for being faithful to him?" William thought. "Ought I to be jealous of my friend in the grave, or hurt that such a heart as Amelia's can love only once and for ever? Oh, George, George, how little you knew the prize you had, though." This sentiment passed rapidly through William's mind as he was holding Amelia's hand, whilst the handkerchief was veiling her eyes.
"Dear friend," she said, pressing the hand which held hers, "how good, how kind you always have been to me! See! Papa is stirring. You will go and see Georgy tomorrow, won't you?"
"Not to-morrow," said poor old Dobbin. "I have business." He did not like to own that he had not as yet been to his parents' and his dear sister Anne--a remissness for which I am sure every well-regulated person will blame the Major. And presently he took his leave, leaving his address behind him for Jos, against the latter's arrival. And so the first day was over, and he had seen her.
When he got back to the Slaughters', the roast fowl was of course cold, in which condition he ate it for supper. And knowing what early hours his family kept, and that it would be needless to disturb their slumbers at so late an hour, it is on record, that Major Dobbin treated himself to half-price at the Haymarket Theatre that evening, where let us hope he enjoyed himself.

Our Major had made himself so popular on board that when he and Mr. Sedley left the ship, the whole crew gave three cheers for Major Dobbin, who blushed and ducked his head in thanks. Jos, thinking the cheers were for himself, took off his gold-laced cap and waved it majestically. They landed with great dignity at the pier, and proceeded to the Royal George Hotel.
There, although the sight of a magnificent round of beef and a silver tankard of real British home-brewed ale greeted their delighted eyes, yet Dobbin began instantly to talk about a post-chaise, and wished to be on the road to London. Jos, however, would not hear of moving that evening. Why pass a night in a post-chaise instead of a downy feather-bed?
So the Major was forced to wait over that night, and wrote to his family announcing his arrival. Jos promised to write to his own family, but didn't. He ordered a sumptuous dinner; the landlord said it did him good to see Mr. Sedley drink off his first pint of porter.
Next morning Major Dobbin was neatly shaved and dressed so early that nobody was up in the house except the Boots. The Major could hear snores roaring through the corridors as he creaked about. The sleepless Boots went from door to door, gathering up the footwear which stood outside each one. Then Jos's native servant arose and began to get ready his master's ponderous dressing apparatus and prepare his hookah; then the maidservants got up. When the first waiter appeared and unbarred the door of the inn, the Major ordered a post-chaise to be fetched instantly, so that they might set off.
He went to Mr. Sedley's room, saying, "Wake up, Sedley! the chaise will be at the door in half an hour."
Jos growled from under the counterpane, and gave Dobbin to understand that he might go and be hanged, that Jos would not travel with him, and that it was most ungentlemanlike to disturb a man out of his sleep in that way; on which the Major was obliged to retreat. The chaise soon came up, and he could wait no longer.
If he had been a newspaper courier bearing dispatches, he could not have travelled more quickly. The post-boys wondered at the fees he flung amongst them. How happy and green the country looked as the chaise whirled rapidly from mile-stone to mile-stone; past pretty roadside inns, where the signs hung on the elms, and horses and waggoners were drinking under the trees; by old halls and parks; by rustic hamlets clustered round ancient grey churches - through the charming friendly English landscape. Is there any in the world like it? Well, Major Dobbin passed through all this without noticing it.
He drove first to his old haunt at the Slaughters. Long years had passed since he saw it last; since he and George, as young men, had enjoyed many a feast there. However, the old waiter stood at the door in the same greasy black suit, receiving the Major as if he had gone away only a week ago.
"Put the Major's things in twenty-three, that's his room," said John. "Roast fowl for your dinner, I suppose. You ain't got married? Like any warm water?" And with this, the faithful waiter, with whom ten years were but as yesterday, led the way up to Dobbin's old room. The Major remembered George pacing up and down in here, and biting his nails, the day before he was married.
"What became of Captain Osborne's widow?" John said. "Fine young fellow, that. Lord, how he used to spend his money. He owes me three pound at this minute."
John then retired; and Major Dobbin, with a grin at his own absurdity, chose the very smartest costume he possessed, and laughed at his own tanned face and grey hair in the mirror.
"I'm glad old John didn't forget me," he thought. "She'll know me, too, I hope." And he left the inn, making towards Brompton.
Every minute of his last meeting with Amelia was in his mind as he walked towards her house. A hundred changes had occurred which he vaguely noticed. He began to tremble as he walked up the well-remembered lane from Brompton to the street where she lived.
Was she going to be married or not? If he were to meet her with the little boy - what should he do? He saw a woman coming towards him with a child of five - was that she? He began to shake at the mere possibility. When he came to her gate at last, he caught hold of it and paused, his heart thumping.
"May God bless her, whatever has happened," he thought. "Psha! she may be gone from here." He went in through the gate.
The parlour window was open, and there was no-one in the room. The Major thought he recognized the piano, though. He knocked on the door.
A buxom-looking lass of sixteen, with bright eyes, answered the knock and looked hard at the Major.
He was as pale as a ghost and could hardly falter out - "Does Mrs. Osborne live here?"
"Lord bless me - it's Major Dobbin." She held out both her hands. "Don't you remember me? Polly Clapp. I used to call you Major Sugarplums."
On which, and I believe it was for the first time that he ever so conducted himself in his life, the Major took the girl in his arms and kissed her. She began to laugh and cry hysterically, and calling out "Ma, Pa!" brought up those worthy people, who were astonished to find their daughter in the little passage in the embrace of a great tall man in a blue frock-coat.
"I'm an old friend," he said, blushing. "Don't you remember me, Mrs. Clapp, and those good cakes you used to make for tea? I'm George's godfather, just come back from India." A great shaking of hands followed.
The landlord and landlady led the worthy Major into the Sedleys' room (whereof he remembered every single article of furniture), and there, as he sat down, they informed Major Dobbin of events in Amelia's history of which he was not aware - namely Mrs. Sedley's death, George's reconcilement with his grandfather Osborne, the widow's sorrow at leaving him, and other details. He was going to ask about the marriage question, but his heart failed him. Finally, he was informed that Mrs. O. was gone to walk in Kensington Gardens with her pa, who was very weak and peevish now, and led her a sad life, though she behaved to him like an angel.
"I'm very much pressed for time," the Major said, "but I should like to see Mrs. Osborne. Suppose Miss Polly would show me the way?"
Miss Polly was charmed. She bounced away to her apartment and appeared presently in her best bonnet and her mamma's yellow shawl to make herself a worthy companion for the Major.
He gave the young lady his arm, and they walked away very gaily. He was glad to have a friend at hand for the scene which he dreaded somehow. He asked a thousand more questions about Amelia, and Polly answered Major Sugarplums to the very best of her power.
In the midst of their walk an incident occurred which, though very simple, gave the Major great delight. A pale young man with feeble whiskers came walking down the lane with a lady on each arm. One was a tall and commanding middle-aged female, and the other a stunted little woman with a dark face. The gentleman carried a parasol, shawl, and basket, so that his arms were entirely engaged, and he was unable to touch his hat when Miss Polly Clapp greeted him. He merely bowed his head, while the two ladies looked severe.
"Who's that?" asked the Major, amused by the group. Polly looked at him rather roguishly.
"That is our curate, the Reverend Mr. Binny" (a twitch from Major Dobbin) "and his sister Miss B; and the other lady, the little one with a cast in her eye, is Mrs. Binny - Miss Grits that was; her pa was a grocer, and they were married last month, but her and Miss B. have quarrelled already."
The Major stood silent while Miss Polly told this history; but his head was swimming with happiness. He began to walk double quick towards his destination - yet he was in a great tremor as they entered the old portal in Kensington Garden wall.
"There they are," said Miss Polly, and she felt him again start back on her arm. She understood the whole business.
"Suppose you run on and tell her," the Major said. Polly ran forward, her yellow shawl streaming in the breeze.
Old Sedley was seated on a bench, prattling away as usual, while Amelia listened with a patient smile, scarcely hearing a word. As Polly came bouncing along, Amelia started up. Her first thought was that something had happened to Georgy, but the sight of the messenger's eager face dissipated that fear.
"News! News!" cried Polly. "He's come!"
"Who is come?"
"Look there," answered Miss Clapp, pointing; and Amelia saw Dobbin's lean figure and long shadow stalking across the grass. Amelia started in her turn, blushed up, and, of course, began to cry. He looked at her - oh, how fondly - as she came running towards him, her hands held out to him. She wasn't changed. She was a little pale, a little stouter. Her eyes were the same kind trustful eyes. There were scarce three lines of silver in her soft brown hair.
She gave him both her hands as she looked up flushing and smiling through her tears into his honest homely face. He took the two little hands between his own, speechless for a moment. Why did he not take her in his arms and swear that he would never leave her? She must have yielded.
"I - I've another arrival to announce," he said after a pause.
"Mrs. Dobbin?" Amelia said, making a movement back. Why didn't he declare himself?
"No," he said, letting her hands go: "Who has told you those lies? I mean your brother Jos, who is come home with me to make you all happy."
"Papa, Papa!" Emmy cried, "My brother is in England! He is come to take care of you. Here is Major Dobbin."
Mr. Sedley stepped forward and made an old-fashioned bow to the Major, and hoped his worthy father, Sir William, was quite well. He proposed to call upon Sir William, who had visited him a short time ago. Sir William had not called upon the old gentleman for eight years.
"He is very much shaken," Emmy whispered as Dobbin shook hands with the old man.
Although he had such particular business in London that evening, the Major took up Mr. Sedley's invitation to come home for tea. Amelia put her arm under Polly's on their return home, so that Mr. Sedley fell to Dobbin's share. The old man walked very slowly and told a number of ancient histories about himself and his former prosperity. The Major was glad to let him talk on. His eyes were fixed upon the figure in front of him - the dear little figure always present in his thoughts and dreams.
Amelia was very happy, smiling and active all that evening, performing her duties as hostess with the utmost grace, Dobbin thought. His eyes followed her about as they sat in the twilight. How many a time had he longed for that moment, and thought of her far away under hot winds and in weary marches, gentle and happy as he saw her now.
With Amelia to help him, he was ready to drink as many cups of tea as Doctor Johnson, and Amelia laughingly poured him cup after cup. She did not know that the Major had had no dinner and that the table was laid for him at the Slaughters'.
The first thing Mrs. Osborne had showed the Major was Georgy's miniature. It was not half handsome enough, of course, but wasn't it noble of Georgy to think of it for her? Whilst her papa was awake she did not talk much about Georgy, for old Sedley did not like to hear about Mr. Osborne and Russell Square. He did now know that for some months he had been living on his rival's bounty, and lost his temper if Osborne was mentioned.
Dobbin told them all that had happened on board the ship, and exaggerated Jos's benevolent wishes for his father. The truth is that during the voyage the Major had impressed this duty most strongly upon his fellow-passenger, soothing Jos's irritation about the bills which the old gentleman had drawn upon him, and bringing Mr. Jos to a good state of feeling about his relatives. The Major stretched the truth so far as to tell old Mr. Sedley that it was mainly a desire to see his father which brought Jos home.
When Mr. Sedley began to doze in his chair, it was Amelia's opportunity to talk, which she did with great eagerness - all about Georgy. She did not talk at all about her own sufferings; but everything concerning him, his virtues, talents, and prospects, she poured out. She described his angelic beauty; a hundred instances of his generosity; how a Royal Duchess had stopped and admired him in Kensington Gardens; how splendidly he was cared for now, with a groom and a pony; how clever he was, and what a well-read teacher he had in the Reverend Veal.
"He knows everything," Amelia said. "He has the most delightful parties. You who are so learned yourself - don't shake your head - he always used to say you were - you will be charmed with Mr. Veal's parties. He says there is no place that Georgy may not aspire to. Look here," and she went to the piano-drawer and took out a composition by Georgy, as follows:
On Selfishness - Of all the vices which degrade the human character, Selfishness is the most odious and contemptible. An undue love of Self leads to the most monstrous crimes and occasions the greatest misfortunes both in States and Families. As a selfish man will impoverish his family and often bring them to ruin, so a selfish king brings ruin on his people and often plunges them into war.
Example: The selfishness of Achilles, as remarked by the poet Homer, occasioned a thousand woes to the Greeks - - (Hom. Il. A. 2). The selfishness of the late Napoleon Bonaparte occasioned wars in Europe and caused him to perish himself, in the miserable island of Saint 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.
George S. Osborne.
"Think of him writing such a hand, and quoting Greek, at his age," the delighted mother said. "What a treasure Heaven has given me! He is the comfort of my life - and the image of - of him that's gone!"
"Ought I to be angry with her for being faithful to him?" William thought. "Ought I to be jealous of my friend in the grave, or feel hurt that Amelia's heart can love only once and forever? Oh, George, how little you knew the prize you had."
"Dear friend," she said, pressing his hand, "how good you have always been to me! Papa is stirring. You will go and see Georgy tomorrow, won't you?"
"Not tomorrow," said poor Dobbin. "I have business." He had not yet been to visit his parents and his sisters. Presently he took his leave; and so the first day was over, and he had seen her.


The heir of Crawley arrived at home, in due time, after this catastrophe, and henceforth may be said to have reigned in Queen's Crawley. For though the old Baronet survived many months, he never recovered the use of his intellect or his speech completely, and the government of the estate devolved upon his elder son. In a strange condition Pitt found it. Sir Pitt was always buying and mortgaging; he had twenty men of business, and quarrels with each; quarrels with all his tenants, and lawsuits with them; lawsuits with the lawyers; lawsuits with the Mining and Dock Companies in which he was proprietor; and with every person with whom he had business. To unravel these difficulties and to set the estate clear was a task worthy of the orderly and persevering diplomatist of Pumpernickel, and he set himself to work with prodigious assiduity. His whole family, of course, was transported to Queen's Crawley, whither Lady Southdown, of course, came too; and she set about converting the parish under the Rector's nose, and brought down her irregular clergy to the dismay of the angry Mrs Bute. Sir Pitt had concluded no bargain for the sale of the living of Queen's Crawley; when it should drop, her Ladyship proposed to take the patronage into her own hands and present a young protege to the Rectory, on which subject the diplomatic Pitt said nothing.
Mrs. Bute's intentions with regard to Miss Betsy Horrocks were not carried into effect, and she paid no visit to Southampton Gaol. She and her father left the Hall when the latter took possession of the Crawley Arms in the village, of which he had got a lease from Sir Pitt. The ex-butler had obtained a small freehold there likewise, which gave him a vote for the borough. The Rector had another of these votes, and these and four others formed the representative body which returned the two members for Queen's Crawley.
There was a show of courtesy kept up between the Rectory and the Hall ladies, between the younger ones at least, for Mrs. Bute and Lady Southdown never could meet without battles, and gradually ceased seeing each other. Her Ladyship kept her room when the ladies from the Rectory visited their cousins at the Hall. Perhaps Mr. Pitt was not very much displeased at these occasional absences of his mamma-in-law. He believed the Binkie family to be the greatest and wisest and most interesting in the world, and her Ladyship and his aunt had long held ascendency over him; but sometimes he felt that she commanded him too much. To be considered young was complimentary, doubtless, but at six-and-forty to be treated as a boy was sometimes mortifying. Lady Jane yielded up everything, however, to her mother. She was only fond of her children in private, and it was lucky for her that Lady Southdown's multifarious business, her conferences with ministers, and her correspondence with all the missionaries of Africa, Asia, and Australasia, &c., occupied the venerable Countess a great deal, so that she had but little time to devote to her granddaughter, the little Matilda, and her grandson, Master Pitt Crawley. The latter was a feeble child, and it was only by prodigious quantities of calomel that Lady Southdown was able to keep him in life at all.
As for Sir Pitt he retired into those very apartments where Lady Crawley had been previously extinguished, and here was tended by Miss Hester, the girl upon her promotion, with constant care and assiduity. What love, what fidelity, what constancy is there equal to that of a nurse with good wages? They smooth pillows; and make arrowroot; they get up at nights; they bear complaints and querulousness; they see the sun shining out of doors and don't want to go abroad; they sleep on arm-chairs and eat their meals in solitude; they pass long long evenings doing nothing, watching the embers, and the patient's drink simmering in the jug; they read the weekly paper the whole week through; and Law's Serious Call or the Whole Duty of Man suffices them for literature for the year--and we quarrel with them because, when their relations come to see them once a week, a little gin is smuggled in in their linen basket. Ladies, what man's love is there that would stand a year's nursing of the object of his affection? Whereas a nurse will stand by you for ten pounds a quarter, and we think her too highly paid. At least Mr. Crawley grumbled a good deal about paying half as much to Miss Hester for her constant attendance upon the Baronet his father.
Of sunshiny days this old gentleman was taken out in a chair on the terrace--the very chair which Miss Crawley had had at Brighton, and which had been transported thence with a number of Lady Southdown's effects to Queen's Crawley. Lady Jane always walked by the old man, and was an evident favourite with him. He used to nod many times to her and smile when she came in, and utter inarticulate deprecatory moans when she was going away. When the door shut upon her he would cry and sob--whereupon Hester's face and manner, which was always exceedingly bland and gentle while her lady was present, would change at once, and she would make faces at him and clench her fist and scream out "Hold your tongue, you stoopid old fool," and twirl away his chair from the fire which he loved to look at--at which he would cry more. For this was all that was left after more than seventy years of cunning, and struggling, and drinking, and scheming, and sin and selfishness--a whimpering old idiot put in and out of bed and cleaned and fed like a baby.
At last a day came when the nurse's occupation was over. Early one morning, as Pitt Crawley was at his steward's and bailiff's books in the study, a knock came to the door, and Hester presented herself, dropping a curtsey, and said,
"If you please, Sir Pitt, Sir Pitt died this morning, Sir Pitt. I was a-making of his toast, Sir Pitt, for his gruel, Sir Pitt, which he took every morning regular at six, Sir Pitt, and--I thought I heard a moan-like, Sir Pitt--and--and--and--" She dropped another curtsey.
What was it that made Pitt's pale face flush quite red? Was it because he was Sir Pitt at last, with a seat in Parliament, and perhaps future honours in prospect? "I'll clear the estate now with the ready money," he thought and rapidly calculated its incumbrances and the improvements which he would make. He would not use his aunt's money previously lest Sir Pitt should recover and his outlay be in vain.
All the blinds were pulled down at the Hall and Rectory: the church bell was tolled, and the chancel hung in black; and Bute Crawley didn't go to a coursing meeting, but went and dined quietly at Fuddleston, where they talked about his deceased brother and young Sir Pitt over their port. Miss Betsy, who was by this time married to a saddler at Mudbury, cried a good deal. The family surgeon rode over and paid his respectful compliments, and inquiries for the health of their ladyships. The death was talked about at Mudbury and at the Crawley Arms, the landlord whereof had become reconciled with the Rector of late, who was occasionally known to step into the parlour and taste Mr. Horrocks' mild beer.
"Shall I write to your brother--or will you?" asked Lady Jane of her husband, Sir Pitt.
"I will write, of course," Sir Pitt said, "and invite him to the funeral: it will be but becoming."
"And--and--Mrs. Rawdon," said Lady Jane timidly.
"Jane!" said Lady Southdown, "how can you think of such a thing?"
"Mrs. Rawdon must of course be asked," said Sir Pitt, resolutely.
"Not whilst I am in the house!" said Lady Southdown.
"Your Ladyship will be pleased to recollect that I am the head of this family," Sir Pitt replied. "If you please, Lady Jane, you will write a letter to Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, requesting her presence upon this melancholy occasion."
"Jane, I forbid you to put pen to paper!" cried the Countess.
"I believe I am the head of this family," Sir Pitt repeated; "and however much I may regret any circumstance which may lead to your Ladyship quitting this house, must, if you please, continue to govern it as I see fit."
Lady Southdown rose up as magnificent as Mrs. Siddons in Lady Macbeth and ordered that horses might be put to her carriage. If her son and daughter turned her out of their house, she would hide her sorrows somewhere in loneliness and pray for their conversion to better thoughts.
"We don't turn you out of our house, Mamma," said the timid Lady Jane imploringly.
"You invite such company to it as no Christian lady should meet, and I will have my horses to-morrow morning."
"Have the goodness to write, Jane, under my dictation," said Sir Pitt, rising and throwing himself into an attitude of command, like the portrait of a Gentleman in the Exhibition, "and begin. 'Queen's Crawley, September 14, 1822.--My dear brother--'"
Hearing these decisive and terrible words, Lady Macbeth, who had been waiting for a sign of weakness or vacillation on the part of her son-in-law, rose and, with a scared look, left the library. Lady Jane looked up to her husband as if she would fain follow and soothe her mamma, but Pitt forbade his wife to move.
"She won't go away," he said. "She has let her house at Brighton and has spent her last half-year's dividends. A Countess living at an inn is a ruined woman. I have been waiting long for an opportunity--to take this--this decisive step, my love; for, as you must perceive, it is impossible that there should be two chiefs in a family: and now, if you please, we will resume the dictation. 'My dear brother, the melancholy intelligence which it is my duty to convey to my family must have been long anticipated by,'" &c.
In a word, Pitt having come to his kingdom, and having by good luck, or desert rather, as he considered, assumed almost all the fortune which his other relatives had expected, was determined to treat his family kindly and respectably and make a house of Queen's Crawley once more. It pleased him to think that he should be its chief. He proposed to use the vast influence that his commanding talents and position must speedily acquire for him in the county to get his brother placed and his cousins decently provided for, and perhaps had a little sting of repentance as he thought that he was the proprietor of all that they had hoped for. In the course of three or four days' reign his bearing was changed and his plans quite fixed: he determined to rule justly and honestly, to depose Lady Southdown, and to be on the friendliest possible terms with all the relations of his blood.
So he dictated a letter to his brother Rawdon--a solemn and elaborate letter, containing the profoundest observations, couched in the longest words, and filling with wonder the simple little secretary, who wrote under her husband's order. "What an orator this will be," thought she, "when he enters the House of Commons" (on which point, and on the tyranny of Lady Southdown, Pitt had sometimes dropped hints to his wife in bed); "how wise and good, and what a genius my husband is! I fancied him a little cold; but how good, and what a genius!"
The fact is, Pitt Crawley had got every word of the letter by heart and had studied it, with diplomatic secrecy, deeply and perfectly, long before he thought fit to communicate it to his astonished wife.
This letter, with a huge black border and seal, was accordingly despatched by Sir Pitt Crawley to his brother the Colonel, in London. Rawdon Crawley was but half-pleased at the receipt of it. "What's the use of going down to that stupid place?" thought he. "I can't stand being alone with Pitt after dinner, and horses there and back will cost us twenty pound."
He carried the letter, as he did all difficulties, to Becky, upstairs in her bedroom--with her chocolate, which he always made and took to her of a morning.
He put the tray with the breakfast and the letter on the dressing-table, before which Becky sat combing her yellow hair. She took up the black-edged missive, and having read it, she jumped up from the chair, crying "Hurray!" and waving the note round her head.
"Hurray?" said Rawdon, wondering at the little figure capering about in a streaming flannel dressing-gown, with tawny locks dishevelled. "He's not left us anything, Becky. I had my share when I came of age."
"You'll never be of age, you silly old man," Becky replied. "Run out now to Madam Brunoy's, for I must have some mourning: and get a crape on your hat, and a black waistcoat--I don't think you've got one; order it to be brought home to-morrow, so that we may be able to start on Thursday."
"You don't mean to go?" Rawdon interposed.
"Of course I mean to go. I mean that Lady Jane shall present me at Court next year. I mean that your brother shall give you a seat in Parliament, you stupid old creature. I mean that Lord Steyne shall have your vote and his, my dear, old silly man; and that you shall be an Irish Secretary, or a West Indian Governor: or a Treasurer, or a Consul, or some such thing."
"Posting will cost a dooce of a lot of money," grumbled Rawdon.
"We might take Southdown's carriage, which ought to be present at the funeral, as he is a relation of the family: but, no--I intend that we shall go by the coach. They'll like it better. It seems more humble--"
"Rawdy goes, of course?" the Colonel asked.
"No such thing; why pay an extra place? He's too big to travel bodkin between you and me. Let him stay here in the nursery, and Briggs can make him a black frock. Go you, and do as I bid you. And you had best tell Sparks, your man, that old Sir Pitt is dead and that you will come in for something considerable when the affairs are arranged. He'll tell this to Raggles, who has been pressing for money, and it will console poor Raggles." And so Becky began sipping her chocolate.
When the faithful Lord Steyne arrived in the evening, he found Becky and her companion, who was no other than our friend Briggs, busy cutting, ripping, snipping, and tearing all sorts of black stuffs available for the melancholy occasion.
"Miss Briggs and I are plunged in grief and despondency for the death of our Papa," Rebecca said. "Sir Pitt Crawley is dead, my lord. We have been tearing our hair all the morning, and now we are tearing up our old clothes."
"Oh, Rebecca, how can you--" was all that Briggs could say as she turned up her eyes.
"Oh, Rebecca, how can you--" echoed my Lord. "So that old scoundrel's dead, is he? He might have been a Peer if he had played his cards better. Mr. Pitt had very nearly made him; but he ratted always at the wrong time. What an old Silenus it was!"
"I might have been Silenus's widow," said Rebecca. "Don't you remember, Miss Briggs, how you peeped in at the door and saw old Sir Pitt on his knees to me?" Miss Briggs, our old friend, blushed very much at this reminiscence, and was glad when Lord Steyne ordered her to go downstairs and make him a cup of tea.
Briggs was the house-dog whom Rebecca had provided as guardian of her innocence and reputation. Miss Crawley had left her a little annuity. She would have been content to remain in the Crawley family with Lady Jane, who was good to her and to everybody; but Lady Southdown dismissed poor Briggs as quickly as decency permitted; and Mr. Pitt (who thought himself much injured by the uncalled-for generosity of his deceased relative towards a lady who had only been Miss Crawley's faithful retainer a score of years) made no objection to that exercise of the dowager's authority. Bowls and Firkin likewise received their legacies and their dismissals, and married and set up a lodging-house, according to the custom of their kind.
Briggs tried to live with her relations in the country, but found that attempt was vain after the better society to which she had been accustomed. Briggs's friends, small tradesmen, in a country town, quarrelled over Miss Briggs's forty pounds a year as eagerly and more openly than Miss Crawley's kinsfolk had for that lady's inheritance. Briggs's brother, a radical hatter and grocer, called his sister a purse-proud aristocrat, because she would not advance a part of her capital to stock his shop; and she would have done so most likely, but that their sister, a dissenting shoemaker's lady, at variance with the hatter and grocer, who went to another chapel, showed how their brother was on the verge of bankruptcy, and took possession of Briggs for a while. The dissenting shoemaker wanted Miss Briggs to send his son to college and make a gentleman of him. Between them the two families got a great portion of her private savings out of her, and finally she fled to London followed by the anathemas of both, and determined to seek for servitude again as infinitely less onerous than liberty. And advertising in the papers that a "Gentlewoman of agreeable manners, and accustomed to the best society, was anxious to," &c., she took up her residence with Mr. Bowls in Half Moon Street, and waited the result of the advertisement.
So it was that she fell in with Rebecca. Mrs. Rawdon's dashing little carriage and ponies was whirling down the street one day, just as Miss Briggs, fatigued, had reached Mr. Bowls's door, after a weary walk to the Times Office in the City to insert her advertisement for the sixth time. Rebecca was driving, and at once recognized the gentlewoman with agreeable manners, and being a perfectly good-humoured woman, as we have seen, and having a regard for Briggs, she pulled up the ponies at the doorsteps, gave the reins to the groom, and jumping out, had hold of both Briggs's hands, before she of the agreeable manners had recovered from the shock of seeing an old friend.
Briggs cried, and Becky laughed a great deal and kissed the gentlewoman as soon as they got into the passage; and thence into Mrs. Bowls's front parlour, with the red moreen curtains, and the round looking-glass, with the chained eagle above, gazing upon the back of the ticket in the window which announced "Apartments to Let."
Briggs told all her history amidst those perfectly uncalled-for sobs and ejaculations of wonder with which women of her soft nature salute an old acquaintance, or regard a rencontre in the street; for though people meet other people every day, yet some there are who insist upon discovering miracles; and women, even though they have disliked each other, begin to cry when they meet, deploring and remembering the time when they last quarrelled. So, in a word, Briggs told all her history, and Becky gave a narrative of her own life, with her usual artlessness and candour.
Mrs. Bowls, late Firkin, came and listened grimly in the passage to the hysterical sniffling and giggling which went on in the front parlour. Becky had never been a favourite of hers. Since the establishment of the married couple in London they had frequented their former friends of the house of Raggles, and did not like the latter's account of the Colonel's menage. "I wouldn't trust him, Ragg, my boy," Bowls remarked; and his wife, when Mrs. Rawdon issued from the parlour, only saluted the lady with a very sour curtsey; and her fingers were like so many sausages, cold and lifeless, when she held them out in deference to Mrs. Rawdon, who persisted in shaking hands with the retired lady's maid. She whirled away into Piccadilly, nodding with the sweetest of smiles towards Miss Briggs, who hung nodding at the window close under the advertisement-card, and at the next moment was in the park with a half-dozen of dandies cantering after her carriage.
When she found how her friend was situated, and how having a snug legacy from Miss Crawley, salary was no object to our gentlewoman, Becky instantly formed some benevolent little domestic plans concerning her. This was just such a companion as would suit her establishment, and she invited Briggs to come to dinner with her that very evening, when she should see Becky's dear little darling Rawdon.
Mrs. Bowls cautioned her lodger against venturing into the lion's den, "wherein you will rue it, Miss B., mark my words, and as sure as my name is Bowls." And Briggs promised to be very cautious. The upshot of which caution was that she went to live with Mrs. Rawdon the next week, and had lent Rawdon Crawley six hundred pounds upon annuity before six months were over.

Though the old Baronet survived many months, he never completely recovered the use of his intellect or his speech. The estate was governed by his elder son.
In a strange condition Pitt found it. Old Sir Pitt was always buying and mortgaging; he had twenty men of business, and quarrels with each. He had lawsuits with all his tenants, his lawyers, the Mining and Dock Companies in which he had a share, and with every person with whom he had business. To unravel these difficulties was a task worthy of the orderly Pitt, and he set to work. His whole family moved to Queen's Crawley, and Lady Southdown came too, bringing her irregular clergy, to the dismay of the angry Mrs. Bute.
Mrs. Bute's threats to Miss Betsy Horrocks were not carried out. Betsy's father took over the Crawley Arms in the village, of which he had got a lease from Sir Pitt. He had obtained a small freehold there likewise, which gave him a vote for the borough. The Rector had another of these votes, and these and four others formed the electorate which returned the two Members of Parliament for Queen's Crawley.
There was a show of courtesy kept up between the Rectory and the Hall ladies; between the younger ones at least, for Mrs. Bute and Lady Southdown could never meet without battles. Lady Southdown kept to her room when the ladies from the Rectory visited. Perhaps Mr. Pitt was not displeased at these occasional absences of his mamma-in-law. Sometimes she commanded him too much; to be treated as a boy at forty-six was mortifying. Lady Jane yielded up everything to her mother. It was lucky for her that Lady Southdown's meetings with ministers and correspondence with missionaries so occupied her that she had little time to devote to her grandchildren.
As for old Sir Pitt, he retired into those same rooms where Lady Crawley had lived, and was tended by Miss Hester with constant care. What love, what fidelity is there equal to that of a nurse with good wages? They get up at nights; they bear complaints; they see the sun shining and don't want to go out; they sleep on armchairs and eat their meals in solitude; they pass long long evenings doing nothing.
On sunshiny days this old gentleman was taken out in a chair on the terrace. Lady Jane always walked by the old man, and was a favourite with him. He used to smile when she came in, and utter inarticulate moans when she was going away. When the door shut upon her he would cry and sob - whereupon Hester's face and manner, which was always exceedingly bland while her lady was present, would change at once, and she would clench her fist and scream, "Hold your tongue, you stoopid old fool," and twirl away his chair from the fire which he loved to look at - at which he would cry more. For this was all that was left after years of cunning, drinking, scheming and selfishness - a whimpering old idiot put in and out of bed and cleaned and fed like a baby.
At last a day came when the nurse's task was over. Early one morning, when Pitt Crawley was in the study, a knock came to the door, and Hester presented herself, curtseyed, and said,
"If you please, Sir Pitt, Sir Pitt died this morning, Sir Pitt. I was a-making of his toast for his gruel, and - and I thought I heard a moan like, Sir Pitt - and - and-" She dropped another curtsey.
What was it that made Pitt's pale face flush? Was it because he was Sir Pitt at last, with a seat in Parliament? "I'll clear the estate now," he thought, rapidly calculating the improvements which he would make.
All the blinds were pulled down at the Hall and Rectory: the church bell was tolled. Miss Betsy, who was by this time married to a saddler at Mudbury, cried a good deal.
"Shall I write to your brother - or will you?" asked Lady Jane of her husband, Sir Pitt.
"I will write," he said, "and invite him to the funeral."
"And - and Mrs. Rawdon," said Lady Jane timidly.
"Jane!" said Lady Southdown, "how can you think of such a thing?"
"Mrs. Rawdon must of course be asked," said Sir Pitt resolutely.
"Not whilst I am in the house!" said Lady Southdown.
"Your Ladyship will be pleased to recollect that I am the head of this family," Sir Pitt replied. "Lady Jane, please write to Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, requesting her presence upon this melancholy occasion."
"Jane, I forbid you to put pen to paper!" cried the Countess.
"I believe I am the head of this family," Sir Pitt repeated; "and however much I may regret any circumstance which may lead to your Ladyship quitting this house, I must govern it as I see fit."
Lady Southdown rose magnificently and ordered that horses might be put to her carriage. If her son and daughter turned her out of their house, she would hide her sorrows somewhere in loneliness and pray for their conversion to better thoughts.
"We don't turn you out of our house, Mamma," said the timid Lady Jane imploringly.
"You invite such company to it as no Christian lady should meet, and I will have my horses tomorrow morning."
"Please write this, Jane," said Sir Pitt, rising in an attitude of command. 'Queen's Crawley, September 14. My dear brother-'"
Hearing these decisive words, Lady Southdown, who had been waiting for a sign of weakness from her son-in-law, rose and, with a scared look, left the library. Lady Jane looked as if she would follow, but Pitt forbade his wife to move.
"She won't go away," he said. "She has let her house at Brighton. I have been waiting long for an opportunity to take this decisive step, my love; and now, if you please, we will resume the dictation. 'My dear brother, the melancholy news which it is my duty to convey must have been long anticipated,' etc."
Pitt, having come to his kingdom and his fortune, was determined to treat his family kindly and respectably and make a house of Queen's Crawley once more. It pleased him to think that he should be its chief. He proposed to use his influence to get his brother placed and his cousins decently provided for. In the course of three or four days' reign his bearing was changed and his plans quite fixed: he determined to rule justly and honestly, to depose Lady Southdown, and to be on the friendliest possible terms with all his relations.
So he dictated a letter to his brother Rawdon - a solemn and elaborate letter, containing the profoundest observations, and filling his simple little secretary with wonder.
"What an orator he will be," thought she, "when he enters the House of Commons. How wise and good, and what a genius my husband is!" The fact is, Pitt Crawley had composed the letter long before he dictated it to his astonished wife.
This letter, with a black border and seal, was sent to Colonel Rawdon Crawley. He was only half-pleased at receiving it.
"What's the use of going down to that stupid place?" thought he. "I can't stand being alone with Pitt after dinner, and horses there and back will cost us twenty pound."
He carried the letter, as he did all difficulties, to Becky, in her bedroom - with her chocolate, which he always made for her of a morning. She took up the black-edged missive, and having read it, jumped up, crying "Hurray!" and waving the note round her head.
"Hurray?" said Rawdon, wondering at the little figure capering about in a streaming flannel dressing-gown. "He's not left us anything, Becky. I had my share when I came of age."
"You'll never be of age, you silly old man," Becky replied. "Run out now and get some black crape on your hat, and a black waistcoat - order it for tomorrow, so that we may be able to start on Thursday."
"You don't mean to go?"
"Of course I mean to go. I mean Lady Jane to present me at Court next year. I mean your brother to give you a seat in Parliament, you stupid old creature. I mean Lord Steyne to have your vote, my dear old silly man; and you shall be an Irish Secretary, or a West Indian Governor, or some such thing."
"Going by post-chaise will cost a dooce of a lot of money," grumbled the Colonel. "Rawdy goes, of course?"
"No; why pay for an extra place? Let him stay here in the nursery, with Briggs. Go and do as I bid you. And you had best tell Sparks that old Sir Pitt is dead and that you will come in for some money. He'll tell Raggles, who has been pressing for rent." Becky began sipping her chocolate.
When Lord Steyne arrived in the evening, he found Becky and her companion, who was no other than our friend Briggs, busy cutting, ripping and snipping all sorts of black stuff for the melancholy occasion.
"Sir Pitt Crawley is dead, my lord," Rebecca said. "We have been tearing our hair with grief all the morning, and now we are tearing up our old clothes."
"So that old scoundrel's dead, is he?" my Lord said. "What an old Silenus he was!"
"I might have been Silenus's widow," said Rebecca. "Don't you remember, Miss Briggs, how you peeped in at the door and saw old Sir Pitt on his knees to me?" Miss Briggs blushed very much, and was glad when Lord Steyne ordered her to go downstairs and make him a cup of tea.
Briggs was the house-dog whom Rebecca had wanted as guardian of her reputation. Miss Crawley had left Briggs a little annuity. She would have been content to remain with Lady Jane, who was good to her; but Lady Southdown dismissed her. Bowls and Firkin likewise received their legacies and their dismissals, and married and set up a lodging-house.
Briggs tried to live with her relations in the country, but found that her family quarrelled over her forty pounds a year as eagerly as Miss Crawley's kinsfolk had over that lady's inheritance. Briggs's brother called her purse-proud, because she would not advance her money to stock his shop; while her sister told her that their brother was on the verge of bankruptcy, and wanted Miss Briggs to send her own son to college.
Between them the two families got a great portion of her private savings, and finally she fled to London, determined to seek for servitude again as infinitely less burdensome than liberty. And advertising in the papers that a "Gentlewoman of agreeable manners, and accustomed to the best society, was anxious to," etc., she took up her residence in Mr. Bowls's lodging-house, and awaited the result.
Rebecca's dashing little carriage was whirling down the street one day, just as Miss Briggs reached Mr. Bowls's door after a weary walk to the Times Office to insert her advertisement for the sixth time. Rebecca at once recognized Briggs. She pulled up the ponies, and jumping out, took hold of both Briggs's hands.
Briggs cried, and Becky laughed and kissed her; and they went into Mrs. Bowls's front parlour, where Briggs told all her history, with sniffles, and Becky gave a narrative of her own life, with her usual candour. Becky instantly decided that this was just such a companion as would suit her, and she invited Briggs to dinner with her that very evening, when she should see Becky's dear little darling Rawdon.
Mrs. Bowls, late Firkin, came and listened grimly in the passage. Becky had never been a favourite of hers. She did not like Raggles's account of the Colonel's household.
"I wouldn't trust him, Ragg, my boy," Mr. Bowls remarked; and his wife, when Mrs. Rawdon left the parlour, saluted the lady with a very sour curtsey. With the sweetest of smiles towards Miss Briggs, Rebecca whirled away into Piccadilly, and next moment was in the park with half a dozen dandies cantering after her carriage.
Mrs. Bowls cautioned Miss Briggs: "You will rue it, Miss B., mark my words." And Briggs promised to be very cautious. The upshot was that she went to live with Mrs. Rawdon the next week, and had lent Rawdon Crawley six hundred pounds upon annuity before six months were over.

Chapter 40: In Which Becky Is Recognized by the Family